Free Local Girls by Alice Hoffman

and I wanted to help. At that point I still believed that I knew as much as most people, and more than many. That afternoon, I went home and called my cousin Margot out to the patio, where we could speak privately. She and my mother had been experimenting with napoleons and éclairs and there was bitter-sweet chocolate streaked along Margot’s arms. They had a wedding on Sunday that was driving them crazy.
    â€œI told your mother we shouldn’t do weddings.” Margot was supposed to have stopped smoking, but occasionally she had a Salem, during times of stress. She was having one now. “A bar mitzvah, a party, they’re something else completely. At weddings people are so on edge. They can see their lives passing before their eyes. They’re shutting the gate, they’re locking it twice, and they turn all their anxiety into complaining about the catering. ‘You call this coffee? You call this cake?’ That’s what we’ll be hearing. Believe me.”
    My mother was busy rolling out dough, so Margot let me take a puff of her Salem. I thought about the way my father had dragged out leaving us. For two years my parents fought day and night, like pit bulls trapped in an L-shaped living room, but Margot’s husband had vacated in a totally different style. He took off in the middle of the night; he didn’t even bother to pack a suitcase, he just got into their Ford Mustang and headed south. Margot eventually got the Mustang back, but ever since her marriage had broken up, her mouth had a funny look to it, as though someone had grabbed her by the lips and yanked, hard.
    When I asked her what she would do if she wanted to get rid of a baby, Margot’s mouth looked even more pinched than usual. She pointed her Salem at me. “You?”
    â€œA friend,” I said.
    â€œSure, sure.” Margot shook her head sadly. “That’s what they all say.”
    There were actually tears in her eyes. To be honest, I felt flattered. I could hardly get a boy to look at me. All right, they’d look, they’d even take me out, but no one asked me for a second date. I was too nasty, a real wise guy, and all the boys could tell what was beneath my rotten disposition. Down deep, I wanted a commitment with a capital C. To get anywhere with me, a boy would have to sign his undying loyalty with his own blood.
    â€œI swear,” I told Margot. “It’s for a friend.”
    Later, while my mother was boxing up the pastries, Margot gave me an address in New Jersey. She scribbled down all the information, dotting her i’s with little hearts.
    â€œI hope your friend has money. It costs three hundred bucks.” Margot was getting her coat on, a soft camel’s hair I greatly admired. She didn’t believe in girls getting rid of babies, but then again, she didn’t believe in women working either and here she was with no husband and her own business. “I could lend you the cash,” she said.
    â€œIt’s not for me,” I insisted.
    Margot took my face in her hands and looked into my eyes. “Swear to me on your father’s grave you’re not pregnant.”
    My father was living in a huge Tudor house in Great Neck, but I swore on his grave anyway and Margot must have believed me because she kissed me on both cheeks.
    â€œGood girl,” she said, which, to my ears, sounded something like a curse.
    That evening, my brother came home from the Food Star with salami and a bucket of coleslaw. He did this most nights; my mother, after all, was too busy catering to fix dinner, and that evening she actually had a date. Her first. I sat on her bed, ate a sandwich, and helped pick outfits—her black dress was too reminiscent of mourning; the red skirt was too extreme. Finally, we settled on a pale blue suit and a cream-colored blouse.
    â€œI must be crazy,” my mother said as she viewed herself in the full-length mirror. Margot had arranged