Chapter Three #2
‘Not technically.’ Rod looks a little taken aback, like my singular question was one more question than he was expecting.
He picks up his water bottle from beside the goal and takes a sip.
‘Uh … kind of? I started it so the small-town kids could get more exposure to big-time New England lacrosse. Couple years now.’
‘Phenomenal. Love it. Also,’ I continue, ‘what is the peanut-butter policy here?’
‘The what?’
‘Peanut-butter policy. Like, on the peanut table. Do y’all have a peanut table?’
‘Um, let me check.’ Two questions in, and I’m watching this guy take hits. Is Hot Rod Wilson secretly an introvert? He swipes at the lead coach tablet, squinting against the glare from the sunlight. ‘No peanut allergies this summer, so nope.’
‘Solid. Also, one more also.’ The highly caffeinated chai I made this morning is definitely hitting hard. I’ve been told I can come out the gate ‘a lot’ at times, but whenever someone says you’re ‘a lot’, it’s usually a sign to change nothing about yourself.
Rod’s eyes widen slightly. ‘Sure.’
‘Do we take them canoeing?’
He’s giving me the same face he’d made back at the convenience store.
‘No canoeing?’ I guess.
‘It’s a lacrosse camp.’
‘But you’ve seen Camp Rock, haven’t you? That was a singing camp,’ I point out. ‘And I think they canoed in it. Anything’s possible. I just need to check. I don’t do at all well in large bodies of water.’
He blinks. ‘I’m pretty sure we won’t go canoeing, if that’s any reassurance.’
‘Great. And before I forget. I lied. There is one more question.’ Yikes. I’m not so sure he’s going to answer it. His face is all confused, and he looks like he’s about to pass out.
‘Go ahead.’
‘What does rubbing the duck mean?’
Rod’s mid-sip of water, and he quite literally stops to near choke on it with a shocked sputter. ‘What?’
‘Rubbing the duck. I read that it’s a thing you do here.
’ No way Lonely Planet let me down. I’m going to come off as a real idiot if he doesn’t tell me what this duck business is soon enough.
‘Whittaker, Massachusetts is known for rubbing the duck’ printed in size twelve font on a travel blog isn’t going to cut it for me.
‘Oh.’ His surprise calms as he sets his bottle down. ‘That duck. Um, you’re not supposed to rub it. You just touch it, you know.’
‘Like … but why?’
Rod’s jaw goes slack. Okay, so maybe that was a dumb question, but I had to. Lonely Planet had already told me why, of course; it’s just more fun bothering real people for answers. Especially this person, apparently.
‘Supposed to symbolize immortal love or something.’ Rod waits a beat, as if expecting me to shoot a whole new volley of questions his way, but I decide I’m satisfied.
‘Perfect. That was all my questions.’
I swear, I watch Rod go through a full reset as he blinks twice more, his gaze hanging on me for another few seconds before he asks a question of his own.
‘How’s Rebecca’s?’
‘Oh, it’s wonderful. She’s spoiling me. Guesthouse is incredible.’ And I raise a daring eyebrow fuelled by caffeine and chaos. ‘How’d you know I’m staying at Rebecca’s?’
A teeny, little pink blush crosses the bridge of his nose. No way. ‘I mean … it’s, it’s just—’
‘It’s a small town,’ I finish for him. He exhales in what I think is relief, but I can’t quite tell.
‘Yeah. That.’ Interesting. It may be a small town, and everyone’s got everyone else’s gossip, but that doesn’t mean you can get away without doing any digging.
I’ve done my fair share, at least. I wouldn’t blame this guy if he didn’t quite trust me, considering I’ve just up and landed in his hometown. ‘Can I ask another question?’ he said.
‘You heard all the askin’ I did. What’s up?’
‘What pie is it today?’
Did I hear him right? It’s my turn to be more than a little flabbergasted. How the hell would I know? ‘Pie?’
‘It’s a Monday,’ says Rod matter-of-factly, like this is common knowledge I should have picked up by now. ‘Rebecca does a pie of the week. Everyone’s welcome to come grab a slice. I kind of live for it.’
A pie of the week. I can’t help letting out a laugh. Even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell him. I want that pie all to myself now. ‘What fun would it be if I told you what pie it is today?’
Ah, finally. He cracks a smile, and man, was it worth the wait. For lack of a better word, his smile just looks so easy. It’s the kind that you unconsciously return, because that’s the only fitting reply. It even makes its way up to his eyes. ‘You don’t know what pie it is, do you?’
Should I know? My laugh turns more nervous than it is amused. ‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Wow.’ He’s still smiling. It’s unbelievable. I scream at myself internally to look away. No such thing happens. ‘I don’t love surprises, unfortunately.’
So Mr Charisma is apparently not Mr Spontaneity. ‘You know,’ I intone, steeling myself with a sip of chai from my tumbler, ‘sometimes you have to take big chances to have good things. Which means come try the dang pie. It won’t hurt you not to know the flavour.’
Rod looks so much more deeply in thought than I’d be if someone told me to try a pie.
‘Unless you’re allergic.’
‘Pardon?’ he says.
‘Allergic. To the flavour. Never count out that peanut table.’
Rod snorts. A laugh! He laughs! I ignore the very prominent butterflies already starting to wake up in the pit of my stomach, instead tipping my head towards the groups of kids already arming themselves with their sticks. ‘Time to get started?’
‘Oh, let’s do it.’ He follows my gaze, scanning the field. We have at least twenty-five campers, so we’ll be right up to ratio.
‘Campers!’ Rod calls, his naturally booming voice echoing across the field. All the kids get the memo right away, and with hushed giggles and snickers, they plop themselves down in a big circle in the grass, Rod and I at the front of it. Benny traipses over as the kids are getting all settled in.
‘As always, we are gonna start with camp rules. Alright?’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘And I need everyone to please introduce themselves to Coach Jordan when you get the chance.’
I grin and wave on cue. The kids look very wary. So maybe they’ll absolutely hate me, but hey, I’m here. All I can do is try my very best to make sure that’s not the case. Adults don’t (usually) hate me. Even with the gas station situation, it doesn’t seem like Rod hates me. How bad can kids be?
‘She’s going to be joining us for the summer,’ Rod proceeds, ‘and we would rather not scare her away, so let’s be nice. Clear?’
‘Crystal,’ the campers reply in unison. He’s got them all trained and everything? I don’t think we were ever even this put together at the collegiate level.
‘Great.’ Benny claps his hands. ‘Let’s get started.’