Lion's Share by Rochelle Rattner Read Free Book Online Page A

with, trying to see where she and Ed might fit in this paired-off scheme of things. In one fantasy, they had already moved in together, and she was trying to find a way to break the news to her parents.

    Thursday night Jana sat in her apartment, packed, waiting for Ed to call, fearing he wouldn’t. Finally, a few minutes after nine, he called, and they decided to meet at her place. “It’s 342 East 95th Street, Apartment Seven—second floor rear,” she said, not wanting to say something stupid like “it will be good to see you,” but feeling she had to say something. She hung up the phone and went right back to sitting and waiting. Then, when he walked in the door, the first thing he did was hug her. She stood on tiptoes to kiss him, and narrowly missed coming down on his foot. An elbow jabbed her waist. From that point on, the evening seemed to go straight downhill.
    Since they were on the Upper East Side, Ed suggested they walk over to Elaine’s for a drink—he’d heard it was a place many writers and artists hung out. Jana claimed it was too noisy. She was interested in producing art, not in being noticed around the art world, the way Ed suddenly seemed to be. She suggested a little cafe around the corner which had outside tables.
    The place had only six tables outside, but people were leaving one. She ordered wine and Ed ordered a gin and tonic, only to be told they served nothing stronger than wine and beer. Making the best of it, he asked what they had on draft. They only had bottled beer. He settled for Heineken, insisting he didn’t mind, his body tense, fidgeting. He fumbled around for a few minutes, tapping a cigarette on the ashtray, before he smiled and asked Jana where she’d gone to school.
    â€œDoes high school count? Woodrow Wilson High in Lakewood, New Jersey.” She tried her best to toss off her answer as if it was nothing important. She was improving: a few years ago she would have felt insecure about her credentials and made up some college. Tonight she didn’t even bother to mention she’d studied with Francis Harriman at The New School when she’d first moved to New York. More than “studied with him”; for two years she’d been his prize student. Here was a guy who, others said, taught women with his prick, yet he’d taken her seriously as an artist.
    â€œYou’re kidding,” Ed interrupted her thoughts. “You only went to high school?”
    â€œI was lucky to make it that far. It was a terrible school, actually. They offered either a totally academic college-prep curriculum or secretarial training. I was painting already, and the only art courses I could take were pastel and charcoal classes once a week with an old woman who encouraged us to draw from nature, but hadn’t bothered to look around her for at least thirty years. I used to envy the kids in New York who could go to the artistic high schools.”
    â€œBut they were extremely hard to get into. Just because a kid was interested in music, like I was, didn’t mean he was good enough to get in. Academically, my grades were great, and going to Stuyvesant was what all my teachers recommended. When I look back on it, I realize I was much better suited for a traditional education—even if I’d been accepted by Music and Art or The High School of Performing Arts, it would have been a mistake to go there—but I spent that first year in high school pretty depressed about the rejection.”
    â€œWhat instrument do you play?”
    â€œPiano, of course—isn’t that what all up-and-coming parents give their kids lessons in? I was interested in jazz, mostly. I didn’t want to play the written notes, I thought I could improvise. But I’d abandoned those pipe dreams by the time I got to college.”
    â€œWhat did you major in?”
    â€œEconomics, with a minor in English. I wanted to become a journalist, but I