by Lacey Dailey
No truer words have been spoken.
Just a fraction of her body was through the door before Lenox grabbed Alma by the wrist and they practically sprinted to the gold and blue booth. They’ve been there ever since.
I’m happy against this wall.
“I mean, damn,” Arthur spits. “I can’t even leave the classroom to take a piss without needing a hall pass first, and these slave drivers want me to choose a career I’m supposed to do for the next fifty years. How about no thank you?”
I lift my palm to the sky. “Preach, man.”
“I mean, do I want to live with my parents for the rest of my life? Hell no. I’d throw myself off the second-floor balcony, but give a brother some time to figure out his thing.”
“I feel you.” I drum my fingers against the side of my leg. “I tossed a few ideas around last year. My dad was a software developer and taught me a shit ton about computers. I’m not sure I want to go as far as he did education wise, but basic computer science didn’t sound so bad. With everything he taught me I could probably do it in my sleep.”
He sneers at me, his jaw a sharp, distinctive line. “Excuse me, but what are you doing over here becoming one with the reject wall? Get your ass in the heart of that monstrosity and find a college.”
“No thanks.” My stomach drops to my shoes with just the idea. “I don’t even know if I’m sure.”
He scoffs, jerking against the wall. “You sounded pretty sure to me.”
I was.
I was sure up until the minute my dad dropped dead and now I’m not sure of anything. His death was the catalyst to everything else in my life erupting into unrecognizable fragments.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
“Hey, you okay? You look ready to projectile vomit all over this place.” He lifts a finger. “On second thought––"
“I’m fine.” I rub at the scab inside my chest.
Arthur’s everything droops. “Oh, Rumor, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to press you into talking about your dad.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just, uh, not something I do with anybody but Alma.”
“There’s no one better to talk to.”
“She carries some of the grief for me. I don’t know, but around her, I don’t feel so heavy.”
“That girl may be small, but she is stronger than the both of us. Must have something to do with growing up in a house with four siblings. Girl would forget to feed herself making sure everyone else is fed, ya know?”
Oh, I know.
Alma was made with the perfect blend of selflessness and kindness. From just observing her, I’d learned most of her beauty is crafted from the moments she goes out of her way to make other’s lives fulfilling. It took only a short time for me to realize the questions she was so eager to ask me weren’t so she could have answers.
They were so I could.
Somewhere between answering and being in awe that she cared enough to ask, I didn’t think to ask anything in return. I didn’t have to. Everything I know about her is all by happenstance––how she got her name, her treasures, her favorite hot dog, her best friend––all facts she volunteered to make talking about myself easier.
When I discovered Alma, I discovered pieces of myself.
My heart searches for her as much as my eyes do. She hasn’t moved at all, still smushed in the maze of college booths and future students, standing side by side with—
That is not Lenox...
Every muscle inside my body snaps.
Worse than if I was kicked in the chest, the breath inside my lungs is knocked out while the rest of my insides twist around themselves, from my gut and up to my chest, snaking its way to my heart. Squeezing.
“Who the hell is that?”
Arthur's head snaps up. A facetious grin creeps up his cheeks, reaching the edge of his sunglasses. “Oh, that’s Lenny. He’s harmless.”
“He’s touching her.”
“Dude.” Arthur snickers, clapping me on the shoulder. “Are you jealous?”
“Is that what this is?” My breaths become coarser, faster. “I feel like I’m on fire.”
I watch with pinched eyes as his forearm muscles flex where they’re resting on top of her shoulders.
“You’re looking a little hostile, my friend.”
“I kinda want to break his arm.”
The belligerent remark catches even me off guard.
What is this girl doing to me?
But then his boney hand starts to rub her shoulder, up and down, up and down, up and down, and I couldn’t care less about what happens to his arm.
I move one step forward. I don't make it to two before I'm yanked back by Arthur, the pulse in my wrist going wild beneath the grip he has on me.
“Man, do not go up in there and throw a hook. Lenny has been in love with her since ninth grade. She didn’t give a damn then and she doesn’t give a damn now. That arm around her shoulders thing is just as platonic as when I do it to you.”
“I don’t like it.”
His laugh his quick. “Obviously.”
“I’m not going to do anything stupid, man.” I pop my neck and work my jaw, ridding myself of the tension there. “I’m just going to ask him to remove it.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll start shouting that Arthur is in the building dressed like an intern for the secret service.”
I feel the breath from his gasp on my cheek. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“What kind of friend would I be if I let you go over there and make a fool of yourself?”
My patience thins. “I told you. I’m not going to make a scene, I’m just going to intercept whatever he thinks he’s doing.”
“Looks like he’s flirting with her.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t work for me.”
“Fine.” He drops my wrist. “Let’s go.”
“Wait. You’re deserting your wall?”
“For this?” He claps his hands. “Hell yes. You’re about to turn this career fair into a theatrical production.”
I mutter a disagreement and start walking, shoulder checking my way through the crowd. Arthur is hot on my heels with giddy giggles escaping his mouth. Despite the newfound flames beneath my skin, my goal isn’t to be violent. That’s not the kind of guy I am, or even the kind of guy I want to be.
