Chapter 8 Leif
Leif
ONE YEAR LATER
Noelle squints at me. “You okay?”
I rub my sweat-slicked palms on my jeans. “Who me?”
She laughs. “Yes you. Unless there’s a Christmas ghost around here I can’t see?”
“Ghosts feel like they might be less scary right now.” I don’t take my eyes off the red door we’re waiting next to. It’s festooned with paper reindeer and tinsel.
Screams echo from the other side of it.
“You sure you’re okay, Leif? You look kind of sweaty.”
“It’s warm in here, that’s all.” I rub my forearm over my brow and then tug at the neck of my sweater. It’s ridiculous, but I’m more nervous about this than telling Noelle my big news this year. And I’ve got Big News.
“You’re going to do great.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve acted on stage in front of thousands of people.”
Noelle smiles and wraps her arm around me from the side, giving my shoulder a squeeze. It instantly calms me. Except suddenly I’m aware of the soft press of the side of her breast against my arm, and the scent of vanilla coming from her hair. My nerves jolt for an entirely different reason.
Friends. We’re just friends now.
I kept telling myself I could do the friend thing.
All year I told myself I could. I had to, if I wanted to keep her in my life.
But on the way over, Noelle had talked about her play with her hands gesticulating wildly as she drove.
“I’m not the headliner, but the director of that other production says I could be in a year or two.
Supposedly he’s a tyrant, but he smiled at me, Leif!
I wonder if maybe he could be a mentor down the road… ”
She’d looked so beautiful with her cheeks flushed, smile wide, and eyes sparkling, I’d wished for the briefest moment that I’d told her to pull over. Because all I wanted to do was take her face in my hands and kiss the shit out of her.
I could still remember how she tasted.
Instead I’d agreed with her that it was incredible, and offered her a high five—a fucking high five—like we were bros.
Then she’d pulled into the Quince Valley Elementary School parking lot and rubbed her hands together like some evil movie villain.
And I’d panicked.
“It’s not that I don’t like kids,” I say now. “I do. I just feel a lot of pressure with those bright, impressionable minds. And a whole classroom of them?”
Noelle tips her head against my shoulder, rubbing my arm. “They’re going to love you, Leif. A real live astronaut. Maybe. One day.”
Luckily—or unluckily—the red door swings open then, and Cora Galloway—a retirement-aged woman with kind eyes and a long blond-gray braid coiled on the back of her head—beckons us in with a warm smile.
“I am so glad you two are here!” She exclaims. To Noelle, she says, “Like I said to your mom, I’d ask my daughter to help, but she’s expecting any day now. ”
Coming up with strictly platonic hangout ideas for this year was harder than I thought it would be.
My best suggestion had been volunteering up at the Rolling Hills ranch where I knew they were always looking for volunteers to shovel out the barn.
“There are chickens there, aren’t there?
” Noelle had said, genuine worry in her voice while we hashed it out over her parents’ landline, the only time we ever talked on the phone. On purpose.
Noelle had won out by saying she had a surprise idea that was better than shoveling shit in proximity to birds. I couldn’t see what would be worse than that so I agreed to let her keep it a surprise. Now I deeply regretted that decision.
“We’re thrilled to be here,” Noelle gushes. “Right, Leif?”
Fresh sweat slicks my temples as we follow Mrs. Galloway into the big, colorful room, where we’re suddenly under the scrutiny of approximately forty-eight eyeballs. “Thrilled!” I croak.
“Children!” Mrs. Galloway says. “Everyone give a warm Division 12 welcome to our very special cookie helpers, Leif and Noelle!”
Twenty-four children cheer exuberantly. A couple even stand up and clap. I’m so shocked by the enthusiasm, I can’t help but smile.
My shoulders even loosen a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a standing ovation before.”
“It’s a helluva drug,” Noelle says.
I guess she’d know all about ovations.
But the moment the cheering dies down, a little girl with surprisingly loud vocal range says, “Are you guys boyfriend and girlfriend?”
My stomach plunges.
“No!” Noelle says. There’s a definitiveness to her answer that bruises just a little, even though I would have said the same thing.
“Mr. Kelly and I are just friends.”
“Then why are you holding hands?” the girl asks.
I look down. Holy shit. My nerves being the way they were, I must have grabbed Noelle’s hand when I came in here. Maybe that’s why I calmed down so quickly.
I abruptly release Noelle’s hand. “No we’re not.”
The girl plants her hands on her hips.
But several more of them giggle.
I grin. Maybe I can do this.
