Free The O. Henry Prize Stories 2011 by Laura Furman Page A

down.
    It’s Saturday, Sherry von B. says. She makes that face again.
    Sherry, where’s the map? Dick asks, heading for the kitchen. Where did you say you were going? he calls back to me.
    My car broke down, I say again. But I’m lost too. And I need to tell my brother where to meet me. Somewhere up by my car, maybe.
    Here, Sherry says, following Dick into the kitchen. You’re no good at finding anything.
    So, wait, you’re not from around here? Richard calls from the kitchen. I can hear him going through a cupboard and Sherry whispering.
    No, I say. I moved here two weeks ago. On a shelf in the living room next to a set of old books are coins in a frame. I take three steps to my left, lift the frame off the shelf, and slide it down inside my jacket. Then I’m back in the hall on the rug, waiting. Batman wags his tail.
    What am I thinking? Dick says. He’s coming out of the kitchenwith a phone in his hand. We need this more than a map. Here, call your brother.
    I dial RJ’s cell. My car broke down, I say when he answers. What? he asks. Meet me at—, I say. Where should I meet him? I ask Sherry, who is now back in the hall with her arms crossed. What’s on the big street? I ask.
    Go to Carl’s, Dick says. It’s a restaurant two blocks west of Oak on Grover. Grover’s the big street, he says laughing.
    Meet me at Carl’s,
Brad
, I say into the phone. It’s on Grover. Who is this? RJ asks. What the fuck?
    I hang up and say thanks about twenty times. The dog sticks his nose in my crotch. Dick stretches out a leg and pushes the dog back, all the time saying good luck with band, he played trumpet in high school and college, forcing me to say I play glockenspiel, which is the only instrument I can think of at the spur of the moment.
    You know, I say,
von
in a name means your family were princes or something in Germany. Way back. I’ve got it too.
    You told her our last name? Sherry asks, her voice high.
    Dick just frowns. He’s not sure, I think. Royalty, he says. He laughs. Tell it to my accountant.
    It’s hard to start school in the middle of the term, isn’t it, Sherry von B. says. She holds herself tight.
    Really hard. Unless you get pretty good grades and have extracurricular activities that keep you busy and confident, I say. This last was what the guidance counselor suggested to my parents.
    Good for you, Dick von B. says.
    I had a horse, I say quickly. But the truth is that my parents decided not to buy me one once everything caught up with me, and once my total lack of concern for the welfare of others required a second mortgage.
Have
a horse, I tell the von Bs. His name is Star. He looks like Black Beauty. Dick’s face is starting tofreeze, but I can’t stop myself. I say, When Brad picks me up we’re going out to the stable to see Star. I have some carrots in my trunk. Does your son like sports? I ask.
    Well, Richard says.
    I was in soccer when I was little, I say. It’s suddenly way too noisy under my hat so I take it off, which is not good because the von Bs can see my scalp and all its tufts. There’s a big bell clanging inside my head. Goalie, the hardest position, I say. We won city for our age group one year. I fought off a lot of balls that season. Then there was gymnastics, five years.
    Whose life am I telling? This one belongs to another kid—the kind of kid I never talked to.
    Senior play I was Eliza Doolittle, I say, the bell inside me ringing. They put a notice in the paper. Math was my favorite subject, which is not usual for girls. It’s like I’m sure you’ve said to your kid, find something you’re passionate about. All the teachers at school said goals were important. Achieve has an
I
in it, I say.
    I stop talking. My brain is clanging like a church bell. All of this was before, I say. Before I moved here from Illinois two weeks ago. We stand there looking, even the pictures on the walls. That does it for Richard and Sherry von Behren, their son, and my old neighborhood.
    Know