by Tracy Ellen
Sitting next to me at our lab station, he was terrified of me for the first two weeks of class. He couldn’t even look at me without turning beet red and breaking out into a sweat, sometimes hyperventilating.
I had to put a stop to that nonsense immediately. I really needed his help; science gives me the worst headache. It was bad enough I had gotten stuck in biology instead of my first choice of earth science--which sounded a whole lot friendlier to me.
My procrastination at taking the required science credit had caused me trouble; I couldn’t afford a B or lower because my colossally smart partner was petrified of half the human race. NanaBel paid out a significant bonus for straight A’s. I was too greedy to lose out on that primo deal for the first time ever in my school history. I’m a girl with goals.
After my first quiz result of a B minus, I waited after school for Bob. I had borrowed Mackenzie’s pristine 1980 turbocharged Firebird Trans Am and drove that day. Mac, when she wasn’t being too bossy, was a great oldest sister. She was usually willing to let me use her car during the day while she slept after her graveyard nursing shift at Northfield Hospital. Mac’s only requirement was I keep the gas tank topped. I had a hard time seeing clearly over the bulge of the turbo hood, but it was worth the neck strain; I loved the scream of the engine as I shifted from second into third at 4000 rpm’s.
Standing beside the Firebird, I picked Bob immediately out of the crowd of our fellow inmates by his towering height as he came scurrying down the sidewalk. Even with his head facing down, he was taller than everyone around him. By his hunched over posture, I could only surmise he was carrying a load of boulders in his backpack.
I reached in the driver’s side open window and tooted the horn. He didn’t look up. I laid on the horn until it penetrated even his genius fog. When he was looking my way, I waved to him with a big smile and motioned for him to come over to my waiting car at the curb. It was comical to see him look around and point to himself in disbelief when he realized it was his attention I was trying to grab. It was even funnier to see his expression as he checked out my ride. The decaled, turbo bird spitting out a large flame across the hood was pretty, damn awesome.
At my cajoling insistence, he reluctantly folded himself into the passenger side. He had to slide the bucket seat so far back to accommodate his thirty-eight inch inseam he was technically sitting in the back seat.
“What do you want, Ana…Anabel?”
Pulled so far forward in the driver’s seat to reach the pedals I could be mistaken for a hood ornament, I took off into the busy after school traffic.
Once on our way, I answered him cheerfully. “Know what, Bob? I am so glad you asked me that question. What I want is exactly what I need to talk to you about today.”
I kept my eyes on the road but could clearly see him skittishly glancing my way. Between keeping a watchful eye out for sneaky relatives and always liking boys, my peripheral vision was highly developed by the age of seventeen. I kept my face mostly forward for his comfort, but approached him straight on with my words.
I continued, “Here’s the deal. I’ve noticed you need my help in the worst way, Bob.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down rapidly before he croaked, “I do?”
“Yes, you do.” I affirmed assuredly.
I downshifted and swerved sharply around Anna’s Aunt Lily. She was in her old boat of an Oldsmobile doing ten mph on Jefferson Parkway--in a thirty mph zone! I barely resisted the urge to give her the finger when she angrily honked. It was tempting as she’d think it was my sister, but I heroically refrained. I sighed when I saw Bob close his eyes tight and give a silent scream.
“Relax, Bob. I’m a good driver.” I sped up and took a left at the almost still yellow light and gunned it. I headed south on Highway 3 out of town. “Yes, you really need my help and today’s your lucky day. Do you know why?”
Bob was still clutching the door handle in a death grip, but cautiously looking at me now. He was feeling safer to watch me since I hadn’t taken my eyes off the road once since inviting him into my car. I smiled inside.
“No,” He whispered.
I put a hand to my ear, “What, Bob? I can’t hear you!”
Bob cleared his throat and spoke up a little. “No Anabel, I don’t know why.”
“Why what?” I asked innocently.
When I saw his distressed confusion, I relented with a chuckle.
