by Deb Caletti
"I have to go," she says. I hear the phone clunk to its cradle. "Jade?" she calls.
"It's me."
"How was your day?" "Fine."
"I've got to pick Oliver up from basketball. Oh, and can you start dinner? Hamburgers? 'Cause I've got a meeting at seven." "Okay."
I take everything from my patron saint box, look at each candle carefully. Saint Dymphna is the best choice. I know it
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sounds like a growth that should be surgically removed, but really she's this young woman with a handkerchief over her head and an understanding look. In her picture she holds something that looks like a box of chocolates, but I don't have a clue what it really is. Maybe some kind of cure, some magic released when the lid is off, like in one of Oliver's Narnia books. She is the patron saint of family happiness, of possessed people, of therapists and nervous disorders and runaways.
I figure she'll do the trick for Tess and Sebastian, close enough, and I feel qualified on the nervous disorders end. Even Abe will be watched over, and I figure it's the least I can do, considering all he does for me.
I have a ton of homework, but I don't care about reading twenty-five pages of biology right then.
I'm too worried about Sebastian, about that angry white-haired lady with the blue eyes that he cares so much about. Instead, I lie on my bed and look out the lava-lamp window. I watch the white clouds make shapes against the sky, drifting, but with purpose. As if they know just where they are going.
After dinner, Mom leaves for her meeting, and instead of helping with the dishes, I am bouncing Oliver's basketball around in the kitchen.
"Jade, you better help," Oliver says.
"If you think we're doing your plate, just know you'll be seeing it at breakfast," Dad says.
"Go out for a pass," I say. I bounce the ball Dad's way. He ignores me and it crashes into the oven door.
"Something's going to get broken," he says.
"I'm giving you another chance," I say. I dribble around the kitchen table. Scoot beautifully around a blocking chair. It
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doesn't have a chance. If I were this good in PE, those people never would have laughed. I give the ball a single bounce toward Dad. He turns in a flash, drops his kitchen towel, and neatly catches the ball.
"Now you're in trouble," he says.
And I am. See, as I've said, Dad's a really good athlete. Even in his dress slacks and shirt, his tie slightly loosened, he moves around the kitchen as if he's on some gym floor with his tennis shoes going siueefe-sujeefe and the crowds going wild. He stops, dodges, and advances. Already, he is over by the refrigerator. I approach, but he is gone again. Just dribbling, oh, so full of himself, back by the stove now.
"Help me, Oliver," I say.
We pounce, and Milo starts barking like crazy and Oliver lets out a tribal war whoop. Dad dances and jets around and we keep reaching out, grabbing at nothing.
"I-I'm whip-ping your buutts," Dad sings.
"Get him!" Oliver screams. I'm not sure whose team Milo is on, but he should be kicked off for unsportsmanlike behavior.
Oliver has his hip right against Dad's. Then he moves ever so slightly in front of him, neatly snatching the ball. Suddenly, Oliver is over by Milo's water bowl, dribbling with that same smug look Dad had.
"Yes!" I screech. I jump up and down. "Victory is ours!"
"Well, look at that," Dad says.
"I learned it from Coach Bronson," Oliver says.
"Game over. Let's have a beer," I say.
Dad shoots me a look.
"Kidding!" I say.
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We finish up the dishes, and then follow Dad downstairs to see the train. "Wow," I say.
The new part of his town has been filled out--there are patches of nubby green trees and serene rolling hills, a small lake, all surrounding the house I had set there. Off a bit from the house is a very small town, one store, with its own tiny gas pumps, and a truck beside them getting filled.
There's only a small corner of board left.
"You're almost done," I say.
"What do you guys think?"
"I like it there," Oliver says, pointing to where the new house is. It's true--it's the prettiest part of the board, away from his old center of town with the streets and people and miniature trucks and stores and factories.
"Me too," I say. "What are you going to do with the corner that's left?"
"Don't laugh," he says.
"What?"
"An ocean."
"Cool," Oliver says.
"I've never seen a set with an ocean before," he says. "I'm still trying to figure out how I can craft it."
