Best Kept Secret (11 page)

Bet elbowed me, pumped her fist in the air, and whisper-yelled, “Journalism!”

We shook our heads at her and then turned back to the laptop screen. Her report cut to images of black-and-white newspaper clips from that time.

Bet, in voice-over, said, “The team had found a way to spread the word. It was the very thing the Pink Locker Ladies were about to lose.”

“We read the news stories just like everyone else,” Patricia said. “Some people thought it was unladylike to do such a thing. Other people thought they were heroes. But lots of people didn't know what to think.”

It was then that Bet cut away to a faded, bluish document that said
“The Pink Paper”
at the top. Then she zoomed in on
The Pink Paper
to a headline that read:
THE PINK LOCKER LADIES SUPPORT THE WOMEN OF YALE!

Below it was a column describing the event and saying, “We simply must support these brave women. Disagree if you will with their tactics, but they were brave and deserve an equal chance to excel in their sport!”

“That was ‘all she wrote,' as the saying goes,” Patricia said. “Right away, we started getting threats. There were rumors circulating that we were going to publish the actual photos, which was dumb because mimeograph machines can't reproduce photos. They use a stencil-like thing. Anyway, we got out one more issue:
PINK LOCKER SOCIETY IN DANGER!
Within a week, our office was ransacked by Lord-knows-who and they took the mimeograph machine.”

“This peculiar object,” Bet said in her voice-over, “is a mimeograph machine.”

It looked like something you'd see in the Smithsonian. In the photo, the shiny, metal device was a cross between a big keyless typewriter and the meat slicer they use behind the counter at the deli. It had a hand crank on the side, Bet explained, so a person (in this case, a Pink Locker Lady) could spin it around and churn out the copies.

“The Pink Locker Ladies had only one means of spreading their message in 1976, and this was it,” Bet said.

The copies came out damp and the ink printed a periwinkle blue, but it was a lot cheaper than a printing press, Bet said.

Patricia said the Pink Locker Ladies tried to find another mimeograph machine and come up with the money to take
The Pink Paper
to a printer, but to no avail.

“We faded away, just like they hoped we would,” Patricia said. “But that one young lady from Yale—she did make it to the Olympics. And sports for girls finally did get up to snuff here and everywhere else.”

From there, Bet closed out her broadcast.

“The vandals who struck in 1976 broke into the PLS office with a clear intent to silence them,” she said, as a photo of an old
Pink Paper
dissolved into black on the screen. But just when you thought it was over, the black turned to pink. Pink Locker pink.

After the report ended, we sat in the quiet for a moment, but then the comments and questions started flying.

“Whoever shut them down could be the same people who are threatening us now!” I said.

“You figured that out all by yourself, did you?” Piper said, falling back into our old habit of teasing each other.

“That was an awfully long time ago,” Kate said. “Whoever they were are probably long gone—old or moved away to another state.”

“I agree,” Piper said. “It was one message. Let's keep on pinkin' on.”

“Our Pink Lady did tell me this,” Ms. Russo said. “You girls should keep on helping other girls. Keep working, but be careful.”

Once again, I was trying to put together a puzzle. At least now, I had a few more pieces. Or maybe they weren't pieces so much as branches, branches of our pink family tree.

Twenty-six

From the moment I woke up, my stomach did a back handspring every time I thought of it: Forrest soon would be inside my house. The parents would be off talking parent stuff, and the entire evening would stretch out before us. If I was a woman of action, I wasn't when it came to Forrest McCann. Jittery as I was, I should have gone for a run before they came over, but we all overslept because the power had gone off in the night. We woke up to clocks that were flashing at us or no longer accurate by an unknown number of hours.

As soon as we were up and moving, my mother drafted me and my father into a housecleaning marathon. I swept out dust bunnies and sanitized bathrooms. My Dad vacuumed and uncluttered each room so that it looked nothing like it did on a typical day. And Mom, well, she did what she always did before guests arrived: She complained.

