Chapter Four #2
“What?” I took the paper, suddenly nervous about what I might find. Generally, I worried about anything I didn’t know the end result of, which was…everything. Everything, including the contents of this mysterious document I began to unfold.
“Don’t look so concerned. It’s good! I think it’s good.” Now he looked concerned, honestly.
It was a flyer. “Solar Flare at Neumos?”
“Underage club, so you and the cousin can get in.” He lifted one eyebrow, a nifty trick I always wished I could do.
I smiled. “You’re playing?”
“I’m a Solar Flare, aren’t I?”
I wasn’t going to ruin the moment by asking if our dad knew about this yet.
“Heck yeah, you are,” I said. “I can’t wait.
” I could wait. I’d never been to an underage club.
Clearly, it would involve lots of people and dancing in public and many things I couldn’t envision.
I had no idea what I should even be anxious about, so tons of undetermined stuff could go wrong without me seeing it coming.
But…I might see you. “Did Sandrine already ask Mars?”
“Not sure,” Maurice said.
A week. It seemed like a long way away.
Maybe it was that sandwich, the way Liam just took it and bit in.
Or maybe it was Maurice, quietly but firmly being himself.
Or maybe I’d already decided something this morning, or even before that—the night the rain poured down as we drove home, Maurice playing some song on his old CD player that talked about a fast car, and a ticket to anywhere.
But suddenly, or at least since that day I saw you in the doctors’ office, I wanted things.
I did. I didn’t want to be superior through my superior denial, or wait while others determined what I was allowed.
I was going to act: I’d place my own pizza order.
A Roma, heading for houseboat number four.
“It’s going to be great,” I told Maurice. “See you later? I’ve got a few things to do before my route.” One thing to do. One order to place.
On a hunch, though, I headed to the kitchen.
On some days, I was sick of the smell of it, the way it clung to my clothes and to my life.
Garlic, tomatoes, oregano; the sour-cold odor of our mozzarella-and-Monterey-Jack mix; warm dough, slightly singed from high heat.
I was in DECA because I was supposed to do as my brothers had—join the business.
But sometimes I dreamed of doing something else entirely, something I was passionate about but hadn’t discovered yet.
Right then, though, I was generous about the smell.
It was home, the good parts. It wasn’t a ticket to anywhere, but it was a ticket to here, a place I liked most of the time.
It was a ticket to houseboat number four, too.
I scrolled down the list of orders on the computer screen.
There it was.
Oh my God, there it was.
You placed an order, too. A medium Roma, for six p.m. delivery, the same time I’d seen you before. My insides danced, all balloons and confetti. This wasn’t about what one person wanted. We both wanted. That’s how it should be, right? Two people choosing.
This wasn’t like me at all, because I wanted to let you in. It was as if some secret part of me that wanted more, more love, more connection, was plotting and scheming behind my back. I was giddy. I was seriously impressing myself with my bravery, I’ve got to say.
I found George again in the walk-in fridge. “Remember that friend I told you about? He called in an order, so, I was wondering if you could—”
“I got you covered. Executive decision, you’re off early tonight.
We’ll make it your last stop.” He smiled.
My brothers were good guys. They were kind.
Arthur could be a hard-ass sometimes, but only when it was required, as a boss.
George had his moments where he acted full of himself, but he was always trying to boost me up, never down.
When he wasn’t working, George did dude stuff like lift weights, but he and his girlfriend, Cora, also liked to paddle kayaks, and hike, and take photos of sunsets.
Nature stuff. Outdoorsy crap, my dad said, as if it were slightly suspect.
I hated when people said bad stuff about all men, because I was surrounded by so many great ones.
I hated when people said bad stuff about all anyones.
“Thanks,” I said. I felt suddenly shy for some reason. Maybe because George really saw me right then.
“No problem. Have fun. Just lock that car up, huh?”
Your mother would be there, I kept reminding myself.
I might not even go inside your houseboat.
We might get to talk for five minutes. Maybe I’d have gotten the night off, driven over there in my car with the waving pizza on top, locked the door with shaking hands for no real reason.
It didn’t matter. I just wanted to see you so bad.
I walked down that dock.
Your dog began to bark the minute I stepped onto the float. I had my finger on the bell and hadn’t even pressed it when you opened the door.
You grinned and I grinned back. Tell me a person can’t feel big, forever things at our age. Tell me, too, that you can’t feel love, or at least the imminent future of it, when you first meet someone. I know what I felt.
You took the box and put it on the couch. Kind of flung it there, really, pizza Frisbee. Look at me, I stepped over the threshold. Your dog—I didn’t know his name yet—stared from the kitchen. All those facts would come later.
What came right at that moment was this: We took each other’s hands, entwined our fingers.
We were just smiling so hard. I almost wanted to cry.
I’d always felt so anxious and out of place, my mind a clicking whirl of what might happen next, worried about all the ways I’d wreck things or hurt people or not give someone what they needed.
Trying to keep my world small, because there was less to keep in control that way.
Too large, and who knows what might happen.
My mind was so mean to me sometimes. But right then, I just wanted to be where I was, doing what I was doing.
Smiling at you while you smiled back. Like, what a perfect thing. So simple, but perfect. Just, all.
You put your arms around me, and we hugged.
It was you, sort of skinny, in your denim shorts and T-shirt—God, what color, what was on it?
I forget. And me in my denim shorts, too, frayed cuffs, tank top with the octopus graphic down one side, my hair in braids.
I might have summer love, I realized. That magical best thing I’d heard about—sun, songs, hope.
The coconut smell of lotion on your skin, or maybe mine.
Even right then, the houseboat bobbed slightly, and there was the sound of a speedboat in the distance, music drifting over water, the shouts of people having fun on the lake.
From where I stood pressed against you, I saw your house, the actual place you lived: a crocheted blanket flung over the back of a couch, a coffee table messy with magazines promising travel to foreign places.
I want to remember all the details, but mostly I remember my head against your chest. One ear on your heart, listening to it for the first time.
I heard it beating, your heart, that traitor. That horrible, horrible traitor.