Meeting Nancy by Jessica Schoenleber

It was the strangest feeling, meeting Nancy. It was like seeing myself walking towards me, only a me with more confidence, longer strides, shinier hair. When I saw her, I felt a nauseating shock roll through my body, my heart rate quickened and I wanted to melt away. When my dad told me that Nancy was coming, I had smiled and nodded, but wouldn’t meet his eyes.

As an only child living in small-town Missouri, I often daydreamed about having siblings. Not just a few siblings, either. I would be the fourth child in seven, and my days would be spent running through the woods near my house with my brothers and sisters. Together we would build a clubhouse out of plywood and tin siding. We would huddle together inside and play monopoly and laugh and fight. I would push my little brother on the swing that hung from the tree in front of our house, and he would nag me to push him higher and higher. I would sigh, exasperated, but push him a few more times anyway. With so many children, our parents would be unable to keep track of us all, and I would have the kind of freedom where I could disappear for hours on end and no one would even notice. My older sister would sneak out of the house at night to make out with her boyfriend in the front seat of his pickup truck, the stick shift digging into her side. She would come home past midnight, creeping through the window of the bedroom we shared. She would whisper to me about what it was like- the way he held her hand, how to lean half way in (but not all the way!) in order to draw him in for the first kiss. I would go to sleep with newly acquired knowledge.

As it was, though, I spent most evenings alone, or with my parents. Not this one. I met Nancy on the red brick steps that lead up to my front door. It was one of those summer days where the heat seems to come up from the sidewalks. Your hair gets heavy with the humidity, and everything moves in slow motion. I was wearing one of those hideous sundresses my mom bought for me. This one had red-checkered Scottie dogs patterned across the lightweight fabric. At 15 years old, I knew I was way too old to wear something so idiotic, but the heat was persuasive and it was the least sweltering article of clothing I owned. Nancy, of course, seemed entirely unaffected by the high temperature. Her long blonde hair caught every ray of sunlight, and her skin glowed with something like All-American wholesomeness. The first thing I noticed, though, was how much she looked like me. I hadn’t expected this for some reason, and it disturbed me. We shared the same dark blue eyes and our lips curled in the same way. She even had my freckles.

When my dad came outside to greet her, our similarity was the first thing he seemed to notice too. He hugged her, smiling broadly, then pulled away. “Wow,” he kept repeating. “You and Gina look like sisters!” We all laughed. My laugh was awkward and forced, my dad’s a little too loud, but Nancy’s laugh was genuine. It was the kind of laugh that might make you want to like someone. We all went inside, and my mom greeted Nancy with stiff enthusiasm. “Welcome to our home!” she exclaimed, with a little too much emphasis on “our.” When we all sat down to dinner, I would catch my dad staring at Nancy with this funny expression on his face. Whenever she spoke, he leaned forward onto his elbows, hanging on every word. I just kept thinking how hot it was. How could my mom bake on a day like this? The heat permeated the room and the ice cubes were tiny slivers in my glass of water before we had even started. Dinner conversation was punctuated with pauses. Even asking normal questions like, “so how do you like the University of South Florida?” or “do you play any sports?” seemed wrong. These were things we should already know. Nancy turned towards me, her face opening into a smile. “How do you like living in such a small town? Your dad told me there are only twelve kids in your class.” Even as I answered, my dad still looked at her, making my throat tighten and my palms sweat.

After we finish dinner, my dad and I have a routine. Dad says, “you wash, I’ll dry?” and we walk over to the sink together, balancing plates and spoons on top of each other so that we only have to make one trip to the kitchen. Dad will put on a Sinatra album, and as we methodically scrub and rinse I’ll tell him about the picture frames I’m making out of twigs and twine, and does he know if I can sell back our used soda cans for money, and can you believe the dumb thing Matt Aaronson said during softball? Dad will listen and nod and hand me dish after dish. We’ve been washing and drying together each night since I was a little kid, back when I had to use the wooden step stool with my name painted on the top in order to reach the sink. It’s not my favorite chore, but I don’t really think about it, it’s just something we always do. Tonight, though, Dad looked pointedly at Nancy and said, “Why don’t you help me with the dishes?” I expected to be happy that I could skip my job; usually I only get to do this on my birthday, but instead I felt my face flush and the temperature of the dining room rose a bit. Dad glanced at me and said, “You can take the night off!” grinning like he’d given me a big treat. It’s just the dishes, it’s not like I would have even minded.

Instead I went to my room and picked up a do-it-yourself origami book that had been sitting untouched on my shelves for years, and brought it into the dining room. From where I was sitting, I could see Nancy and my dad standing side by side at the sink. She was laughing about something and her silky hair swayed in little waves when she moved. I became uncomfortably aware of my own hair sticking to the sweat on the back of my neck. I opened the book to the peacock page and creased a square piece of blue and turquoise paper down the middle. I overheard my dad, “We’re all so glad you could make it tonight, we’ve been looking forward to your visit ever since your letter came.” I rolled my eyes and doubled the paper, careful to line up the edges with exact precision. Nancy responded but I couldn’t hear her, and my dad suddenly stopped what he was doing and stood with the water running, dish in hand, and turned to face Nancy. “You know, if your mother had told me…I mean, if I’d known… well, things would have been a lot different.” I brought the left edge of the paper inwards and upwards, and barely even noticed that the water was still running and that neither of them were moving and that Nancy’s jeans fit her perfectly and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her flowered shirt in a magazine. My peacock looked like a dilapidated sailboat, so I crumpled it up and wandered into the living room and turned on the TV.

Bonanza was on. Little Joe was all worked up and yelling at the others about something, his small frame rigid. The characters stared at one another, reeling from Joe’s outburst, when I heard the first crack of thunder. I looked out the window and saw raindrops collecting on the dark glass. Just then Nancy came over and sat on the arm of the couch. As Ben spoke reasonably and tried to soothe Little Joe’s anger, my mom hesitantly walked over and handed me a jar of jellybeans. “I hope this is alright for dessert,” she said to Nancy, apologetically. Nancy graciously accepted and we continued to sit in silence as the laugh track sounded in the background.

All of a sudden, Nancy spoke. “I love thunderstorms,” she said. There was a pause where I nodded self-consciously and then she asked, “Do you want to go outside and watch?” I’m not sure why I agreed, but before I knew it we were sitting outside in the grass, the rain falling on our clothes and skin. I covered the top of the jellybean jar with my hand to keep the rain out and for a long time neither of us said anything. We snatched jellybeans out of the jar and sunk deeper into the thick grass. As the rain picked up, the lightning became brighter and now when it cracked it was like daytime for a split second. “This must be really strange for you,” Nancy said, speaking quietly. I wasn’t sure what to say and when I looked over at her, the lightning lit up her face and it looked like she was crying. Her tears were mixing with the rain and her face was scrunched up and unsightly in just the way mine is when I cry. I felt something break inside of me, and the rain was falling in sheets, and then we were both crying and the jellybeans were floating in their abandoned jar. For the first time in weeks, I felt the heat lift.