I pushed the sweaty hair off my forehead. “I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure we could sweep the school talent show with those moves next year.” I looked over to Rose, about to start laughing with her again, but she now wore a troubled look on her face.
Damn. I shouldn’t have said that. I’d moved too fast, made assumptions. She was a senior. She wasn’t going to date a junior next year. She wasn’t going to date me next year.
“What is it?” I asked, trying to keep my cool.
She forced a smile. “It’s nothing.”
“You can tell me,” I said, trying to maintain an air of confidence, though inside my anxiety had skyrocketed.
She looked at the water and fiddled with her necklace while I prepped myself for the upcoming rejection.
“So there’s this school in New York,” she finally said. “It’s called the Manhattan Music Conservatory. It’s for gifted young musicians.”
“Like you,” I said, nodding as if I understood where this was headed.
Rose shrugged. “Like a lot of people. So anyway, I got accepted this past spring and wait-listed for a scholarship, but it’s not a sure thing. It’s really expensive and there’s no way I can go without financial aid.”
“That’s rough,” I said sympathetically, though inside I felt myself relax. Not that I wanted to think about her going away to college in a year, but at least she wasn’t giving me the “let’s just be friends” talk. “You still have a whole year to work out the kinks; I’m sure you’ll be able to figure something out,” I continued.
She bit her lip. “Zeus, the conservatory isn’t a college, it’s a high school. If I get the scholarship, I’ll leave in August. This August. Two months from now.”
I felt my insides go numb. I knew it. This had all been too good to be true. She was leaving me already. I wanted to beg her not to go, but how long had we known each other? Two weeks? Two weeks ago I would have jumped at the chance to leave Buffalo Falls. How could I blame her?
I tried to hide my devastation with fake enthusiasm. “Wow, your senior year in New York City. That sounds amazing!”
“It’s what I’ve been hoping for, dreaming about for months now.” She gave a small smile then, and the little dimple under her lip appeared, breaking my heart in two.
Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.
“That’s awesome, Rose! I hope the scholarship comes through.”
I wasn’t even sure what I was saying, but it felt like all the right things. I saw relief wash over her face. Her smile widened.
God, that smile. I never wanted it to go away. But I guess I’d take it for as long as I could have it.
I smiled back.
“Thank you, Zeus. I’ve actually been really worried about telling you.”
“I’m pretty scary,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
She laughed and gave me a playful shove. “Why are you so sweet to me?”
While I wanted to put my arm around her, I shoved her back instead. “Because I like you, Rose.”
Immediately, the blood rushed to my face. I felt like I had returned to fifth grade and checked off the Yes box on a “Do you like me?” note. The water trickled, the leaves rustled, a crow cawed, and my heart beat in my ears for an eternity while I awaited a response.
“I like you, too,” Rose said, “but—”
Oh God. Now what. “But—?”
“But now you’ve totally outdone yourself, Mr. Gunderson. How will you ever top the Taube County Fiftieth Annual Polka Festival Extravaganza?”
Sorry, God. False alarm.
“That was just a warm-up, Miss Santos,” I said, my fear replaced with reckless optimism. “How about this—every Sunday for the rest of the summer I’ll surprise you with something new. Even if you do leave in August, I’ll show you the best summer you’ve ever had in Buffalo Falls.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
No kidding. Something new every Sunday for the rest of the summer? Was that even possible? The most likely ending was that I’d run out of ideas, Rose would fly off to New York, and I’d be left behind with random mustard stains and a truckload of pain.
Still.
Two months with Rose.
I stuck my hand across the bench.
She met it with hers.
“Deal?” I asked.
“Deal.”
SIXTEEN
“THE MISSING PIECES HAVE TO BE HERE SOMEWHERE. DID YOU CHECK the floor?” Letty asked the following Thursday. She shuffled around the table where the puzzle we’d spent the last half hour on was laid out.
“Yes, still not on the floor.”
“For cryin’ out loud, we need to find Eduardo’s frank and beans.”