“Okay, kids,” Mrs. Galloway says, “Let’s try to leave our helpers’ personal lives out of today’s fun.
” The teacher gives us a look that tells me this request may not be heeded, but we smile gratefully anyway.
“Now, I need everyone to form a line to head to the sink to wash hands.” She gives us a teacherly look over her glasses, along with a wink. “You too, big kids.”
As soon as we’re in line, I look to Noelle, wanting to apologize for the awkwardness I created by holding her hand.
But she’s laughing at the kids hamming it up down at the sink.
She’s already forgotten about it. Or maybe it wasn’t awkward for her, since we’re only friends.
Do friends hold hands when they’re nervous?
I suddenly have an image of what would have happened if I’d held my advisor’s hand while defending my thesis.
“What’s so funny?” Noelle asks, getting in line with me.
“I forgot kids are funny. I think maybe I built them up to be scarier than they are.”
“Still can’t believe you’re scared of them.”
I frown. “Not scared. Just…I don’t really have any kids in my life. I don’t know how to talk to them. What if something I say changes the course of their lives forever?”
I’m not just saying this arbitrarily. Last week, my boss talked to our team about doing school visits. “It’s fun,” Larry said. “You’ll love their wide-eyed wonder.” But that sent me into a tailspin.
“Isn’t inspiring them a good thing?” Noelle asks.
“But that’s just it. I just know how impressionable kids are. What if you don’t inspire them but say or do something that makes them doubt themselves?”
She looks at me like I need to explain more.
“I just know they look up to the adults around them.” I hesitate. “Sometimes adults say one thing,”—like you’re the most important person in the world to me, Leif—“but demonstrate something else.”
Noelle’s looking at me with empathy I can feel in my chest. “Your parents encouraged you, didn’t they?”
I’m embarrassed this has turned into the Leif therapy hour. “Of course. I wouldn’t be where I am today if they hadn’t.” I scratch the back of my neck as we move ahead in our queue. I want to talk about Noelle and her life. Not mine. “Anyway. It doesn’t matter. It’s just my old stuff.”
“Have you talked to your dad recently?” Noelle asks softly.
I scowl. Last year was no different than the year before. “There’s nothing to talk about.” There isn’t, really. Anytime I consider talking about it I feel like I’m being petty.
“I imagine you looked up to him as a kindergartner.”
“What am I going to say? Thanks for being such a good person who cared about changing peoples’ lives?
I feel petulant that I have feelings about this.
” I sigh. I’m fine. This is all fine. I look at the kids around us.
They’re not scary. And they probably hear things all day long they don’t even pay attention to, anyway.
Except that one, a few kids ahead, who keeps looking over his shoulder at me.
I glance at Noelle, a little sheepish. “I’ve been known to overthink things sometimes.”
“Probably beneficial for a space man.”
“Space man? Really?”
“Sorry. Space person.” She giggles at her own joke.
I relax once again, thanks to Noelle. This is what I like most about her.
Sure she’s beautiful and kind and sparkles when she talks about things she’s excited about.
But it’s this part—where she doesn’t take things too seriously—even the things I carry on my shoulders like bricks. That’s what I love the most.
As she bends down to talk to the girl in front of us, I feel my chest clench. Love.
“Oh!” Noelle asks as we move forward again. “I almost forgot! I asked my parents about your ghost.”
I cringe. I’d been so embarrassed on the plane home last year, not sure why I’d felt like sharing that thing I’d never told anyone else in the world. “Oh yeah?”
“They said they remembered when the stuff came out in the news about Eleanor’s M-U-R-D-E-R-E-R.
” She whispers that last part, even though she’s spelled it out.
“I watched the documentary your aunt made. It was so good. And romantic.” She sighs.
“I wasn’t expecting that. I read the articles you talked about too. One of them said—”
“Excuse me.” A little boy stands next to me, still-dripping hands on his hips. He was the one who kept looking back at us. Clearly he’s been waiting to talk to me.
My stomach jumps. “Yes?”
“Are you a mailman?”
Noelle bursts out laughing, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard.
“Don’t mind Brandon,” Cora says up at the bank of sinks only a few feet away now. “He’s chock-full of questions.”
“Mom says questions are how you learn,” Brandon says, sounding annoyed.
He turns back to me. “My mailman looks like you. He drives a big truck, and one time he accidentally dropped a package off for our neighbor, Mrs. Mullins. We knew it wasn’t ours ‘cause Mom never ordered anything but also it made a noise like this when Dad shook it: bzzzzzzzzz.”
