Heaven Is Paved with Oreos (16 page)

But it doesn't matter. Emily may be insecure or not, or popular or not. She can think whatever she wants and say whatever she wants to. She can watch me in the high school halls and the baseball bleachers, and she can criticize how I act, and she can even make fun of Boris and whisper to her friends. None of that is my concern. I am not scared of Emily anymore. I can face those hallways and those bleachers no matter what. Do you know why? Because I figured out three (3) key facts.

1. Yes, Emily is an extremely good boy-liker, but she does not control all the boy-liking in the world. No matter what she says, she cannot tell other people how to do it.
   
2. I am extremely sure that Emily would never go to Rome. She would say it's because her friends couldn't go with her or she doesn't want to miss soccer practice or Rome is stupid, but I know the real reason. In Red Bend, she is a big fish in a small pond, and that is all she will ever be. But I am not. I am a fish of the world.
   
3. Emily is not friends with D.J. Schwenk.
   

Here is what I need to still figure out, though: Why do I feel so weird about going to Curtis's games but I love going to D.J.'s? Why is that? Why am I so worried about looking like Curtis's cheering girlfriend when I don't mind anyone seeing me cheering for his sister, who I am definitely not going out with?

Yes, I don't like girls who behave like they don't have anything better to do than worship boys (= Emily). But I didn't worship Curtis; I was his friend. Hopefully in the future I can be his friend again. Maybe more than his friend . . . maybe. But definitely at least a friend. I want to be ≥ friends with Curtis. It is not nice to ignore a friend. It is especially not nice when I am constantly comparing myself with Emily Enemy and trying so hard to be different from her that I can't even figure out what it is that I should be doing. That is not being honest with Curtis, and it is also not being honest with me.

I need to focus on being a better friend, and doing what friends should do.

 

 

Curtis came home today. He had a baseball game this afternoon. I went to it.

Emily was there, of course. With some other girls, all of them with matching
GO RED BEND!
T-shirts and holding posters, sitting near third base and cheering for Curtis. Which is fine for them. They are free to do whatever they want. Their posters are not my problem.

Curtis ignored them, which I extremely appreciated. He kept looking at the bleachers, checking out who was there, like his mom and adults he knew, and little kids who are his fans. When his eyes got to me, he stopped for a second, and I did not know what to do, so I just looked at him. Perhaps I gave him a little shrug or a millimeter-size smile. Some sort of sign to show that I knew we saw each other and that I did not mind the seeing.

Curtis turned away quickly and fixed his cap, and then he punched his glove and shouted something to his team. I could not make out the words, but they sounded encouraging. He bounced on his toes too. I was not sure these were absolutely definitely positive signs that Curtis might not mind my being there, but I did not consider them negative ones. I especially liked that he did not bounce on his toes after looking at Emily.

The game ended. Curtis hit two home runs. I stayed in the bleachers even after the teams shook hands and most people had left and it was just parents waiting for their kids and Emily's group pressed up against the fence, calling to boys.

Curtis took a long time—perhaps it was not long, but it felt long—to pack up his stuff. He did not look at me, but he did not look away from me either. I did not know what to do, so I decided that I should do what I would if he simply was my friend, and that was to wait for him. Just in case.

Curtis went and talked to his mom—still not looking at me. I tried not to think that perhaps I should be leaving.

Then at last he walked over and sat down next to me. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said. “Nice game.” That is what one normally says in these situations even if one is somewhat uninformed about sports (= me).

“Thanks. Thanks for coming. How was Rome?”

“It was okay. Hot.” I thought about all the things I could say at this moment. I crossed many of them off my list, and then I crossed more, and then I ended with this: “Do you have time for ice cream?”

“What flavor?” he asked. He was so serious that I thought,
What if he's switched from chocolate?
Then I realized he was just being Curtis.

Being Curtis meant that I could just be Sarah. “When I was in Rome, I tried a lot of different flavors. And I tried new flavors here, too. But I think I'm going to stick with vanilla. How about you?”

“Chocolate. I'm still okay with chocolate.”

