This morning, V took me to the place where I’ll be living for the next five months: the Daniel Webster Senate Page Residence.
There’s one floor for girls & one for guys. On each floor there’s a community day room, which sounds like something in a mental hospital. Down in the basement is where we’ll go to school, plus do laundry & eat.
I’m sharing one tiny room with three other girls: one from North Carolina, one from Texas & one from Idaho. They are all nice. And pretty. And talented. (Just in case they ever read this.) We get to share two sets of bunk beds, two totally crammed closets, one bathroom with two sinks & one phone. Thank goodness V & Daddy let me bring my cell phone & bought me this laptop. They think I’m just going to use it for homework. They’re kind of clueless, so they’ll never figure out about this blog. (Once V even called the Internet the “world wide interweb.”)
I couldn’t wait for V to leave. None of the other girls still had their parents with them. When she finally left, she asked the Capitol policeman how close an eye they keep on the pages or, as she put it, “these kids.”
The cop told her that she didn’t need to worry about her “sister” being safe. There’s a security alarm system & pass cards & a twenty-four hour post here. And everyone has to go through metal detectors to get into Webster Hall or the Capitol.
(V didn’t correct him about the sister thing, which was typical, but annoying. She’s only fifteen years older than me. She likes it when people think we’re sisters, but really, we don’t look anything alike. I look like my real mom. I’m blonde & five foot two, she’s brunette & five foot eight.)
As soon as I got back into our room, the girl from Texas started talking about how this place used to be a funeral home & how down in the basement is where they embalmed the bodies & about how they still keep some of the old equipment in a locked closet. It gave me the creeps.
And I tried not to, but it made me think of my mother. I mean, they must have done that stuff to her after she was dead. Flushed out her blood, pumped her full of chemicals.
The thing is, our room does have a weird smell.
JAKE’S GRILL
December 15
Normally she would have walked the five blocks to Jake’s Grill, but tonight Allison decided to drive. As she pulled into a parking lot behind a Subaru with a “Keep Portland Weird” bumper sticker, she told herself it was because she was too tired. But part of it was that she also felt vulnerable, even if the streets were crowded with Christmas shoppers. As she hurried inside the restaurant, she urged herself not to be so paranoid. She had received death threats before.
But never one hand-delivered to her car.
Under a high, white plaster ceiling, the large room was all dark wood and white tablecloths; unchanged for decades, the kind of place where you could still smoke at the bar. Jake’s was just loud enough that you wouldn’t be overheard, but not so loud you had to shout. Allison had chosen it because she thought it was the perfect place to talk shop.
Trying not to breathe in the odor of beer and stale cigarettes, she made her way past the bar and to the back of the dining room. Since she had found out she was pregnant, her sense of smell had gone into overdrive. In court this morning she had been aware of the witnesses’ shampoo and cologne, even the court reporter’s mouthwash. She’d had to throw away her lemon poppyseed muffin uneaten because it smelled too lemony.
Cassidy and Nicole were already at a booth in the back, but they hadn’t yet noticed her. Cassidy was clearly telling a story, all gestures and animation. No doubt describing some amusing scrape she had recently gotten herself into. She had shrugged off the cardigan of her violet cashmere sweater set, revealing—perhaps not inadvertently—her toned and tanned upper arms. Her short blonde bob was perfect in the front and tousled in the back, which meant she had been ruminating. Whenever Cassidy was stymied, she twisted strands of hair at the back of her head—a spot the camera never saw.
As she listened to Cassidy, Nicole rested her glass of wine against her cheek, half hiding her mouth. Fifteen years earlier, when the three of them had attended Catlin Gabel, Nicole had stood out by virtue of being one of a handful of African-Americans at the private school. Given her prominent overbite, some of the crueler kids had dubbed her Mrs. Ed. When she spoke, she had cupped one hand in front of her mouth, muffling her speech.
Somewhere in the years since high school, Nicole had had her teeth straightened. With her dark, smooth skin and slightly slanted eyes, she had always been pretty. Now she was beautiful. Still, old habits died hard.
Nicole caught sight of Allison and waved. “Hey, girl!”