by Mary Pagones
“I’m biking to school and to dance afterward. I can’t fit you and the plants on the bike.”
My sister looks tragic. She tries to pick up the box, but Livy isn’t the most coordinated person in the world. The plants at the edge of the box are teetering.
I text Calvin. My car won’t start. My sister needs a ride to school. Can I impose upon you?
Calvin answers me almost immediately, just like I knew he would. He’s one of those people who sleeps with his phone near his head, so he never misses a text or a relevant social media post. My phone’s beeping and buzzing with notifications from Pemberley on Facebook; I have the self-control to ignore them. Calvin types, Sorry did my minivan suburban mom dropoff now I am almost at school
Understood, I respond. With three younger sisters to my one, he manages this kind of crisis every day.
Can I impose? Jesus Liss u are pretentious af
I’m too pressed for time to use iambic pentameter, I text, concluding the conversation.
I try Hugh next. Hugh, do you have a car yet? My sister needs a ride to school. I’m going on my bike. She’s carrying a project for school that’s very awkward to take on a bus. I don’t tell him it’s moldy tomato plants. I figure that’s TMI.
Hugh doesn’t respond. Eventually, it’s too late. I pedal away on my bike, leaving Livy sitting glumly on the curb, waiting for the bus with her plants.
I keep my hands in my pockets rather than wear gloves, since I know it will be warm by afternoon. I have a dancer’s balance, if not a dancer’s legs. The air’s crisp. I can smell the furnaces of different houses cranking up for the first time. Trees have already started to turn red, gold, and copper. I coast downhill to the bike rack at the high school, eager for Mr. Clarke’s first-period English class. I’m looking forward to discussing the lonely and tormented hero Beowulf. He’s so Darcy.
Before I get to class, I see Hugh. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give your sister a ride,” he says.
“That’s okay. She’ll live,” I say. “I had an invigorating bike ride.” My cheeks are flushed. Hopefully, he’ll assume it’s due to the cold air alone.
“It’s just…I’m not getting a car any time soon because…I don’t know how to drive.”
I start laughing. He seemed so serious, I thought he was going to confess he truly did have a body hidden in his suitcase.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, since you’re from New York,” I say.
“There just wasn’t any need in the city. Obviously, I’m going to take the driver’s test here.” He sounds annoyed, like the fact that people use cars in the suburbs is a deliberately stupid idea designed to plague and humiliate him. It’s so cute. Today, he’s dressed in a black t-shirt, black hooded sweatshirt, and blue jeans that are so faded they’re almost white. “It’s ridiculous there’s no public transportation. It’s bad for the environment as well. It’s why we’ll all be roasted by global warming, by the time we’re old.” Hugh doesn’t look like he does well in direct sunlight. I’m pale, but he verges on ghostly.
“If you ever need a ride, once my car is brought back to life, you only need to ask,” I say. “Until then, your secret is safe with me.” I smile at him. He smiles back. Invisible butterflies and birds are everywhere. In black and white, of course.
Mr. Clarke has already covered the whiteboard with color-coded notations about the contemporary novel Grendel and how it parallels the original Old English source of Beowulf. I practically bounce through the door.
“You’re in high spirits today, Ms. Tennant,” observes Mr. Clarke. He’s wearing a blue tie and a plaid, blue short-sleeved shirt that’s too thin; I can see the outline of his underwear beneath it. I’m not the type of person who believes in taking a selfie every day to evaluate my outfit á la Charlotte Holland, but I’m seriously starting to wonder if Mr. Clarke owns a mirror. His fingers are covered in ink. “I saw you attempting to cheat death this morning riding your bicycle sans hands and helmet.”
“I lead a charmed life. No bicycle fashioned by the hands of man can harm me,” I respond.
“I was concerned about your safety,” he says. “And that hubristic sentiment didn’t work out particularly well for the Shakespearean hero you’re invoking.”
“Touché,” I admit.
So class begins. Mr. Clarke tries to limit any personal banter between himself and his students to one or two lines. My mind, as well as my cheeks and eyes, feels brightened by the exercise—even though he always wins any debate within his classroom walls, serious or not.
