Chapter 18
Matt
I’m watching Penny finish the Menorahsaurus Dance Battle scene that she started with the kids last Wednesday. I may be biased, but I think it’s fucking brilliant.
The scripting I did for this scene was super minimal. All I had written down was “The Menorahsauruses battle each other to determine whose light is the brightest before ultimately deciding they are better when they all shine together.”
Penny took that tiny bit of instruction and absolutely ran with it.
Now, here I am watching a stage full of eight to ten-year-olds roaring, battling, and dancing their hearts out with a big cheeseball grin on my face.
The music cuts out, and the kids strike their final pose. Penny and I both leap to our feet.
“Yes, kiddos!” Penny cheers. “That was so good!”
“You rule, friends!” I say, applauding beside her. “We’re so proud of you all! Can everyone thank Penny for this epic choreography?”
“Thank you, Penny,” they all singsong, some in their regular voices, others in their “dino voices” that Penny helped them develop last week.
The bell rings for the end of this period.
“Perfect timing.” I clap my hands once, and everyone circles up like we always do at the end of rehearsal.
I crouch down on their level. “Alright, friends! Excellent work! Remember, the show is on Sunday, December 22nd. That is now officially less than two weeks away. Tickets go on sale tonight. You can all grab an order form at the podium on your way out of the auditorium, okay?”
“Yes, Mr. B!” they say in unison.
“Closing on three?”
The whole group, including Penny, shouts, “One…two…three!” and does our elaborate group handshake before they all disperse.
Man, I love this crew.
Penny hangs back and waits for me. At least it seems like she’s waiting for me? It’s entirely possible I’m imagining it. Or putting meaning on something that isn’t actually there. But this happened last rehearsal, too. When she could have just rushed off and headed back to Herald’s, she didn’t.
She waited for me.
“Care to walk?” I nod toward the door.
“I’d love to,” she says.
When we reach the street, I pull a small, sealed bag out of my pocket. “You didn’t end up texting the other day. But I figured you might like these anyway.”
I hand her the root beer candies.
Penny takes them from me and smiles. “That’s very sweet of you, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
She tears open the bag and pops a candy in her mouth. “Want one?”
“Hell no,” I say. “Root beer is hell in soda form. Or in this case, candy form.”
She gasps. “Root beer is life!”
“Well then,” I joke. “I’d rather be dead.”
She laughs, then gets thoughtful as we start walking. “I was never allowed to have sugar as a kid, so now that I’m a big grown-up, I try to treat myself from time to time.” She pauses. “Does that sound silly?”
“Not at all. I’m a big believer that no matter how old we are, we need to give our inner child some love.”
She snorts. Then stops. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you serious just now?”
“Completely serious,” I say. “A little something I learned from my therapist.”
“You see a therapist?” she asks.
“Off and on, yeah.” I almost launch into a whole thing about what life was like after my father died and why I still see a therapist from time to time as an adult, but instead I say, “Wait, you didn’t have any sugar growing up?”
“Not really, no.”
“I’m guessing that’s because of the mom who orders iceberg lettuce on the all-you-can-eat cruise?”
She cocks her head to the side. “You remember me saying that?”
“I remember everything you tell me, Penny.”
We lock eyes for a moment. She smiles but then turns ahead and keeps walking.
“Look,” I say gently. “I don’t know your mom, and you didn’t ask for my opinion, but that approach with kids seems problematic. We all know sugar isn’t great for you, but if you demonize it or put it on a pedestal… I can only imagine that leads to issues.” I pause. “Did it?”
“Did it what?”
“Lead to issues.”
She doesn’t answer me right away, and I’m kicking myself for pushing too hard. She said she wants to be friends, but maybe she only wants the kind of friend who jokes around with her and co-directs silly kid holiday shows, Yule cats and pumpernickel parties, and wise men walruses?
Geez, I really am creating a weird-ass show, aren’t I?
Penny might not be up for a friend like me who wants to dive deep into her past and share our traumas. Let’s be real, most people aren’t up for that. Also, we’ve only known each other for a month, and she was avoiding me like the plague during at least half of that time.
When we stop at an intersection to wait for our light, I realize something.
“Hey! It’s December 8th,” I say.
“Yeah…?” She doesn’t register the significance.
“We’ve officially known each other for one month,” I explain. “It was November 8th, the day I walked into that audition room and accidentally thrust into you with my cotton-ball-covered crotch.”
“A day that will live in infamy,” she says faux seriously. “Is this our friendiversary then?”
“I’m down to celebrate it if you are.”
I lift my hand to her, expecting a high five. Instead, she lightly presses her palm to mine, then slowly interlaces our fingers.
She takes a step closer to me.
Wow.
This energy feels… new.
I am rarely left speechless, but at this moment I haven’t the faintest clue what to say.
Or do.
“You’re right,” she says softly. “The food stuff with Mom did cause issues. Almost some pretty serious issues.” She clears her throat. “So um— I didn’t stop dancing because—”
I shake my head. “Penny, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me things you’re not ready to talk about. I know I can be pushy sometimes and—”
“Who told you that?” She drops my hand. “You are not pushy, Matt. You’re… well, you’re lovely.”