“Chocolate can be exceedingly satisfying.”

“You know,” Curtis said, “everyone says ‘very,' all the time. But you never do. You're”—he grinned—“you're very good at it.”

“My grandmother says ‘very' is very unvaried.”

“Yeah, but everyone else is too lazy.”

“They're very lazy,” I said. We laughed.

“Emily says ‘very' all the time.”

Suddenly I was smiling so much that I thought my face would break in half like an old Roman statue. “So . . . ice cream? It's very good.”

“No, it's not. It's exceedingly good. By the way, Boris says hello.”

“Boris! I've missed Boris. How's he doing?”

“Another couple of weeks, I'd say. Hey, I found some really good brass wire—you know, for mounting him—”

“That's great. What's it look like?”

“I've got it in my bag, in case you—in case you wanted to see it and stuff. In case anyone wanted to see it . . .”

“I definitely want to see it,” I said, because he looked so embarrassed. “I'm extremely glad you brought it with you.”

Curtis smiled his relieved smile. “There's some thicker wire, too, that we could use for the spinal column . . .”

“We'll definitely need thicker wire for that. Good point . . .”

That's what we talked about, Curtis and me, walking over to Jorgensens' Ice Cream: calf skeleton spinal column wire. Emily might have been watching us, but I wasn't paying attention.

 

 

Today D.J. actually asked about Curtis. “How are things with my brother?” was how she phrased it. “Looking up?”

I smiled. “Yes. Things are looking up, I think. I do not know where we're going, but I like where we are.”

D.J. laughed. “That's a great way to put it! Can I quote you?”

I said she could. I tried not to sound too pleased.

“Hey!” Paul said from the back seat, like he'd just figured out we were there (which he probably had). He peeled off his headphones. “So, you're coming? On Sunday?”

“This is that dog concert you're doing, right?”

Paul looked hesitant. “Well, it's not just for dogs . . .”    “I know. I was teasing.” D.J. grinned at him in the rearview mirror. “What time should I be there?”

“We're beginning at, like, five o'clock.” (Just so you know, the Dog Days Festival starts at noon. But for Paul the first five hours don't count.) “There's going to be dancing, too. We're playing some dance tunes.”

“Dancing, eh? Should I bring a date?”

Paul turned purple. “If you want . . . It's not going to be just dancing, you know. There'll be other songs. We're playing Z's favorite tunes. It'll be awesome.”

“Don't—” I said. I started to say.

“Don't what?” Paul asked.

I wanted to say,
Don't play “When I'm Sixty-Four.”
But then Paul would ask why not, and I would say because of what happened in Rome, which he knows about . . . but I don't think he gets it. He doesn't get how Z cried and how that song, well,
made
Dad, if you know what I mean. The song + the painting. And + Paolo, duh. If Paul plays “When I'm Sixty-Four,” Z will start crying all over again, right in the middle of the Dog Days of Prophetstown. In front of D.J., if D.J. comes. Crying in front of everyone.

But I could not figure out how to say this. Paul looked so happy and so hopeful . . . perhaps it would be okay. Perhaps I was just seeing flying monkeys. Or perhaps I'm too chicken to prevent a catastrophe. I'll never know. Instead I said, “Don't let her down.”

“I won't,” Paul said. He spent the rest of the ride talking to us—well, really he was talking
at
us—about guitars and amplifiers and chord changes . . . I did not understand
½
of what he was saying, and I don't think D.J. understood even ¼ of it, but he was extremely pleased to say it.

It is maybe not a bad thing that Paul spends most of his time in headphones. He doesn't pay attention to other people when he's wearing headphones, but he doesn't pay attention when he takes them off, either.

Z has left me an enormous plate of Oreos. I am sitting at her kitchen table right now putting together a book for Curtis. It is not much of a book, actually: just the
giornale
with the skull + wings picture on the front that I bought him in Rome, and eighteen (18!) photographs of other skull + wings or bones or skeleton carvings from the different churches we visited. I am arranging the photographs in the back of the book so that he has the rest of the
giornale
to do with what he wants. Perhaps we will use it for our notes on Boris.

