Nature of Jade (16 page)

Clade, The Fundamentals of Animal Behavior

"He's pretty cute," Delores says on Saturday when I come for work.

"You noticed," I say.

"I noticed he had a baby, too. Is it his?" Delores circles a word in her seek-and-find book. "Yes."

"Where's the mother?" "I'm not sure yet," I say.

"I'd make that a priority to find out," she says. "Okay."

"It could be complicated."

"I know," I say. I did know.

"You're young, and a child . . . whew."

"Okay."

"He's young. And a child . . . You know?" 1 know.

"But he sure is cute," Delores says.

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The early morning jobs at the elephant house are cleaning stalls, laying new hay, washing elephants, and feeding them. On weekends we try to do this before the zoo opens, since we get the most visitors then, and it's best to have the animals out where people can see them.

Enrichment tasks, like hiding fruit and adding new toys, are best done in the afternoon, so zoo goers can watch. That morning, I find Damian (who only takes Sundays off and is on call even then) scrubbing Onyx.

"Damian, I think you must spend half your life soaking wet," I say.

"Oh, I don't mind. I could give this job to one of you, but then I'd be miserable."

"Hey, Onyx," I say. "You big old girl. You old softie." Onyx is smiling, her lips curled up.

"Washing these beasts, it relaxes me. You, too, right, Onyx?" He pats her side. "Thinking time. I remember my home, the river, and my Jum and family."

"Your poor hands. Permanently wrinkled."

He stops, looks at his hands. Onyx lifts her big head and nudges him, same as Milo when you're done petting him. "Maybe so. And what of you? I'm surprised you are here today. I thought you would be on a date with that responsible boy."

"Tonight."

"Ah. Falling in love is such a magical time." "We just met, Damian. I'm not in love." Damian laughs. "I am going to have you clean the stables today, since you are already so full of shit."

"Great," I say. "Thanks a lot."

"Every job will be a pleasure today," Damian promises.

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When I get home, I tell Mom I am going to a party at Alex Orlando's house. She knows who Alex Orlando is, of course. She looks so excited, I worry for a minute she'll want to come along.

Suddenly, she's overly interested in my clothes, and she's suggesting this really short skirt I bought when I was in one of those stores with the loud, pumping music--the kind of store that makes you think you're brave enough to wear anything, until the music is no longer and reality hits. It's weird she's acting this way, because this is the woman who's been telling me for years that a guy should appreciate who you are, not what you look like; that you demean yourself if you advertise that you're just someone for them to have sex with. She's never really been one of those mothers who'll let you wear anything if it helps your popularity. But then again, I've never been invited to Alex Orlando's house. She hands me the too-tight sweater bought with the above-mentioned skirt. If she knew I would wear what she suggested to meet a guy of an undefined age who I had just met, who has a baby, she would have strangled me with her new leather belt she's just also offered to lend me. But to Alex Orlando's house, no problem. Alex Orlando, who ran for ASB president with posters showing him with his shirt off. Who won on the campaign slogan,

"Vote for Alex. He'll make you feel gooood." Mom has lost all sanity with such riches at our fingertips--she's suddenly turned into a popularity pimp.

I decide on a pair of jeans and a nice sweater instead, and Mom gives up with a sigh. I'm not Barbie, and Sebastian's not Ken. Mom has a talk with me as I hunt around for the car keys, 144

which I'm sure I've lost, meaning Mom will have to drive me in Dad's car to Alex's, or something else that will result in me missing this night. Her lecture goes something like this: Mom: If there is any drinking at this party, I want you to come home immediately. If the environment gets destructive or out of hand, it's okay to leave. You know that, right? We have to look out for ourselves in situations like that, no matter what people may think. And if you do anything stupid like actually drink if there is alcohol there, I'll be very disappointed, but I'll still love you, and the important thing is to call and I'll come get you no matter what time it is. I don't care what time it is, because I'd rather get up and be inconvenienced than have to sit by your hospital bed. And speaking of the hour, I want you to come home by midnight, because all of the drunks are out on the roads after midnight, and remember that you need to say no to boys in a way that they understand you mean no.

