Story 13: What About the Way You Look

They sat across from each other at Tom’s Tavern in Boulder, both eating burgers. Becky wiped some mayonnaise from the corner of her mouth, and Natalie wondered how such a common gesture could seem so graceful. But Becky was always turned out. Whenever they met, Natalie came away inspired to do more with her appearance. Too bad she didn’t hang around Becky often enough for her example to have a permanent effect.

Becky said she had just come from her hairdresser in Denver. Her hair was combed back behind her ears and turned up at the ends. It smelled a little of chemicals. Natalie wished her fine hair could hold a curl that way. Some days she still wanted a head full of auburn curls, like Anne of Green Gables after she dyed her hair with “fast dye” and then had to cut it off.

“Your hair looks nice,” Natalie said.

“She’s trying to get me to go natural, but I don’t want to cut all my hair off.”

“What if you cut it at chin length and let it grow out?”

“I could do that,” Becky said. “I have some pretty headbands. But at some point I’ll have a head of hair that’s half relaxed and half frizzy. I don’t know.”

Even though it was 80 degrees outside, Becky was wearing baggy jeans. Natalie had put on shorts that morning. As she shifted, her thighs peeled reluctantly, painfully away from the vinyl seats. Tom’s was full; all the students were getting their last hamburgers before leaving for the summer. In a week, Natalie would be at Lake Tapawingo, without Chris. Becky noticed her faraway expression.

“Dreaming of your boyfriend?”

“That’s all it’s gonna be this summer. He’s doing an internship in Chicago.”

“So you didn’t break up?”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“Do you still talk to him?”

“Yeah, we talk at least once a month,” Natalie said. “We’re very close. I just don’t know if we’re still together.”

“Well, he seemed like a really nice guy. But I talked to him for only an hour.”

“That’s the way it’s beginning to feel to me too.”

“Mike and I had some problems around the two-year point,” Becky said, dipping three French fries at a time in ketchup and then mayonnaise. She’d gotten Natalie hooked on having a little mayo with her fries. She said it was a Dutch thing that her parents had picked up on one of their volunteer work trips. “Maybe there’s a two-year itch.”

Mayo was not the only thing that Becky passed on. Natalie liked to spend time with her—even if she always had to fit into Becky’s schedule—because she learned something new every time. And Becky seemed to like teaching her things. In fact, if Becky hadn’t always told her she was going to be a journalist, Natalie would have expected her to go for teaching. She never missed an opportunity.

But Natalie wanted to resolve something today, not simply play the eager student. She said to Becky, “You must not be too mad at me, or you wouldn’t have come to lunch, right?”

Becky made a small face and kept on eating her French fries. Finally she said, “It comes and goes.”

“You were right about Susan B. Anthony,” Natalie said. “She did let southern feminists segregate …”

“Stop!” Becky said, annoyed. “Can’t we ever talk about anything besides black history?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Natalie answered, remembering how they had become friends one Saturday night at a freshman year party. Scanning the living room of a frat house for Debbie, from whom she had become mysteriously separated, she recognized Becky from government class. The only student in class who had the courage to argue with their sexist, usually drunk teacher. Right now she appeared to be having another argument, this time with a fraternity brother named Jason whom Natalie knew slightly. Natalie abandoned the search for Debbie.

“So you’re just turning me down flat?” Jason was saying in amazement as Natalie walked up to them. He glanced at her as if he hoped she would go away.

“I’m seeing someone else right now,” Becky answered, also looking at Natalie quizzically.

“Do you not date white guys?” Jason asked, in a desperate search for logic in the midst of rejection.

“I have …” Becky began.

Natalie interrupted. “You know, Jason, you’re a really cute guy, but that doesn’t mean everyone wants to go out with you.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know,” he said, now truly offended. He looked at Becky and said, “You can call off the troops. I’m leaving.” He crossed the living room and went downstairs.

Natalie felt very pleased with herself. She introduced herself to Becky and said, “I like the way you take on our government teacher. He needs somebody to snap him out of his fog.”

“Like Jason,” Becky said, smiling in a resigned way.

“Yeah. He didn’t have any right to ask that.”

“Maybe not, but this is Boulder. It happens all the time.”

“Well, not any more tonight. You want a beer?”

Walking onto the porch with Becky, Natalie felt like the escort for a VIP. Becky’s outfit was all elegance, from the Benetton sweater down to her Papagallo shoes. They stood on the back lawn and chatted about classes until Debbie found them. Natalie introduced them, pleased that her circle was expanding. Diversifying.

“Wake up, Natalie,” Becky said, startling her. Across the aisle, a couple got up and left the restaurant, holding hands. “Daydreaming about Chris again?”

“I was remembering how we became friends.”

“That’s the thing, Natalie,” Becky said. Now she was picking up the small, extremely crisp fries one by one and eating them, ignoring the half of her burger that was left. “I want us to be friends. I don’t want you to try to save me anymore, and I don’t want to be teaching and preaching all the time.”

“You’re right, Becky. It’s just that you know something about everything, and asking you is easier than looking things up,” Natalie babbled, feeling that she had unwittingly stepped to the edge of a cliff and was about to measure the drop.

“You know why I know so much?”

“Uh, books? College?”

“Because that’s how I protect myself. I can always shut up some redneck with the right fact.”

