Hope's Angel (8 page)

Chapter Seven

Tuesday,
September 17

Greg
was seated in his car—a red 1967 Mustang—when Connie arrived at the Park and
Ride lot. He greeted her with a half-hearted smile as he settled in beside her
on the station wagon’s bench seat. A whiff of Canoe aftershave drifted in with
him.

He
leaned back and closed his eyes. “Glad you’re driving. I’m bushed.”

“Late
night?” Connie drove out of the lot and turned the station wagon onto Forest
Avenue, heading north out of town toward Burlington.

 “Yeah.
Wish I could say it’s from studying.”

Connie
smiled. “What were you doing? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“Not
studying.” Still leaning back against the seat, he turned his head toward her
and opened his pale eyes. “How about you?”

“Genetics
lab today. I studied.”

“Such
a good girl.” He closed his eyes and turned his profile to her once more.
“Genetics, huh? So, you’re a science type. I had you pegged as a journalism
major.”

“I
considered that, but teaching science seems like more of a sure thing.”

“And
you prefer sure things,” he said, as if that were a bad trait.

“At
least where my career’s concerned. I need to make sure my college days count.”

Greg
snorted. “College is supposed to be fun, too, you know. Everybody says life
will never be as good again.”

Connie
glanced at him. His eyes were still closed as he leaned back against the seat.
His good looks were not lost on her, and she smiled to herself as she
remembered Marilyn’s remark about their friend’s crush on him. “I’ll try to
keep that in mind. What’s your major?”

“Poli
sci, with a minor in economics. How’s that for making your college days count?”

“Whatever
floats your boat.”

Greg
let out a chuckle.

“So,
you must have a good take on Vietnam,” Connie said. “What do you think?”

“Nobody
has a good take on Vietnam. It’s a mess.”

“Should
we be there?”

Greg
raised one eyebrow as he turned to look at her once more. “Don’t you think
that’s kind of heavy for our first ride together?”

“Why?”
Connie teased. “Are you afraid I’ll kick you out if we don’t agree?”

“Anything’s
possible.”

She
could hear the smile in his voice.

“Your
last name’s Balestra, right?” he continued.

“Yup.”

“Italian?”

“Yup.”

“Sicilian?”

Connie
turned to look at him. “No. Why? You think I’m mafia?”

He
watched her from his laid-back position. “Like I said, anything’s possible. We
don’t really know each other.”

Connie’s
amusement with him disappeared as she looked away. “Well, you’re safe. My
family’s from Puglia. It’s the heel of the boot. Plus, I was born here. I’m
American.”

“Hey,
I didn’t mean to offend you. You’re the one who brought up the mafia.”

Connie
kept her eyes on the road ahead. “Okay, poli sci major, what do you know about
the KKK in Vermont?”

“The
Klan? I know some people around here have the white sheet, pointy cap outfit in
their attics. Why?”

“I
just learned about them. About how they’re not just against blacks, like you
think, but Jews, Catholics, anybody who’s not like them.”

“And
that surprised you?” Greg shifted in his seat beside her. “The world is full of
cretins. My mother could tell you that.”

“Your
mother?”

“She’s
a social worker. Part of what she does is find families with kids that are
retarded or crippled or have birth defects or whatever. These hills are full of
them. You can bet
they
don’t welcome strangers with open arms.”

Connie
pondered that for a moment. “Birth defects and retardation don’t just happen in
rural families, you know.”

“Maybe
not, but those are the people she works with, because they’re the ones who need
her help.” Greg turned to her. “What do your parents do?”

Connie
hoped he couldn’t see the embarrassment coloring her cheeks as she kept her
face toward the windshield. “My dad owns a grocery store.”

“Cool.
Does your mom work?”

Connie
hesitated, then said, “She takes in laundry.”

Greg
nodded and said, “Hmm.”

“Do
you have sisters and brothers?” Connie asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Two
brothers and a sister, all older. You?”

“Two
sisters, one older, one younger.”

Greg
nodded again, then looked down at the books in his lap. “Guess maybe I’d better
do some Russian.”

“Russian!
That’s cool!”

“Yeah,
I figure when I’m ambassador to the USSR, I’ll need to know the language.”

Connie
glanced sideways at him, and he laughed, then opened a large book on the top of
the stack and began to page through it, his head down, his attention on the
book’s contents. They drove in silence for the remainder of the trip.

***

“He’s
a jerk.” Connie pulled a baloney sandwich from her lunch bag on Wednesday and
began unwrapping it.

Marilyn
rearranged the silverware on her cafeteria tray, then broke the seal on the
carton of milk she had picked up in the line. “Day two of the big rideshare,
and he’s already flunked out?”

“He
slept all the way home last night! I had to wake him up at the Park and Ride! Then,
this morning it was his turn to drive, and I was all excited about riding in
his Mustang. And he asked if I minded driving again because he had a headache.
A
headache!
”

“He’s
probably hitting the bottle at night.” Marilyn leaned forward and began forking
macaroni and cheese into her mouth.

Connie
frowned at her. “Jump to conclusions much?”

“Well,
he doesn’t study, can’t stay awake, and starts the day with a headache.”

