"I don't even know how to open the box," she said, and we laughed.
She rattled on and on, talking more about what life would be like once "the Harry thing," as she called it, was over.
"I'm always worried about developing a relationship with any boy at school," she said. "It's all because of Harry."
"I don't understand."
This was the first I heard she would even consider any of the boys we knew as a boyfriend. It made me think of my recent phone conversation with Jesse.
"I feel . . . dirty," she said.
We had eaten our dinner, and I had just put out the cookies. She took one and nibbled on it the way a rabbit would.
"I feel like they, anyone, would know the moment he touched me, kissed me, even held my hand." "That's silly."
She looked up quickly. "No, it's not, Zipporah. You have no idea what it's like. Don't say that it's silly."
"I didn't mean it that way. I meant . . . I meant you shouldn't feel ... that way," I stumbled. "No one could look at you and know anything. I don't know anyone who can hide trouble or worry better than you can. I'm always wishing I was more like you."
She looked at me and smiled as if she could turn off one emotion and turn on another with the ease of changing channels on a television set.
"Yes, you're right. It's just a psychological problem right now. It will go away soon, as soon as the Harry thing is over."
"Whom do you like at school?"
She shrugged. "Hey, I wouldn't throw Dana Martin out of the house," she said, and laughed.
Dana Martin was the school's basketball star. At six-foot-two, with a shock of light brown hair and cerulean eyes that practically beamed when he smiled, he was what any girl would call a dreamboat. He had a steady girlfriend, Lois Morris, but he did like to flirt.
"What about you?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"You should know, Zipporah. You would like to go to the junior prom next year, wouldn't you?"
"I suppose." This was the first time we had talked about it.
"Well, after the Harry thing, let's you and I start working on it," she said. "It's time we broke out of our little cocoon and invaded the world the zeros think they own. We're just teenagers!"
To think of our lives as becoming normal after all this was not easy, but I didn't want to say anything or do anything that would upset her. Perhaps this was the way she dealt with her terrible situation.
After we cleaned up the kitchen, we went to my room to do some homework. Every once in a while, I would pause and think again how we were going along with life as if nothing was unusual, when looming behind every look, in every pause and quiet moment, was the Harry thing.
My father came home and stopped in to speak to us. "How are you, Karen?" he asked.
She gave him one of her best Karen Stoker smiles, looking as if she might just get up and do a little dance of joy.
"I'm fine, Mr. Stein. How are you?"
"I'm overworked," he complained, and then laughed. "How I wish I was a teenager again," he sang.
"Jesse called and said he'd call on Sunday," I told him.
"Oh. Great. How's he doing?"
"Starting at third base."
"Really? I guess we'll have to attend a game or two. Maybe you can come along, Karen."