Peter had talked himself out, so the old man summarized for him. "In other words, that noisy church neighbor should mind her own business."
"Exactly!"
"That's good, Peter. You've gone from your specific experience to a general observation. Very good." Seemingly from nowhere, the man produced a little leather-bound journal just like his, only this one was new. He handed it to Peter. "Write it down."
"Write what down?"
"All of it. Some of it. Write down your ideas. Bring them by. We'll talk about them."
"Yeah, okay." Peter was a little baffled, but glad to have had the discussion.
"You know," said the old guy, "I've been thinking of starting a franchise. What do you think about that?"
Peter smiled. "I think you should write it down. We'll talk about it."
____________________________
"Judgments are private things. Actions are public. Both should be treated as such."
"Judge not, lest you be judged. Act against, only if an action has first been made against you."
From The Young Man's Journal
Connected by MarcyKate Connolly
"Chance"
How many times we must have met
Here on the street as strangers do,
Children of chance we were, who passed
The door of heaven and never knew.
-Sara Teasdale
This is officially the second worst day of my life. And it's only 8:15 in the morning. I fume on the dirty subway platform, waiting for the T to arrive and cart me off to class. Five minutes ago, some jackass barreled into me and knocked me to my knees. My vids fell off and the bastard stepped on them. Who the hell steps on someone else's glasses and doesn't even say they're sorry?
They should outlaw screening and walking for morons the way they do with driving. Way too distracting. It's a flipping crime.
The worst part? Now I've got nothing to take my mind off Rob on the half-hour train ride. All that time waiting and sitting among strangers and nothing to do but think.
Thinking is the last thing I want to do. Watching streaming videos of puppies and kittens is much more my speed at the moment.
Cracks form spider webs across the tiny screens of my vids. This has been my lifeline for the past two weeks. Ever since Rob dumped me in front of the entire cafeteria. It was on everyone's social vid stream within seconds. Now that was the worst day of my life. Hooking into anything other than my school's network is the only way to escape the humiliation. Unless I ditch school every day for the rest of the year. Mom and Dad would freak and then probably take my vids away.
I kick the concrete wall in frustration and pain bursts through my Chucks. I hop back on one leg, grimacing and praying none of the cameras capture this for my classmates to tap into. Maybe I broke a toe. That would be a legitimate reason to get out of school. But the pain isn't bad enough.
Sadly, I'm pretty sure I'll live.
A roar echoes through the underground as the train pulls into the station. The crowd shuffles aboard, and it drags me closer to what's bound to be an even more miserable day at school than usual. I sink back in my seat and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the masses who didn't have their vids crushed this morning. People laugh and giggle as they screen. It only makes me angrier.
Bastard. Who does he think he is, stepping on my vids?
"Hey." The voice next to me almost makes me leap out of my seat. A boy sits there, grinning.
Weird. People hardly ever talk to strangers on the train. Why bother? They can talk with whoever and watch whatever they want on their vids. Strangers are highly overrated.
"Hey," I say back, not entirely sure what to do.
"Are you OK?" he asks with an odd look on his face.
I frown. "Yeah, I'm fine."
I close my eyes again, but that doesn't stop him from talking.
"You don't look like you are. Anything I can do?"
My eyes start to burn. I'm not even sure why. I don't know this boy. And he doesn't know me. Anger flares. Yes, this day sucks already. My vids are broken and some stranger on a train won't leave me the hell alone.
But my parents taught me to be polite, so I keep the glare out of my face when I say, "Didn't your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"
He laughs. The sound makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. There's something electric about it.
"They may have said something about that," he says with a wave of the hand, "but I'm really not the best listener."
The laugh is out before I can think better of it and I slap a hand over my mouth. The boy's blue eyes sparkle for a moment before going wide.
"Oh, do you want a bandage?" He fumbles around in his book bag, spilling a notebook on the floor. He doesn't even flinch as he peels it off the grimy surface.
"What? I don't need a bandage. What are you talking about?"