Lovely?
“Did you just call me ‘lovely?’” I say and put my hands on my suddenly hot face. “Shit, are my cheeks pink? Damn, you have me feeling like a girl in a Jane Austen book all of a sudden,” I joke.
She laughs. “Do you really read Jane Austen books?”
The light changes, and we cross, picking up our pace again.
“I wouldn’t say I reeeeeead them. But yeah, I’ve checked out a few.”
“Which ones?” She seems delighted by this turn in the conversation.
“The biggies, I guess? Pride and Prejudice. Sense and Sensibility. I haven’t read Emma yet, but I’ve watched Clueless at least a dozen times. Does that count?”
“I don’t know if it counts, per se, but that movie is undeniable perfection. Agreed?”
“We absolutely agree on that, yes.”
She looks at me funny when we stop at the next crosswalk. “Can I make a confession?”
“Consider me your priest.”
“Huh?” Her forehead scrunches.
“Nothing. Dumb joke. Yes, you can make a confession.”
Damn. I still get so nervous around this woman.
“I have two confessions, actually,” she says.
“Alright…”
What the hell is she gonna say?
“I judged you unfairly when we first met.”
“How so?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Could I retract my next statement if it’s offensive?”
“Yikes!” I chuckle. “Should I brace myself?”
“Maybe?”
“Well, let’s hear it. And no. No retractions.”
She hesitates.
“Go on,” I say.
“I guess you seemed a little bit like a… Gosh, I assumed you were a…”
“Spit it out…”
“A meathead,” she blurts.
“A meathead?!” I place my hand on my heart. “You thought I was a meathead?!”
“I’m sorry!” she laughs.
“What do you even mean by meathead?” I’m laughing right along with her.
She groans. “Don’t make me explain!”
“Oh girl, you’re going to explain!” I say, still laughing.
“I’m not proud of this,” she says. “But I guess because you were so focused on your physical muscles, I thought there wasn’t much going on—”
“In the muscle between my ears?” I fill in the blank for her.
“Yes. But the brain isn’t actually muscle,” she corrects.
“I know that, Pennywise. The brain is an organ. Though I’ll have you know that exercising your brain is a real thing.”
I know this better than anyone after everything I’ve seen my mom go through this past year.
I did so many doctor-recommended exercises with her when she first got diagnosed: card games to help with her memory and concentration, sudoku to keep up her strength with numbers, cooking and baking to offer her the sensory stimulation a healthy person needs.
The list of what we tried goes on and on.
I still do those things with her when I visit her at her new home, but it feels different.
I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a certain amount of guilt that goes along with outsourcing her care.
“Okay,” I say. “So you initially thought I was a meathead. And this has not proven to be true?”
“No. Like I said, I think you’re lovely and it’s clear you’re a very well-read, not to mention thoughtful person.” She lifts the bag of root beer candies like it’s evidence of my thoughtfulness.
“What’s your other confession?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“You said you had two confessions,” I explain when her face looks blank.
We’ve reached my mother’s building now, and Penny instinctively stops next to it. This is the third time she’s walked me this far, so I guess she knows the drill by now.
Her cheeks turn pink, just like mine did a few minutes ago. “My other confession is, I really wanted to text you the other day, but… I guess I got shy and wanted you to text me first.”
“Done!” I say, grateful for the uplift in the conversation. I pull my phone out of my pocket and dash off a text.
Her phone dings. She reads the screen, then tilts it in my direction like I didn’t just send it myself and know very well what it says.
Matt: My second impression of you was wrong, too.
“Your second impression of me?” she asks. “Wait. What was your first impression?”
“Are we being honest?”
“Always,” she says.
“My first impression was that you are fucking hot. I firmly stand by the accuracy of that impression.”
She laughs. “I thank you.”
“But my second impression…” I wince, not relishing the opportunity to tell her this one.
“Go ahead,” she says. “I can take it.”
I sigh. “My second impression was that you’re judgy and obsessed with appearances and money.”
“Ouch,” she says.
“Which has been proven without a doubt not to be true.” I point a finger at her. “To echo your words from a previous conversation, ‘that was a me issue, not a you issue.’”
“Understood.” She nods. “Seems we both judged a book by its cover.”
“Well, don’t you sort of have to judge a book by its cover?” I argue. “I mean, how else are you going to decide what you want to read?”
“Fair.” She laughs. “Probably best not to do that with people, though.”
“Excellent point.” I shift from foot to foot. “For what it’s worth, I’m, uh, I’m glad those days are behind us.”
She smiles and squeezes my hand. “Me too.”
We both look up at the sign for my mother’s building at the same time. This seems like the right moment to tell her why I come here two to three times a week.
Instead, I keep holding her hand and say, “Do you have a few minutes before you need to get back to Herald’s?”
“Sure,” she says. “Why?”
“Because I’d really like you to meet someone.”