The two of them kept up a sense that they were tugging and struggling over something of little value to either of them. Sometimes, over coffee, they were almost friends, but something would come up, and their faces went hard with contempt.
One Sunday Connie got up at eleven and washed her hair so it could dry all day long in the sun. Her family was going to a barbecue at an aunt's house and Connie rolled her eyes to let her mother know just what she thought of it.
Connie sat out back in a lawn chair and watched them drive away, her father quiet, her mother who was still angry, and poor old June in the back seat, all dressed up as if she didn't know what a barbecue was.
Connie sat dreaming about the boy she had been with the night before and how nice he had been and how sweet it always was. When she opened her eyes she hardly knew where she was. She shook her head as if to get awake. It was too hot.
She went inside the house and turned on the radio to drown out the quiet, listening to a program called XYZ Sunday Jamboree, record after record of hard, fast, shrieking songs she sang along with. Connie paid close attention herself, bathed in a glow of the music itself and each gentle rise and fall of her chest.
She heard a car coming up the drive. She sat up at once, startled, because it couldn't be her father so soon, so Connie ran to the window. It was a car she didn't know. Her heart began to pound and her fingers snatched at her hair, checking it. The car came to a stop at the side door and the horn sounded four short taps, as if this were a signal Connie knew.