"Then you'll be done," I say. "And then what?"
"I don't know," he says. He takes his tie off, tosses it on the chair.
"The train goes on its first trip," Oliver says. "I guess you're probably right," Dad says.
We leave Dad downstairs.
"Jade?" Oliver says. He's been thinking about something.
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"What?"
"I still don't like basketball."
"That's okay," I say. "More than okay."
I knock on my doorframe. I settle in front of my computer for homework, try to concentrate on things I don't care about instead of obsessing about where Sebastian might be. I flip over to the elephants, hoping for even red-jacket cyber contact. Anything. I would have called him if I weren't scared to death of his white-haired grandmother. I watch Tombi swaying, moving her feet in that restless way. I know how she feels. I do more homework, pop on the web, and try to look up FFECR. Maybe it would help me understand something about Tess. I stop looking for it after three pages of French phrases and medical conditions, nothing I'm guessing Tess would be at a meeting for.
I clomp back downstairs to feed my misery. I have a couple of chocolate chip cookies left in the bag from about six months ago, which are lifeless and stale. Milo appears with his blankie, and I give him a big new rawhide to brighten his evening. It cheers me up to make him so happy. He takes it from me, gently, politely, and then trots to the living room with it sticking sideways out of his mouth. I watch him. He paces, hunts around for just the right spot to bury it.
"Chew on it, don't hide it," I advise.
He ignores me. Continues his quest with the focused, got-to-find-it obsession of someone in a long checkout line hunting for that last nickel. He tries out one place, under the couch, decides against it. No good. He walks to the potted fern and sniffs, but no. Under the armoire with the television in it? Maybe. He sets it down, looks, decides it is not quite right. He finally sets it next to the basket of magazines. He pushes his
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nose against the carpet over and over, burying it with imagined dirt. It sits there on the rug in plain sight, and Milo looks at it as if it weren't there. It's kind of embarrassing. But you can tell even he knows he's kidding himself.
Milo stares up at me with his deep brown eyes. He seems like he's at a loss at what to do, and this makes me sad for him. "You did a great job," I say. "Awesome. I don't see a thing."
I pat his soft head. Talk about broken instinct.
It's one of those life rules that when you don't care about guys noticing you, they most often do.
The next day at school, with my thoughts on Sebastian, I catch Ben Nelson checking me out, and in Spanish, I have an unexpected encounter with Jacob Leeland, manic pothead. Another rule of life is that if you are a decent and hardworking student, you will pay for it by always getting placed by your teachers next to some hyperactive headline-of-the-future. Your reward for your responsible and respectful behavior is to be "a role model"--basically, babysitting junior borderline criminals. You will have the honor of putting up with them rolling pencils at you, cheating off your tests, throwing paper clips, borrowing your pens (which they never give back), and sitting in a reeking cloud of marijuana or cigarette smell, the haze of which drifts around their jackets like fog in a field on a cold morning.
>
Jacob Leeland is one of those. Senora Kingslet always pairs us up, primarily so Jacob can at least get a decent grade on the stuff we do in class, and we are supposed to be developing a dialogue that would take place in a restaurant. Our conversation goes something like this: Me: So, you're the waiter, and you say: {Queusted tiene gusto de ordenar, Sehorita? (What would you like to order, Miss?)
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Jacob: Do you find me attractive? Me: Huh?
Jacob: Do you? I think you're hot.
Me: (Pause) So, anyway, then I can say something like: Quisiera los pescados, por favor. (I'd like the fish, please.)
Jacob: You didn't answer my question. We'd be a cute couple (scoots closer).
Me: (Scoots away) Then you say: Cualquier cosa? (Anything else?) Jacob: Does that mean, no, you don't find me attractive?
Me: You're a nice person, Jacob, but. . .
Jacob: Sure. (Sulks.) So where'd you get that shirt? My girlfriend would like it.
At lunch, we stay at school for once, sit on the benches outside since no one feels like going anywhere and Akello and Michael are broke. Jenna bows her head over her tuna sandwich.
