There was something about the shopping mall/raw fish combo that just seemed wrong.
"Sadie," I began, but didn't have the heart.
Frankie did. "A hoagie it is." When she protested, he gave her the reptile eye. "Ever hear of salmonella? ANd I don't mean the dish Ella's uncle named in her honor."
We think that might have been what killed Ricky's Top Chef chances last year. Too bad. Disastrous name aside, it had actually been pretty good.
Frankie bought us an extra order of french fries.
Will that be cash or charge?" he asked.
I looked down at my hands. I was still holding the stripy turtleneck. "Cash, I guess." Beside me, Frankie gave a smug little grunt. "We can live without you, I know," I told him.
"Of course you can. But why would you? I am here for youse, Marino, forevah and evah.
So,twice a week I have my own tutor," he said shortly. "Who,trust me, makes my father look like a marshmellow. And on that note..." He picked up the sheaf of French lessons again. "We'll start with the imperfect, used to express actions that are-"
"Incomplete,unfulfilled, or repeated over and over." I slumped back in the weird chair. "That I know."
At the end of the very imperfect sessions, Alex gave me a full ten minutes in the downstairs bathroom before showing up.All I'd figured out what that Edward's faceless girl had had wide feet, and the Bainbridge's decorator had a preference for green that might merit an intervention.
"I could probably give you the stupid thing"-Alex gestured to the picture when he came in- "and my folks would never notice."
I winced inwardly. "I can't advocate theft," I told him, "no matter how noble the intent.
Okay,three things,and one of them has to be in French."
I was back in the weird squashy chair; Alex was flopped on the bed.This time, along with the lemon soda, there were two bags of Doritos on the floor between us. He'd had one waiting. I'd brought one.
"I don't think this is what Mademoiselle Winslow had in mind," I told him.
Truth: Despite all my good intentions to keep Frankie happy and my hopes down, I'd been looking forward to this all week, hoping Alex wouldn't forget. I'd thought up and rethought clever things I could say.
Further Truth: I didn't want to sound like I'd been looking forward to it all week and thinking up what I wanted to say.
Home truth: Yes, I am that pitiful.
Something I don't want anyone to know, Alex? I am a dissillusioned former hopeless romantic with larcenous tendencies.But I did kill the verbal part of the PSATs.
The way I saw it,I had three options.
1.I could take the stuff to Maxine. "Hey,look what I found." Confession of theft optional and probably not smart.
2. I could slip them back into the book and pretend they never existed.
3. I could destroy them.
Option two sounded just marvelous.
Winslow wants you to learn this"- he waved a few sheets of stapled pages- "and that." He pointed to the book in my lap. Fifty French Conversations. It was one of our textbooks. I'd stopped at the seventeenth: Mon hamster a mange trop de fromage. Il a mal au ventre maintenant. "The rest is the Bainbridge Method."
"You have a method?"
"Patented and proven."
I waved the book. "Does it include greedy, cheese-guzzling hamsters with stomachaches?"
He nodded. "Absolutely.French conversations is nothing without rodents and cheese.Is there something shameful in your past involving either?"
"Not that I can think of off the top of my head."
"Tant pis."
"And that means...?"
"Fuhgeddaboudit," he translated, grinning.
I sighed. "Do people make Russian jokes in your presence?"
"How do you get five Russians to agree on anything?"
"How?" I asked.
"Shoot four of them."
I thought for a sec. "I'm not sure that's funny."
"No," Alex said. "People don't tell many Russian jokes in my presence."
"I should start my three things, huh?"
"Yeah.That would be good."
I did some speedy translating in my head. "Je n'ai jamais lu Huckleberry Finn, Beloved, ou Moby-Dick."
"Ella,no one has read Moby-Dick. The French was passable, but as far as revelations go,that sucked."
"Ah, but there's a part deux. All three of those books were required reading last year in my American lit class. I used SparkNotes."
"You're kidding, right?"
"See?" I daintily brushed Dorito crumbs from my fingertips. "Changes your perception of me, doesn't it?"