I also printed out a picture that I took of Z standing on the Oreo floor in San Lorenzo. She is pointing to the floor and looking happy—so happy that she could almost be in heaven already. I have put the picture in a frame for her so she'll always remember that moment.

 

 

THE DOG DAYS OF PROPHETSTOWN!

This week has been so crazy! Paul and I have been staying at Z's apartment so we could help set up—we have been worker bees even though bees have nothing (I hope!) to do with dogs.

And then today the day finally came. It was insanely busy. I was insanely busy. I helped with the pooches parade and the puppy-ista fashion show . . . Jack Russell George was supposed to be a pirate, but he chewed on his costume so much that he looked like a shipwrecked Jack Russell pirate. Jack Russell George does not have a future in fashion. Or in yoga. I don't think anyone, dog or human, learned much from Z today about yoga, but the Downward Dog yoga class was still supremely fun. And Z laughed harder than anyone.

I was also a helper in the Littlest Bestest dog show. Littlest Bestest was kids under seven and dogs under fifteen pounds; it was absolute barking chaos, and I spent all my time untangling leashes from little legs. Little legs were everywhere.

I had just finished giving out the last Littlest Bestest team a
MOST OBEDIENT
ribbon, because those were the only ribbons I had left. Actually, we still had a box of them. The little girl asked if she could have a pink ribbon instead of a blue one. I did not say,
Do you know what obedient means?
Instead I found her a pink ribbon and helped lift up her Pekinese, who was definitely > fifteen pounds, and off the two of them went.

“Well played, Sarah Z.,” someone said. I turned around, and there was D.J. Schwenk. With Curtis! Although I tried not to show the ! part and instead simply waved a little.

Curtis waved back and then—it would be interesting to analyze slow-motion video to see exactly how it happened—I lifted my right hand at the same time he lifted his left hand, and then I lifted my hand more, and before I knew it we were Palm Saluting.

“Hey,” Curtis said.

“Hey.” I smiled. Whenever we Palm Salute, I smile.

“Okay, then,” D.J. said. “I will catch up with you two later.” She grinned at us and walked off.

I watched her go. Then I noticed Brian Nelson standing not too far away. He used to be her boyfriend. He is so incredibly cute that even I can see it, and normally I do not notice people's faces much at all.

D.J. walked up to him as if she was still his girlfriend, and he did not look like he minded. In fact—they kissed! In front of everyone! Then he put his arm around her and they ambled into the crowd.

“Wait,” I said. “I thought they broke up.”

Curtis shrugged. “They decided to hang out a little more before he goes to college. D.J. said they don't know where they're going but they like where they are.”

Did you hear that? D.J. quoted me! She said my words!!!!!!!!!! She used me like a fortune cookie!

“Do you want to walk around?” Curtis asked.

“What?” I said. “Oh. Yes. Sure.” We started walking.

Curtis looked down Laura Ingalls Wilder Avenue, which had crowds and crowds of dogs and/or humans, and dozens of booths selling art and food and beer and homemade cookies for humans and/or dogs. At the end of the street was a platform where they'd had the fashion show. Now two clowns were up there with a banjo and balloons and a tambourine, playing kiddy songs for all their Littlest Bestest fans.

Curtis studied one of the booths. “I don't think I want to try the dog biscuits.”

“They're supposed to be really good,” I said, “if you're a dog. Z said they were.”

“She tried them?”

“She tried the vegetarian version.”

Curtis looked at me like he couldn't figure out if I was joking. Then he laughed and nudged his shoulder against mine. I laughed too.

Do you realize what we were doing? We were walking around just like a regular boy-liking girl and girl-liking boy! If you didn't know us, you might even think we were a regular girlfriend and boyfriend! Just like the other people who were walking around in their own boy-liking and girl-liking ways. Possibly even lady(2)-liking too. Some of the boy-likers looked like Emily Enemy, but not all of them. Not most of them, actually. They were doing it their own way. Like D.J. and Brian. Curtis and I could do it too, in our own way, if we were brave enough to try.