Big Swiss(50)

“Are your parents still alive?” Greta asked.

Big Swiss didn’t answer. Maybe they were dead.

“What do you miss most about Switzerland?” Greta asked.

Big Swiss shook her head.

“Did you vacation in the Alps?”

No answer.

“I’ve heard the Swiss are good swimmers. Is that true? And is the chocolate really that much better than—”

“Nice try,” Big Swiss interrupted.

“Pardon?”

“You seem to want to change the subject,” Big Swiss said.

“What?”

Greta felt Big Swiss studying her profile.

“Your mouth is trembling,” Big Swiss said. “Are you suddenly uncomfortable talking about yourself?”

“Wait a minute, were we not having a conversation?”

“I refuse to play into your program,” Big Swiss said.

“My program?”

“What’s your fear?”

Scientology, Greta thought.

“Are you afraid to reveal too much?” Big Swiss asked. “Tell me your fear, and be honest. Don’t compose your answer.”

Greta composed several answers. “Ticking clocks,” Greta said. “Childbirth. I’m not crazy about confrontation. Marriage, most wood-paneled rooms. Feet. In fact, feet might be first. That’s partly why childbirth scares me. It’s actually a fear of breech.”

There, Greta thought. Plenty to investigate.

“You were telling me about your girlfriend in high school,” Big Swiss said. “Then you suddenly shifted the focus away from yourself, and it seems habitual, and I’m just wondering what’s behind it.”

“Maybe I’m just not much of a talker.”

“My guess is you adopted this role pretty early on,” Big Swiss said. “I imagine it’s a role you’ve been performing your whole life.”

“Being polite?”

“Listening,” Big Swiss said. “That’s your role: listener, confidante, confessor. You sit around all day, not talking, listening to other people talk, writing down what they say, and then you do the same thing in social situations. Are you writing a script right now?”

“Are you always this intense?”

“I’m direct,” Big Swiss admitted, “because I don’t care if people like me. I distrust people-pleasers. They seem phony to me, and dangerous.”

“It’s easy to picture you in the schoolyard. Towheaded children tend to look angelic, but they’re often little assholes,” Greta said, and smiled. “Another fear of mine is seeing old photographs of the person I’m dating. Not baby pictures—I don’t mind those—but anything after age five, because a person’s essence becomes visible, and I always have trouble reconciling it with who they are now—”

“I protected kids from bullies,” Big Swiss interrupted. “That was my role in the schoolyard.”

“You bullied other bullies,” Greta said.

Big Swiss nodded.

“Well, I hope you’ll protect me from… yourself.”

An uncomfortable silence passed. Maybe it was only uncomfortable for Greta. Big Swiss seemed relaxed and amused, except she wasn’t walking so much as skulking. Her steps were measured and cautious, as if she was worried about making too much noise.

“I’m disappointed when someone immediately turns the tables,” Big Swiss said. “Seems lazy to me.”

“You know, you might want to ease up,” Greta said. “We just met.”

“Doesn’t feel that way. Do you agree?”

Greta shrugged.

“Talk to me about your first girlfriend,” Big Swiss commanded, her mouth full of licorice, “and don’t hold back.”

And so, Greta had told her all about Robin, who’d been a few years older than Greta and, as far as Greta knew, the only other girl in New Hampshire without a perm and waterfall bangs. In fact, her hair had been buzzed all over and bleached platinum, and she dressed like a dude. Everyone called her Rob or Robbie. The first time they’d met, Greta had been at the library, tossing books out of the window. Rob had been on the sidewalk below, doing tricks on a skateboard. Greta watched as the skateboard suddenly flew out from under Rob, and Greta saw—could almost hear—Rob’s head smack concrete. She immediately descended the stairs and exited the building. Rob was still on the ground. Greta crouched next to her.

“Were you throwing books out the window?” Rob asked.

“No,” Greta said.

“You distracted me. That’s why I fell.”

“Wasn’t me,” Greta said.

“You can’t steal from the library. It’s extremely bad luck.”

“I only take books that have more than four copies in circulation,” Greta said. “Damaged paperbacks.”

Rob gazed at Greta in silence. Greta worried she had a concussion and would die in her sleep that night. The ER was only a block away.

“Fine. I won’t do it again. Listen, you should go to the hospital.” Greta pulled Rob to her feet. “Can you walk?”

Rob laughed. “I fall every day. I have a hard head. Write your number in one of those books.”

Greta chose My ?ntonia, by Willa Cather. She wasn’t sure why she’d stolen it, as it didn’t look like it contained swears or sexual situations. Greta figured it would take Rob a month to read it, after which she would call Greta and tell her about it. But Rob called a few hours later.