Knox
An hour later we’re tired of being cooped up, and the rain has stopped.
“Never seen someone start a fire that fast,” Sylvie says, outside. “Even with two good hands and totally dry wood.”
“I was a Boy Scout,” I lie.
“That delights me.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s hard to picture.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t have uniform-and-saluting energy.”
If only you knew. “I sure don’t.” I lower myself to a seat in one of Sylvie’s camp chairs in front of the fire. The air is cool and damp from the rain earlier.
Sylvie sits beside me on my left, a few feet away. “So where you from?”
“I was born in Asheville, North Carolina.”
“And then?”
“You’re a very curious person.”
“I thought that was a good thing?”
“Me too. I’m just saying.”
“I don’t even understand incurious people. Like, you have this one life, and you don’t want to explore and discover?”
“I’m with you. I just don’t think I’m that interesting.”
“Let me be the judge.”
I sigh and smile. “Then . . . we moved around a lot. Didn’t stay in one place for very long. See? Boring.”
“Like an army brat sort of deal?”
“Kinda.” Please be satisfied with that. “How about you?”
“Springfield, Illinois.”
“Been there.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, just passing through.”
“How did you survive the excitement?”
“Seemed pleasant enough. Wouldn’t have minded staying a little longer,” I say honestly. I decide I’m going to start telling her as much truth as I possibly can. It makes me feel bad to lie to her.
“What were you doing there?”
“How’d I know that would be your next question, Curious Georgina? Goat farm.”
“Visiting?”
“Working.”
Sylvie gasps and pushes me. “STOP.”
“Okay, don’t break my good arm.”
“Oh! Right! Sorry. But still—SHUT UP. Did you see baby goats?”
“Saw baby goats. Held baby goats. Fed baby goats milk from a bottle while cradling baby goats. And . . . you may wanna sit down: rocked baby goats to sleep in my arms.”
Sylvie covers her mouth with her hands and squeals in the back of her throat. “Have you seen that video of the baby goats with the zoomies after a bath?”
“No.”
“Okay, get out your phone—”
“No phone.”
“As in ‘I lost my phone’?”
“As in ‘never owned one.’”
Sylvie stares like I just told her that holding in a fart causes liver damage.
“Yeah, just not a big phone family,” I say, striving for a nonchalance that would curtail further questioning.
“You must be, like, the world’s purest human—holding and feeding baby goats instead of endless hours on TikTok.”
“I don’t think not participating in culture makes you better than anyone.”
“But you knew the Curious George reference.”
“Well, yeah, I’ve read a lot. It was my main thing.”
“Was your family’s whole deal, like, religious?”
“Sorta. But hey, I could sit and answer questions about my boring life of deprivation or you and I could watch some baby goats having the post-bath—what’d you call it?”
“Zoomies.” Sylvie grins and pulls out her phone. She shows me the video and it is, in fact, adorable. I steal glances at her starry-eyed face. I wonder where my mom is right now. The video ends. I want more.
“Do you—do you have movies on your phone?”
“I have streaming services. You know what those—”
“Yeah, I know what they are. I have some cultural awareness despite not having a phone.” We had to know what we were missing to feel superior.
“What kind of movies do you like?”
“Anything.”
“What’s the last movie you saw?”
“I snuck into a theater and saw Avengers: Endgame.”
“That was before COVID! And you hadn’t seen any of the other Avengers movies?”
“Nary a one.”
“Did it make sense?”
“Nary a . . . sense.” We both laugh.
“You just wanted to use the word ‘nary’ again. You have read a lot.” Sylvie scrolls on her phone. “Have you seen Avatar?”
“Is that the movie with the blue cat guys?”
“Yep.”
“No, but I always wanted to.”
“Well, get ready to experience the wonder of watching Avatar on a sideways iPhone in front of a campfire. Just as James Cameron intended.”
We watch for a while, and it’s great, but then we just end up talking, which is even better.