He points to my right hand. "You're bleeding."
I'm shocked to see he's right and heat climbs up my neck. "Oh, I didn't even notice that."
"What happened?" He glances up from his very thorough bag search. A few books, a couple soda bottles, a laptop, and even a crumpled package of gum sit precariously on his lap.
"Some idiot walked into me on the platform. Knocked me down and broke my vids. Guess I scraped my hand, I just didn't realize it."
"Too upset over the vids, huh? They're pretty expensive."
I open my mouth to retort, then clamp it shut. He doesn't have any vids. There's no hint of a case in his bag. By now, he's pulled out almost everything.
"Yeah, my parents are going to kill me," I say instead of my planned snarky response.
"Here we go." He pulls a cellophane-covered pink strip from a hidden pocket in the depths of the bag along with a sealed wet wipe and hands them to me.
Pink bandages? This guy gets stranger every second.
He grins. "It's my little sister's. She loves pink. Sometimes I take her rollerblading after school and if she skins her knee, she won't let me put anything other than a pink bandage on it. And that girl can scream."
I laugh and try to clean the cut with the wet wipe. When I struggle to fasten the bandage with one hand, he stops me and takes the pink strip. "Let me help."
He presses it gently over the cut and then throws the wrapper in his bag. "See, all better."
"Uh, thanks." My stomach flips.
"My name's Jack." He holds out a hand and tilts his head at me. "Now who are you?"
"Emma," I say, warily shaking his hand. It's soft and warm; tingles shiver up my arm.
"So, Emma, where are you headed this morning?"
I groan and slouch in my seat. "School. Senior year at Parker High."
"That bad?"
"Worse."
"Why? You seem like a normal, well-adjusted young lady." He winks. "I'm sure your friends are cool, even if the classes suck."
"A couple. But mostly," I glance at the broken vids on my lap, "they're just jerks."
He nods. "Let me guess, the vids are how you keep them out of your head?"
"It was."
"Well, hey, only one more year, right?"
"Amen to that."
My gaze wanders over the other people on the train. No one even so much as looks at us. Everyone is entranced by their vids. Is that what I do every day? Shut out the entire world? Jack is ... odd, but in a good way. I think. He's also kind of cute and that definitely helps keep my mind off other, unpleasant boys.
He taps my shoulder in a rapid motion, again nearly startling me out of my seat. "Dude, this is the best part!"
When my look informs him he may as well be speaking Swahili, his shoulders slump and he sighs. "You don't know what I'm talking about do you?"
"Sorry, no clue."
"Just wait. It's brilliant, you'll see."
The train is packed full of commuters. I'm hyperaware of his closeness now and the warmth of his leg pressed against mine. I fidget as the train rises fast
er, equal parts curious and antsy. The darkness of the tunnel ebbs and then—
Golden, blinding light. Ocean. High buildings, low buildings, and the morning sun playing over them all and bouncing off the ripples of the bay. The horizon's edge is still tinged with the pink of dawn.
A faint glimmer of recognition buzzes in the back of my brain. I've seen this before, once or twice when I was little. But it's been years—and I take this train every day.
"Perfect, isn't it? It's just a little different each morning. The light never quite reflects the same and the colors are always unique." If Jack grinned any wider, I swear his head would fall off.
"You're weird."
He pretends to be crushed by my words. "Me? Weird? No, but I do paint. I ... I might go to art school. I'm thinking about it. This—" he points to the Charles River "—is my favorite spot to paint."
"It's beautiful." I mean it. I've seen the river on the vids a hundred times, but the real deal here in my face, is something else entirely. What else have I missed by keeping my eyes glued to my vids?
If that stranger hadn't walked into me this morning, I would've missed meeting Jack. Warmth spreads out from my fingers and toes, creeping up my arms and legs.
A tiny part of me, miniscule really, is almost glad my vids are broken.
"Next stop, Park Street Station," buzzes the voice over the intercom system.
Dang, that's me.
