Elizabeth Crane: The History of Great Things

The blond boy calls after dinner. Seventeen-year-old brother answers and is about to hand the phone to you, sees the sad look on your face, remembers your punishment, tries to mitigate the situation on your behalf. Uh, she can’t come to the phone right now, can I give her a message? Okay. Okay. Sure thing. Seventeen-year-old hands you the scrap of paper with a number and says Randy wants to know if you’ve seen American Graffiti. Randy! You knew it. You’ve seen it and loved loved loved it and would see it again. Your dad hears this, sees your disappointment, and says You can call back and tell him why you can’t go, if you want . Jeannie looks mildly irritated with Fred for bending the agreement like this, but you’re not her kid, so she keeps quiet. You want to call Randy back, but having to tell him you’re grounded and can’t even talk on the phone is the definitely worst thing ever. Fred’s still working on burying the shock that his little girl came home drunk last night, but he doesn’t want to cave all the way on your punishment, which wouldn’t be fair to the boys.

Randy’s not home when you call back; just as well. The sound of his blond voice on the phone would be too much. You leave a message.

The following afternoon, Randy shows up at the door in his best butterfly-collar shirt, holding out a blue Ring Pop, says I already got you this , he looks sad, and you’re sad too, because this is the next greatest thing that’s ever happened: by giving you a ring he is obviously saying that he was indeed hoping to be with you forever. Your father comes to the door to see who it is. Hi, Dr. Crane, Oh, hi, Randy , you’re stunned that they know each other, turns out Randy is the son of a respected colleague. I was just going , Randy says . Okay, well, it was really, well, you know. Maybe I’ll see you next summer. You nod. Next summer is twenty years from now. You wave apologetically as he leaves. Well, you know what, you’re only here for another week, Betsy. Randy’s a nice boy. Maybe we can add on another day of being grounded at the end. I’ll talk to Lois. You love your dad the best.

— Do you really think that?

— I don’t know. I’ve thought it.

You’re a sophomore at a nice private high school on the Upper West Side. We’ve chosen this school because it’s safer than the public school in our neighborhood.

— Hey, Mom, can we talk about that?

— What about it?

— Does anything about that strike you as — not quite right?

— What’s wrong about it?

— I guess I just wonder if you were worried about my safety more than you were about my education?

— Sure I was.

—. .

— The neighborhood was still rough then, Betsy. The school you would have gone to had a reputation for being dangerous.

—. .

— I don’t understand what you find so wrong with what I’m saying.

— What about the quality of my education?

— We didn’t pick just any school, if that’s what you mean. This one didn’t require uniforms.

— Okay. Moving on.

Tonight’s dinner conversation is not to your liking, even though it’s not all that different from any other night’s dinner conversation. Mostly business. You see it otherwise.

Can I be excused? you ask.

This is the real world. Get used to it , your stepfather says. It’s not my world , you say. Don’t be naive, Betsy. Stop always saying that! You think because you have one Jewish friend who isn’t greedy that what’s true isn’t true? Well, who is good, to you, Victor? Seriously, what people are okay? Are we okay? Obviously not all white people are okay, because I know how you feel about Jews and gay people.

You better shape up, Betsy , he says.

You go to your room and close the door to call your best friend. They’re so prejudiced, Nina. It’s awful , you say. Oh, Betsy, I’m sure they’re not , she says. There are like no people they don’t talk shit about. I’m sure they don’t mean it. Don’t be naive, Nina.

You are decades away from recognizing what you just said as having anything to do with anything.

Later, when I think you may have calmed down, I knock quietly on your door and open it a crack. It’s just me.

I can see that you’re not over it.

Betsy, you know how Victor is. Don’t let it get to you , I say. Why am I supposed to be the one who changes? you ask. Because he won’t. Well, I won’t either. Mom, why don’t you ever disagree with him? Considering some of what you’ve told me about Grandpa I would think you would have something to say. How can you complain about his prejudice when you have your own? That was totally different , I say. How was it different? It seems exactly the same. Have I ever said you couldn’t be friends with someone because of their race or religion? Because that’s what it was like when I was growing up. But what difference does it make if you still think and say awful things about them? We would never say those things to their face. I know! That’s my point! Betsy, come on, we have Jewish friends and gay friends, I’ve sung with people of every color and background. There are always exceptions. Oh my god! Well, there are. So you agree with him. Not on everything, no, of course not. How come when he gets going on me you never say anything? What? You never defend me, ever. It’s like, when he goes off on me is like the only time you don’t have something to say. Sweetheart. . Forget it, Mom. Can I be alone now please?

Ajunior in high school, you haven’t been dating yet because you go to a small school and there aren’t a lot of choices. By winter, Nina is on her second or third serious boyfriend already; it is decided that they will fix you up on a blind double date with them and his friend Ed. After some deliberation, you pick out a striped button-down shirt and the gray cashmere V-neck sweater you got on sale in the men’s department at Charivari, with a pair of high-waisted jeans and blue Wallabees. Maybe a nice necklace? I could lend you something. No thanks, Mom. What about a pair of boots instead of those, honey? It’s snowy out. Yeah, I can see out the window, Mom . You look at me like I have no idea what’s good. You could bring a pair of heels. Heels with jeans? Don’t act like people don’t wear that now. I’ve seen the pictures of Bianca Jagger. Wait, you know who Bianca Jagger is? Yes, Betsy. So that means you know who Mick Jagger is? He’s that hideous-looking rock singer, right? Do you want to bother picking this apart? The fact that your mother knows who Mick and Bianca Jagger are, or the fact that she finds him hideous? You guess not. Well, anyway, I’m not going to a disco, I’m going on a date. What’s Nina wearing? What difference does it make what Nina’s wearing? You just called Nina to find out what she was wearing. Yes, because Nina likes to dress the same as me, Mom. Oh. This isn’t the complete truth, though, because while dressing identically to Nina is unacceptable, neither do you want to wear something radically different. Okay, what about a scarf? Do you want to borrow a scarf? People don’t wear scarves, Mom. I wear scarves. Mom, it’s 1977! I know what year it is. Well you don’t seem to know how we dress now. What are the boys wearing? How should I know! I heard you ask Nina just now. Don’t listen to me in my room! I wasn’t trying to listen to you. It’s not a big apartment. Well, don’t tell me what to wear. I can dress myself. I know that, I’m just thinking you might want him to ask you out again. You look at me like I’ve stabbed a basket full of kittens. Way down in you there’s one tiny cell of your being that wants to challenge me on this statement, to look into it more deeply, to ask about a dozen questions about the idea behind this statement, but you aren’t there yet. It’s a cell that isn’t a fully realized idea that can be formed into words. I thought I looked cute in this! Well, you always look cute, you’d look cute in a paper sack, but I wouldn’t send you out in that either. Get out of my room! You better watch it, daughter.