Especially around her.
I just want Lenny The Loser to take his paws off my girl.
The walk lasts less than a minute but it feels like I’ve been walking a mile before I finally reach her.
“Rumor!” The look she greets me with is as radiant as ever. She spins on her toes to face me, the action forcing his hand from her skin.
Mission accomplished.
“Look.” With the trust of her pamphlet in my face, the nostalgic smell of ink and paper slithers up my nose. “I think I found something perfect for me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Once I pictured myself in the role it was like bam!”
I chuckle at her enthusiasm and pry the paper from her anxious fingers. Two words are protruding from the glossy paper. “Social working.”
“Yeah. I’d spend every day relieving people of suffering and improving their lives.” She bites at her bottom lip. “What do you think?”
“There's nothing more perfect for you, Ace.”
She beams, and God. That smile.
The rumble of a throat clearing interrupts our moment. Over Alma’s head, I spot Lenny looking me up and down with pinched lips.
He flicks his chin at me. “Who are you?”
A muscle in my cheek flexes.
“Oh!” Alma palms her forehead and whips around. “Lenny, this is Rumor. Rumor, this is Lenny.”
“Hello, Rumor.” He extends his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m one of Alma’s good friends.”
And I sleep next to her bed.
“Cool.” I return his handshake w
ith a little more force than necessary.
Lenny’s eyes resemble two raisins as he memorizes every inch of me from my head to my toes, stopping to linger on my prosthesis. “Do you even go here?”
“The career fair is open to the public, Lenny,” Alma says, the tips of her fingers whispering across my wrist subconsciously.
“Doesn’t your school have its own career fair?”
With a flick of my wrist, I capture my hand in hers. “I’m homeschooled.”
He jerks his chin in an attempt to toss dirty blond bangs from his eyes. “You must not get out much. How do you know Alma?”
I run my tongue along my teeth. “I work for her parents.”
“Cool.” He bobs his head and shoves his hands deep in his pockets, going for a nonchalant look though I’m pretty sure he’s planning my murder.
“Oh, shit.” Arthur starts pulling his scarf over his face. His words are muffled when he says, “Counselor alert. Got to split. Tell Alma about the computer thingy, Rumor.” There’s a spring in his step as he weaves through the crowd.
Alma tugs on my hand. “What computer thingy?”
“Eh.” I shrug half-heartedly. “Just something he thinks I should look into.”
“Well, then let’s go.” She smiles politely at Lenny. “I’ll see you at school on Monday.”
And then we’re moving. We take maybe two dozen steps, her resolve prominent before it registers she doesn’t actually know what booth she's leading me toward.
“Rumor.” She pivots. “Where are we going?”
“Home?”
“Oh, come on.” She drops my hand to place both of hers at the top of her waist, cocking her hips. “You didn’t come here with even one program or college in mind?”
“Nope. I came because my girl asked me to.”
Her jaw unhinges, and then slowly closes again, her bottom lip clamped fully between her teeth. With her head now tilted, bangs sweeping her eyebrows, she flashes me a wonky smile with question and elation lingering in her eyes.
Smoothing out the sunflowers on the little yellow skirt she’s wearing, she starts to stammer. “What, ah, what was that computer thingy ma bob Arthur mentioned?”
My eyebrow lifts. "Computer thingy ma bob?"
Damn. She's cute.
She rocks on her feet, toying with the ends of her T-shirt. I almost ask her if she’s okay.
And then I remember.
I called her my girl, and no sentence has ever felt so effortless.
I match her smile and watch hers double in size, the space just below her eyelashes flushing. I don’t have to wonder if she likes the idea of being my girl. Whatever that would mean for us.
“So, uhm, the computer thingy?”
“It’s nothing, Ace.”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
I gnaw at the back of my neck, the tile floor streaked with dirt is suddenly a really interesting focal point. “It’s just… something my dad taught me. Computer science. Last year, I thought maybe that’s what I wanted to study. But now I don’t know.” I dig my toe in the ground. “Anything too far past today is hard to picture.”
“Hey.” The tips of her mismatched flip flops touch my worn-out tennis shoes. She rests her head on my bicep. “You want to go home?”
No.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
“No.” An ounce of hot air leaves my chest and I seize her hand. “Walk with me?”
“Of course.”
17
A Cracked Coaster
Rumor
This place doesn’t smell anything like mothballs or urine.
My experience with homes owned by senior citizens is limited and unpleasant. For a brief period, my dad and I lived next door to an eighty-five-year-old woman who liked for us to call her Tabby. Because he felt guilty her owns kids didn’t visit her, Dad hauled me to a dinner she hosted once a week.
Between the faint smell of pee I wasn’t sure was from her or her cat, and the burnt smell of coffee because she left the pot on all day long, I walked out of that place feeling like I needed an extra layer of deodorant.