After I return from dance class, my father gives my car a full examination. He has a whole “dad joke” routine whenever I have car problems, beginning with, “I’m an English professor, damn it, not a mechanic, Liss.” He decides that I need a new battery, gets one from the local Walmart, and manages to install it correctly. My Honda springs back to life, thanks to his efforts. It sounds like it’s back to its usual level of consumptive fitness. My father and I have no interest in fancy cars, but poverty breeds resourcefulness and self-reliance. I can’t install a battery like he can, but unlike most of my friends, I can change a flat tire and give a car a jump.
Speaking of inventiveness, my sister survived the bus with her plants. She doesn’t think she got an A on her project because she forgot half of what she had planned to say. “Lots of the guys are immature and make dumb comments when I speak in front of the class,” she adds.
“Next time, practice in front of me,” my father says. “After all, that’s what I do for a living—teach students public speaking.” Livy glares at him.
When she leaves the table to get cleaned up for dinner, I say, “Dad, offering to help her just made it worse.”
“Why? I was very shy when I was your sister’s age. I wasn’t extroverted like you, Liss. Not everyone is. Everything takes practice. I don’t understand why both of you are so resistant to accepting help when something doesn’t come naturally.”
“I guess we are. But I feel like I learn things better on my own.”
“That’s the main reason I sent you to dance school, not because I wanted you to wear a tutu. You seemed to learn how to read and write intuitively. I wanted you to learn how to work.”
“I thought it was because you wanted to check out the hot dance moms and keep me away from boys.”
He laughs. “That, too.”
I doubt it was Livy’s fault she was ridiculed by her classmates. Some guys are always like that when girls give presentations, especially in science classes, because the teacher is usually a guy and lets them get away with it. My dad made it seem like Livy was to blame. “Finally, I learn I was enrolled in ballet to squish my self-esteem. Because in ballet, like math, the student is always wrong and the teacher is always right.”
“As a professional educator, I consider that to be a very important lesson. But enough sass from you, young lady. Do you mind if I’m rude and grade papers at the table?”
Livy returns. I start to serve the meal my father cooked. We’re having hamburgers in spongy white buns, along with canned green beans. Not gourmet, but it works for us. I dab ketchup on my burger. My father douses his meat and green beans with the stuff. Livy eats her food plain, consuming the patty with a knife and fork, then eating the bun by itself. As she moves on to the green beans, I can’t resist. “Can you only digest your food one item at a time?”
“I’m aware that it’s an irrational personal preference,” she says. “Much like a fondness for Jane Austen.”
I’m about to respond with something witty, but my phone lights up. It’s Jacqui, stressing about the SATs again.
I wipe my hand on my paper towel napkin. Why don’t you text Noel for help? He’s an SAT ninja.
Yes he’s one of those disgusting people who gets perfect scores on standardized tests. If he wasn’t so cute I’d hate him
I’ve referenced her favorite obsession. Another text bubble pops up before I can respond.
He doesn’t even brag. If Charlott
e hadn’t asked him what he got, he wouldn’t have told us
I cut the conversation short, since I know Jacqui would like to go on about Noel ’til her fingers cramp. Since my father’s absorbed with his grading and my sister is on her phone, I surf over to the Pennington College website. There’s a photo of the library. It’s small, quaint, with steep white stone steps. A rainbow sheet with the symbol of women—a circle and a cross—hangs across the door. Girls are dancing barefoot on the steps. According to the caption, it’s from last year, a student’s senior thesis project.
I look at the image for a long time. Then I realize my father’s looking over my shoulder. “I will admit that it’s a great little college. I saw in U.S. News & World Report that it’s produced more entrepreneurs than any other liberal arts school.”
“Since when do you read U.S. News & World Report?”
“College rankings, Liss.”
“You’re more obsessed than I am, Dad.”
“Liss, I’m your father. I can’t not care.”
Some of the dancers have very muscular calves; some are even a little bit overweight. But they’re dancing their hearts out. I have to apply to Pennington, even though it will shatter my heart in a thousand pieces if can’t get in. Or worse, get in and not be able to go because I don’t get enough financial aid.
