My Beautiful Hippie (26 page)

Jerry and Denise had to catch a bus to Berkeley, but my parents and I waited to watch the train roll out of sight. Then we walked toward Dad's Oldsmobile.

“It's just the three of us now,” said Mom. “What are you going to do with yourself, Joanne?”

I shrugged. “The usual stuff.”

“Well, do you have a date with Pete tonight?”

“Naw.” After being with Martin one last time, dating Pete felt like a lie. “I've decided he's not my type.”

“And I suppose Martin was.”

“Nope. He wasn't, either.”

“Who is your type?” she asked.

“Beethoven!”

“Oh, he had a normal life with the wife and kids!” Dad chimed in.

“You know what I mean.” As soon as I got home, I was going to pull out my Beethoven sonata and blow off the dust. I knew quite a bit more about myself and the world than the last time I had played it, and I would have a whole new interpretation.

“You should take up typing,” Dad said, not seriously, but in a gently teasing way.

“Daddy, I know how to type! I'm more practical than you think. If I have to type, I will type, but nothing boring and stupid like Mr. Marlowe's letters. It will have to be something important.”

“Like what?” asked Mom.

Something that would change the world, but of course I couldn't tell my parents that; they'd only laugh at me. Mrs. Scudder,
who was getting on in years, had invited me into her studio to teach the beginners, so I had a job that wasn't typing. By now I knew I wasn't going to Juilliard; I was pretty certain my parents would get their wish to see one of their kids graduate from San Francisco State, but I was planning on moving out as soon as I could.

I swung my arms around both my parents. In the past year, I had grown a couple of inches taller than my mom, so I had to lean over to kiss her forehead.

“What was that for?” she asked.

I didn't answer. She knew.