Imperfect Spiral (20 page)

That's not stalking? “Why would you be talking to people at the county council?” I ask.

“Doesn't everybody keep in touch with their elected representatives?” he asks.

I have no response to that.

“Joking,” he says, and then tells me he has to do a report for his government class. The Franklin Grove safety debate is government in action, so he thought he would use it for his assignment.

“If you're going to ask to interview me, given my last experience being interviewed, I think I'll be keeping my mouth shut until the hearing,” I say.

He's not asking to interview me. And actually, he's not doing his report on the Franklin Grove thing after all. He doesn't think the county council will make any decisions in time for his report.

“So I'm doing my report on something that already happened—a law in Congress,” Justin says.

“Then you're not calling to talk about me testifying at the county council.”

I must sound—relieved, confused,
something
, because he
laughs. “Yeah, no, the pressure's off. I was just calling to say hi. And to say it was fun throwing the football around with you. But it's supposed to rain for the rest of the week and into the weekend, so I'm wondering if you'd like to get together for coffee or something.”

Huh. Is Justin-from-the-park asking me out?

“Okay,” I say. “I'll meet you for coffee or something. What's the ‘or something' option?”

“Uh—”

Now I've confused him.

“Coffee would be nice,” I say.

“Great.”

I ask what the weather forecast has to do with getting together for coffee.

“I figure you won't be at the park if it's raining,” he says. “So we can't meet up there.”

We settle on a place, a coffee shop neither of us has been to before. We agree to meet there; it's on bus routes for both of us.

“See you Saturday,” Justin says. “Three o'clock.”

I don't think it's a disaster. The place is in one of these new fake-downtown areas that are getting built all over the suburbs. We're both perfectly on time. We both like our coffees pretty simple. We both like to eat something when drinking coffee.

He tells me about his paper for government class. It's about laws passed by Congress that concern toxic substances making
their way into drinking water and food. This subject clearly gets his engine going.

“It's a huge problem,” Justin says. “And we're so far behind on solving it, even though there have been laws around for decades. The thing is, people—all kinds of people, from folks in their homes to big companies—have been pouring poisons down drains and in sewers forever. Eventually they can contaminate drinking water sources. And then another problem is how everyone wants their fruits and vegetables all pretty, and farmers want to have big crops, so we use pesticides. But you can end up with a plateful of pretty food that has some pretty bad stuff in it.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say.

“I get a little carried away,” he says. “Sorry—end of speech.”

“No, it's fine,” I say. “Feel free to speechify.”

He takes a bite of his apple muffin. I take a sip of my café au lait. Our eyes meet while our mouths are full and we almost burst out laughing. We're having the same unserious thought about all that “pretty bad stuff” Justin was just speechifying about.

“Uh-oh,” he says with his mouth still slightly full.

“Ruh-roh,” I say around my half-swallowed sip.

“Is it on apples that are cooked in muffins?” he says.

“Is it in coffee?” I say.

We recover without spitting out our mouthfuls. Now we do burst out laughing.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I know it's a terrible problem. Nothing to laugh at.”

“I'm laughing, too,” Justin says. “What else can we do?”

What else
, he adds, getting serious again, is we can have strong laws. But what he's even more interested in, he says, is figuring out new ways to fix the problems with scientific solutions.

“Like bioremediation,” he says.

I have no idea what that means.

“Speaking of the food chain,” he says as he gets up from his chair, “I'm still hungry. Do you want something else?”

I decline.

When he gets back, Justin mentions that he has a hockey game tomorrow morning. “Does your brother play anymore?” he asks.

I forgot that I'd mentioned Adrian's hockey playing when we talked in the park.

“Well, you know, he's not in high school….”

“Yeah, but he can keep playing,” Justin says. “There are all kinds of leagues.”

I don't actually know whether Adrian is playing hockey. I suppose it could be one of those things that he's picked up again but decided not to mention at home because then Mom would want to know if he's going out for the NHL.

“I'll ask him,” I say.

“So he's working at this new restaurant?” Justin asks. I mentioned it earlier.

No. I explain that while the restaurant is a work in progress, Adrian's still doing plumbing. “If he plumbs like he does everything else,” I conclude, “then he's probably a great plumber.
A plumber of prowess. Proficiently practicing the profession of plumbing.”

I could bite off my tongue. I'm doing
p
words in front of Justin?

“I like it!” he says. “Wacky and wondrous wordplay.”

You must be kidding me.

He looks embarrassed. That makes two of us.

“So, are you—are you going to Western's homecoming?” he asks.

A sputtering laugh bursts out of my mouth before I can stop it. At least I wasn't trying to swallow coffee. This boy has a lot to learn about me.

“Is that a funny question?” he asks.

“No. Sorry,” I say. “It is a perfectly reasonable question. No, I am not going to homecoming.”

“You like football,” he points out.

“I like throwing a football,” I correct him. “Two different things.”

“I can see that,” he says.

“And I don't—I mean I really,
really
don't—dance,” I say.

“Huh,” he says.

This leads him to talk about his sister, who's older, and who
does
dance. She's at a performing arts conservatory, where her major is dance.

“I've been to a lot of ballet recitals,” he says, half laughing. “I can tell you what an arabesque is. And a pas de deux. And a chassé. I could go on.”

“Impressive,” I say. “Do you speak French?”

“Nope,” Justin says. “Just random ballet terms.”