“Sorry, Bob. I’m kind of a warped chick sometimes.” I turned and flashed a grin. He flinched. I faced the road again, biting my cheek not to giggle. “It’s your lucky day because I have something I am going to give you, and you have something you are going to give me.”
I’ve never seen anyone go from beet red to pasty white that fast. I hurried on before he fainted, or worse. “Friendship! I’m only talking simple friendship here, okay?”
I laughed out loud when he quickly shook his head back and forth “No” in denial. Poor Bob was worse off than I even suspected.
“Yes.” I insisted.
He wheezed, “I can’t be friends with you!”
I frowned ominously at that. “The hell you say. Am I not smart enough to be your friend, or what?”
I waited patiently for his answer. Bob resembled a wise owl with glasses when his head bent to the side to consider my words. He probably had never considered whether he would choose to be friends with a girl before. He was only sure that because of his paralyzing shyness most girls wouldn’t want to be his friend. I could tell he was intrigued by the concept.
“Umm…I don’t know. You make me too nervous to think straight.” I saw him blush again and look desperately out the window, as if seeking an escape route.
His speaking in semi-coherent sentences encouraged me to believe I was doing the right thing for us both. I still clicked down the door locks in case he really would tuck and roll to get away from me. Really smart people can do really dumb things, we were screaming down the road at eighty mph, and a brain his size is too beautiful a thing to waste. At his look of fright at the clicking sound, I took pity and quickly filled him in on my brilliant idea.
“Straight up, my new friend, you are scared of girls and a science whiz. I am scared of science and a whiz at being a girl. See, I was thinking it’s kismet we are partners this year. Or maybe it’s destiny?” I shook my head. “Either way, we have the ability to help each other out here. We can work together after school for an hour or two and tutor each other. What do you say?”
He finally smiled at me a little, or it could have been a nervous tic. Either way, he was no Justin Timberlake but his smile was rather adorkable. If he now resembled an owlet with his staring, round eyes and perpetually surprised expression, it wasn’t like he was a total dweeb. I had some material here to work with, given enough time.
Bob answered, sounding amazed. “You think I could help you? Sure…yes, I will help you with biology. There is no reason to be scared. Uh…maybe you can help me, too.” After taking a big gulp of air and sounding so dubious I had to grin, he said, “I would like being friends. You are very… interesting.” He ducked and blushed. His whole face and down the back of his neck was a deep, dark crimson again. I winced—it looked painful.
After we verbally shook hands on our deal--he adamantly refused to physically touch me on several grounds--I let him be. I was happy he had agreed without any more coercion needed; I only had a half a tank of gas and a few bucks on me.
After a few moments of companionable silence he peered out the windshield worriedly. “Um…where are we going? My mom is going to wonder when I don’t show up after school and will report me missing to the police.”
I laughed, until I realized he was not kidding.
Now, here he was ten years later, at eight in the morning on a Saturday. He was laying on the buzzer while swearing up an incoherent storm into my intercom like I’d taught him nothing over all these intervening years.
“Geez Louise, Crookie, hold on a blasted minute and I’ll b
e right there.”
I took the stairs down two at a time. I think I’d heard the name Reggie shouted by Crookie, but that only stumped me more because he and Reg have never been friends. Even as I wondered what could possibly be going on with Crookie, I was feeling a sneakin’ admiration at my ability to run so quickly and quietly in my high-heeled boots without breaking my neck—sometimes my talents astound me.
Sighing inwardly, I remembered at the last minute to turn back and lock my apartment door behind me. I had to think for two. After all, I had my innocently slumbering guest upstairs to protect and keep safe. Good god, the ongoing sleepover complications and responsibilities of last night’s fun just never ended.
Key ring in hand, I crossed the lobby and unlocked the deadbolt of the left door of the pair leading to the outside. I opened it a couple inches, but to be on the safe side I toed the rubber headed door stop down to prevent the door from being pushed further open.