The train shoots back underground and Jack cranes his neck to see as much of the sky and the water as he can before it disappears. There's something puppyish about his expression—and it's way better than cute animal vids.
Jack turns back to me. "Did you know that in the summer they have free concerts on the Esplanade by the river?"
"Sounds vaguely familiar, but I've never been."
He shakes his head and tsks. "You should tell your boyfriend to take you. That view plus music is amazing."
My cheeks burn as my face does its best impression of a tomato, and I pick at a crack on my broken vids. "He, well, my ex-boyfriend, he wasn't really into that kind of thing. He probably wouldn't have gone even if I'd begged."
Goodbye resolution not to think about Rob.
The train screeches to a halt. "Park Street Station!" cries the intercom.
I stand, but Jack catches my hand. "Then he's an idiot." His eyes soften and he grins again. "You're a catch."
I completely forget how to breathe. The train doors open and a mass exodus ensues, carrying me along before I can even pull myself together to respond. In seconds, I'm back on the platform. The pushing rush-hour crowd releases me just in time to see Jack's smile, then the doors slam shut.
* * *
I wait at my stop, bouncing on my toes. I want to see Jack. Last night, my parents took me to get my vids fixed and now they're snugly packed away in my bag. Escape is only a flick of the switch away, but I resist.
I need to see him.
I want to apologize for yesterday. For not responding to what he said. The words ring in my ears.
You're a catch.
Did he mean it? Am I? And more importantly, does he want to catch me?
I board the train, scanning every face up and down the aisles. The train lunges forward and I grab onto a bar, craning my neck to see if Jack is here.
No hint of him anywhere. I don't remember where he boarded. Was he already here and just found me after? Or did he get on while I was lost in thoughts of my ex?
Dejected, I sink into an empty seat near one of the doors. This is the same car I was on yesterday. If he wants to see me again, then staying here is a sure way to be where he can find me. Right?
Every time the train stops, blood swarms to my face and each muscle in my body tenses to spring on him.
And every time I'm left disappointed and cold.
Four stops in and my hopes begin to fade. This time yesterday morning, we were already chatting. He's not coming. Did I imagine him? Have I watched so many vids that I'm seeing things now?
The fraying pink bandage still clings to my finger. I should've changed it, but it came from him. I want to hold onto to it. It's the only piece of him I have.
So many people. How, out of all of them, did he find me yesterday? How did he know that was just the day I needed him?
He didn't, of course. I'm being foolish. He just said those words because I looked pathetic and sad. Which I was. And now am. Again.
The train roars under me, screaming at me to face the truth. I'm never going to see Jack again. I know his first name, that he has a sister who likes pink bandages, that he likes to paint, and nothing else. This might not even be his usual train. It could've been a onetime venture into the city.
More people pile on, jostling each other without noticing as they screen. Everything else around them is tuned out. The dirty train car. The cans and half-filled bottles rolling and sloshing up and down the aisles. Even the smell can be tuned out with the newer vids.
I'm tuned in to everything around me, but today I'm alone. It isn't the same without Jack. At least with the vids, that hollowed out feeling in my gut has something to fill it.
We reach the part Jack said he liked best. The train thunders out of the ground and crosses the Charles River. Soft morning light glitters over the city. I squint—just like yesterday—but refuse to blink so I can take it all in. The boats with their screening passengers, the shining water, and all the varied buildings making up Boston's skyline. The old and new architecture side by side.
The train resumes its underground track and my heart lowers into my Chucks. I feel like I've lost something precious and I don't even know what it is.
Only one thing will take the edge off that uncomfortable sensation.
I pull out my vids and relief settles over me. These are familiar. The train's rumbling and bumping fade into the distance as I place the glasses on my face and flick the switch.
Annabelle by Cat Woods
He buttons his shirt and shuffles to the mirror, gives a tired smile to his reflection and smoothes stray tufts of spiky, gray hair. His time-worn fingers trace his sagging cheeks, searching for stubborn whiskers that escaped the morning's shave. With experienced hands, he straightens his tie and pushes his collar back into place. He searches the dresser, opens the jewelry box and peers inside.
