Sylvie
“I liked it pretty well, though.” He’s sitting by the fire on my waterproof camp blanket, poking the embers with a stick. “But I’m hardly a judge of good cinema.”
“I mean, it’s not good.”
“And you said it made more money than any other movie ever?”
I shrug. “People have bad taste. Collectively. I read once that a bee by itself isn’t a bee. Scientists say that a hive is the individual unit when it comes to bees. And I think pop culture can kind of be like that. Groupthink. Fifty people in a room act a lot different than someone by themselves.”
“You sound like my mom, a little.”
“Yeah?”
“Except that she used that as a reason to shun all that stuff. Saw it as evil.”
“I don’t think we should give a James Cameron movie that much power,” I tell him. “Calling something evil implies that it has the means to wreck you.”
He doesn’t say anything, just draws in the ground with his stick. “You’re smart.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say, teasing.
“Do you go to college somewhere nearby?”
“I’m supposed to. This fall. I just graduated high school.”
“Eighteen?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Me too.”
I’m surprised. “You look older.”
He glances up at me. “I get that a lot. Your mom was cool with you just hitting the road by yourself?”
“My mom’s probably the opposite of your mom.
She has a favorite Real Housewives city.
She trades rare Lululemon leggings in a closed Facebook group.
When I had to get her signature to take a bunch of AP classes my sophomore year, she was legit confused why I wanted to take them.
She said,” and I imitate her nasally voice, “‘C’s get degrees, silly.’”
Knox snorts. “Where did you come from, then?”
“Somebody had to raise her.”
“That,” he says, “I can relate to. You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“Neither of us have mentioned our dads.”
“Is that supposed to be funny-haha, or funny-sad?”
He rolls onto his back, sticks his good arm behind his head. When his shirt rides up, I catch a glimpse of tan, firm skin. “Your pick.”
I swallow, reorient myself. “I don’t know what there is to say, I guess. Mine took off when I was two. His name is Trevor. He was an anesthesiology resident when they met. My mom likes to make a joke about how he could put anyone to sleep.”
Knox laughs.
I like this topic way more than the one about why I’m traveling by myself, so I tuck into it a little.
My dad is a wound that healed a long time ago.
“He doesn’t pay child support but my mom doesn’t care.
He’s more like a sperm donor, I guess? He used to send me Christmas cards, which is probably easier for him to remember than my birthday. What about your dad?”
“What about him?”
“That’s not fair,” I tell him. “You gotta give me something back.”
He winces. “Can I tell you about it tomorrow? My arm is killing me. I think I need another painkiller.”
“Well, let’s get your tent set up and I’ll leave you alone.” I don’t know why I’m a little annoyed. It’s not like this guy owes me any explanation about himself.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No?”
“That? That’s the kind of answer you give when you want the other person to keep talking,” he says, and I can’t help it, I laugh.
“Okay,” I say, and sit back down. “Let’s keep talking.”