by Jen Malone
Jonah grins easily, clearly not affected the same way I was either by the ride of terror we just endured or our proximity during it.
“I thought we could walk over to the ferry terminal,” he says. “The indoor farmers market is there, and we can grab a snack if you’re hungry. Then I want to show you the wild parrots on Telegraph Hill.”
“Sure, okay. Food, then parrots. Wait, there are wild parrots? Your city is so cool.” I pause to take in the busy streetscape and the height of the buildings we’re standing beneath. “Hey, are we near where you grew up? I want the full Jonah Abrahmson’s San Francisco tour.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and his eyes dart to the ground. “We, um . . . we were just in Nob Hill. We passed my house right near where we changed cable cars.”
“We did? Why didn’t you point it out?” I’m stunned, but Jonah must not think it’s a big deal, because he just shrugs and continues up the sidewalk.
I follow, waiting for him to answer, but that seems to be all he’s offering. “Does this have to do with all that stuff Lillie said back there at the hotel?” I ask.
“A little.”
“You sure you don’t feel like talking about it?”
He shakes his head once, like he’s trying to clear it, then turns to smile at me. “Nah. Today is not about you listening to me whine. Today is all about me introducing you to the hidden depths of San Francisco.”
He turns his attention to dodging a family heading toward us, and when they don’t show any signs of moving either left or right, we split up to maneuver around them.
When we meet back in the middle, some crazy instinct possesses me to ask, “What if I’d rather be introduced to the hidden depths of Jonah Abrahmson?”
I went into today with every intention of keeping things fun and light between us, and we’ve definitely had that for most of the time. Except I got glimpses of a real person back at the St. Francis, and in a few instances earlier, and they left me curious. I think his harmless flirting is adorable, but now I’m caught off guard by how much I want to know more about him.
He stops walking and studies me with curiosity.
I scratch my neck, and speak from the heart. “There’s no one else our age on this trip. Might as well become friends, right?”
He relaxes. “We’re not friends?” he asks, clutching his heart and staggering backward like I’ve injured him. “But I showed you my fire hydrant.”
It takes everything in me not to make a wiseass comment about the double entendre, but I know deflection when I see it. I stand my ground, even if it might entail opening myself up to some quid pro quo. “What I meant was, not just hanging-out, goofing-around friends, but real, actual friends.”
He tips his baseball cap and wipes his forehead with his sleeve before tugging it back into place and looking down at me. When he slowly smiles, his lips show no trace of their usual amused twitch in either corner.
“You know what?” he says softly. “I think I could really use an actual friend.”
Me too.
Me freaking too.
18
“What are you doing?” Jonah asks when I start a shimmy in my shoulders and move it down my body, like a boxer prepping to head into the ring.
“I’m working out my excess energy, so I’m nice and calm and ready to hear your sob story,” I say, grinning.
“Oh my god, what kind of sordid tale do you think I have to tell?” He shakes his head at me and starts walking, glancing over his shoulder to make sure I’m following. A few blocks ahead is the hulking Bay Bridge, choked with midafternoon traffic, and the bay itself, visible between the low white rectangular buildings lining the waterfront.
“I dunno. I’m hoping tabloid-worthy. Or, like, juicy memoir material.”
Jonah takes a noticeable breath. “You will be very disappointed, then. There have been a thousand and one memoirs with my exact plot because it’s the least original in the world. In a nutshell? My dad wants me to finish my business degree so I can join him at his company and, I don’t know, make widgets for the rest of my life and preside over board meetings. Have brunch at the yacht club on Saturdays and sneak in covert powwows at the Bohemian Club on Sundays. And . . . I’m not so much interested.”
“Ooh, yeah. ‘Poor little rich boy’? Such a trope.” We’re stopped at a crosswalk, and I watch the “Don’t Walk” signal.
When I steal a glance at him, Jonah is grinning at me. “Am I possibly the first ‘actual friend’ you’ve tried to make? Because you kind of suck at it. I don’t think you’re supposed to make fun of the person opening up to you.”