I knew where they were, of course. But I felt no one would be happy if Missy Stouffer were to walk over and find a nude, muscle-bound man named Eduardo sitting atop his motorcycle. That’s why I’d been smuggling select puzzle pieces to my lap, so that only the motorcycle, the asphalt, the sky, and some less-offensive parts of Eduardo were visible on the table.
“I don’t know, Letty, looks like we’re missing some pieces. We should probably call the company for a refund,” I said, trying to find a way out of finishing the puzzle.
“Well, damn.” Letty once again looked at the box lid, which displayed the complete Eduardo, minus his man parts, which were covered with a disturbingly large black censor box.
As I slipped another piece in my lap, a Nerf dart hit me in the side of the head, followed by “BZSHOO!”
I turned to see Grub in position behind a chair, reloading.
“Fire!” yelled Blackjack as Mary Santos rolled him into view.
“BZSHOO!”
“Hey, watch the friendly fire.” I stood to pick up the two Nerf darts as bits of Eduardo spilled from my lap to the floor.
“Aha!” said Letty, pointing as they fell.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Hi, Mary.” I gave Blackjack a quick salute, which he returned. Grub was still partially hidden behind a chair.
“Hi, Zeus,” said Mary. “These two have had quite the time today,” she said, motioning to Grub and Blackjack. “Blackjack got to telling some stories even I’ve never heard. They’ve become real comrades lately.” Then she leaned in so only I could hear. “Blackjack’s having one of his good days.”
I gave a quick nod of understanding. Over the past week, Mary and I had each talked to Grub regarding Blackjack and the nature of his illness. We’d explained how Alzheimer’s not only affected Blackjack’s memory, but how it could also confuse him or alter his mood. And though Mary often marveled at Blackjack’s improvement since befriending Grub, she still cautioned that on bad days, Blackjack needed to be alone.
I smiled at the old man. “How are you today, Sergeant?”
“Me? Never felt better. Let me tell you, this brother of yours is smart as a whip,” he said in his slow, deep voice. “I think he knows more about the war than I do. Isn’t that right, soldier?”
Grub stepped out from behind the chair, and Blackjack beamed at him with pride.
“He talks about you all the time,” I said. “He loves hearing your World War II stories.”
“Well, I sure enjoy his company.”
“Sergeant Porter and I went on a mission,” said Grub, chiming in.
“A mission, huh?” I said.
Mary gave me a grin. “I let your brother push Blackjack around the staff lounge while I finished my reports.”
“Sounds like a very important mission,” I said.
“He’s teaching me how to sneak up on the enemy,” replied Grub.
“Yes, and they like to pretend I’m the enemy,” said Mary, laughing. “Isn’t that right, Blackjack?”
“You want to be our ally, Mary, then stop foisting that tapioca pudding on us. We like butterscotch, woman. How many times we gotta tell you?”
Blackjack shot Grub a wink then. Grub giggled.
Mary smiled and patted the top of Grub’s army helmet.
“You two are incorrigible. But now it’s time for Sergeant Porter’s nap.”
The comrades exchanged salutes, and Mary wheeled Blackjack away. “Glad you and Rose had fun at the polka festival last Sunday, Zeus,” she called back to me.
“Polka festival?” Letty asked, rising from under the table where she’d been retrieving Eduardo’s man parts. “Taube County?”
I waved to Mary, then turned to Letty. “Yep. Rose and I went on Sunday.”
Letty dropped the pile of pieces in the empty center of the puzzle and began assembling them, to my horror. “You probably saw half my damn family there.”
“Oh yeah? I was telling my friend Dylan about you the other day and he said he hangs out with two of your great-grandkids.”
“Kid, you can’t fart in this town without a Kowalczyk walking through the cloud. Which ones?”
“Axl and uh—”
“Novie.”
“Right, Novie. They play in a band together.”
Letty harrumphed. “Sure, they have a band, and my ass isn’t saggy. They make plenty of noise, I’ll give you that.”
