The next morning when I woke up the sunshine was too bright to bear. The sun had hardly risen and already in my window it was terrible. “Francie!” my mother screeched from the kitchen. “It’s late!” The Elizabeth George novel was presumably still on the floor at the library, no one daring to move the object that spelled our doom. “Francie! The bus in twenty minutes!” In my room the daylight at once glowed red. It was difficult to open my eyes to such luridness. To keep them open. In the night I’d started to understand a few other unspeakable facts, most especially that everything was ruined because of me.
The story was back to MF Lombard. It was I who had unraveled the place I loved more than anything else in the world, I, who had steadily been at work not only at my own wreckage but at Dolly’s and everyone else’s, too. It was I who, from the day of the interview in fifth grade, so long before, had started May Hill plotting, May Hill determined to keep the farm from me. The interview during the four–five split was her first hint about my character, and then there was the capture in her room, followed by any number of indications that MF Lombard was the silliest of persons, MF crying in the shed, MF dressed in an outlandish costume going to a school dance, a girl of no substance. A…mongrel. And now it was done, Philip a part of us, Philip the foreigner on our very soil.
With great effort I pulled myself to sit up in bed. MF, a pie dog, destined to roam, bloodied ear, hungry. A cur. It was almost impossible to assemble my Future Farmers of America uniform. To pick up my books. The Norton Anthology for AP English, the heaviest. Everything supposedly important in one volume. Putting it in the backpack. Scowling at my mother about breakfast. I could hardly manage the rudimentary motions. Going out, step after step, as the bus made the bend in the road, rattling toward me. No William, because he had departed early for one of his clubs. I would have stayed home if the FFA annual fruit sale, of which I was in charge, hadn’t been taking place at school. I did know—I was aware—that William was waiting to find out if he’d been accepted Early Decision at the college of his and my mother’s choice in Minnesota. It was one of any number of schools that claim to be the Harvard of the Midwest, a school that had aggressively courted him.
After the weary day going from class to class I found myself standing at the banquet table in the cafeteria, surrounded by boxes of Florida oranges and grapefruits. The Sunshine State. Invaded by pythons. I was looking at the list to see who had yet to show up when my brother appeared with a large white envelope in hand. The collar of his Oxford shirt was carefully folded down over the neck of his respectably drab sweater. He was a boy who was going to go out of state, a place very few students at our school dared to venture.
“What are you doing here?” I said to him. He was not ordinarily in my FFA world.
“I got the letter.” He put it on the table in front of me. “The fat envelope.”
Although there had been little doubt that William would be admitted I hadn’t expected to learn about it at the fruit sale. He had gone home to check the mail, and he’d returned to tell me, as if for some reason he needed to do so in public.
“Are you going to go?” I knew even as I was asking that it was a terribly stupid thing to say. You don’t apply Early Decision to the college you most want to attend because you’re thinking you might not matriculate. In fact you are honor-bound to show up.
“I think I will,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. I said next, “When does it start?”
He laughed a little, a small hiccup escaping his mouth. Currently it was November, ten months before college would begin. But the thing is he knew; he knew the exact date without even looking. “September ninth,” he announced.
“September?”
“If I was going to be on a team or something, I’d probably go earlier.”
“What kind of team? You’re not on teams.”
“I don’t know. Cross-country, maybe?”
“How can you be on cross-country? You’re not a runner. You have to already be that in high school to compete on a college team.”
He wiped his upper lip, as if he’d been working hard, as if he was sweating. “I mean, I probably won’t, but it’s not out of the question. The team there is pretty lame, which means I might be able to join.” He looked down at the envelope. “You can come and visit sometime, Frankie.”
And I said, “I most certainly would not visit during apple season.”
At that point, who should come to the table with her check to pick up her fruit but Brianna Kraselnik, a girl who was supporting her alma mater. We knew she’d returned to our town after dropping out of college, returned to shack up with not a Bershek twin but another local boy, and she was about to have a baby. Mrs. Kraselnik had gone to Connecticut with her horse and was remarried, and Dr. Kraselnik also had a new wife and was living in Milwaukee. Surely the daughter was a tremendous disappointment to her mother, Brianna an uneducated, small-town, unwed, pregnant twenty-three-year-old.
“Mary Frances and William,” she cried, “ohmyGawd, you’re in high school!” She, with her sleek hair now only midway down her back, and with no makeup, her eyelashes no longer tarred over with mascara, spoke with the astonishment of a gaga adult. “So, how’s it going!”
“Great,” William said, his greatness having just been confirmed by the fat envelope.
I thought to add a fee to her fruits, compensation for all the apples she’d surely stolen through the years.
“Your uniform is so cool,” she said to me, as if she meant it, as if she really did like my dark-blue FFA jacket with the emblem, and the blue tie, the white shirt. She turned to Ashley Klemko, who was also at the table. She said, “Hey! I love your hair.” She said this about starchy bangs teased to look like a fistful of curling ribbon. “So, wow!” she went on. “I ordered some fruit for my little guy.” She actually squealed, patting her grotesque bulge.
William, I noted, was wincing, as if he were three seconds into the future. He had assumed it would be safest to tell me about college in public but he was realizing he’d miscalculated, that wherever he made the announcement there might be surprises. Nothing for me to do then but fulfill his expectations. I heard the questions, posed firmly and yet pleasantly, issuing from my mouth. I said, “You know all those times, Brianna, those times you used to roll around in the grass in our orchard? On our property? Those clothing-optional sessions?”
She made one little startled birdlike cock of her head.
“I just hope,” I said, “that the residue from the spray isn’t still in you, that the toxins won’t affect your—little guy.” I lifted the box onto the table. “Here’s your fruit.”
“Oh, my God, Mary Frances!” She burst out laughing. “OhmyGod, ohmyGod! I’m so sorry. I am so incredibly sorry you ever had to see me like that—you poor thing! We were so crazy, me and that bad old Nick Bershek!” She squealed once more, a piercing awful noise. “OHMYGOD!”
William was looking at her with both gratitude and curiosity.
“I’m more worried about the drugs I did than pesticides, believe me. But you—! We probably scarred you for life, am I right? We were very naughty, really very very deranged.” She turned to William, shaking her steepled hands at him. “Please, please tell me you never saw us.” Mrs. Kraselnik’s daughter, the only token of my beloved teacher, felt compelled to again say, “Oh, my God.”
My urbane brother, so suave, said, “I’m afraid I never had that pleasure.”
Brianna whacked his arm. “Oh, my God, you are a laugh riot!”
William was going to college on September 9, and in college he’d say many witty things to many girls, all of whom would incessantly say OhmyGod, and he would be gone. He would be gone.