Expensive People by Joyce Carol Oates

convincing chronology, so that there is the impression of development—wrong word:degeneration—in the child-hero. So let's arbitrarily fix the date as January 20, 1960, when I began to disintegrate.

13
    So I began life as a student at Johns Behemoth, and life back at Burning Bush Way moved a little out of focus. Nada joined the Village Women's Club, under the sponsorship of Hattie Nash (“Such a wonderful person,” Nada said), and Father and Nada joined the Vastvalley Country Club under the sponsorship of a business associate of Father's, so they were happy. Nada began going out to lunch every day, and at dinner she would tell us about the Gorgen clan's plans for an Oriental trip, what Thelma Griggs wanted to do with her living room (her husband was in the antique business, what a surprise!), and what she, Nada, had planned by way of a dinner party two Saturdays away— nothing big, just eight couples, and Ginger would help. (Ginger was our maid, who had orange hair with black roots.) Father, chewing candied midget gherkins cheerfully, grunted agreement to all this.
    “And I heard the strangest story about that big house up on Epping Way,” Nada said, slitting her eyes. “They say those people have no furniture, not even beds, just mattresses. The rooms are practically all bare, but they belong to the Fernwood Heights Country Club, can you imagine? They … they're trying desperately to …” She paused.
    Father, chewing, let his jaws grind on for a moment or two before he caught on to the silence. He said, “Yes, dear? Eh?”
    “Nothing,” Nada said.
    “What were you saying, Tash?”
    “Nothing.”
    “That big house, the big one? Eh?”
    Nada sat dazed and pale, and only after a moment did she recover. She put a cigarette between her lips and Father lit it for her. Father stared at her but she did not seem to meet his gaze.
    “Does it upset you, Tash?” Father said. “Don't believe everything you hear, after all. In Chestnut Hill—”
    “I'm all right,” Nada said shortly.
    After a moment the uneasy burden between them shifted and rolleddown the table toward me. They looked at me and asked about school. What grades today, Richard? Oh, 90, 95. That was good. And how was math? All right. What did Mr. Melon say (history teacher). He said … And Mr. Gorden? Enthusiastic (this about my research project on drumlins in the Midwest). Did I ever happen to see Dean Nash, dear Arnold? Not often. (One of my classmates said scornfully that Nash was a fairy, and I told the group of them in a sad, solemn, unarguable voice, no, indeed he wasn't. They believed me.) French class?
Formidable, rnais Men,
I guessed. (Monsieur Frame, our
professeur,
gave us vocabulary tests daily and wandered out in the hall, smoking, while we wrote. Everyone cheated. On the first day I had shakily begun the test only to notice that the rest of the kids were sliding out their notebooks and opening them skillfully on their knees. Aghast, I waited with pounding heart for Monsieur to rush into the room waving his arms and denouncing us, but though the good
professeur
wandered by the doorway and might or might not have seen us, nothing happened. So I said to the kid beside me, a red-haired, demonic, demented-looking child, “Lend me your notes,” and everyone turned to stare at my effrontery. I managed to carry it off. With dark circles beneath my eyes, two years younger than some of them, physically uninteresting and unpromising, I think it was my simple, bold daring that did it. The boy hurriedly finished his test and slipped the notebook over to me and, though
I'd
studied for hours the night before and did not need to cheat, cheat I did.)
    “Mais, qu'est-ce que c'estlegrade?”
Nada said.
    Thank God, I was able to tell her 95.

14
    I don't know if I mentioned that Father traveled a great deal. He was in and out of Fernwood, in and out of the house, with a fast chuckle and a fast rumple of my hair. “Off to San Francisco, Buster. It's a