Hannah and Kayla squeal over their shared Cheetos bag, and Michael and Akello and I study for our AP Government test and eat Michael's Corn Nuts. I look up and watch the crowds, who remind me of cows--if one lies down, they all do. If one is standing, they all are standing. I have this ache inside. My insides pulling with a desire for too-salty chili in a bowl and a rocking houseboat and my feet in someone's lap. I belong there, and suddenly this bench in its plot of grass is the place I don't know, somewhere I've never been, and these people are the ones that seem like strangers.
"Come on, Delores." "I told you, no."
"I'm not saying you have to do anything. Just come with
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me. Come out. I promise you, you're not making some kind of decision. You're just looking. See?
Beverly is here to sell tickets. She can spare you for a sec."
Delores pretends to study her seek-and-find word book. Then she smacks her pencil down on the page. "Just to look."
"Okay, great! That's so great."
"Don't sound so excited. I'm only doing this to shut you up." Delores leans for her purse, then turns the handle inside her booth. I never realized there was a handle. It's the first time, actually, that I've ever seen her out of the booth. She steps out, shuts the door. She's a little shorter than I am, has those jeans with the huge back pockets that cover a wide, flat rear end. She wears tennis shoes and an orange sweatshirt and her big ASK ME zoo button. She carries her purse in her left hand, the one that sports one of those watches that have circles of various, removable colors. I notice gold hoop earrings peeking from her short, white-blond hair. She's a real person with a real life, and that seems like a surprise. I wonder what she does when she's not here. If she watches sports on TV or likes to cook. It reminds me of the time some little kid in the viewing area asked me if I lived at the zoo.
"Look at you," I say.
"What?" Delores says.
"You're out."
"Make it snappy," she says.
"I'm going to take you into the house first," I say. "But, warning--it smells kind of strong in there."
"I used to work in a hospital," she reminds me.
Delores's walk is efficient. I have to work to keep up with her. We go around the back, where Damian's office is, and the staff
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quarters. Then I bring her through to the stalls. Rick Lindstrom and Damian are washing Chai, who lolls on one side and rolls and sneezes like Milo on the lawn. Damian grins at Delores.
"I'm looking," she says to Damian. "That's all."
"Just look, then."
"Let's go out to the yard," I say.
I can see Tombi and Onyx out by the water, and Hansa near the viewing area. When she sees me, she ambles over. "Ambles" is not quite right for Hansa--she's actually quite fast. Hansa and I are special pals.
"They're rather . . . large." Delores says.
"Don't be nervous," I say. "The trick is to be the boss. Hey, I'm the most worried person in the world, and I handled it. It's a little intimidating at first, but trust me, if I can do it, you can. Come here, you," I say to Hansa.
Hansa stops near us and sniffs around to see if I've brought her any fruit or treats. "Sorry, girl," I say. I rub her side, and reach my palm for her to snuffle her trunk in. "Put your hand out," I tell Delores.
"Forget it."
"Honestly, it's okay."
"Oh, my God," Delores says.
"See?" I say. "I was so scared at first."
"Oh, shit," she says. She squeals a little when Hansa smells her palm.
"We should have brought some watermelon," I say.
"She's really cute, though," Delores says.
"Everybody loves her, except Onyx. There's Onyx. Over there. Not her best side." We're looking at Onyx's huge, saggy ass and her tiny tail, twitching from side to side. Funny thing is, I can almost
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picture Onyx in those same wide-pocket jeans Delores is wearing.
"She's really huge." Hansa is sniffing Delores's sweatshirt.
"But she's sad. Her anger is just too much sadness with nowhere to go."
Hansa's trunk is everywhere. In my hair, on Delores's shoulder. "You're a pest," I say.
Delores pats Hansa's side, like I do. "It's softer than I thought," she says.
"I know it. Like rough leather." I see that Damian has appeared in the enclosure to watch us.
"Let's meet Onyx," I say.
"All right."
