Crossroads

by Jonathan Franzen

next time she saw Kitty at church, might naturally remark on and thereby learn that Frances, not Kitty, had come along with him. As if he were one with the Fury, he willed himself to keep a grip. It was vital to avoid hard braking, but the momentum of events was frightening—Perry’s giving drugs to Frances’s son, the painful conversation that Russ was now obliged to have with him, Frances’s invitation to smoke marijuana with her, and the risk that if Russ declined her invitation she would look elsewhere for company on her youth quest; the upsetting fact that she’d already been looking elsewhere, not more than an hour ago. She’d sat chatting away with Rick Ambrose, against whose hipness Russ had abundantly demonstrated he could not contend. “So, ah,” he said, when he’d safely braked for a stoplight. “You had a good talk with Rick?” “I did.” “I don’t suppose he mentioned that he and I are not on speaking terms.” “No, I already knew that. Everybody knows that.” So much for his hope that their feud wasn’t universal knowledge. “Why do you ask?” she said.