I tried not to picture her ass. “They’re twins, right? I hear Axl plays bass and Novie plays—”
“Loud. That girl’s been beating on pots and pans since she fell out of her mother.”
“Drums, that’s right,” I said, not sure of the appropriate response.
“Their mother, Christy—that’s my granddaughter, of course—everyone calls her Crash.”
“Why’s that?”
Letty laughed to herself. “She had some wild years. I’ll let you fill in the blanks. Anyway, she owns the Beauty Saloon downtown. Half bar, half beauty salon. Very clever name, I’ll give her that. Can’t say the same for those poor kids of hers.”
“I’m actually getting together with them to jam at Dylan’s house tomorrow night.”
“Jam? You mean make a racket?”
“Something like that. I’ve been learning guitar.”
“Have you?” Letty eagerly grabbed my hand. “Do you know any Tom Jones?”
“Sorry, not yet.”
“Damn. Well, as soon as you do, you get in here and play it for me.” She released my hand and gave it a soft pat, then turned back to the puzzle. “Here we are. Eduardo’s almost a man now.”
“No!” I shouted as Grub approached the table, a now fully formed (minus one important piece) Eduardo smiling back.
“Here’s a map of the battlefield,” said Grub. He opened a piece of paper the size of a newspaper across the table, covering Eduardo.
I gave Letty a playful stink eye. “That was close.”
Letty shrugged. “It’s like I always say, kiddo—enjoy today, you might be dead tomorrow!”
It was true. She did always say it. And I’d decided it wasn’t necessarily bad advice. Ever since Rose had told me she might be moving to New York City in August, the countdown in my head had begun. I kept telling myself to not think about it, to focus on the time I had with her here and not worry about her living there.
It didn’t always work though. I moped a lot when I wasn’t with her. But what good did that do?
Letty was right.
Enjoy today, you might be dead tomorrow.
Maybe I’d make that my new mantra.
Grub spent the next several minutes showing us locations on the map of enemy bunkers, watchtowers, and traps.
“Well done, kid, well done,” Letty said when he was finished. “You run a tight ship. They ought to put you in charge of this place instead of that stick in the mud, Ms. Muffinstuffer.”
Grub, pleased by the compliment, went back to his map. I said a quick prayer of thanksgiving that Ms. Stouffer was across the room and Rose was playing a particularly upbeat show tune.
“So how are things going with your cutie-patootie over there?” Letty asked, tilting her head toward the piano.
“Great,” I replied. “Thought I might take her to a movie this week, but I’m not exactly loaded and I hear the old theater seats downtown are ground zero for head lice and ringworm.”
“And back injuries. Not to mention that floor is stickier than a motel mattress. You know what you should do?” Letty said, snapping her fingers at me. “You two should come to movie night here instead. Every other Thursday, which is tonight. They’re always needing volunteers. It’s free, and we get ice cream cups!”
She almost had me at “free,” but I wasn’t so sure. Rose had been a great sport about the polka festival, but movie night at a nursing home? That had to rate a zero on the romantic scale.
Letty must have noticed my concern.
“Trust me, kiddo, half this place will be snoozing before the credits roll. It’ll be like no one’s here.”
“Sold.”
SEVENTEEN
THURSDAY EVENING ROSE AND I ARRIVED AT HILLTOP TWENTY MINUTES before show time. Mom had loaned me the Lego so I could pick up Rose. During the short drive to Hilltop, Rose teased me about taking her on a date to the nursing home—clearly not the smoothest move—but I could tell by her smile that she felt the same way I did.
As long as we were together, it didn’t matter what we did.
Or where.
The common room looked better than I’d expected. The furniture had been rearranged to face the wall, upon which the title screen of Pixar’s Up was projected. The drapes had been drawn over the tall windows to block out the evening sun. The recessed ceiling lights glowed bright. After the past few weeks, the big room, with its high ceiling and oversized couches, now felt familiar to me, like an old pair of jeans.
Rose and I stood at the back of the gathering, looking for two open seats.