Delores follows me through the yard, looking over her shoulder as if she's in a rough neighborhood. We approach Onyx from the front. Onyx can still make me a little nervous, and I'm glad Damian is nearby. Still, it's so important not to let the elephants feel your uncertainty that I force myself to shake off any fear.
"Onyx, you big softie. Meet Delores."
"Hello," Delores says formally.
"Now you must blow in her trunk, like this." I show her. "It's a handshake. An official greeting.
Once you do, she'll never forget you."
I hold Onyx's trunk out to Delores, and she blows inside. Delores looks at Onyx and Onyx looks at Delores. "It's a pleasure," Delores says after a while. Here's what passes between them: the look of a couple of older women who have seen things in their day.
"Let me think about this," Delores says as we head back. "Don't go taking that as an encouraging response. I'm only thinking."
"You won't regret it," I say.
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"You did a wonderful job," Damian says to me afterward. He is outside with Onyx and Flora. "It is like the car salesman trick, you see? Once you drive the car, you will want to buy it." "You think?"
"I know. An elephant is impossible to resist. Look at that face," he says to Onyx. "What are they saying, those eyes?"
"They are saying, T want to be with Delores,' right, Onyx?"
Damian chuckles. "Those eyes know things."
I haven't even changed into my overalls yet, so I head back to the elephant house to do that.
When I hang up my coat, I hear my phone ringing in the pocket. By the time I fumble around and get it out, I miss the call. But the words on the screen make my heart lift. ARMCHAIR BO the screen says. I press the call button, trying to wrestle my backstage mind, which is barreling in with thoughts and what-ifs. Tombi is making a happy racket in the house, so I go outside, lean my back against the building.
"Armchair Books."
"Sebastian? It's Jade. I just missed your call."
"Hi," he says.
"Hi."
"I'm so glad to hear you." The tension that had risen in me like one of the waves in Riding Giants crashes and breaks into relief. "Me too."
"I was calling ... I wanted to apologize for Tess. Can you hang on a minute?" "Sure."
The phone clunks onto the counter and I hear Sebastian's voice far away, speaki
ng to another man. Then he's back.
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"That was so weird," he says softly. "This guy, he looked like an escaped con and wanted a book on puppetry."
"Do you have one of those buzzers on the floor, like they do at the bank in case of robbery?"
"I wish. Anyway, Tess ... I know she saw you. I hadn't told her about you yet, and I know she overreacted. ..."
"She just made it clear where she stood." A peanut shell is in the dirt on the ground, and I send it into a figure eight with the toe of my shoe.
"You always know where you stand with Tess. She's a good person, really, she's just worried about me. We got in an argument. She's repenting. Told me to ask you over here to dinner so she could meet you."
"Is that what you want?" I was wondering if it might be easier to roll around in some raw hamburger and visit the Bengal tiger, but, hey.
"I do. I mean, I'd really like you to know each other. I guess, actually, it's important to me. If it's okay with you. Is this . . . too much, too fast?"
"No. I don't think so."
"Well, great. Next Saturday? Are you free? Six? I'm not working."
"No, that's great. Great."
"Great," he says. "That was a lot of greats."
"It sure was."
"You should see who's standing in your gardening section now. Pierced lip, tattoo going up his arm. Some kind of dagger. Very Seattle. Oops, gotta go."
"Next Saturday."
"Bye."
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"Bye."
We hang up, and I'm filled with excitement/loss. The happiness at his company, the sadness that his company is gone. But the sadness turns out to be unnecessary. A few hours later, after Armchair Books has closed, my phone rings again.
"I just thought you might want to know that I wasn't robbed after all," Sebastian says.
Glee is such an old-fashioned word. A corny one, but that's what my heart feels--the equivalent of every corny, ridiculous, gleeful scene. I'm the living embodiment of those musicals where people break into song at monumental moments, of square dancers twirling in bright, ruffled skirts, of glittery snow on Christmas cards.
"I'm so glad," I say.
"And the pierced guy bought All About Bulbs."
We talk into the night. After that, he calls every night of the week before our Saturday date.