Later that night, Calvin texts me that Wickham/Wicked found a home today. The whole adoptive family’s into sports—hiking, marathoning, and biking—and wanted a crazy-active dog with a crazy energy level.
I’ve lost my Wickham. How can I have a Darcy without a Wickham?
Calvin responds quickly. If you mean, how are you going to find an asshole, don’t worry theres plenty of them out there trust me liss
I roll my eyes. Love you too, Calvin!
The next day, after dance class, I kidnap Hugh from Catherine’s house and take him to a deserted parking lot.
No, I don’t move that fast. I’m not Lydia Bennet.
I’m going to teach him to drive. Or at least try to.
Within less than a minute, I’m cracking up. “If we were on the road, little old ladies would be passing us,” I say. “You’re making a left turn, not performing brain surgery.”
“Look, I’ve never done this before,” says Hugh.
“You never sat on your dad’s lap and pretend-drove as a kid?” I ask. “Even before I took driver’s ed, I knew how. I love this—I get to be the manic pixie dream girl who teaches the inhibited New Yorker to drive.”
“Inhibited? I’ve gotten held up on the subway a bunch of times and been taking it alone since I was like, twelve. If you absolutely must know, my father does have a car in the city, but we hardly ever use it.”
“Try backing up. That’s slow; it might be your forte.”
He does. “That went well, I thought.”
“You backpedal like a genius. So, tell me about your films,” I continue, as he moves forward again.
“They’re just little student films.”
“I didn’t expect you to write a blockbuster. Film is film, and it’s cool you’ve made some. I’m still confused how you can hate to write but enjoy making films.”
“It’s called storyboarding. Why are you so stuck on this hating-to-write thing? I mean, I can put words down on paper. I just don’t like to worry about grammar and spelling and structure and Beowulf and Shakespeare and crap. I like modern things.”
“Great! I’m a modern woman. Describe one of your modern films.”
“One of them is about this girl with a crush on a guy, so she tries to follow him home on the subway system but keeps losing him, then finding him again. She doesn’t know she is being followed by another guy, who has a crush on her.”
“Your film about stalkers sounds beautiful,” I say, softly.
“Shut up.”
“I’m not being sarcastic, I mean it. I think your love of the New York City subway system is the stuff of poetry. Even though I’m sure you hate all poetry.”
Hugh’s getting a little bit better, more confident, taking the turns of the parking lot’s perimeter at almost normal speed. We surge forward a bit too much, then he steps on the brake. “Just think,” I say. “Someday you’ll be able to make films about people who drive cars as well as take trains. Let’s try parallel parking and live dangerously. Wait. Stop the car.”
“What?”
“Depress the brake pedal, then shift gears to park,” I say, and have enough self-possession to make sure he doesn’t do something dumb, like turn the car off while it’s in drive. “I heard something coming from one of those boxes near the clothing donation bin.” Just like every other parking lot, there’s a bunch of mysterious, scary-looking bins labeled as depositories for used clothing. These particular bins have half-full cardboard boxes sitting in front of them, as well as ugly sleeves and pants hanging out of the metal doors.
I look around, following the whimpering sound I heard, and see two eyes looking back at me from one of the biggest boxes filled with a tangle of sheets and towels. Hugh more cautiously looks over my shoulder. It’s a dog. I reach down.
“Liss, you don’t know if the dog’s friendly. Or rabid. Oh, okay, you don’t care.”
I know this is against pretty much all safety recommendations about how to handle a strange, stray dog, but I can’t help it. I can feel the dog breathing, his bones against my ribs. He’s more skeleton and matted, dirty hair than flesh. It looks like he’s a dachshund of some sort. There’s no collar, although he seems relieved to be near a human being. Maybe he’s microchipped. Maybe he’s lost. Maybe he’s abandoned. Either way, “Let’s get him to the shelter ASAP,” I say. “Here.”
“You want me to hold a completely strange, dirty dog in my lap? What if he bites?”
