A Hundred Summers Read Online Free PDF Page B

give you a better show, after that long drive from Massachusetts.”
    “With Budgie driving,” Graham says. “Her nerves must be shredded.”
    “Oh, you were terrific,” I warble to Nick. “It’s a shame about your leg, though. Is everything all right?”
    “It’s fine. Fibula. It’ll heal by Thanksgiving. At least the cast is below the knee, so I can get around all right.” Nick sinks his body into the chair next to mine, and because he is not burly, not muscle-bound, I become aware only then of his utter largeness, his rangy long frame and the layers of sinew and skin that cover it. His dark jacket stretches endlessly across his shoulders. Next to him, Graham—who a moment ago filled the chair and the room—seems diminished. “Thanks for your concern, though.”
    I must have sounded like an idiot. He must think I’m some brainless boy-crazy girl, one of dozens sighing after him because he’s tall and handsome and plays football. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m no different from those boy-crazy girls, enslaved to the mating instinct. What do I know of him, really, other than that he’s tall and handsome and plays football, that he has unyielding eyes and moves like a leopard?
    Graham calls for a menu, and Nick studies it briefly, while the waiter stands just behind his shoulder. Everyone is staring at us again, staring at Nick and his set shoulders and his plaster-wrapped leg.
    “I’ll have the steak, I guess. Medium rare. Thank you.” He hands the menu to the waiter and reaches for his water.
    Your move, Lily. Think of something. What would Budgie say?
    “So, tell me, Mr. Greenwald. What are you studying?” I ask.
    “It’s Nick. History,” he says. “And you?”
    “English.”
    We drink our water in tandem.
    “That’s not the whole story, though. Is it, Nick?” Graham nudges him with his elbow. When Nick says nothing, he continues: “Greenwald’s been taking architecture as well, except his father doesn’t approve.”
    “Why is that?” asks Budgie.
    “Oh, he wants him to join the firm . . .”
    “I don’t mean his father. I mean Nick. Why is he studying architecture at all?” She is genuinely curious. An architect, in Budgie’s eyes, is more a tradesman than a professional, covered with plaster and sawdust and blueprints, someone to be ordered about, someone whose bill can be conveniently ignored until the next time he’s needed.
    “Because I like it,” said Nick.
    Budgie is horrified. “But you don’t actually mean to be an architect!”
    “Why shouldn’t he be an architect?” I snap. “Why shouldn’t he create beautiful things, instead of selling stocks and bonds or making lawsuits?”
    Nobody speaks. Graham starts to smile, coughs, and reaches for his milk.
    Nick squares the tip of his fork against the tablecloth, and does the same for his knife. “No, of course I’m not going to be an architect. Doesn’t mean I can’t study it.”
    Budgie watches his movements. Her lips curl upward. “Of course not. Graham, what was that you were telling me about the other day on the telephone? Something about rocks?”
    “The Grand Canyon,” Graham says affectionately, patting her hand. “I told you I thought we should take a trip there sometime. You can see how the layers of stone were laid down. Millions of years of geology.”
    “Geology! You see? That’s what I mean. Studying something just because you find it interesting. It’s not as if Graham wants to be a geologist.” She makes a little laugh at the absurdity of it.
    “And what if I do, honey? We could go out in the field, camping out in the canyons. It’d be grand.”
    Budgie laughs again. “Isn’t he funny?”
    Later, the boys escort us back to Budgie’s Ford and raise the top for the journey back to Smith. Budgie offers them a ride back to their dormitory. “I can’t let you walk back with that on your leg,” she says, nodding at Nick’s cast.
    Nick looks at Graham. They shrug.
    “Sure, why not?”