Reggie’s house is the polar opposite of Tabby’s. The walls aren’t stained yellow from excessive smoking, the couch is sans plastic, and the TV isn’t lit up with a soap opera.
With warm beige walls dotted in clocks, a few framed photos, and dozens of paintings, Reggie’s house feels lived in and cozy. Plushy carpet oozes between my toes and the fireplace below the television makes the house feel friendly, despite the cranky old dude who owns it.
Dropping to my knees in the center of the room, I take a test whiff, detecting only the smell of rain drifting through the open window and the fresh wood laid out in front of me.
I lift my chin to the sky and whisper a thank you.
“You have everything you need, kid?”
“Oh, yeah.” I flip open the instruction manual and position it beside the unboxed furniture pieces settled against his carpeting. “It looks pretty straight forward. I shouldn’t need anything more than an allen wrench.”
With a tight grip on his cane, he lowers himself into a cushy recliner. “Thank you again for helping me out.”
“No problem, Reg. I don’t mind.”
“I tried to buy the display that was already put together but the damn thing wouldn’t fit in my car.”
“That’s because you drive a Cadillac from 1962 and this coffee table is almost as long as me.”
Waving an airy hand, he rests his cane between his legs and tugs a worn-out paperback from inside one of the pea-green cushions.
I take that as my cue to start working.
The project is as simple as screwing four legs into the glossy wooden slab that will act as the top of the coffee table. Acutely familiar with how pigheaded Reggie is, it astounds me he didn’t insist on doing this himself.
When he approached me to inquire if I had any interest in making some extra cash, the only acceptable answer was yes.
The thump of his air conditioner and rustle of book pages accompany me as I work. I’m no stranger to this type of task. Josh and I used to build shelves and different variations of tables for his mom all the time.
He claimed she had an obsession with Target.
Relatable.
Hovering over the top of the table, the veins in my forearm extract while I work to make sure the fourth and final leg is secure. I’m not about to be the reason Reggie breaks a bone because the coffee table collapses on him.
With the help of my foot, I get the table standing upright and give it a shake to ensure its sturdiness. “There ya go, Reggie. Is this spot okay?”
Studious eyes peel from the pages of his book. “Can you drag it toward me more? So it’s centered with the couch?”
“Sure thing.” I drag it slowly, an inch at a time until he tells me to stop.
“Looks good, kid. Thanks.”
“Not a problem.” Jumping to feet, I scoop up the plastic wrap and foam pieces, dumping them in the now empty cardboard box. “Anything else I can help with?”
He scratches at his silvery mustache. “You could fix my TV.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I can’t find the damn remote.”
My laugh comes out of my nose. Dropping to my knees, I start shoving my hand inside the couch cushions. The sagging state of them tells me this khaki colored couch is well loved. I figure it’s safe to assume the same for the end tables on either side of it, sporting mismatched lamps and a mountain of coasters.
I’m shoulder deep in my journey when my hand closes around something slim and foreign. I pull it free, my brows drooping. “Uh, Reggie.” I hold up my discovery, wiping dust from its small screen. “Are you missing your home phone?”
“My… what?” He leans closer to me, eyes squinting. “Oh. Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like I’m gonna have to start answering when people call me.”
“I could put it back,” I joke.
He flashes me a gummy smile. “Do that, would ya?”
With his book now covering his face, just the top of his head is visible. The old toot has a full head of thick hair that’s apparently unfamiliar with the idea of balding. The short locks are milky white, cropped just over his ears. I feel for all the young dudes putting garlic juice in their hair every night to avoid resembling a naked mole rat.
Cough, Josh, cough.
Placing the phone back under the center cushion, I drop to my stomach. Beneath the couch is a dead zone and I army crawl across the muted red carpeting, scanning the dark crevices that are below the end tables.
“Are you enjoying Flat Rock?” he asks, shutting his novel. “Have you had a chance to visit town?”
“Oh, yeah.” I lift myself to my knees. “Alma has shown me just about everything over the past couple of months. We always end our day at Doggy Style though. That girl has a thing for wieners.”
The wrinkles in his face pull tight. “Maybe don’t mention that to Shepherd.”
I press my palm to my forehead and count backward from ten. “Please excuse my word vermin.”
“Is that teenage talk for putting your foot in your mouth?”
“Uh, yes.”
His foot stomps in tune with the hoarse laugh scrapping against the walls of his throat. The sound completely betrays the no-nonsense attitude he typically conveys.
“Son, you just turned white as the snow on my back porch in December.”
Because I don’t want Shepherd to get the wrong idea and castrate me.
I make a noise and return to my mission, effectively ending that monstrosity of a conversation.
Pulling open a drawer on the end table closest to me, I shuffle through a few wrinkled Sudoku books, a handful of pens, and a pocket-sized Bible. “Are you a hoarder?”
Thwack!
“Ow!” My hand flies to the crown of my head, rubbing away the sudden jolt of pain. I gape at Reggie. “Did you just thump me with your cane?”
“I didn’t like your question.”
“Clearly.” I wince when my fingers meet tender flesh. “Damn.”