Me: Have you seen the keys?

Anyway, by the time I get out the door, I almost forget where I'm actually going. I've been so convincing about going to Alex's party that I have to stop for a minute and realize I'm not really going there.

I wait until I'm out of the driveway and around the corner before I start shifting gears and thinking about seeing Sebastian. I have this ever-so-slight backstage-mind thought that Mom will pick up on my guilt somehow, my lying vibes. As I head for the bookstore, though, I have a huge natural-disaster wave of nerves. Are my jeans too casual after all? I don't want to seem like that's all I wear. Or too schoolgirl. He'd maybe been married, and I had barely kissed anyone on a date to the movies. In terms of our life experience, we really were from two 145

different worlds. I start to get that foolish feeling, where you're embarrassed at yourself and haven't even done anything too stupid yet. Anticipatory humiliation. And I was going saintless--

I'd left without even lighting Raphael or anyone else.

Seattle has two lakes right inside the city--one, Lake Union, where Sebastian lives, and the other, Greenlake, where Armchair Books is. Greenlake is small, about three miles around, and people go there to jog, walk, swim, lounge on the grass, and walk their dogs. Cozy businesses dot one end of the lake; peaked-roof houses in various shapes surround it. If you keep driving south, you'll eventually hit the zoo. Armchair Books is tucked between a bakery and a place that rents bikes. It's small and narrow, and an armchair is painted on the front window. I can see a fireplace inside, a couch and two plump chairs in front of it, and a large braided rug on the floor.

The store hours are listed on the door, and I have a plunge of disappointment when I see them.

The store closes at nine, and it's eight already. It's going to be a short date. But what did I expect, anyway? He probably needs to get home to Bo. He has just a few more demands on his time than an upcoming history test.

I push open the door, and the bells on the handle jangle. It's quiet in there, only the voice of some old jazz singer softly playing in the background. There's just one customer that I can see, a man with a backpack who doesn't look up from the book he's perusing when I come in. The fire is lit, and there is the nice, warm smell of coffee and cinnamon and bread, probably from next door.

The ceiling is high, and books rise up along the walls, reached by rolling library ladders, and where there aren't books there are posters, pictures of authors, I guess--I recognize 146

Hemingway in his big beard and wooly sweater--and scenes of Paris bookstalls and quotes about the pleasures of reading. The building is long and thin, with a winding staircase that leads to a second level. A set of doors to one side opens to the bakery, dark now, but which I can see has a few tables and chairs, and a large glass cabinet.

I pretend to look at books in that slow, meandering way that bookstores require, all the while looking casually around for Sebastian. I consider going in and out the front door again to make the bells jangle some more, and would have if the man with the backpack hadn't been there.

I wander; I tuck myself between two rows not far from the register. I am staring with Academy Award-winning interest at a shelf of books when I hear my name.

"Jade?"

And there he is, Sebastian, with his dark curls and dark eyes, in a nubby brown sweater and jeans.

Comfy, happily worn student clothes. "Hi," I say. "This is a really nice place."

"We've got many fine gardening books," Sebastian says.

I look at him, puzzled, and he gestures toward the books I'm staring at: Tips for Northwest Gardeners. Terrace Gardening. How to Garden at Night--okay, that one wasn't there, but you get the idea.

"I may be a little nervous," I say.

"Okay, I'm really glad you said that, because I just went to the back room to put on more deodorant," Sebastian says. He flaps his arms a bit. "I probably shouldn't even have told you that.

Those aren't the things you're supposed to admit."

"No, I'm glad," I say. I am glad too. I thought of my own car-freshening, and this makes me happy. If nothing else, we have

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sneak deodorant swiping in common. His nervousness calms me.

The bells on the door ring again, and Sebastian takes my elbow. "I'm sorry--do you mind? I've got another hour, and then it's just us. I've got to do some restocking, but we won't have customers." I get a shot of happy, a direct injection to my veins.

"It's all good. I don't mind at all. Do what you need to," I say. I try not to grin like an idiot. "I've got all these gardening books to get through."