Mrs. Galloway’s eyes go wide.
I have to choke back a laugh.
“It was probably a cookie mixer,” Noelle says.
Mrs. Galloway pinches her lips together. “Probably.”
“You should have brought your personal cookie mixer to class today,” I say out the side of my mouth to Noelle.
Noelle gasps and Mrs. Galloway throws her head back and laughs.
“What’s so funny?” Brandon asks.
I look down at little Brandon, and suddenly see myself, bursting with questions. Observing the world around me and always wanting to know what and why.
“You know what,” I tell him, “Your mom’s exactly right. Asking questions is a great way to learn. It’s what I do all day long at my job.”
“What’s your job?”
I glance at Noelle. The last she’d heard I’d successfully defended my thesis and was interning at NASA. A lot’s happened since then.
“I’m not a mailman, but you can keep guessing after we get started making cookies. I’ll let you know if you get it right.”
An hour later, nearly everyone in the room is covered head to toe with flour, dough is stuck to the bottom of our sneakers, and I feel a little sick from what feels like every kid in the classroom insisting we try each of their cookies.
Noelle and I spent most of our time ferrying trays of shaped dough to the oven in the staff lounge and monitoring sprinkle usage. We fought a losing battle on that one.
And Brandon hasn’t given up on his quest.
“Firefighter?”
“Nope.”
“Football player.”
“Sadly, no.”
“Boring office guy!”
“I don’t think so.”
“What else is there?” He looks so truly confounded that I see the moment Noelle gives in. She leans over and whispers in his ear.
The boy’s eyes grow wide. “He’s a ASTRONAUT!?!”
All the chatter quiets as the kids turn to gawk at me. A ball of cookie dough drops on the floor with a soft thud.
“A real astronaut?” Brandon asks.
For a moment, my heart pounds. This is exactly what I was dreading. What if I get their hopes up that everyone can be an astronaut? What if I don’t? But then I see it—what Larry told me about. The wide-eyed wonder.
And I don’t know what I was ever worried about.
“Yup.”
The classroom explodes into a cacophony of shouting children.
“Do you have a rocket ship?”
“What do Martians really look like?”
“How many times did you go to the moon?”
“Okay, children,” Mrs. Galloway holds her hands up. “Let’s give Mr. Kelly some room.”
They back up, but only for a moment.
“What does space smell like?” Brandon asks, and I can’t help laughing.
“I’m sorry,” Noelle whispers. “I might have oversold you. Hard to explain what an intern does.”
I shake my head and smile at her. “You didn’t oversell me.”
“I’m happy to answer all your questions,” I say to the kids. “But you should know that Noelle here does something really cool too. She’s an actor.”
I’m surprised to hear most of them don’t know what that is. At their confusion, Noelle explains what an actor does.
A little girl brightens. “Are you in the movies?”
“Do you know Dimple the Duck?” another one asks.
“Dimple!” Several of them shout, hopping around excitedly.
“A favorite cartoon,” Mrs. Galloway explains.
“This is way harder than explaining space stuff,” I say out the side of my mouth.
Noelle elbows me. “Fortunately, I don’t know any ducks.” She shudders. “But I did do a play with a horse in it once! I’m not in the movies,” she explains at their puzzled looks. “I’m a stage actor.” She starts to explain what that means, but already half of them are turning back to me.
“Sorry,” Mrs. Galloway tells her as they begin to pelt me with questions again. “Astronaut is probably the major career goal for over half the students, so…”
“It’s fine,” Noelle laughs, sitting on the edge of a desk. “I’m pretty awestruck too.”
My stomach flips.
I tear my eyes from Noelle, and to the kids, I say, “I think it would be easier if I tell you all a few things all at once, okay?”
The kids nod solemnly.
“I work at the space center down in Houston. That’s where they plan all the missions to space, and where we talk to the astronauts in their ships. I’ve met lots of people who’ve been to space. I haven’t been to space yet myself, so I can’t tell you what Martians look like, or eat for breakfast.”
A few disappointed awws emanate from the kids.
Noelle smiles, and my heart skips a beat. But it’s not just from her smile this time.
I don’t look away from her when I say, “But next year I’ll be joining a mission heading to the moon.”
As the children yell and run in circles, my stomach clenches into a brutal, aching knot. Because the smile has fallen off her face.
Her eyebrows slant, her eyes wide.
The smile comes back, but it’s not real. The eyes stay the same.
“Excuse me,” she whispers into the cacophony. Then she runs from the room.