I could have buzzed open the door from upstairs, but for all I knew Crookie may be a tweaker on a rampage. I highly doubted Crookie was a druggie, but it had been a couple years since we last really talked and he was acting spooky. Of course, he had also gotten married which could help explain the spookiness.
He had chilled out. He was waiting with arms crossed and a shoulder propped against the red brick wall. His mouth was a tight line, his whole demeanor grim and exhausted, but not insane or jacked-up.
I eyed him up and down. Aside from looking like his dog died, Bob had steadily improved with age. He still had the same golden brown hair and hazel eyes, but now was sporting an expensive haircut and his glasses were rimless. He had filled out a bit from working out steadily over the years. He was a tall guy, no doubt about that, but slim now rather than beanpole skinny. He was clean shaven with clear, pale skin and no visible tattoos or piercings. He was your very tall, average-looking, professional man--until he smiled.
Crookie’s smile was a little shy and a little slow, yet once it arrived it was so unbelievably sweet that any girl who caught a glimpse of it never thought of him as nondescript or average again. If he was a different type of man, he’d be getting some strange every night based on that little smile alone.
Today, his clothes were a little rumpled but actually fashionable. He wore a brown leather jacket unzipped over a tan sweater, and his jeans were a designer label that Stella would have a shitfest over if she saw them. I vaguely recalled her emoting something about sweatshops and chemicals.
Seeing me, he shoved off the wall and murmured my name. A quick glance around at the quiet street outside showed me it had stopped drizzling and the sun was semi-peeking out, but the air was brisk. Through the gap in the door, the coolness felt good on my face.
Even as obviously distressed as he was, I was still happy to see my old friend. Kicking up the door stop, I opened the door wide. “Hello, Crookie. Sorry for the delay. I was debating your sanity.”
Crookie cracked a smile and bent to give me a kiss on the cheek when he came into the lobby. “Hello, Bel.”
“Hey, what’s wrong, why so grim? Wait, never mind. That’s enough about you; let me show you how I’ve grown.” I reached my arms around his waist and gave him a big, dramatic squeeze. Then I attempted to lift him saying, “See? I’m so strong now I can lift a head as heavy as yours!”
I hadn’t been able to move him a centimeter, but I did manage to get him to laugh down at me in protest. He gripped my shoulders and held me away from him, looking me up and down. “Yes, I can see you have grown. Those heels may take you out of the dwarf tossing zone, but that is cheating.”
I laughed while I locked up again. Our disparity in inches has been a running joke between us for years. At parties, he insisted the top of my head was a perfect spot for his beer. I insisted his navel was a perfect spot for parking my chewed gum.
“Let’s go into the store and grab a coffee, okay? I know I need one.” Not waiting for an answer, I crossed the lobby to Bel’s Books doors. It is not safe to keep me too long from my first morning cup of coffee. I cannot be held accountable for my actions.
Genius that he is, Crooks agreed with a shrug. “Sure.”
He stood with slumped shoulders and a glum face as I keyed in the code to open the beveled glass, double doors to Bel’s Books. I moved them wide to each side, locking them in the open position.
I glanced at Crookie. Something very depressing was obviously heavy on his mind. Good money was on woman trouble. What else could have a man running the gambit of acting like a rampaging tweaker and then the walking dead, all within five minutes? I resigned myself to the fact I was going to be the lucky girl to hear all the gory details. So much for sneaking some work time in before Stella the Hun arrived.
The lifelong familiar aromas of thousands of books, lemon oil, ground coffee beans, and the spicy scents of herbs rushed out to envelope me. Closing my eyes and inhaling a deep, rejuvenating breath of this enchanted air was often all it took to right my world. I inhaled again.
Following me in with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, Crookie paused. He pointed with an elbow at the huge refectory table a few feet in front of us. There were four cement troughs filled with lush, green herbs staggered down the center of the table. The weak, morning sunlight coming through the large display windows were spotlighting the troughs so they stood out in the otherwise darkened store.
“Those are different. The herbs smell great.”
