dolls with
x
’s for eyes. “Creepy shit.”
“They’re handmade in Appalachia,” I said, a little bit defensively. I actually wasn’t sure whether the dolls were somehow racially offensive or not, and I crossed the room to take them from Dez and put them back on the shelf in the living room. Most of the knickknacks remained because there was the lingering question of whether they were worth something and whether anyone would buy them at a garage sale or on eBay. There were bells made in Mexico and shamrocked vases from Ireland, small wooden gondolas from Italy, tiny silk slippers from China.
Seriously. Was there any place the woman hadn’t been?
“The three-hole punch binder is in the closet in the second bedroom down the hall,” I said as a way to try to get us all moving again. “And I’m pretty sure there’s a snow globe in a box in the credenza with some Christmassy stuff.”
“I’ll get the binder,” Winter said, and Dez headed for the credenza after mockingly saying, “I’ll check the
credenza
.”
“What?” I laughed. “That’s what she called it.”
“Bingo,” Dez said, and he shook the tiny half-sphere and set it on the dining room table where we watched white flakes settle slowly around an old version of the New York City skyline, one with the Twin Towers set behind Lady Liberty. Something about the towers there, towers I couldn’t remember ever seeing, though there were pictures, made me feel small like I had at Arlington, too. Small enough to climb into that tiny globe and catch snowflakes with my tiny tongue.
“I never want to get old,” Winter said, sinking into a couch hidden under a teddy bear collection.
“Beats the alternative,” I said. Because that’s what my parents always said.
Winter was waving the tiny American flag absentmindedly. “Sometimes,” she said, “but not always.”
An awful mix of tinny music had begun to cascade down the house’s main staircase. Patrick was up there and had apparently found Eleanor’s music box collection. Amid the cacophony I heard a sort of “Jingle Bells”/”Rock-a-Bye Baby” mash-up and I headed upstairs for more treasure, feeling hotter and sweatier now that the idea of Christmas had flashed through my brain.
“You’re avoiding me,” Patrick said, from his position in the middle of the floor in the sewing room. He was surroundedby music boxes, most of which had, blessedly, stopped playing. He picked one up then—a small yellow piano with butterflies and dandelions on it—wound it, and “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” started playing in earnest.
I forced a sort of
Ha
sound from my throat. “How could I be avoiding you? We’ve been together for”—I looked at my phone—“an hour.”
“You know what I’m talking about.” He started looking through a box of sheet music then, presumably for a show tune. “Not today, but this week. I mean, I’ve barely seen you since prom.”
I felt caught out; I’d actually found myself ducking around corners in school all week, avoiding Carson and Jill, yes, but also Patrick. I wasn’t proud. And maybe it was the music but I felt, suddenly, full of rainy-day melancholy.
I said, “Well, I’m here now,” and sat down on the brown carpet facing him. “You want to talk about prom, let’s talk.”
He handed me half the sheet music pile, and I started to flip.
“Here’s how I see it,” Patrick said, putting his sheet music stack down. “We’re going away in a few months. And I’ve realized that I want to be with you during that time. I mean, really be with you.”
I froze.
It was the moment I’d been dreading without ever realizing I’d been dreading it because I never thought it would happen. We were pals, Patrick and me.
Buds.
Super close ones, but still.
“Here’s how
I
see it,” I said, my voice vibrating like I was being physically shaken. “It seems sort of dumb tostart something now, when we might mess up what we already have.”
But
x
’s for eyes. “Creepy shit.”
“They’re handmade in Appalachia,” I said, a little bit defensively. I actually wasn’t sure whether the dolls were somehow racially offensive or not, and I crossed the room to take them from Dez and put them back on the shelf in the living room. Most of the knickknacks remained because there was the lingering question of whether they were worth something and whether anyone would buy them at a garage sale or on eBay. There were bells made in Mexico and shamrocked vases from Ireland, small wooden gondolas from Italy, tiny silk slippers from China.
Seriously. Was there any place the woman hadn’t been?
“The three-hole punch binder is in the closet in the second bedroom down the hall,” I said as a way to try to get us all moving again. “And I’m pretty sure there’s a snow globe in a box in the credenza with some Christmassy stuff.”
“I’ll get the binder,” Winter said, and Dez headed for the credenza after mockingly saying, “I’ll check the
credenza
.”
“What?” I laughed. “That’s what she called it.”
“Bingo,” Dez said, and he shook the tiny half-sphere and set it on the dining room table where we watched white flakes settle slowly around an old version of the New York City skyline, one with the Twin Towers set behind Lady Liberty. Something about the towers there, towers I couldn’t remember ever seeing, though there were pictures, made me feel small like I had at Arlington, too. Small enough to climb into that tiny globe and catch snowflakes with my tiny tongue.
“I never want to get old,” Winter said, sinking into a couch hidden under a teddy bear collection.
“Beats the alternative,” I said. Because that’s what my parents always said.
Winter was waving the tiny American flag absentmindedly. “Sometimes,” she said, “but not always.”
An awful mix of tinny music had begun to cascade down the house’s main staircase. Patrick was up there and had apparently found Eleanor’s music box collection. Amid the cacophony I heard a sort of “Jingle Bells”/”Rock-a-Bye Baby” mash-up and I headed upstairs for more treasure, feeling hotter and sweatier now that the idea of Christmas had flashed through my brain.
“You’re avoiding me,” Patrick said, from his position in the middle of the floor in the sewing room. He was surroundedby music boxes, most of which had, blessedly, stopped playing. He picked one up then—a small yellow piano with butterflies and dandelions on it—wound it, and “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” started playing in earnest.
I forced a sort of
Ha
sound from my throat. “How could I be avoiding you? We’ve been together for”—I looked at my phone—“an hour.”
“You know what I’m talking about.” He started looking through a box of sheet music then, presumably for a show tune. “Not today, but this week. I mean, I’ve barely seen you since prom.”
I felt caught out; I’d actually found myself ducking around corners in school all week, avoiding Carson and Jill, yes, but also Patrick. I wasn’t proud. And maybe it was the music but I felt, suddenly, full of rainy-day melancholy.
I said, “Well, I’m here now,” and sat down on the brown carpet facing him. “You want to talk about prom, let’s talk.”
He handed me half the sheet music pile, and I started to flip.
“Here’s how I see it,” Patrick said, putting his sheet music stack down. “We’re going away in a few months. And I’ve realized that I want to be with you during that time. I mean, really be with you.”
I froze.
It was the moment I’d been dreading without ever realizing I’d been dreading it because I never thought it would happen. We were pals, Patrick and me.
Buds.
Super close ones, but still.
“Here’s how
I
see it,” I said, my voice vibrating like I was being physically shaken. “It seems sort of dumb tostart something now, when we might mess up what we already have.”
But
Similar Books