We talk about what it's like to have brilliant older siblings. It's fine, we agree. Better than fine. He seems to idolize his sister as much as I idolize Adrian.

And so we chit and we chat, meandering around our lives. Before I know it, two hours have passed.

“I should get home,” I say, although I don't have any particular reason to get home.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.”

When we reach my bus stop on the corner right outside the coffee shop, he says, “Want to walk a little? You can pick up the bus down at Greenway Road and Maplewood Avenue.”

There's not too much talking as we walk. To be honest, I'm kind of talked out. But it doesn't feel too awkward to be walking in the light drizzle without saying much. Not too terribly awkward, anyway. A little. A little perculiar. I smile.

“What?” Justin asks.

“What what?”

“You just laughed a little.”

“Oh—nothing. Just—nothing.”

“It must feel good to walk around and feel like laughing for no reason,” he says.

Do I detect hurt in his voice?

Oh, all right.

“Sometimes I remember something about Humphrey—something funny or cute. And it makes me smile.”

Justin nods.

“It makes me feel like crying, actually,” I say, “but that would be embarrassing, wouldn't it? Walking around and suddenly bursting into tears? I mean, this happens multiple times a day.”

The next bus stop is in sight.

“I don't know,” Justin says. “There are worse things, I think. Not worse than what happened to Humphrey and you. I mean, worse than crying. Sometimes a person needs to cry.”

What does he know about it? Maybe there aren't worse things, for me. Maybe if there are worse things, I don't want to go there.

This is starting to remind me of being in a therapy session. And that is not where I want to be, so:

“Since we were talking about homecoming,” I say, “here's something more embarrassing than me bursting into tears in the middle of the sidewalk. That would be me dancing.”

We walk for a bit, while he either ponders or ignores that comment.

“I saw you dancing in the park,” he says finally. “With Humphrey. Didn't look bad to me.”

He saw me dancing? It had to be the rain dance. To be precise, the do-not-rain dance. Our crazy, out-of-control do-not-rain dance. Mortifying.

“You were there that day?” I ask. I didn't see him. And I thought he'd only seen me and Humphrey throwing the football—the wrong kind of football, as he informed me that first time we met.

“I was over on the basketball court. I was supposed to meet my friends, but they bailed on me. I thought about coming over, but I figured—”

“You figured you'd better stay away from the peculiar girl doing a bizarre do-not-rain dance with a five-year-old,” I say, “in case peculiarity is something you can catch.”

“Catch, as in a football?” he says.

“As in a disease.”

My bus is here.

“You just had this look on your face, like you're thinking I was spying on you,” Justin says. “Which I was not. I just like that crummy little park. In fact, I was going to that park before I ever saw you there.”

“Okay,” I say. “You win. It's
your
park.”

The bus doors are open.

“Well—thanks,” I say, and step up.

“And I thought about coming over that day, but didn't want to break up your fun,” Justin calls after me. “The kid was looking at you like he thought you were a rock star. You looked like you were having a great time. I didn't think you were perculiar at all.”

The bus doors close.

Did I just hear that?

When I get home, Mom and Dad are both there. Since I never go out on—this isn't the right word for what this was, but I don't have another one—
dates
, I can tell they're kind of curious about how it went. Mom especially, surprise, surprise.

But their attention is diverted away from me by an actual, and better, surprise: Adrian shows up. He's here to cook dinner; we'll be his guinea pigs for dishes he's learned from—as I know and our parents do not—his cooking class. Pan-roasted halibut with chopped-up salsa-like stuff on top. Sautéed broccolini with garlic. Mashed potatoes. I hang around him as he cooks, and learn the difference between pan roasting and sautéing; broccolini, broccoli, and broccoli rabe; and the important question of when to cook fish with its skin on and with its skin removed.

“Oh my God, Adrian,” my mother says, practically melting into her plate.

“This is fantastic, son,” Dad says.

“Not bad,” I say. It's so much better than delicious.

After dinner, Mom insists on cleaning up, which is her way of showing just how wowed she is by Adrian's cooking. Adrian and I move to the living room.

“And then this freaky thing happens,” I say. I've told Adrian who Justin is, and about meeting him for coffee. “Actually, it happens twice. We're talking, and he says these things—just a couple of words, but I'm telling you, it's strange—that were Humphrey words. Things Humphrey and I used to say.”

Adrian raises his eyebrows. “And those words were?”

“He says ‘yeah, no'—wait, this was when we were on the phone,” I say.

Adrian cocks his head to one side. “Okay, Danny, I hate to tell you. That's not exactly a unique expression.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “It doesn't sound like anything.
Yeah, no
. But there's a certain way to say it, a certain time when you say it—that was Humphrey's and mine.”

“What's the other thing?” Adrian asks.

“Just as I was getting on the bus, he was saying that he didn't think something was peculiar—”

“Wait. That he
didn't
think something was peculiar?”

“Yeah. It sounds like a weird conversation, but it made sense. In context. Anyway, so he's saying the word ‘peculiar,' only instead he says ‘perculiar,' with an
r
stuck in the middle.”

“Which was something you and Humphrey used to say?”

“Well, which Humphrey used to say. He had a whole string of
p
words in his vocabulary—don't ask—and they were mostly these hard, high-level words, which a five-year-old wouldn't normally know. And he always got them right, all except the word ‘peculiar.' He said ‘perculiar,' every time, and he insisted that this was the right way to say it. Insisted, even, that Mr. Danker told him so.”