“Why do I do this to myself, Peter?” she asked my dad. “I love to have a dinner party but I hate the prep work.”

Mom was cutting vegetables that would be speared on the kebabs. She had already set out the s'mores ingredients in an artful fashion on a sectioned tray. And she set the table for seven—the three of us and the four of them. There were candles and, especially as orangey sunset light streamed in, our house looked about as good as it ever had. It even smelled good. I wish I could have said the same for myself. I was in a T-shirt and sweatpants that had a hole in the knee. I was barefoot, and the dirty bottoms of my feet told the story of how I had spent my whole day cleaning.

They were supposed to arrive at seven, so when the clock read six, I wanted to start my beauty regimen. But while I was in the shower, I heard a
knock-knock-knock
from my mother.

“Jemma, hustle-bustle in there. The clock we were looking at wasn't right, and they'll be here any minute.”

Here was my choice—wash my hair and possibly be in the bathroom when they arrived or get out now and deal with my hair as is.

I refused to give in to my panic. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. At least I was clean, I told myself as I swept my hair into a ponytail. I dressed fast and flew down to the family room, where I had decided to locate myself for their arrival. Then I could avoid the awkward hellos. Downstairs, I swiped some lip balm across my lips as the doorbell rang. I heard the familiar patter of grown-ups greeting each other. There were hugs and adult banter exchanged.

“It's been way too long,” my mother told Forrest's dad.

“We're getting old,” Forrest's mom, Vera, said.

Then they all laughed like parents do. I could hear my mom and dad asking questions of Forrest and Trevor. “How's school and (insert-sport-that-you-play-here)?” I heard one of them mumble something. It sounded like Forrest. Then Trevor gave his mumble before they both moved in the direction of the stairs to the family room. I wanted to look occupied. But which pose to strike? Reading, maybe? Or in the midst of a craft? Watching TV would make me look lonely, so I decided to put my head in our game cabinet and make like I was looking for something. On the bright side, I could reorganize the closet while I was in there.

Once I was in the closet, I couldn't decide when I should pull out and acknowledge their presence. Should I turn around when feet could be heard hitting the stairs or beforehand? If I stood at the bottom of the stairs as they came down, I'd look as eager as a restaurant hostess, ready to serve.

The staircase to the family room had eleven stairs, so I decided six stairs would be perfect. When I heard them come down six steps, that'd give me enough time without making me seem too anxious. The trouble was, with two boys hitting the steps at once, I couldn't count the stairs being taken. It just sounded like a rumble of thunder. I turned around too late, and there they were, like alien beings dropped into my family room.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” said Forrest.

“Hi, Jemma,” Trevor said in a bouncy voice. He had never quite gotten the message that I was not in love with him.

“What games do you have?” Trevor asked me.

“Why don't you take a look and see,” I said, nearly shoving him into the game closet.

It gave Forrest and me a moment alone.

“No band practice tonight?” I said.

“There might not be any practice, ever,” Forrest said. “A couple guys have quit.”

“That stinks, but I'm sure you can find some new members.”

“Yeah, but I'm not sure I want to. We might just keep it small. We're changing the name, too.”

“Good-bye Pythagorean Theorem?”

“Yeah, we're thinking either Flying Spleens or Merry-Go-Nowhere.”

“Those are … memorable,” I said.

I wanted to say something positive about his band, but I couldn't think of anything. And I didn't know that much about music. Should I say he had a good singing voice, or that the crowd at the dance seemed into it? They were, but only for a little while.

“I'm not even sure I should keep playing. We sucked at the dance.”

“No you didn't,” I said.

His expression changed, and it made me wish I had settled on a specific shred of positive feedback. Instead, I just kept grinning.

“Or I was thinking we'd call ourselves Heimlich Maneuver,” Forrest said, plopping into our denim sectional couch.

“Very funny.”

“Seriously, that was a cool thing you did.”

“You're probably just happy that Piper's okay,” I said, immediately sorry that I had.

“She's a cool girl.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said.