I shrug. “Yeah, but you’re smiling, right?”
His eyes gleam. “That I am. Touché. Proceed with your convoluted brand of sympathetic understanding.”
“My methods are patented, I’ll have you know.”
Despite my joking around, I actually do feel bad for him. Sure, it’s a common-enough occurrence, but it’s never happened to him before. I’m in no position to judge what someone has the right to be upset about. I fully understand that plenty of people weather their parents’ divorce with a million times less whining than me and would consider four months of sailing a privilege, not a punishment. So there’s that.
The light changes, and we cross to face an elegant building with about a hundred arches and topped by a gorgeous clock tower. A sign says “Ferry Plaza Farmers Market,” and a series of blue-tented tables outside spill every variety of fruits and vegetables. I try to ignore the assault on my senses and give Jonah my undivided attention, but I have not seen this much fresh food in weeks. There’s not a can in sight!
Jonah steps closer to a table selling technicolored produce and asks—with his eyebrows and a head tilt—if I’d like an apple. I let my drool answer for me. He completes the transaction with a pigtailed worker and hands me mine before taking a bite of his own.
We resume browsing the tables, and I ask, “Can you please tell me what exactly covert powwows at the Bohemian Club are? Those could totally be tabloid-worthy, right? Given that I don’t think I’ve ever heard the word ‘covert’ outside of spy movies.”
Jonah swallows his second bite. “Without a doubt. It’s a secret society my dad belongs to, along with a whole bunch of other captains of industry.”
I choke on the piece of apple I’m chewing. Maybe not so clichéd after all. This doesn’t sound garden variety. “Secret society? For real?”
Jonah looks alarmed as I punctuate my questions with coughs. He whacks my back twice before I wave him off. When I recover he says, “I can walk you by their ‘clubhouse’ later, if you want. It’s actually a very proper building, and there’s this cool plaque of an owl with the words ‘Weaving spiders come not here.’ I think the club itself used to mean something different back when Mark Twain and Jack London were members.”
He moves us past a tent selling butchered meats before continuing. “But now it’s all businessmen who plot to take over the world. They have this private forest in Sonoma where they go for two weeks every summer. My dad’s pretty close-lipped about it, but they have this ceremony called the Cremation of Care where they burn away their ‘burdens.’” He takes a last bite of apple and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Should you be telling me this stuff?” Translation: Tell me more, tell me more!
Jonah’s eyes grow wide and he tugs me inside the Ferry Plaza building, pulling me into a corner behind the doorway. He steps close to shield me, darting glances around suspiciously. “You’re right—we can’t trust anyone! We should split up and meet back at the safe house!”
I laugh and push his chest until he falters a step. I like that he’s opening up to me and we’re keeping things goofy too. It’s . . . nice.
“Pretty sure I’m not spilling any state secrets,” he says, resuming our walking exploration. There are more permanent market stands in here, displaying pottery and artisanal soaps and flowers. “That part’s all on the internet. There are more sini
ster rumors too, like that they’ve orchestrated influential campaigns. A few past presidents are current members.”
“Oooh, very Manchurian Candidate.” I toss my apple core in a can we pass.
Jonah glances over at me in surprise. “You know that movie?”
I grin. “Thank my uncle. His hobby is conspiracy theories. He’d probably have you locked in his basement right now, a vial of truth serum in his hand, if he heard you talking about this stuff.”
Jonah’s expression falls somewhere between amused and concerned. “Remind me not to meet your uncle in a dark alleyway.”
I finger a hand-knit shawl in the opening of one of the shops. “I don’t think conspiracy theorists do dark alleyways. Anyway, he lives in Minnesota with six cats and an ugly sweater collection, so you’re probably not in any real danger. Okay, more secret-club stuff, please.”
Jonah grabs a free sample of a soft pretzel bite offered on a tray outside one of the stands. He hands it to me and takes another for himself before saying, “That’s all I got on the subject.”
