June is impatient to add the oats. Keeps lifting her cup to the hot pan.
No. Let the milk bubble.
Then she wants to stir, moves her stool too close. McCormick endures the risk.
When the goop is in the bowl she arranges apple slices just like the picture on the box, but adds a few raspberries. Then declines sugar or honey.
Doing it herself is sweet enough.
At school he unsticks a zipper, puts wet boots away. She doesn’t turn her head or say a word. Just a backwards wave.
Always, there will be these leavings.
In bed that night, McCormick, nerves blazing, objects to tomorrow’s plans.
“The ferry to Jersey City? Why do you need your files? Then the subway uptown and back? You can’t put color in your hair anyway. And dinner with Alison? Julie, Jesus! After what we just went through?”
She uses the patient-but-not-really voice that will not be retired just because she’s so wrong this time.
“It was Braxton Hicks, Michael. Spotting is normal. They have chemical-free dye. This isn’t a health crisis. Women have babies every day.”
“Well, you might have one tomorrow. On a boat in the Hudson River.”
Barbara is a faithful reader, but the Winter series tests her limits.
“It’s too real. I just keep screaming, let it go!” She texts him one day.
And the next: “Please bring back Julie and June.”
He still hasn’t written about closing night, though. When he sneaks backstage and watches Winter and The King. Ted Jackson’s oily pecs have made McCormick a madman for six nights running. They hold hands and lock eyes as the final ovation rains down.
He stops typing. His wife and daughter have little colds. He hears them sniffling in their beds. Ok, maybe that’s enough.
With six weeks to go before Winter will allow him near her, McCormick joins a road trip to Butte for a big basketball game.
The Hawks win. The party is fun. McCormick ends up sharing a Motel 6 bed with Vanessa Vinton, who he didn’t kiss (because of Winter or a different fear?) that day last summer when she came over and cut his hair in the backyard.
Six other kids sleep next to them, on the floor and the next bed, and Vanessa just had chicken pox. She whispers about her scabs when he moves closer in the night.
(Defending herself against the charge that she’s heartless…)
I don’t care that he’s a tenor. This isn’t about his singing voice. It’s all his other voices. They never stop. When the phone rings I cringe. But my mother always lets him talk and his pauses and sighs suck the air out of the whole house.
Then before first period its McCormick and Snow with the morning announcements. Hah Hah! Making fun of Students for Peace with a bogus meeting of Students for War. And his weekly column. “Live Mike.” So clever.
Don’t forget the pitiful notes in my locker. How much of him do I have to take?
The cast list for the spring musical goes up. The King and I. She gets I.
He watches her back away from the choir room door, fingers templed at her lips. He feels only triumph. He is Winter; that’s what love means.
They drift in silence to a practice cube. He’s never kissed her in school.
McCormick waits, motionless, for an auratic flicker to draw him closer.
“This is just going to be my time. I can’t deal with you until the show is over.”
Pierced, he calculates the months with no Winter. It makes her angry that he stays.
“You want her for her body right?” Scott Snow asked as the Oldsmobile chugged along I-90.
Talk like that about a girl made him feel queer. Especially about Winter. McCormick was seventeen. Going slow. He wanted her for her face.
And Snow was so Mormon. His folks were more uptight than even Barbara and Bill. How could he make Winter’s chest announce and her legs invite?
“Because she is truly terrible, man.”
In Billings they had Orange Julius, played Asteroids, then started home.
“We have to go to school tomorrow,” Snow said. “And you have to put that girl down.”