“We're not going out anymore, not that we ever even were.”

I was happy to hear him say it, but I knew my path wasn't clear. Rumors were flying about who Forrest would date next. Lauren and Charlotte, twins in the eighth grade, were both supposedly interested.

“So you're a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy?”

Why could I not stop myself from saying dumb things?

Before Forrest could answer, Trevor stepped backward out of the game closet and pivoted toward us, carrying what must have been eleven board games. They were stacked so high they blocked his face at the nose, so we could only see his eyes.

“Hey, guys,” Trevor said, his voice muffled by the armload of colorful boxes. As he walked, arms completely extended, the boxes prevented him from seeing the edge of a little half-moon carpet my mom had in front of the fireplace. He stumbled and pitched forward just as he was asking if we wanted to play Life.

It was as if someone grabbed both of his feet from behind. Trevor was momentarily airborne and then belly flopped to the floor. The board games splatted on the floor, and most lost their lids and their contents.

“Oh, my gosh, Trevor, are you all right?” I asked.

But Trevor didn't answer me. He quickly gathered himself and went tearing up the stairs, in search of his mom, I guessed. On the floor, the little Life cars were mingled with Monopoly money and Parcheesi pieces.

“That kid's an idiot,” Forrest said.

“You are so mean!”

“Yeah, that's what Piper always said. And Taylor.”

I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and try not to say something stupid. Here was my opportunity. Or at least I could change the subject and ask him if he really was moving. The For Sale sign remained in his front yard. I checked it regularly.

“Dinner, guys!” my mom called from above.

Upstairs, at the table, Forrest was sitting in the seat farthest away from mine, but it did afford me a good view of him. His table manners left something to be desired. I saw his mother take the napkin that was folded under his fork and put it in his lap. He ate his barbecued kebabs with gusto and left the chunks of red pepper, zucchini, and onion on his plate. Mr. and Mrs. McCann asked a few polite questions of me: How's school going? and so on. I told them about the track team and how I now liked running.

“Oh, that's marvelous,” Vera said. “Forrest, you've been running some, too, for football. Right?”

Mrs. McCann offered this bit of conversation hopefully, like she was throwing a long pass. Her son caught it.

“Yeah, we do hills in football,” he said.

“Jemma's running 5Ks now,” my father said proudly.

“I'll run with you sometime,” Forrest said. “We'll see who's faster.”

“You might be faster, but I'll finish,” I said, hoping this would be taken as gently teasing, not obnoxious.

“Oooooohh,” Trevor said. “That sounds like a challenge, Forrest.”

“Bring it,” Forrest said, and the parents laughed appreciatively.

“Don't you wish you were in shape like them?” my mother said, leaning toward my dad. “Peter hasn't sprinted since the time the lawn mower took off without him.”

And with that, it seemed like we were excused. I knew Forrest and I would be stuck playing a board game with Trevor, and I thought of the jumble of pieces downstairs. Before I tackled that, I wanted to get to the s'mores. I took the sectioned tray of graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate pieces outside to the grill. I carefully stacked up three s'mores and placed them on the grill. I closed the lid and enjoyed the pillow of warmth it provided in the cold autumn night.

The screen door creaked open and Forrest walked out. I could see him only in outline, the kitchen aglow behind him. He was tall and his wavy hair was just the right amount of messy. I even liked the way he walked, one of those long-limbed, gangly boy shuffles. How much I liked him hit me again, as if for the first time.

“Got one of those for me?”

“Sure, they're cooking now.”

And then we stood together, smelling the melting sweetness and just waiting. It reminded me of the time we were on a ski lift together and I couldn't think of enough to say to fill the quiet. I wondered if this was what it felt like when you were a couple, just being in the same spot thinking your own thoughts together. I opened the grill, and the s'mores were most certainly done, but I closed it again because I wanted to stay there with him. I thought about updating him on the Pink Locker Society, but Forrest broke the silence.

“What you said before about me, about Taylor and Piper—”