I pout and he chuckles. “Don’t worry, I have plenty more about my dad, if you want. For fun times, I could tell you about his reaction when I changed majors halfway through last year.”
“From what to what?”
Jonah winces slightly. “Business to philosophy.”
“I can see why that might not have gone over well with a captain of industry.”
“Yup. The guy’s pretty much all work, all the time. Seriously, nothing in this world baffles my father more than the concept of adult coloring books.” Jonah grins. “I’m sure you can also imagine, then, how he now feels about having a college dropout for a son.”
We approach a coffee stall, and I ask, “Am I gonna need caffeine for this?”
He doesn’t answer, just immediately pulls me into the line. I insist on paying, and when we’ve gotten our drinks, Jonah leads us outside again. We grab seats on long backless benches in the sun.
The air is pungent with now-familiar fishy smells, and I can’t tell if it’s the seafood stalls of the market or the bay beside us. Maybe both. Above, seagulls circle low and loud, waiting for any spoils. I dip my nose into my coffee cup and inhale deeply to chase the smell away. After being on land all day, I’m nowhere near ready to acknowledge any sights or smells that remind me my current life is on the water.
“So why philosophy?” I ask as we settle in.
I catch Jonah midsip with my question. He makes a face before pulling out three sugar packets and dumping them into his cup. I like him so much more for obviously having a raging sweet tooth that rivals mine. It’s starting to worry me a little, all the reasons I can find to like him.
“I took a seminar in it. The irony is that I ended up there because my Environmental Econ class didn’t have enough students enrolled to run it, and philosophy had the only opening that fit my schedule. I told my dad I was just gonna take fifteen credit hours instead, because what use would I ever have for a course like that? But no. No son of his would carry a regular course load when there was overachieving to be accomplished.”
“Well, then he has only himself to blame.”
“Truth.” Jonah grins. “The first few assigned readings were like hieroglyphics to me, but then, I don’t know, some of the stuff just started to click. . . . I can’t really explain it. Most of these guys we were reading lived centuries ago, but the stuff they wrote about is so universal, even today, that it makes me think they had to be onto something, you know?”
I cringe. “I’m really sorry—I’d love to nod along, but I don’t know the first thing about philosophy.”
“I’ll bet you do and you just don’t term it that. It’s all around us—I’ll start pointing it out when I see examples.” He looks at me with an expression I can’t place before saying, “Can I just say, I totally love that you aren’t afraid to admit there are things you aren’t an expert in. That’s really unusual in my circles.”
I blow across the top of my coffee to cool it down more. “Oh, there’s no limit to the things I don’t know. It sometimes amazes me that I get through a day without totally humiliating myself.”
Jonah laughs. “Don’t sell yourself short there, Sprite. At least you have the good sense to befriend me. That alone should earn you Mensa status.”
“I’ll check into that,” I say dryly.
“Lemme know what they say,” he replies. “So, anyway, when Uncle Chris called to ask if I knew anyone from the yacht club who was trustworthy and might want to crew for him, it just seemed like the universe was dropping a Plan B in my lap.”
“Okay, stop me if I ask anything too personal, but I’m confused. Wouldn’t your dad rather you get a degree in philosophy versus none at all? Why did you feel like you had to drop out altogether?”
Jonah sighs. “He would, but that would have meant three more years of listening to him bitch about it or make nonstop threats to stop payment on my tuition if I didn’t switch back to business. I’ve been working my butt off at marinas and as a camp counselor since I was fourteen, specifically so I wouldn’t always have to rely on his money, but those savings would barely make a dent into costs at Cornell.”
I remember how my mom threatened me with my college expenses a few weeks ago and how pissed off it made me. It’s not like she or Dad owe me help with tuition or anything, but it’s always been something they’ve offered, and I’ve been making my college picks based on having that assistance. I’m guessing it was the same with Jonah. I totally understand why he’d rather give his dad a giant F-U than let his father use that money to bully him.
