Free Freaky Green Eyes by Joyce Carol Oates

Dad’s name: the Reid Pierson Class of ’78 Football Scholarship. Dad marveled, “That was one of the great honors of my life, I can tell you. It was an absolute surprise.”
    When Dad spoke like this, I couldn’t tell if he was addressing just Samantha and me or other, invisible listeners. Sometimes I could almost see this audience, on the far side of blinding lights. I could hear their cheers and applause.
    Finally Dad found the Blounts’ driveway. Bumpy, bouncy, you needed a Jeep to navigate it. Dad was cursing under his breath, and Samantha and I were very quiet. But there was a clearing after a quarter mile, sunlight flooded in, and the Blounts’ lodge lifted above us, so impressive we just stared. Dad murmured happily, “Now there’s class, girls. Wealth and taste.”The “lodge” was the size of a small hotel, made of redwood logs and stone, with numerous sliding doors, balconies, and open decks. There were beautiful stone chimneys and what appeared to be Indian gargoyles and totem poles used for decorative purposes. Beyond the house was the bluff, and an enormous sweeping view of the ocean. For once the mist wasn’t obscuring the horizon.
    There were at least eight vehicles in the Blounts’ horseshoe driveway. My heart sank—I hadn’t anticipated so many Fourth of July guests. Somehow from the way Dad had talked, it had seemed as if Reid Pierson and his family would be the only guests.
    Dad was in a great mood immediately. Shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and hugging. Everybody knew Reid Pierson, and everybody was drawn to Reid Pierson. From time to time Dad would remember that Samantha and I had come with him, and he’d wave us over, or snap his fingers like a magician, “Girls! Sam-Sam and Franky, c’mere.” For Dad was proud of his daughters, he wanted everyone to know.
    Samantha was an honor student at Country Day. Franky was a star swimmer and diver on the girls’ team at Forrester. Todd, who hadn’t been able to join us today, was into serious football at Washington State.
    When Dad was asked about his wife, he smiled and shook his head wryly. “Krista sends her regrets. She’s so terribly sorry not to be with us. She has an extremely dependent family down in Portland; they’re forever calling upon her to help them with ‘crises.’ . . .”
    For a moment I wondered: Is this true? Mom isn’t in Skagit Harbor, but in Portland? Maybe that was why Aunt Vicky had called and e-mailed me?
    As soon as I saw the Blounts, especially Mrs. Blount, who was about Mom’s age but sleekly blond and glamorous in that way Mom no longer wanted to be, I was lonely for home, and for Mom. In this beautiful place on the ocean, on the Fourth of July. I felt lonely, gawky, self-conscious. Samantha and I were like orphans at this house party where everybodyknew everybody else and there were children running in and out and strangers carrying drinks drifting by, crying, “Happy Fourth! Great weather, isn’t it? For once.” A witty variant of this was “Great weather, isn’t it? Bud ordered it.”
    Mrs. Blount seized both my hands in hers and said, “Franky, is it? I’m sooo sorry your mother wasn’t able to join us. I hope the ‘family crisis’ isn’t terribly serious?”
    â€œJust some people dying, maybe.”
    This was a Freaky remark—I couldn’t resist. The look on Mrs. Blount’s tight, manicured face!
    â€œOh, dear. I hope—it isn’t—” Still, Mrs. Blount meant to be upbeat at her party and needed my help; we were clumsy as canoers struggling with outsize paddles, about to capsize.
    I mumbled a vague reply that might have been interpreted as It’s okay, it won’t last much longer , and Mrs. Blount pretended to feel relief hearing this, and smiled at me and squeezed my hands in a gesture of maternal sympathy. But her gaze slipped