“Maybe
he just watches too much TV.”

Marilyn
shrugged. “One of us said he was a jerk, and I don’t think it was me.”

“Well,
he just bugs me.” Connie waved her sandwich for emphasis. “You know, the rich
kid and the grocer’s daughter. My mother takes in laundry. His mother saves
deformed children.”

“Is
that him speaking, or you?”

The
temerity of the question made Connie’s temper flare, but she couldn’t deny Marilyn
was right. She turned her attention to the sandwich, carefully pulling it apart
and setting half down on its wax paper wrapping while the heat of a blush rose
up her neck.

When
she didn’t answer, Marilyn said, “If he looks down on you, why would he lower
himself to ride with you?”

Connie
held the sandwich up to take a bite. “It’s free. Plus, he gets an extra hour of
sleep.”

Marilyn
chuckled. “Wow, you really don’t like this guy. So… why don’t you dump him?”

“I
want somebody else to drive in the snow. Plus, he’s good to look at.” Connie bit
the sandwich.

 Marilyn
wrinkled her nose. “Bones and fat in all the right places—that’s all that is.”

“Gross.”
Connie gave a dramatic shiver.

“Some
bio major you are.” Marilyn stabbed a stray elbow macaroni with her fork. “What’s
happening with your sister and her new man?”

“Her
one and only man? She seems happy. He’s coming down from St. J to meet the
folks on Friday. Then they’re going somewhere.” Connie dismissed the whole
thing with a wave of her hand. She wasn’t about to admit—to herself or anyone
else—that  she might be just a
little
jealous of Gianna. “I can’t keep
track. Nor do I care.”

Marilyn
smirked. “And what’s happening in
your
love life?”

“Not
funny.”

“Well,
I give you a couple months, and you’ll be gaga over the jerk.”

Connie
focused on the orangey glop congealing around the elbow macaroni on Marilyn’s
plate. It looked like plastic. “How can you eat that stuff?”

Marilyn
answered in a sing-song voice. “You’re de-flect-ing,”

“No,
I’m grossing out over what you choose to eat.” Connie knew, without looking,
that Marilyn was grinning, and the implications of the grin irritated her. “I
am
not
interested in Greg Fairchild! He’s an elitist jerk who’d rather
party than study! He lives a self-serving lifestyle while other guys die in Vietnam!”
I’d take Nino over him anytime.

“Wow.”

Connie
glared at Marilyn.“What?”

“You’re
all over the place about this guy.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You
don’t know how you feel about him, do you?”

“Buzz
off.”

Marilyn
laughed, then said, “Hey, seriously. Why do you think your dad changed his mind
about letting Gianna see her black guy? I mean, do you think it’s real? How’s
he going to react if she wants to marry him?”

“I
don’t know.” Crabbiness now dominated Connie’s responses. “Maybe he realizes
that people who are victims of discrimination should stick together.”

“Or,
at least not do it to each other,” Marilyn said. “But getting married could be
something else.”

“Let’s
not get her married before she’s even gone on a real date. So far, they’ve had
coffee together and checked out where he works.”

“Is
he hot?”

A
vision of David flashed through Connie’s mind, and she smiled to herself as she
remembered the effect he’d had on her. “Yeah, he’s hot.”

“As
hot as Greg?”

Connie
shook her head in disgust. Leave it to Marilyn to carry things too far. “Just
shut up, okay?”

***

Greg
was late. Connie sat in her car, watching the breeze stir the multicolored
leaves of the maples at the edge of the commuter lot. Her thoughts wandered
from the beauty of autumn foliage to concern over the next day’s statistics quiz
to irritation with Greg for holding her up when she was ready to go home. As
much as she might want to, she couldn’t leave without him, and the realization
made her jaw clench as she stared out the driver’s side window.

The
passenger side door opened, and Connie jumped.

Greg
gave a small laugh as he slid onto the bench seat, clutching his books to his
chest with his left arm. “Sorry, if I scared you. Sorry I’m late.”

Before
she could respond, he swung his right hand into view, holding before her a
bouquet of cut flowers wrapped in cellophane. She regarded the array of autumn-colored
mums and white baby’s breath with confusion, unsure if she was meant to hold it
for him as he closed the car door or to accept it as a gift.

When
she didn’t take it, he thrust it closer. “This is to apologize for not keeping
my side of the bargain this morning.”

“For
me?” Connie managed a tentative smile, unsure why he thought that merited
flowers.

“Yeah.
I’m just hoping they don’t make your boyfriend come looking to punch my lights
out.” A lop-sided grin spread across his face.

Connie
stared at the bouquet. Except for the obligatory corsage given to her by Nino
when they went to the senior prom, she had never received flowers from a guy
before. “You didn’t have to do that.” A wave of guilt washed over her as she
remembered her annoyance with him.

“I
know, but I wanted to. Where should I put them? I guess you can’t hold them if
you’re driving.”

Connie
glanced down at the empty space between them on the bench seat. “Right there, I
guess. Thanks.” She looked up and smiled. “That’s very nice.”

“No
problem.” He set the flowers on the bench beside her, then pulled the car door
shut and bent over to put his books on the floor at his feet.