"No,I mean, 'That's a revelation?' You can do better than that."
"Maybe," I agreed, "but it's still early in the game.
Nous avons ete amies," I added. "There,that's two in French, and using past perfect, no less."
I couldn't see his expression clearly. It flet like a long time before he said anything. "Ella..." He paused, then, "What happened? Between you and Anna?"
"Other than the fact that I'm a fashion-impaired poor kid who draws doorknobs? Haven't a clue."
Alex leaned forward. Now I could see his face. He looked annoyed. "Why do you do that? Diminish yourself?"
"I don't-"
"Bullshit."
I could feel my cheeks flaming, feel my shoulders curving inward. "I don't-"
"Right.Don't.Just don't, with me, anyway. I like you better feisty."
I couldn't help it; that made me smile. "Did you really just say 'feisty'?"
"I did.It's a good word."
"It's am old word, favored by granddads and pirates."
"Yar," Alex sighed.
"Face it.You're just an old-fashioned guy."
"Whatever.Three...?"
"Three," I said, and changed my mind midthought. "I haven't been able to decide if Willing is the second best thing that ever happened to me, or the second worst."
"What are the firsts?"
"Nope.Uh-uh.It is not for you to ask, Alexander Bainbridge, but to reveal."
He drained his glass and rolled it back and forth between his hands. "I had all these funny admissions planned, but you've screwed up my plans. Hey. Don't go all wounded-wide-eyed on me. It's cute, that Bambi thing you have going, but beside the point.Now I have to rethink."
"You don't-"
"Quiet.One: My name isn't Alexander." He sat up straight and gave his chest a resounding thump. "Menya zavut Alexei Pavlovich Dillwyn Bainbridge. Not Alexander. I don't think anyone outside my family knows that.
I don't think anyone outside my family knows that."
"Not even Amanda?" It came out before I could stop it.
"Not even Amanda." He reached for the soda. "Two," he muttered as he poured, "I wish more people knew that Amanda and I are not a single unit and fewer people knew that she dumped me temporarily over the summer for a lifegaurd in Loveladies named Biff." While I processed that,he finished. "Three. I bombed the PSATs."
"Oh.Well,isn't the point of preliminary tests to help you learn how to do well on the later ones?"
"Tell that to my dad. He was decided that I am now on the fast track toward a future of digging ditches."
"Come on.I'm sure he sees that it's just a prep test."
"What he sees," Alex corrected me, "is that the path of Yale, followed by Powel Law an the family firm, has gotten a little slippery."
I had no idea what to say.In my family, whatever we want to do, as long as it involves getting out of bed every morning and satisfying our souls, is considered just splendid.And that coming from multiple generations who've struggled to pay the mortgage.
So,I'm curious." Alex dragged me from my pleasant contemplation of cowardice and back in the bathroom. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his feet almost touching mine. "What is it you like so much about this guy? I looked up his stuff. It's good, but nothing out of the ordinary."
What a difference a week and a shock to the ideals makes. I felt my defense of Edward sticking a little in my troat. "I like his portraits. He really saw people.It was his great strength, that intensity."
Alex tilted his chin toward the picture. "Not to seem crude, but she could be any girl with a nice ass." When I glared at him, he uncrossed his arms quickly and held up his hands in surrender. "Hey,all I mean is that if I were all about really seeing someone, that's not the angle I would choose."
He was probably right. No matter how I looked at it, he was probably right. "You're probably right," I told him.
He bowed. The small space suddenly got a lot smaller. "Stick with me, Grasshopper. I will never lead you wrong.
From: fmarino@thewillingschool.org
To: abainbr@thewillingschool.org
Date: November 21, 8:25 p.m.
Subject: Now I'm Sorry
Alex,
I feel badly.
You probably feel worse.
My grandmother thinks canned tuna is a disaster waiting to happen. She used to stand in the door of the fridge and make protective hand symbols over my mom's letover tuna casserole. We don't keep Starkist in the house anymore.
Have a great TG.
-Ella.
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