I like the way Sebastian looks behind the counter, the way the big lady with the canvas book bag who just walked in asks him questions that he seems to have the answers to. I like the way he rings up the man-with-the-backpack's purchase, and talks to him about the weather. I like that when an old man with a shiny bald head comes in, he knows Sebastian's name, and Sebastian knows his. More than anything, I like just being there while he works, doing what he knows to do, in his own place. A place that I now know is his own place. I like the way he looks my way and rolls his eyes or twirls a pen between his fingers to make me smile. I could have gone home right then, and it would have been the best date I ever had.

A little after nine, Sebastian takes a ring of keys to the door and locks it. The jazz singer is still singing over the speakers, but it feels suddenly quiet. Sebastian turns the sign to CLOSED, looks out onto the empty street.

"I like this time of night," he says. I can see his reflection in the glass. It is the red-jacket boy that I remember, the one who has big thoughts to think, decisions to make. It is the same red-jacket boy who comes to the zoo at night, who I now know works in a bookstore with posters of Paris on the walls and too

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many gardening books, with customers who call him by name.

"Okay, now for the fun part of the date," he says. "This is pathetic, because now I have to restock." Sebastian runs his hand over his forehead and through his hair.

"Let me help," I say.

"You want to?"

"Sure."

"All right," he says. Til be back in a sec." He disappears through a doorway in the rear of the store. Suddenly, the music changes. It's cranked up. The kind of rock that's all guitars and energy and lyrics with a message. "God, that jazz puts me to sleep," he says. We work together.

Sebastian shows me how to check the computer for sales, how to fill the empty spots where the books are leaning lazily against each other. The music keeps us moving fast. When we are done, Sebastian looks around.

"Man, we did that in record time," he says. "Thanks to you.

"It was fun," I say.

"You're kidding, right? You, who gets to work with amazing, fantastic creatures?" "No, I really liked it."

Sebastian looks at his watch. "It's early, still," he says. "I'm not expected back until eleven thirty or so. It's my late night. Can you stay? This is the time I was hoping for."

"Sure," I say.

"Okay. Great. All right. Come here," he says. He takes my arm, leads me to the reading area by the fireplace. "Have a seat. I'm going to get us something."

I sit down on the couch, all old soft leather, and it's like

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sinking into an oversize baseball mitt. The fire is in front of me, still blazing, and I notice for the first time that it's electric, which explains the lack of firewood and the ever-glowing flame.

Sebastian trots to the back room again, changes the music. A woman singing, quieter, the voice of creamy liquid poured over ice. Then he heads through the doors to the dark bakery. He disappears from sight, and I look out the window. The street is quiet and it is beginning to rain.

Drops patter against the glass, making me feel warm and tucked inside. I can hear dishes clattering from the bakery, and then the crashing sound of metal falling.

"Shit," Sebastian says.

"Are you all right?" I call.

"Aside from the broken foot," he yells back, but his voice is cheerful.

He appears a moment later, carrying a tray. He sets it down on the table in front of the couch.

Two mugs, filled high with whipped cream, a plate with a pastry--a strawberry tart of some kind-

-and two forks.

"Wow," I say. "What's this?"

"Something for hanging out with me at work on a Saturday night when you could be at a party, or something," he says. I remember, suddenly, that I actually am supposed to be at a party. I feel sorry for the people there. That life seems far away, and the memory of it annoys me. It intrudes, same as the phone ringing during a really good movie.

"I don't really like parties," I say. "Actually."

Sebastian hands me a cup. Hot chocolate with whipped cream, or, rather, whipped cream with a little hot chocolate. It seems another good reason to be falling in love with 150

Sebastian. He knows how to get the balance right.

"I don't really like them either," he says. "All that phoniness. Pretending you're not uncomfortable. I can do it, I just don't like it. And drunks never look good to anyone except other drunks. You've got to have a bite of this. It's my favorite thing over there." He taps the plate with his fork.

He's right, it's incredible. Buttery, and the bright sweet-sour of strawberry, and thick vanilla custard. "Oh, yum," I say.