A Little Something Different

by Sandy Hall

  “Hey there, little guy,” she says.

  I scamper closer.

  “Are you the same squirrel I always talk to?”

  I don’t know what you’re saying but I’m sure I love you!

  We are going to be best friends. Maybe she has a house she will take me to and she will let me roam around and sleep in her bed. I’ve heard about beds and I think they sound magnificent.

  “Do you like bagels?” she asks.

  I stand up straight and look her in the eye. I have no idea what a bagel is. But it sounds like a type of nut to me.

  She tosses me a crumb.

  It’s not a nut. It’s like bread.

  This is disappointing but only for a minute because it’s also delicious.

  She tosses me another crumb.

  “I’m waiting for my friend,” she says. “Do you have friends? Or a family? What’s life like for a little squirrel such as yourself?”

  She tosses me one more crumb and brushes off her hands.

  “There he is! See you next time,” she says to me.

  What a wonderful person.

  Danny (Lea’s friend)

  “Hello, Azalea Fong!”

  “Hey, Danny!” she says, popping off the bench. “You’re the only person I would let get away with calling me Azalea. Besides my mom. But she so rarely gets in touch lately that it’s probably not worth mentioning.”

  I make a frowny face.

  “Enough about suckiness. What’s up with you?” she asks.

  “First of all, were you just talking to that squirrel?”

  She turns to look over her shoulder. “He’s my friend.”

  “Okey dokey,” I say with a nod.

  “I like squirrels,” she says with a shrug.

  “Moving on, I would like to complain about the weather.”

  “Proceed,” she says, her face serious.

  “It is freaking cold outside today! Wasn’t it summer like last Tuesday?”

  “I know you’re saying that as hyperbole, but seriously, last Tuesday it was seventy-five degrees outside and today it’s barely forty. So, it’s true, last Tuesday was essentially summer compared to this.”

  “Thank you, my favorite literal person.”

  “What’s on the agenda today?”

  “Well, considering how much luck I always have seeing Gabe when I’m with you, I thought perhaps today would be a perfect time for another round of stalking him.”

  “Delightful,” she says, pausing at the fork in the path. “Though you realize I can’t actually make him appear.”

  “Yes. I need to check my school PO box. How about we start there?”

  “Sounds like a plan, man,” she says. She’s quiet for a few minutes while we walk.

  “Whatcha thinking about?” I ask.

  She sighs. “I’m just jealous that Gabe is working with this girl in creative writing. And I want to work with him.”

  “I understand. How does he act around her?”

  “Like Gabe,” she says with a shrug. “Quiet and nice and he smiles a lot at her.”

  “That does sound quite Gabe-ish,” I say, as we walk into the post office. “Holy crap. It’s like invoking his name makes him appear!”

  She smiles and watches as Gabe gets a couple of envelopes out of his mailbox. He must feel us looking at him because he glances over and waves.

  “I suppose I could try being friends with him, at least talking to him in class and stuff. He’s cute and quiet and I like how … he behaves, all polite.”

  “He’s so cute,” I mumble.

  “Totally,” she agrees. “Would it be wrong to use the word ‘dreamy’?”

  “Definitely not.”

  He heads off in a different direction, and Lea and I turn back toward the bus stop.

  “We could have stalked him longer,” she says.

  “No, it’s cool, sometimes I just need a taste.”

  I know she gets it, even if she does look really sad.

  I can admit, there’s a small chance that I’m deluding myself about his sexual preference. But really, there aren’t that many straight guys who compliment other guys’ jeans.

  Inga (creative writing professor)

  Part of me always feels bad when I make the kids read their stories or essays aloud in class. But another part of me knows that it’s a great habit to get into. Reading your work aloud makes you see all different nuances. There’s a big difference in the way we write compared to the way we speak, and the only way to learn that is to hear it. The best way to do that is to read everything you write out loud.

  I recommend they start by reading aloud to something inanimate, and then move on to their friend or their mom. And then it’s time to read in front of the class. Nearly every class period someone has shared their work, if not multiple someones. Everyone except Gabe.

  He talked to both Cole and me about how nervous he is to share anything with the class. He and I worked to get his childhood memory essay just right, and to the point where sharing it with other people doesn’t make him want to hide under his desk.

  He came to see me after Hillary critiqued it and said that he wanted to drop the class. She had told him that he wasn’t an interesting writer. I said that I feel like he’s a talented writer, with a different style that not everyone can appreciate. I was proud of myself because what I wanted to say was something more along the lines of disparaging Hillary and everything she stands for.

  I walk over to his desk and smile at him before class starts.

  “Listen, if you don’t want to read it, I’ll read it for you,” I offer, even though I shouldn’t. It’s already the week before Thanksgiving and he’s gone almost the entire semester without reading anything to the class.

  “No, no,” he says, picking at the edge of the desk. “I’ll do it. I need to man up.”

  “It’s a great story. Your use of metaphor is spot-on.”

  “If I throw up, just try not to make a big deal of it, okay?”

  “How have you made it this far in life without having to give so many presentations that you aren’t at least a little bit desensitized?”