“Were you guys close before this?”
“Me and my dad? Not particularly. I mean, I think he likes the idea of having someone to carry on the family name and someone to show off around the yacht club, especially if I was winning that weekend’s regatta.”
Wow. He doesn’t even sound upset, just matter-of-fact. But to me, it sounds so sad. How could his dad not appreciate how sweet and funny his own son is? Impulsively, I reach for Jonah’s hand, and though I clearly surprise him, he recovers quickly. He gives me a small smile and squeezes my fingers before releasing them.
“What about your mom?” I ask. “Is she around to run interference between you two?”
“She’s around. But not for interference. My mom would sooner wear off-the-rack than cross Dad. I don’t really know how to describe my parents. Neither is overly warm and fuzzy. To be honest, I didn’t see all that much of them growing up. Mostly I was with a nanny. So I guess they don’t really know me all that well.”
I’m not sure what to say to that either. I may have my fair share of issues with my mom, but I’ve never had to doubt whether either of my parents knows me. Or whether they appreciate me for who I am, not what I can do for their social status. I’m sure my mother would have loved if I’d taken ballet along with her friends’ daughters instead of spending all my time digging in the dirt and potting flowers, but she never pushed her agenda on me. She kept me supplied with aprons and gardening gloves and trowels. Once, she and my dad ordered an entire dump truck of dirt when I was desperate to convert a third of our backyard into a vegetable plot. And my dad helped me with my French homework almost every night of sophomore year, never giving me a hard time for struggling with it or making me feel stupid for not catching on faster. They haven’t been perfect parents, but the one thing I never wondered about was whether they actually loved me. I mean, I guess I’ve probably said that about my mother this past year, but deep down I never truly questioned it. Just her methods of showing it, maybe.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble.
“No need. It is what it is—and it’s only one small part of my life.” His mischievous smile is firmly in place again. “Hey, do you think we’ve had enough actual-friend bonding, because I think I may have just realized what this day needs!”
I can only blink at him when he turns the grin’s full wattage directly at me.
Here’s th
e thing. If you put an extremely attractive boy in front of me, I’m going to at least notice. But a cute charmer is easy enough to resist.
Except the Jonah I’m spending the day with is going from “all flash” to “lots of substance” pretty damn fast, and it’s throwing me for a loop. I wasn’t planning for our hangouts to be anything more than a diversion, but I’m suddenly feeling a little . . . invested.
Invested is not exactly what I’d expected from today. But then again, neither is this version of Jonah.
I gather a quick breath before any of my conflicted emotions can play out across my face for him to see. “When we get back to the docks, I will punch your time card to signify completion of one entire actual-friend bonding session.” I squint up at him. “Although I thought we’d already established this day needs parrots next.”
“Another time. This is better. Unless—oh man, I just talked your ear off and all you told me about yourself is that you have a cat-lady uncle. I’m an ass. I’m sorry. Do you want a turn on the psychiatrist’s couch? I insist on an equal opportunity, true-blue friendship.”
God no. It’s bad enough I’m feeling invested after hearing a little of his story. If I let down my defenses and loop him into my own saga, what then?
I lean down for my coffee cup on the ground. “That is very, very sweet of you, but you just told me there is something better than a pack of wild parrots, and I need to see this for myself.”
Jonah’s expression turns serious. “You sure? Joking aside, I’m happy to listen whenever.”
I nod and avoid his eyes. “Thanks. I’ll take you up on it sometime.”
I stand, waiting for Jonah to do the same, and we turn toward the street. As we walk, he says, “Hey, so, I appreciate your not running away screaming when I unloaded on you.”
I bump his hip. “Judgment-free zone, remember?”
He makes a “Hmm” noise in his throat, and I can feel his eyes studying me. But when I glance over at him a second later, his expression shifts quickly and he grins as he says, “Just so you know, Sprite, a grouping of parrots is not a pack. It’s a pandemonium.”
