In which I held the future in my hand

I discovered early on that I was a natural diplomat. Brought up in an environment of chaos and intense codependence, I learned how to negotiate and to manage expectations, skills that helped me become the adroit liar I am today. I�m sorry, I mean, the skillful diplomat I am today.

Yesterday, I was talking diplomatically with my friend Brian, upstanding office supervisor and father of two, about the greatest, most emotionally wrenching made-for-tv movie in the history of Earth. Mentioning the name of it is ridiculous, and possibly insulting to your intelligence, because everyone already knows it. But for those two unaware people out there, I�ll quietly whisper its title, which is, of course, Riding the Bus With My Sister. There. That wasn�t so bad. Props to you if you yelled it out just as I was whispering it.

Anyway, this beautiful Hallmark movie, directed by Anjelica Huston, is the sensitive study of two sisters developing a relationship against all odds. One is a kicky, spunky gal with a style all her own (i.e., developmentally delayed, or �mentally retarded,� as the insensitive characters call her), played by Rosie O�Donnell. The other is an icy, dead-eyed commercial photographer, played with soul-withering flatness by Andie MacDowell. I don�t really 100% understand the film�as is true of most films not involving cartoon woodland creatures�but there�s some plot device involving buses and bus drivers, and the lessons that Rosie O�Donnell�s character has to teach us, like �Hallmark makes the best, most sensitive greeting cards ever!�

While talking about the movie with Brian, I suddenly remembered a series of events from my childhood, centered around the school bus. It was a little bit of a stretch to go from Rosie O�Donnell�s character riding around on public transit busses to myself as a child riding the school bus, but the fact that it happened is testament to my skill at forcing everything to somehow relate to me.

It was Spring. I�m estimating that I was in fourth grade when the events I�m describing took place. The bus I rode each day to school would continue on after picking me up, loop around, stopping at the neighborhoods where lucky groups of kids who lived in the developments would wait together, then head back on up Main Street to pick up Steve Carson. Steve, like me, lived in a big yellow colonial-revival house away from the developments, although his family was, unlike mine, rich. The Carson house was immaculate, set up on a rise with a long, curved driveway in front of it. Steve�s father was a humorless banker, and his mother a remote, glamorous redhead my own mother described as a �bombshell.� I remember feeling vague jealousy, but at the same time, Steve had no discernible personality, and spent his days creating meticulous, detailed drawings of big rigs and diesel engines. He was popular, which I was not, but even at the time, I felt I was somehow better-off.

The bus driver, Mrs. Couture, was a frightening woman who�d shriek like a banshee when riled. She was also grossly overweight, and my parents encouraged me daily to introduce her to the wonders of Slender Now, the diet powder they peddled as part of an elaborate pyramid scheme. They�d send me to school wearing a big yellow button reading Ask Me How I�m Losing Weight! and suggest that I invite Mrs. Couture to a motivational meeting. Their efforts, combined with my terror of Mrs. Couture and general social awkwardness meant that I would sit alone in the exact middle of the bus, clutching my lunchbox and praying that no one would talk to me. I was largely successful.

During those years, I went to ballet class three times a week, to study with a strict Polish teacher whose rigid discipline frequently made us cry, even as it instilled in us a sense that other dance studios were hopelessly suburban and trite. We didn�t get to wear sparkly tutus and tiaras, being restricted to black leotards with pale tights, and hair glued down so that not a strand came loose during a pirouette. The class had a pecking order, with elegant, refined Maria Leoncavallo the head of the pack, and Kwon Yee, the adopted Korean daughter of a local family, in dead last place, all elbows and unruly bangs. I�d show up for class with my leotard still damp from the wash, ponytail askew, a run in my tights, but I could fake enough grace to land somewhere in the middle of the pack. I knew I wasn�t the best, but at least I was more graceful than Kwon Yee, or that lump, Linda Cassidy. Poor Linda, with her feathered hair and graceless attempts at fouettes. She was popular at school, but lacking in personality or wit, and so it seemed fitting to me when she announced one day as we laced up our pointe shoes that she and Steve Carson were �going out.� �Where are you going?� I asked, unfamiliar with the term. She rolled her eyes, and explained that �going out� meant �going steady. I didn�t really see the point, but that�s another issue entirely.

A few weeks later, on the way to school, the bus stopped to pick up Steve. He headed my way, and sat down, holding a white envelope. Linda�s family had moved a few towns away, as I knew, but Steve, pining for his girlfriend, knew that she and I had ballet classes together. �You see Linda at ballet tonight?� he asked, and I nodded. He extended the envelope. �Give this to her?� I shrugged, and nodded. He went back to his usual seat in the back of the bus, leaving me with the goods.

Being entrusted with the envelope proved too taxing for my powers of self-restraint. On one hand, I was pleased that the popular kid had seen fit to include me in his plan. On the other hand, I resented being used. The envelope sat in my Social Studies text all day, and I�d open the book and look at it, secretly trying to discern the writing within. At the end of the day, I put the note in my jacket pocket, which is where it stayed when I went to ballet class. I couldn�t bring myself to deliver the note to Linda, and so I kept it. The next day, Steve approached me on the bus, and sat in front of me. �Did you give her the note?� he asked. I nodded. �What did she say?� he asked, and I said, guessing what he might want to hear, �She smiled.� He seemed satisfied, and went back to the popular kids.

I knew I had limited time to deal with the note, but I wasn�t sure how to manage the situation. I�d already told Steve that I�d given it to Linda. What if they talked by phone, and determined that I hadn�t? I had to do something, but I resented playing messenger enough that I didn�t want to actually deliver the note. I gambled, figuring that since he�d written to her, he wasn�t likely to call, and when I got home that day, I opened the note and read it. I don�t recall its wording, but the general message was along the lines of, �Hi, how�s it going? Do you still like me?� It was deeply mundane, and as such, I justified it, not worth delivering. I read it over and pondered, then got out a piece of lined paper and a pencil. �Dear Steve,� I wrote in my best approximation of Linda�s loopy print, �I�m fine, how are you?� I was careful not to make her sound too interesting, which would certainly warn him that something was up. I finished the note, folded it into a small square, and sealed it in an envelope, which I handed to him the next time we rode the bus together. He accepted it with a nod, and went away.

A few days later, he showed up with a new envelope, and I felt my stomach twist, knowing that there was no way out but to continue the forgery. �Dear Steve,� I wrote, �I like my new school. It�s different and I miss my friends.� I charted out a bland but new life for Linda, inventing friends and activities that were sufficiently boring, praying that Steve wouldn�t take the obvious approach and call her on the phone. My deception went undetected, but one day a dual attack of conscience and passive aggression occurred, and I ceased to play messenger. Unable to think of a lie, and further unable to refuse the task of delivering the envelopes, I stonewalled until Steve came up with his own explanation. Faced with the lack of response to his last missive, Steve asked me, �So, you don�t see Linda any more?� I shook my head. �No,� I answered. �She quit ballet.�

I went on seeing Linda at ballet and Steve at school for several years, until she did actually quit, and Steve was sent off to private school. I like to imagine that their love could have been one of the great romances of all time, had it not been thwarted by a little misanthrope named Violet.



Star of the day. . .Friedberger & Freidberger
posted @ 11:10 a.m. on December 23, 2005 before | after

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She lay awake all night,

zzzzzzzzzzz......