Crossroads by Mary Morris

students cruising in our father’s car, if he wanted to ignore the fact that we were wives, mothers, divorcees, so be it.
    He leaned against me and looked toward Jennie. “You go to Rutgers?”
    â€œI’m studying art. I’m a ceramicist.” He didn’t understand the word. “A potter. I make pots.”
    â€œGuess I got a ride with some very talented ladies.” And he took a flask from his back pocket. “Can you make bread with pots?” He handed Jennie the flask.
    It took her a moment to translate that sentence into English. “Sure, people buy dishes, don’t they?” She took a swig, grimaced, and passed it to me.
    â€œWish I had some smoke, but those guys back there, my friends, they cleaned me out. I’ll get some more at the party. Why don’t we go? C’mon. Call your boyfriend. Tell ’im you’ve got a flat tire, but make sure he doesn’t come and get you.” As I passed him the flask, his fingers slid over mine. Then he took his left arm and put it across the back of the seat, and when I put my head back, it rested on his arm.
    Jennie cut into the next Mobil station. “Got a dime?” she asked me. We got out of the car and I followed Jennie to the pay phone. “Fill ’er up,” she called to the gas station attendant.
    â€œWe’re not seriously going to that party, are we?”
    â€œI could use a party.” She picked up the receiver to dial. “But we’ve told him all these ridiculous lies.”
    â€œIf he goes to Princeton, I’m a Rhodes Scholar. He’s just trying to impress us.”
    â€œYou think he’s lying?” But she motioned for me to be quiet and closed the door to the phone booth, shutting me out. I caught bits of what she said. That I wanted to see a film in Princeton; did he mind?
    The station attendant finished putting gas into the car by the time Jennie was off the phone. She’d convinced Tom I was depressed by their fight and needed a film to cheer me up. In the car, Bobby Jones watched us, flask in hand, and he waved for us to come along. Jennie signaled for him to wait. “Let’s find a newspaper.” She handed the attendant her credit card and asked if he had one. He pointed to the office, where we found yesterday’s covered with grease. “O.K., did you see
Star Wars
?” I nodded. “Fine. We’ll tell him we saw
Empire Strikes Back
. I hear it’s more of the same.’’
    This time Bobby Jones slid over and he sat in the middle, between us. He handed me the flask as I slipped in beside him. His arms were broad and I was wedged between his swimmer’s arms, his butterfly wings, and the window. “You girls paid with a credit card, huh? Not bad.” He laughed as Jennie started the motor and I tried to figure how old you had to be to pay with a credit card.
    The party was in the garage of someone whose parents lived somewhere half the year and somewhere else the other half. We parked a good two blocks away, even though Bobby kept saying, “You can park closer.” But if the police raided, we didn’t want them to get our auto registration. The house, Bobby told us as we walked into the garage, was “off limits” without special permission of the host. “You know,” he said, saying the obvious, “if you’d like a little privacy.”
    Everyone knew Bobby. He was slapping hands with all kinds of people and kept saying, “Gimme five, brother.” He made a general announcement that he’d brought “a couple of chicks along.” “This is Deborah,” he said, pointing to Jennie. “And this is Jennifer,” pointing to me.
    â€œIt’s the other way around,” I said.
    He corrected the announcement. “I’m bad with names. Let’s get a drink,” and he took me by the arm. We were greeted by a black man named Victor, who wore coveralls and seemed