Free Cannie Shapiro 02 Certain Girls by Jennifer Weiner Page B

deserved. Last year at this time, before her jeans got tight and her grades and attitude got rotten, she'd have been delighted to spend an afternoon with Peter and me on an adventure: a hike or a bike ride or a trip to the antique shops in Lancaster. We'd done this same walk a dozen times with my sister or Samantha or my mom, and Joy had never objected, never behaved like this. I gave Peter what was quickly becoming my own patented look of desperation: the I can't talk to her; you take it from here. Maybe it was being older, or a man, that made him so patient. Or maybe, I'd think sometimes, and instantly feel guilty for thinking it, it was because she wasn't really his. He was less invested; he could afford to keep his cool.
    "How about colors?" Peter asked Joy, catching up with us effortlessly. "Is pink still your favorite?"
    "Pink," Joy said icily, "was never my favorite."
    Peter looked back at me. I shrugged. Pink had definitely been her favorite when she was eight years old. We'd spent a whole afternoon at the paint store, and we'd brushed patches of the three different shades we'd chosen on her bedroom wall and observed them in the morning, afternoon, and evening light to determine the perfect pink.
    "Do you want favors?" Peter continued. "We could have a photo booth, like Tamsin and Todd did."
    Shrug. "Whatever."
    "Monogrammed clamshells?" I inquired, unable to keep from sounding frustrated. "Fake gold bling? Do you need me to get implants ahead of time? Because, sweetheart, if that's important to you--"
    "Like anyone would ever give you implants," Joy said, her tone matching mine.
    "Joy, did I ever show you my bar mitzvah party pictures?" Peter asked. His face was calm and his voice untroubled enough to suggest that we'd been having a cordial conversation.
    Joy shrugged, but it was a slightly less hostile shrug than what we'd previously enjoyed.
    "We partied at the Pound Ridge Country Club," said Peter. "My theme was Star Wars. Cocktail hour featured a Death Star constructed entirely from chopped liver."
    The faintest smile flickered across Joy's face. "No way."
    "Way. Did you ever see pictures of my grandfather? By the time he was ninety, the man was a dead ringer for Yoda. Wise he was," Peter said, shaking his head sadly.
    I gave him a grateful look, knowing that he was lying: Star Wars wouldn't have come out until after Peter's bar mitzvah; the senior Krushelevanskys hadn't been what you'd call whimsical folks; and his grandfather Irv hadn't even slightly resembled Yoda.
    "We had inflatable light sabers for favors," Peter continued.
    "Even the girls?" Joy asked.
    "Hmm," Peter rumbled. "Maybe they got something different." He walked, lanky and loose-limbed in his khakis and sweatshirt. "Fake Princess Leia hair?"
    "Ha ha ha," said Joy.
    "I remember that my uncle Herman made the kiddush, and after he was done with the blessing, he told all my friends to stand up and reach under their seats. He'd taped dollar bills under every seat at the kids' table--"
    "A dollar was a lot of money in those days," I interjected, which earned me, inevitably, another eye roll from Joy.
    "And he said," Peter continued, "that the most important lesson of adulthood he could give us was 'Get off your ass and you'll make a buck.'"
    I laughed. Joy's mouth lifted slightly. "Do I know Uncle Herman?" she asked.
    "He's gone to the great Borscht Belt in the sky," Peter said.
    "But he was at your father's bar mitzvah, and that was important. Having family there...making memories..." I said.
    Joy muttered something under her breath that sounded like Oh, please.
    "Have you thought about what you want?" Peter prompted her.
    "How about Grease ?" Joy said.
    "How about no?" I snapped. The two of them stared at me. I shrugged. "Well, what's Grease about? High school delinquents. Unplanned pregnancy. Cliques. Smoking!"
    "Smoking," Peter mused, his voice filled with ersatz sorrow. I gave him a look of Back me up here, please. He nodded soberly. Only someone