  “Honestly? I’ve had to give a lot, but it’s like it gets worse every time instead of better.”

  I make a sympathetic face and then call the class to order.

  “Gabe’s going to share his assignment from a couple of weeks ago, about a childhood memory, so give him your attention.”

  I grab a seat in the first row and I hear Victor mutter behind me, “About damn time.”

  Gabe stands in front of the class, trying so hard to make himself small, which somehow manages to make him seem even taller and more gangly. He cracks his knuckles and then smiles at the class. I can see the paper waver in his hands. But he pushes through his nerves and he starts to read.

  There’s a picture on the Internet of a tree that’s grown around a bicycle. The story goes that a boy left his bike leaning against the tree and then forgot all about it when he was called off to war. That’s not really the true story, but if you’ve never seen this picture, you should go home and Google it. It’s fascinating.

  It always makes me think of this one time that my mom and I were at the food store when I was about six years old. It was memorable in part because it was so rare that my mom took me anywhere all by myself. My older brother was almost always there, or one of my younger sisters. But I don’t know if I was home from school sick, or if maybe my dad was watching the other kids, but this day sticks out because it was her and me.

  An old man started talking to my mom and then he turned to me and asked me my name. I hid behind my mom because I was really scared of strangers. I think we may have watched too many stranger-danger videos in kindergarten, so that on top of my innate shyness made talking to people I didn’t know almost impossible.

  This old man was one of those scary old men, at least to six-year-old me. He looked like his skin was melting off his face and he smelled weird. What was left of his hair was lon
g and scraggly, and his shirt was misbuttoned.

  In the car on the way home, my mom asked me why I was so scared, and said that I didn’t have to be. She knew the old man and he was her neighbor when she was little like me. I explained about his skin and his hair and his disheveled nature as well as I could with my limited six-year-old vocabulary.

  She said, “Oh, that’s okay, Gabe. You’ll grow out of that. You won’t always feel so scared and shy around grown-ups.”

  I remember thinking that day that I’ll always be scared, that I don’t understand how not to be scared. As I got older I thought about that day all the time. It was only very recently that I realized my mom was right, but not in the way she thought.

  I did lose some of my wariness and my fear as I matured, but I’ve never quite shaken my shyness. When I think about it, it’s like I would have never been able to grow out of it. It’s like the tree and the bicycle. I grew around it and it became part of me.

  When he’s done he glances at the classroom through his eyelashes and slinks back to his seat. I keep myself from giving him a standing ovation. When I glance over at Lea, she’s literally grinning into her hands and I can see hearts coming out of her eyes. She is the picture of a girl falling in love. There’s no way they’re not getting together now.

  Sam (Gabe’s brother)

  I’m standing outside the English building waiting for Gabe to emerge so we can finally go home for Thanksgiving. I pleaded with him to skip this class so we could leave before rush hour but he insisted he needed to see Lea.

  She comes out ahead of him and I smile at her.

  “Hey,” she says, her voice more a question than a greeting.

  “Hi,” I respond with a smile.

  Gabe comes out the door right behind her and he looks stricken at our passing words.

  “Yo,” I say to him, as I glance over my shoulder at Lea walking away.

  “Were you talking to her?”

  “She said hey, I said hi. We’re not exactly best friends.”

  He exhales the obvious breath he’d been holding and we head in the direction of the parking lot.

  “Do you need to stop by your building?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t really want to drag all my crap with me to class.”

  “Understandable. But the longer we sit in traffic, the longer you’re going to have to listen to my musical choices. And you’re not going to complain.”

  He rolls his eyes as we get in the car.

  “We should have offered to give Lea a ride to your building.”

  “I can’t even imagine how painful that car ride would be. With me saying nothing and her…” He squeezes his eyes shut like the world is far too terrible.

  “What? What’s wrong?” I ask as I start the car.

  He shakes his head. “I read this assignment out loud in class today, about how shy I am. She probably thinks I’m a complete loser now.”

  “Nah, girls dig that crap.”

  “Seriously? You think so?”

  “Yeah, they love all that sensitive, sentimental stuff.”

  “I don’t think there’s a single woman on Earth who would appreciate you lumping them together that way. Except maybe Hillary. That girl is a ridiculous caricature of everything that’s wrong with the world.”

  “I’m impressed, Gabe.”

  “With what?”

  “I had no idea you were a feminist, or that you used words like ‘caricature.’”

  He punches my arm.

  “Hey, hands off the driver,” I joke, laughing.

  His face goes ashen.

  “Gabe. It’s a joke. No big deal.”

  “I know, I know.” He chews his thumbnail and looks out the window, watching the buildings pass while I curse myself for making a driving joke. “Just … be careful.”

  DECEMBER

  Charlotte (a barista)

  The place is packed, as it usually is at this point in the afternoon, but the line is suspiciously short so I let one of the other people take their break before me, hoping that when it’s my turn to take a break it’ll be in the middle of chaos and I’ll get to walk away casually, like Mel Gibson as a bomb goes off behind him.

  Maybe I should pick someone cooler than Mel Gibson.