"Where'd I put my watch?"
His question is met with silence. He turns up his hearing aids and calls again. The only answer is a meow from his pillow, an orange and gray stray Belle had taken in. Tabby stretches and trots away, her tail high. He feels certain the insult is deliberate, though ever since Belle got sick and lost her voice, the man and cat have fallen into an uneasy truce. Tabby quit hissing at him, and the man no longer locked the cat outside at night. Occasionally, like now, he found himself talking to it, filling in the gaps that had once overflowed with Belle's constant chatter.
The clock chimes the quarter hour. He heads to the empty kitchen and resumes his search for his watch. He's running late, Belle is gone, but he still doesn't want to take the car. The walk to church has been a ritual that started the first Sunday after their honeymoon. It is their time to be alone, yet together. Only one snowstorm had forced them to take the car in all those years, and he doesn't plan for a lost watch to get in the way now.
Yet, he can't leave without it.
Tabby jumps on the counter and mews again. He swats at her half-heartedly. "Don't you let Belle see you up there. She don't approve of cats on the counter. Not even you."
Tabby stares at the man, licking a delicate paw. She must know Belle isn't home or she would never risk the smack on her backside from her beloved caretaker.
"Why don't you go catch a mouse or something?"
Her tail swishes against a tin of cat food in answer.
"Ahhh, looks like it's my turn to feed you." His face scrunches in disgust as he fumbles with the opener. The stench of processed meat fills the air. He sets the can on the floor and walks away, not botheri
ng to dump it in the dish. Only Belle would treat the cantankerous feline like royalty.
Tabby sniffs once and follows him into the guest bedroom, down the hall to the bathroom and back to the living room. His watch is still missing. Not that he needs it to keep time. Already twenty-five years old, the watch had ceased long ago to tick away the moments of his life. It doesn't matter. As a gift from Belle for their golden anniversary, he never dresses without it.
Especially not today, on their seventy-fifth wedding anniversary.
"Don't you mean eternity?" Annabelle had said with a tinkling laugh at her ninetieth birthday party last month. Next to her, he still felt like a schoolboy. Even after all those years, her silky voice and infectious smile made his heart flutter and his palms grow hot with desire. Belle delighted in this knowledge and teased him away from her guests with a twinkle in her emerald eyes.
They danced, gently swaying to the music of their lives. Later, in the same bed they had bought as young bride and groom, they replayed their years together and couldn't find a single regret. Mistakes, yes. But no regrets.
The clock startles him into the present. He has run out of time. He pulls on his jacket over his white shirt and dips his hand into the heavy right pocket. With satisfaction, he slides his gold watch onto his wrist and heads out the door. In his other pocket, he finds Belle's gloves. She never leaves without them, and he knows she will want them today. He runs his fingers over the softly worn linen. At one time, the white lace edging had come apart at the cuff. He’d sat for hours that day watching her replace it with purple lace. It was the longest she'd ever sat still.
"It won't match anything in your closet, Belle," he had said of the color. It was too deep to be subtle and reminded him of the purple iris in her flower garden.
"I know," she said with a grin, "but it really is my favorite color."
He had learned this with great shock and much delight on their wedding night. For underneath her ivory wedding gown, fifteen-year-old Belle wore a pair of purple satin panties. She had dyed them herself in her mama's wash tin behind the chicken coop, as there was nothing so outrageously exotic in their small Minnesota town in 1937.
He stuffs the gloves back in his pocket and walks toward the church. It isn't far, a little less than half a mile from their farm. The sky is robin's egg blue and filled with pillow clouds. It reminds him of the quilt on the guest bed at home. While Belle's mama had won many a county fair ribbon with her beautiful needle work, this delicate hobby had failed to take root in his precocious wife. In all their years together, she'd made one quilt. Between each row of stitching, the stuffing bunched up, creating little pillows across the landscape of the quilt.
Spring Fevers Page 3
