But you could tell Mike, snickering behind his hand, had figured out what had happened. You know, what I thought Dr. Thompkins had been asking. And he considered the whole thing simply hilarious.
"No, we haven't seen Nate," my mom said, looking worried. She looks worried whenever she hears about any kid who has strayed away from the parental tether. That's because one of her own kids did that once, and when she'd finally found him again, it had been in a hospital emergency room.
"Oh," Dr. Thompkins said. You could tell he was way disappointed that we hadn't seen Nate. "Well, I figured it was worth a try. He probably stopped at the video arcade. . . ."
I didn't want to be the one to tell Dr. Thompkins that the video arcade was closed. Everything in our town was closed, on account of it being Thanksgiving, with the exception of the Stop and Shop, which never closed, even on Christmas.
But Claire apparently had no problem being the one to deliver the bad news.
"Oh, the arcade is closed, Dr. Thompkins," she said. "Everything's closed. Even the bowling alley. Even the movie theaters."
Dr. Thompkins looked super bummed when Claire said this. My mom even shot her a disapproving look. And in my mom's eyes, Claire Lippman can do no wrong, on account of, you know, liking my reject brother, even if it is partly because of Claire that Mike is currently attending the local community college instead of Harvard, where he was supposed to be going this year.
"Oh," Dr. Thompkins said. He managed a brave smile. "Well, I'm sure he's just run into some friends somewhere."
This was entirely possible. Nate Thompkins, a sophomore at Ernest Pyle High School, where I am a junior, hadn't had too much trouble fitting in, in spite of being the new kid—and the only African-American male—on the block. That's because handsome, athletic Nate had immediately tried out for and gotten onto the Ernie Pyle High football team. Never mind that Coach Albright had been desperate for any players, given that thanks to me, three of his best, including the quarterback, had recently taken up residency in the Indiana state men's penitentiary. Nate supposedly had real talent, and that had thrust him right into the "In Crowd" …
… unlike his older sister Tasha, a bookish senior, whom I'd spied hovering around the classroom where the yearbook committee meets every day after school. The yearbook committee, okay? And the girl was too shy to go in. I'd walked up to her and been like, "Look, I'll introduce you." She'd given me a smile like I'd offered to suck snake venom out of a bite on her shin.
I guess Nate's extrovertedness was not an inherited trait, since Tasha sure didn't have it.
"I'm sure he'll be home soon," Dr. Thompkins said, and, after apologizing again, he left.
"Oh, dear," my mom said, looking worried, as she closed the door. "I hope—"
But my dad broke in with, "Not now, Toni," in this warning voice.
"What?" Mike wanted to know.
"Never mind," my dad said. "Come on. We've still got four different kinds of pie to get through."
"You made four pies?" Claire, who, unlike me, was tall and willowy—and who must have had a hollow leg or something, because she ate more than practically any human being I knew—sounded pleased. "What kind?"
"Apple, pumpkin, pecan, and persimmon," my dad said, sounding equally pleased. Good cooks like people who appreciate their food.
No one, however, that I could tell, appreciated Great-aunt Rose.
"Joseph," she said, the minute we reappeared in the dining room. "Who was that colored man?"
It is really embarrassing having a relative like Great-aunt Rose. It isn't even like she is an alcoholic or anything so you can blame her bad behavior on outside forces. She is just plain mean. A couple of times I have considered hauling off and slugging her, but since she is about one hundred years old (okay, seventy-five, big diff) my parents would probably not take too kindly to this. On top of which I have really been trying to curtail my tendency toward violence, thanks to a lawsuit I got slapped with not too long ago for deviating a certain someone's septum.
Though I still think she deserved it.
"African-American, Rose," my mom said. "And he is our neighbor, Dr. Thompkins. Can I get anyone some more wine? Skip, more Coke?"
Skip is Ruth's twin brother. He is supposed to have a crush on me, but he always forgets about it when Claire Lippman is around. That's because all the boys—including my other brother, Douglas—love Claire. It is like she gives off a pheromone or something that girls like Ruth and I don't have. It is somewhat upsetting.
Not, of course, that I want Skip to like me. Because I don't even like Skip. I like someone else.
Someone who was expecting me for Thanksgiving dinner. Only the way things were going—
"What's wrong with saying colored?" Great-aunt Rose wanted to know. "He is colored, isn't he?"
"Can I get you a little more creamed spinach?" Mr. Abramowitz asked Great-aunt Rose. Being a lawyer, he is used to having to be nice to people he doesn't like.
"What'd Dr. Thompkins want?" Skip asked.
"Oh, nothing," my mother said, a little too brightly. "He was just wondering if any of us had seen Nate. Who'd like more mashed potatoes?"
"What's wrong with saying colored?" Great-aunt Rose was mad because no one was paying any attention to her. Though she probably would have changed her tune if I'd paid the kind of attention to her that I wanted to.
"I heard the only reason Dr. Thompkins took the chief surgeon job over at County Medical was because Nate was getting into trouble at their old school." Claire looked around the table as she dropped this little bombshell. Being an actress, Claire enjoys seeing what kind of reactions her little performances generate. Also, since she babysits for all the rich doctor types when she is not attending rehearsals, she knows all the gossip in town. "I heard Nate was in a gang up in Chicago."
"A gang!" Mrs. Lippman looked upset. "Oh, no! That nice boy?"
"Many a nice boy's fallen in with the wrong crowd," Mr. Abramowitz said mildly.
"But Nate Thompkins." Mrs. Lippman, who was big-time involved with the PTA, shook her head. "Why, he's always been so polite when I've seen him at the Stop and Shop."
"Nate may have been involved with some unsavory individuals back in Chicago," my dad said. "But everybody's entitled to a fresh new start. That's one of the ideals this country was founded on, anyway."
"He's probably out there right now," Great-aunt Rose said, with certain relish, "with his little gang friends, getting high on reefer cigarettes."
Mike, Douglas, and I all exchanged glances. It was always amusing to hear Great-aunt Rose use the word "reefer."
My mom apparently didn't find it very amusing, though, since she said, in a stern voice, "Don't be ridiculous, Rose. There are no drugs here. I mean, not in this town."
I didn't think it would be politic to point out to my mom that the weekend before, at the Hello Dolly cast party (Claire, of course, had gotten the part of Dolly), two kids (not Claire, obviously—she doesn't do drugs, as an actress's body, she informed me, is her temple) had been hauled out by EMTs after imbibing in a little too much Ecstasy. It is better in the long run that my mom be shielded from these things.
"Can I be excused?" I asked, instead. "I have to run over to Joanne's house and get those trig notes I was telling you about."
"May I be excused," my mom said. "And no, you may not. It's Thanksgiving, Jessica. You have three whole days off. You can pick up the notes tomorrow."
"You know somebody graffitied the overpass last week," Mrs. Lippman informed everyone. "You can't even tell what it says. I never thought of it before now, but supposing it's one of those … what do they call them, again? I saw it on Sixty Minutes. Oh, yes. A gang tag. I mean, I'm sure it's not. But what if it is?"