Chapter 10
Miles
Friday
Ella and I were in charge of spreading the last flyers around town. I guessed Miss Amara had assigned me to go with Ella because she knew how lost I’d felt in that room.
Throughout the meeting, Miss Amara would give me a thumbs-up, tilting her head slightly as she moved around the room. It was a kind gesture.
Everyone I talked to was really nice, but I didn’t open up much. I told myself that they were probably more focused on the plan than on getting to know the one strange person in the room.
Miss Amara knew I had already hung out with Ella once, when she introduced us. She didn’t know about our surprisingly coincidental second hangout.
She guessed I would be fine doing it again.
She guessed right.
Ella and I spent the next two hours walking around, leaving flyers on cafés and local shops, reminding people that the fair was happening and that it was going to take place at the public square in the town center.
“We will see you at your honey stall, Mrs. Meloney!” Ella said, smiling at a woman while we left the Village Oven.
She smiled at everyone, greeted everyone, called everyone by their names. I began to realize that if we were approaching a table of six, she would keep looking at each one of these six people as she talked, establishing eye contact with each of them, making each one feel part of the conversation.
People felt warmth around her, I could tell.
I was feeling good around her too.
We were taping flyers to streetlamp posts or pinning them on bulletin boards inside cafés.
Everywhere we stopped she would tell me what each place was.
Giving me tips on where to find the best hot chocolate, the most creative flower arrangements, the best Christmas cookies, and the top interior decorator.
Like someone who was proudly showing around the corners of their house.
She was funny when she started talking in fast-forward mode, the words speeding up at the same time as her thoughts crossed circuits in her brain.
Or when she got distracted and forgot where those words were going.
I would laugh, and she would make a face that was supposed to be her serious face but was somehow, just, cute.
We were getting along.
“Coming through!” A man shouted as he sped past us on a crosswalk, carrying a wheelbarrow full of sharp, deadly, pointed objects.
“What a scene from a horror movie,” I muttered.
Ella slowed her pace and looked at me.
“Do they still work with those things?” I asked.
“They do,” she answered. “That’s Mr. George, he has a farm. He’s Miss Amara’s neighbor actually. And those things are called sickles and haying forks.”
I stared at Mr. George as he continued his path with his wheelbarrow.
Sickles and haying forks — the kind of things I was sure I had seen behind glass on school trips to museums back in the city.
For people here, farming was an actual job.
Back in Wayneth, jobs meant mostly office buildings, factories, or restaurants — places filled with noise and machines.
But here, there were people who spent their days working the land with their hands, not allowing technology to replace them.
It was intriguing to think that maybe that had been my grandparents’ life that I did not get to know. Our house was not a farm, but it had a piece of land, where I could imagine my grandfather cutting trees and raising chickens.
“You know…” Ella interrupted my blank stare. “Farms. Grass. Barns. Animals. Eggs are from chickens. Milk is from cows.”
“Ah-ah, now you’re just making fun of me,” I replied.
She grinned. “C’mon, let’s continue! You’re in the middle of a private tour.” She placed her hand on her chest, pretending to be offended that I was getting distracted.
“Oh, please, do go on,” I said, gesturing with my arm, signaling for her to lead our way.
For three more hours, we swapped our interests and disinterests like kids swapping stickers in a collection album: one at a time, and comparing whether we had the same ones or not.
“What even is an American-style taco?” she asked, holding back her laughter.
“Oh.” I held up an index finger in front of her, pretending to stop her from making fun of it. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” I defended my case. “They’re the best. A fast-food American version of Mexican food.”
“Fast food?” she kept joking.
“Yes. Fast-food. But this one is super flavorful, spicy, and kind of a mix of different toppings. They’re everywhere in Wayneth, really. Grab on the go!” I emphasized. “Iconic.”
She chuckled. “I should be tapping this passionate taco confession.”
I laughed back. “So yeah, that’s what I’m missing the most right now. My ultimate favorite food ever.”
A smile lingered on her lips. I turned my eyes elsewhere.
We kept walking. She told me about Evermere’s high school, and I told her about my old school.
I found out she also played the piano, and that she always made a wish on the last ray of sunlight at sunset.
She found out I was superstitious about using the same pen for important things, and that I always brought the same black notebook with me.
And we carried on.
Long after all the flyers had disappeared from our hands.