  I’ll work on that.

  It’s another terrible shift without Keith or Tabitha. Tabitha would be particularly effusive and happy today since Lea is here, which means any second Gabe is going to wander in. And like clockwork, there he is. He glances over at her and then steps into the line.

  I’m feeling a little more neutral about him recently. I’m not sure way. Perhaps I’ve been infused with the Christmas spirit or I’ve finally just lost my mind. I’m on drink duty, so I probably won’t have a chance to talk to him. He’s a regular coffee kind of guy. I’m almost a little disappointed because I’d like to test him, see if he’s more normal these days.

  Shockingly, he orders a mint hot chocolate. I’m so surprised that I’m actually going to get to make his drink that I almost drop the cup when I see the “Gabe” scrawled on the side. He walks down to the end of the counter and leans casually out of the way.

  “Hey,” I say to him.

  He nods at me, smiling a little, tight-lipped.

  “Mint hot chocolate?” I say.

  He stares at my lips. I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone stare at my lips quite so intently. Not even the kid who stalked me sophomore year of high school.

  “It’s good stuff here; I’ll add a little extra pump of mint for you and make it even better,” I tell him conspiratorially. He continues to stare at my lips but he draws his eyebrows down even farther in confusion. He probably can’t hear me over the steam wand at the moment.

  “How’s the end of the semester going?” I try a new tact with him.

  He shrugs.

  “Yeah, I feel that.” This isn’t going nearly as well as I had expected and I can feel burgeoning hope for him and Lea ebb and fade. Damn Tabitha, she brainwashed me.

  “Whip?” I ask.

  He draws his eyebrows in even more, squinting, and then it’s like he gives up.

  “I’m sorry?” he says finally, looking me in the eye.

  “Do you want whipped cream?” I ask, holding up the bottle.

  “Oh, yeah.” He pauses, licking his lips. “I have trouble hearing in here sometimes.”

  “That’s cool. It’s loud.”

  He smiles and nods as he accepts his drink. “Thanks,” he says.

  The line is even quieter now and I have no drinks stacked waiting for me, so I watch Gabe pick his way across the room. There aren’t too many empty tables. There’s a two-seater right next to Lea and I think maybe he’s going to take that one. He stops and stares at it even, and I feel like his thoughts are written all over his face, calculating some kind of impossible math problem that involves how to get himself into that seat. He changes course and ends up farther away from her, but as he sits she looks up.

  They wave at each other.

  She glances at the seat he didn’t take and I wonder what the deal is with them. Not in the silly way that we gossip about, but I wonder about the way that they look at each other but so rarely acknowledge it. It’s kind of sad. I promise myself I’ll go back to being annoyed by them tomorrow, but for now I let myself sink into the melancholy.

  But then there are two salted caramel lattes to make, and a venti white chocolate mocha, and a break that’s coming up any second and the bell jingling on the door. Their moment is over and so is mine.

  Frank (Chinese food delivery guy)

  Back to the freshman dorm with another delivery. Seriously, these two need to get their acts together and order at the same time. I’m getting tired of driving out here twice in the same day. It’s the third time in two months.

  “Hey,” I say as the girl comes to collect her order.

  “Hey,” she responds, handing me her money.

  “So, you and your boyfriend have a fight?”

 
“Who?” she asks, side-eyeing me.

  “You know, the kid who lives upstairs.”

  “Gabe? He’s not my boyfriend.” She says it fast and I feel like I’ve been around long enough to know that her quick denial means she probably likes him.

  “He ordered like an hour ago, same stuff as last time. You should start ordering together.”

  “But we’re not together,” she insists.

  “That’s not really what I’m saying.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “I’m not exactly Dear Abby, but you guys have … something weird going on. I can tell. I have a third eye.”

  She gives me a vaguely disgusted look.

  “You know, like I can see shit. And there’s something about you guys. I don’t know. Call me crazy, but I think if you asked him to order food with you, he’d be into it.”

  “I…” She pauses and shakes her head. “Thanks.”

  She walks away then and I feel like a royal dumbass. But I had to say something. My grandma would be so mad at me if I didn’t. She’s the one who taught me about the third eye.

  Hillary (creative writing classmate)

  It’s the last day of creative writing for the semester. I can’t believe it’s over and Gabe still hasn’t asked me out. I mean, what is that about? I thought for sure he was super into me.

  Inga calls the class to attention and hands back a big stack of papers that she’d apparently been hoarding. And then she makes the last two people in the class read for the semester. When they’re done she claps her hands together.

  “All right guys, this is it. I want to remind you that your final papers are due one week from today. And I want hard copies of them, not just emailed at some random moment when you blur the deadline. I’ll be in my office from ten to twelve next Tuesday, or you can drop it in my mailbox in the English department anytime between now and then.”

  Victor groans. I have to admit that I have a lot of respect for Victor. He always speaks his mind.

  “A problem, Victor?”

  “Such a waste of trees,” he says.

  Inga glares at him. “For final papers I like to have hard copies.”

  “I don’t mean—” He stops, rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”