“There, next to the Larsens on the red couch.” Rose pointed to a spot in the back of the crowd, where one of Hilltop’s few married couples sat together. The majority of the residents had been widowed, but a few who were lucky and able enough shared rooms with their spouses.
George and Lucille Larsen greeted us with big smiles, as if nothing could have pleased them more than to share a couch with us. Lucille sported a white George Washington–meets–Dutch Boy hairdo and glasses so thick they magnified her eyes to the size of the lenses. Her counterpart, George, not a day under eighty-five, had a full head of bushy gray hair, argyle socks hiked up to his knees, and khaki shorts belted high across his belly, further supported by suspenders as a secondary safety measure.
“Make yourselves comfortable!” yelled Lucille at a volume indicating substantial hearing loss. “You see that, George? We have a new guest.”
George, who hadn’t heard a word, replied, “Where’s the ice cream?”
“New. Guests.” Lucille pointed to us, speaking slow and loud, right into George’s ear.
George pointed at his mouth. “Ice. Cream.”
Whether or not they ever did hear each other remained unclear, which was perhaps the secret to their sixty years of marriage.
Just then Candy wheeled in the cart of ice cream cups.
Rose and I hopped up to help—a small price to pay for free entertainment.
“You don’t know how much I appreciate you two volunteering for this,” Candy said, flashing us a grateful smile. “We’re making friendship bracelets tomorrow for craft time and I’ve got a thousand beads to sort out before then. I’ll be cross-eyed by the time I’m done.”
“Happy to help,” I said, taking the cart from her.
“Super! I brought you extra napkins. The ice cream can get messy at times,” Candy said, handing me a large sheaf of napkins and a roll of paper towels. “Holler if you need anything!” she added with a wave, then double-timed it down the hallway in her neon-pink Crocs.
I looked at Rose. “Is it just me, or did Candy seem especially eager to get the hell out of here?” I asked.
Rose grinned and took the napkins from me. “Maybe she’s just really excited to sort beads.”
“Right.”
And so, one tray at a time, Rose and I distributed ice cream cups to the Hil
ltop residents. The ice cream was the same as I remembered from grade school—ribbed, plastic cups filled with vanilla ice cream and a swirl of strawberry or chocolate that looked like a five-pointed star. Each came with a small wooden paddle for scooping.
Once we got everyone situated with their ice cream, paddles, napkins, and a few makeshift paper towel bibs, I dimmed the lights and Rose pushed play. A short Pixar film about storks delivering babies began to roll.
Rose and I had just settled back into our seats when she nudged me and motioned to her right. A woman in white poodle curls and wire-frame glasses had been parked next to us in a wheelchair. A lace collar poked out of her oversized beige cardigan, the sleeves rolled up to reveal two whisper-thin hands that shook so badly she could barely feed herself.
“Come on, let’s help,” Rose whispered.
We ducked, so as not to block anyone’s view, and scooted over to the woman, crouching on either side of her.
“Here, Vera, we’ll give you a hand,” said Rose.
I guess I’d expected Rose to help, while I supplied the moral support, but when Rose picked up the ice cream and handed me the wooden paddle, my role became clear. I didn’t mind.
“You’re very kind,” said Vera. “I never used to shake like this, but now, well, you see . . .”
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “We don’t mind.”
And to my surprise, I really didn’t. Sure, I’d first volunteered at Hilltop purely to be around Rose. But that night, right then, I had a realization, one that had been sneaking up on me for days, subtle and slow, the way dusk turns to night.
I truly cared about the Hilltop residents.
They weren’t kooky old people, as I’d originally seen them, but real people. Real people who were once young and independent. Real people who had dreams and fears, who had lived and loved and suffered.
Still suffered, some of them. Like Vera.
They couldn’t help the circumstances of their age any more than I could help mine.
And so I fed Vera her strawberry ice cream while Rose dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. It felt awkward at first, but as it went on, all three of us were giggling like little kids. When we were finished, I grabbed the blanket hanging from the back of Vera’s wheelchair and tucked it over her legs.
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