“He hasn’t bitten me and no offense, but I don’t think you’re ready to handle the open road yet, so you’re going to have to be the one to hold him,” I say.
“Can’t we just put him in the back seat?”
I shove the dog at him. “I don’t have a crate for him,” I say. “It would be dangerous to leave him loose! He might get hurt.”
“But if he bites me, I might get hurt!”
“Hugh! Just hold the dog!” In full manic-pixie-dream- girl mode, I drive off.
“He smells like piss,” says Hugh.
“That’s not his fault.” I notice Hugh’s holding the dog as far away from his shirt as he can, so he doesn’t get too dirty. “Hugh, if you don’t hold that dog like a normal human being, as soon as we get to a stop light…” Fortunately, I don’t have to think up some dire threat, because he obeys me.
An hour later I’m up to my elbows in suds. “He’s going to need to be shaved, so make an appointment with the groomer,” I say to Calvin. The stray dog is at least part wirehaired dachshund, and his coat hasn’t been brushed in ages.
“I’m sorry. This was a more exciting driving lesson than you bargained for,” I say to Hugh. His white shirt and acid-washed jeans are spattered with mud.
“That’s okay, I’m just not very experienced with dogs,” Hugh says. “I used to have a pet rat, but that’s not the same.”
I’m blow-drying the dog now. He’s muzzled as a precaution and I’m wearing gloves because that’s the rule.
The vet doing low-cost vaccinations at the shelter’s walk-in clinic today said this stray had no major medical problems based on his brief examination, “other than being emaciated, full of fleas, and probably worms, but that’s what you expect.” The dog is about ten or twelve years old and doesn’t have many teeth. He’ll need more pulled, as well as a dental cleaning.
“Tell me about your pet rat, Hugh.”
“He was named Scorsese.”
“I admire the level of your obsession with film, even though I don’t share it.”
“Well, thanks. He died after two years, though. It was kind of traumatic.”
“Did you forget to feed him?”
“No. If you must know, he escaped from his
cage and electrocuted himself by chewing on a wire.”
“Your fault for not keeping an eye on him, murderer.”
“Thanks, Liss.”
“Since I found this dog, I’m going to name him.”
“Darcy?” asks Calvin, dryly. He wipes the dog’s eyes. “You’ve done enough Liss. I’ll clip his nails.”
“No, not Darcy. Too privileged. I know! Wentworth! Because he was abandoned, just like Anne Elliot abandoned the love of her life.”
Captain Wentworth is the hero of Persuasion, my least favorite Jane Austen novel. It’s still Jane Austen so I enjoy reading it. But the premise of Persuasion is so depressing. The heroine, Anne Elliot (a spinster of twenty-seven), regrets she rejected the one man she’s ever loved, Captain Wentworth. I just don’t understand how it’s possible to be so easily diverted from following your heart by your friends’ trash-talking. Of course, Anne and her Captain eventually marry, but only after Wentworth gives Anne a letter proclaiming that he is “half hope, half agony” she will finally accept him. They’ve lost all of those years they could have lived happily ever after.
It’s just as well I don’t name the dog after my favorite hero, Darcy, because I don’t want to get too attached. I wish we could adopt him, if for no other reason an old dog is unlikely to have many people wanting to take him home. Even a sweet, adorable pup like Wentworth.
I drive Hugh home. It’s dark. “My house is a few streets down,” he reminds me.
“I remember. I’m just pulling over here because I’ll bet your Aunt Catherine is still up.” It feels weird calling Catherine “aunt.”
We’re both filthy. “I’m sorry I yelled at you and made you hold the dog,” I say, which isn’t true, but I’m worried he’s mad at me.
Hugh doesn’t accept my apology, but we kiss. I haven’t kissed any guy for this long, ever. We kiss so long I start to worry I’m not doing it right. Hugh smells like dirty dog and I smell like flea dip. He tastes like the cafeteria lunch and I still have raisins and seeds in my teeth from my cinnamon raisin bagel with strawberry jam and peanut butter. Somehow all of this imperfect stuff feels perfect because it’s tied up with kissing Hugh.
