I’ll Love You
When You’re
More Like Me
I’ll Love You
When You’re
More Like Me
M.E. Kerr
Copyright © 1977 by M.E. Kerr
All rights reserved.
Reissue Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher.
Please direct inquiries to:
Lizzie Skurnick Books
an imprint of Ig Publishing
392 Clinton Avenue #1S
Brooklyn, NY 11238
ISBN: 978-1-939601-13-1 (ebook)
For Marcella Pardo and her sister, Renee—to remember the East Hampton years.
Contents
6. Sabra St. Amour
7. Wallace Witherspoon, Jr.
8. Sabra St. Amour
9. Wallace Witherspoon, Jr.
10. Sabra St. Amour
11. Wallace Witherspoon, Jr.
12. Sabra St. Amour
13. Wallace Witherspoon, Jr.
14. Sabra St. Amour
15. Wallace Witherspoon, Jr.
16. Sabra St. Amour
17. Wallace Witherspoon, Jr.
18. Sabra St. Amour
19. Wallace Witherspoon, Jr.
One warm night in May, in the back of the hearse, while I was whispering “I love you, I love you,” into Lauralei Rabinowitz’ soft, black hair, she said, “Stop right there, Wally! There are three reasons this can’t go on any longer!”
“Three reasons?” I said.
“Three reasons,” she said, sitting up, reaching into her blazer pocket for her comb. She combed her hair while she told me what they were.
“One,” she said, “you’re not Jewish.”
“Two,” she said, “you’re shorter than I am.”
“And three,” she said, “you’re going to be an undertaker.”
“You knew all that!” I complained.
“I know I knew all that,” she said, “but I couldn’t stop myself before. Now I’m stopping myself.”
“You can’t!” I insisted. “I’ll probably want to marry you someday.”
“I just did,” said Lauralei Rabinowitz, “and I’d never marry you in a million years, Wally Witherspoon.”
So much for ancient history. I am now unofficially engaged to Harriet Hren, who does want to marry me, isn’t Jewish, and standing, even in heels, just reaches my shoulder.
Our plans to marry when we both graduate from Seaville High next year were made on another warm night, in June, in the back of the same hearse.
“How do I know you’re really over Lauralei?” Harriet had asked me in the middle of things.
“What would I be doing here if I wasn’t over Lauralei Rabinowitz?” I answered.
“You would be trying to make out here,” said Harriet.
“What kind of a person do you think I am?” I said.
“I’ll know when you answer this question: Are you going to marry me?”
“I’m not going to marry Lauralei Rabinowitz,” I said.
“Are you going to marry me?”
“When?”
“A year from now,” said Harriet.
“Yes,” I said, “a year from now, yes.”
“Are you going to ask my mother if you can?”
“I thought it was the father you asked if you could.”
“My father’s in Akron,” said Harriet. “He won’t be home for another week. I want you to ask my mother if you can tonight.”
“All right, I’ll ask your mother tonight,” I said. “Tonight?”
“Tonight,” Harriet said, “because she thinks you’re just using me to get over Lauralei Rabinowitz.”
Both Harriet’s parents were C.P.A.s, and when you spoke to either of them there was usually an adding machine going. Everyone in Seaville used the Hrens as their accountants. The only thing they seemed to do besides add up figures was add to the population. Harriet had five brothers and two sisters.
“Fine,” Mrs. Hren said when I announced my intentions, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, smoke curling up past her face, “but Harriet has to”—clickety clack the adding machine went—“finish high school, you realize”—clickety clack—“that, don’t you, Wallace?”
Which was how I became unofficially engaged.
Engagements, according to Harriet, are not official until the girl gets the ring.
Our subject of conversation for the rest of the summer was The Ring.
One hot afternoon in August, we were once again discussing The Ring. Harriet was stretched out on the wicker couch, in the Hrens’ one-room beach house at the ocean. She was all in white. When anyone is stretched out all in white in my house, it means they’ve “crossed over,” as my mother likes to put it. I am the sixteen-year-old, only son of the leading Seaville mortician. My father prefers the description Funeral Director.
“Ideally, I would like to have the ring by the time school starts,” Harriet was saying.
“Ideally, I would like to inherit a million dollars by the time school starts,” I said.
“How much do you have saved so far?” Harriet said.
“I have thirty dollars so far,” I said. “Engagement rings are supposed to be passé.”
“My mother had one and my mother wants me to have one,” Harriet said.
“Why