“Yeah, I saw the idea for the troughs—a smaller version—in a magazine. They fired my creative juices right up. I had been envisioning something for the table old worldish and rustic, but didn’t want metal.” I shrugged one shoulder and smiled up at him. “You know me, once I got the bug up my butt I had to build them that day. Cool, huh?” I bumped his elbow with mine. “You likey?”
I recognized the spark of interest lighting up his eyes. He murmured absently, “I do likey.”
He wandered over and peered at the troughs. A lock of straight, golden brown hair fell onto his forehead. He became absorbed, lightly skimming his fingers over the planters as if he was a city inspector looking for code violations in the footings of a new construction.
The long table was placed in the open space that ran the width of the store, about fifteen by forty feet when you first entered. The front display windows were along the right, facing out to the sidewalk and Division Street.
If you Google Northfield and check out the Wikipedia website, my building is visible in the first picture shown. It’s the red brick one with the turret, taller than those around it. Bel’s is located across the street from the old bank, now a museum famous for the robbery attempt by the James-Younger Gang’s in 1876. During the week of Defeat of Jesse James Days in September, I have a front row seat in my apartment living room for viewing all the festive activities. Invites were coveted and I wielded much power. Heady stuff for sure.
“How did you make them? I have not seen cement look so textured before. What did you use? Did you at least make a mold first?”
At the last question, he sounded so accusatory I had to laugh. I rubbed my hand up and down an upright spike of French tarragon and breathed in the light licorice scent. “Sure, if you consider a mold two cardboard boxes from Just Food Co-op.”
He winced. My offhand approach to creativity drove him so crazy that I always exaggerated the details to shake him up. Super smart nerds need shaking up. They deserve some fun, and they need to remember being a genius isn’t everything in life. I’m just the girl to do this dirty job.
He tilted his head and motioned for me to continue. “Go on. I know I am going to regret asking, but I am curious how you made the troughs, Anabel.”
My brain yearned for its morning coffee, but I knew once he got all Crookie’d up on a subject he would not budge from this spot until his curiosity was satisfied.
He really was going to regret asking.
“I started by borrowing several things.” Sure enough, he was all ready shaking his head at me.
He hates the incorrect term ‘borrowing’ Minnesotans use to cover any item they get from another person, regardless if it is returnable or not. If you want to drive him insane, ask to borrow a piece of gum or a piece of tape.
I hid my smile behind my hand. “Let’s see, I borrowed an empty five gallon, paint bucket from Reggie’s yard, and also borrowed his cute, blue Makita drill.” This last elicited a dismayed gasp. “Then, I jumped a fence and borrowed a garbage bag full of baled hay from a roll in a pasture. Straw, by the way, is what gives the troughs the texture you were asking about.” Crookie raised his brows and nodded. “Okay, now don’t ever tell Anna, but I borrowed a tin of loose, black tea leaves from the Fare. Next, I used Reggie’s drill to mix up the whatchamacallit cement stuff…”
Crooks moaned out loud, muttering under his breath. I heard the word ‘drill’ and ‘cement’. Then he supplied through gritted teeth, “QuikCrete?”
I snapped my fingers. “Yeah, the QuikCrete. I mixed it in the bucket with some of the water I had steeped with the tea leaves to give it that swirly, brown color. At the end, I threw in a bunch of broken up straw until I liked the looks of the cement.”
Because I don’t get out much, and I really do enjoying terrorizing my friends for my own private entertainment, I paused here. I held up my hand to the weak sunlight and experienced a blonde moment. I examined my manicure closely, as if checking for a broken nail or chipped polish.
He made a pushing, hurry up motion. “Go on. What next?”
I looked up. “Oh, sorry. Do you like this color of polish, Crookie, or is it too pink?”
A hunted look in his eyes, Crookie brushed his hair off his forehead impatiently and waved my hand off. “Uh, sure. It is real nice color. So, you decided on the consistency of the cement by looking at it, Anabel? You did not follow any instructions?”
