We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves Read Online Free Page A

zits, and no weirder than anyone else (which is to say, weird
     on stilts). But Peter drove her to school every morning and picked her up every afternoon
     that he didn’t have orchestra. When she made a joke, he laughed. When she was unhappy,
     he listened. He bought her jewelry or perfume for her birthdays, defended her from
     their parents or her classmates, as needed. He was so nice, it hurt to watch.
    He saw something in her, and who knows you better than your own brother? If your brother
     loves you, I say it counts for something.
    Just before dessert, Vivi asked my father what he thought of standardized testing.
     He didn’t answer. He was staring into his yams, his fork making little circles and
     stabs as if he were writing in the air.
    “Vince!” my mother said. She gave him a prompt. “Standardized tests.”
    “Very imprecise.”
    Which was just the answer Vivi wanted. Peter had such excellent grades. He worked
     so hard. His SAT scores were a terrible injustice. There was a moment of congenial
     conspiracy and the end of Grandma Donna’s wonderful dinner. Pie was served—pumpkin,
     apple, and pecan.
    Then my dad spoiled things. “Rosie had such good SATs,” he said, as if we weren’t
     all carefully
not
talking about the SATs, as if Peter wanted to hear how well I had done. My dad had
     his pie shoved politely out of the way in one cheek, smiling at me proudly, visions
     of Markov avoidance chains banging together like trash-can lids in his head. “She
     wouldn’t open the envelope for two whole days and then she’d aced them. Especially
     the verbal.” A little bow in my direction. “Of course.”
    Uncle Bob’s fork came down on the edge of his plate with a click.
    “It comes of being tested so often when she was little.” My mother spoke directly
     to Bob. “She’s a good test-taker. She learned how to take a test, is all.” And then,
     turning to me, as if I wouldn’t have heard the other, “We’re so proud of you, honey.”
    “We expected great things,” my father said.
    “Expect!” My mother’s smile never faltered; her tone was desperately gay. “We expect
     great things!” Her eyes went from me to Peter to Janice. “From all of you!”
    Aunt Vivi’s mouth was hidden behind her napkin. Uncle Bob stared over the table at
     a still life on the wall—piles of shiny fruit and one limp pheasant. Breast unmodified,
     just as God intended. Dead, but then that’s also part of God’s plan.
    “Do you remember,” my father said, “how her class spent a rainy recess playing hangman
     and when it was her turn the word she chose was
refulgent
? Seven years old. She came home crying because the teacher said she’d cheated by
     inventing a word.”
    (My father had misremembered this; no teacher at my grammar school would have ever
     said that. What my teacher had said was that she was sure I hadn’t
meant
to cheat. Her tone generous, her face beatific.)
    “I remember Rose’s scores.” Peter whistled appreciatively. “I didn’t know how impressed
     I should have been. That’s a hard test, or at least I thought so.” Such a sweetheart.
     But don’t get attached to him; he’s not really part of this story.
    •   •   •
    M OM CAME INTO my room on Friday, my last night at home. I was outlining a chapter in my text on
     medieval economies. This was pure Kabuki—look how hard I’m working! Everyone on holiday
     but me—until I’d gotten distracted by a cardinal outside the window. He was squabbling
     with a twig, hankering after something I hadn’t yet figured out. There are no red
     birds in California, and the state is the poorer for it.
    The sound of my mother at the door made my pencil hop to.
Mercantilism.
Guild monopolies.
Thomas More’s
Utopia
.
“Did you know,” I asked her, “that there’s still war in Utopia? And slaves?”
    She did not.
    She floated about for a bit, straightening the bedding, picking up some of the stones
     on the dresser, geodes