“Really?” Natalie asked, thinking of rednecks—from Boulder and Lake Tapawingo both—that she couldn’t imagine stopping for facts. But surely Becky had more experience in that area.

“But with my friends,” Becky said, “I don’t always want to be the professor.”

“Then just stop,” Natalie said. “You’re always teaching. I’m not the only one bringing it on.”

“You know, you’re not the only person who’s said that to me,” Becky said, soaking her last French fry in ketchup and chewing slowly. “My mother has told me that once or twice.”

“Maybe it’s easier to talk about race in terms of facts,” Natalie speculated. “Because that way I won’t say something that might make you angry or hurt you.”

“Like what?” Becky asked, giving her an even look that seemed like a dare.

Natalie picked up her burger, which she’d been neglecting, and took a big bite. She didn’t want to lose Becky as a friend. But then again, she didn’t want to be in a tug of war with her every time they met or tiptoe around her for fear of giving offense.

“You have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“You have to promise that if you don’t like what I say to you, you won’t just leave. Promise that you’ll … say something like it back.”

“Say something like what?”

“Oh come on, Becky,” Natalie snapped. “You must say things about white people sometimes.”

“Fine,” Becky agreed, holding her hands up as if she were facing a gun. “Talk away.”

“When I was in ninth grade,” Natalie began, “there was a black guy in my English class. It was the first time I’d ever had a black student in one of my classes. He started dating a girl in the class.”

“And this bothered you?” Becky asked.

“I remember wondering why he couldn’t date someone black. It was years later before it occurred to me that there weren’t any black girls for him to date. At least not at school.”

“Not to mention that it was none of your business.”

“That too,” Natalie said, feeling that she had got her comeuppance. But Becky wasn’t finished.

“I know just how you feel,” she said very softly. “A guy I know brought his new white girlfriend to church one day. It was Palm Sunday, and every other woman in that church wore a dress and a hat, but she was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. And she was there to meet his family!”

“Does everyone at your church dress up?” Natalie asked feebly, trying to remember if she had ever worn jeans to Mass. Her family hadn’t attended all that often since they had moved to Boulder.

“Yes, women at my church always look good. This girlfriend looked like a big mess. That must be why she didn’t last long.”

The waitress came by to take their plates and leave the check. Natalie ate at Tom’s every so often because the food was so basic and correct. It was simply what it was. Her friendship with Becky had always held an element of the unknown. The two had seemed like a good fit two days ago, when they had made plans. Now Natalie peeled her thighs from the vinyl again and sighed, remembering that the only shorts she had ever seen Becky wearing were linen shorts, long and pressed. Conversations were beginning to come into her head that she didn’t want to hear.

“Are we OK now?” she asked Becky.

“You made your confession.”

“Yeah,” Natalie said, thinking how the wooden confessionals at Catholic churches always resembled coffins stood on one end.

“But I’m not a priest. I can’t absolve you.”

“No,” Natalie agreed.

“That’s why I don’t have these conversations too often. They never turn out.”

“You just have arguments or silence.”

“I argue to protect myself,” Becky said, “but I don’t like arguing with my friends.” She put ten dollars down on the table.

Glancing at the check, Natalie pulled her wallet out of her backpack and began counting ones. She put seven down on top of Becky’s ten. “Like I said, silence.”

Becky nodded thoughtfully. “With white friends, about certain subjects, yes.”

“Doesn’t that limit those friendships?”

“Yes, it does. You’re beginning to get it now.”

It was the end of another school year, Natalie told herself. Time to close certain doors and try to open others.

“Maybe this friendship does more for me than it does for you,” she said to Becky, hoping she wouldn’t rush to agree. “But I like it.”

“I do too, most of the time,” Becky said quietly. “Sometimes I think I should invite you to dinner with my family or to a party with some of my other friends, but then I never do.”

“We can see what happens next year,” Natalie said. Becky took two of her ones, and they left. Tom’s had been so well air-conditioned that at first they didn’t feel the dry heat as they walked down the Pearl Street Mall together. When they got to Broadway, Natalie said she wanted to sit down and look at the tulips for a while. Becky had to go to class. Natalie watched her disappear down Broadway. As usual, people turned to look at her.

Natalie hoped that they smiled. A year ago, she had read a magazine article about black men. They said they felt invisible at times, too visible at others. When she finished reading the article, she had made a resolution to smile at any black man she walked past on the street. Becky had noticed when they were in downtown Denver for dinner one night.

“You certainly are smiley tonight,” she said to Natalie. They walked on for another block or two. Then she asked, “Are you smiling at black men because you’re with me?” Natalie mentioned the article. Becky laughed a little and gave her a look she used to convey how strange white people could be. Natalie had the impression, however, that she wasn’t really angry. Just a little bemused.

As usual, Natalie ended her visit to the Pearl Street Mall by visiting the Boulder Bookstore. She found herself in the ethnic studies section, looking at a copy of Go Tell It on the Mountain. She decided to buy it and read it. It would be a good way to bridge the school year, when she worked and studied, with the lazy rhythms of summer, without Chris, without Becky or Debbie or her other Boulder friends, but with sun, wind, warmth, and water. She didn’t know where any of them would be next summer, after they graduated. This summer might be her last at the lake, her last summer to read, listen, and learn.