by Erynn Mangum
“Hey, Jack?”
“Hey, Pattertwig.”
“Have you ever had to tell someone the truth after a long time of keeping it from them?” I ask slowly.
He gives me a weird look. “I’m sure I have.”
“Did they take it okay?”
“You mean, do I think Jen will take it okay?” He smiles gently. “Just tell her, Nutkin. You’re going crazy.” “I just don’t want to hurt her.”
“I know. But hasn’t it been worse with her not knowing?”
“Well. Kind of.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Kind of? Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“Well, yeah, it’s been harder for me, but it’s been easier for her. You know Jen. If she knew I had dated Travis, she never would have kept going out with him.” I shrug, checking the expiration date on the milk.
“Lame excuse.”
I look up at him.
“Nutkin, if Jen liked Travis so much and had known you’d dated, don’t you think she would have just cleared it with you and moved on?”
“Well …”
“I think you’re just scared to tell her now.” He turns the grinder on. “Why are you so scared anyway?” he asks over the chomping noise.
I look through the heavy-whipping-cream containers, checking dates.
I tried for four years to be the most perfect girl out there for Travis. Then I found out, as much as I had tried, his ideas apparently changed, and I wasn’t the perfect girl anymore.
I pick up an expired cream container and straighten up.
I guess Jack notices I didn’t answer his last question because he suddenly grins at me. “Oh, did I tell you the good news?”
“Finally heard back from your application to be a backup singer for the Temptations, huh?”
He grins wider, recognizing the reference to his secret wish in the second grade. “No,” he says. “Polly found a new home.”
“Aww, all by herself?”
He ignores me. “A guy called yesterday and wanted to give Polly to his wife as an anniversary present.” He sighs. “I’m just praying it won’t be the last anniversary present he gives her.”
“Jack!”
“What? She’s a nocturnal parrot, Pattertwig. Nocturnal. As in, not a whole lot of romance is going to be happening after dark. I’m thinking this doesn’t make for a happy marriage.”
I laugh for the first time that day. “Did you tell the man that?”
“Yeah. Well, not the part about ruining marital bliss. Just the part about her talking through the whole night. He thought it sounded endearing.”
“Endearing?” I wrinkle my nose. “Did he actually say that?”
“He did.”
“I haven’t heard that word since the last time I watched Anne of Green Gables.”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe he’s a fan of Anne.”
“Maybe.” I dig through our five-pound bags of coffee, making notations for each blend we have. “Is it time to turn over the sign?”
Jack looks at the clock. “Yup.”
“I’ll do it.” I set my notepad down on the counter and walk over to the windows. I raise the shades and flip over the Open sign. I stare out the windows for a second. It’s a “blustery” day, as Winnie the Pooh would say.
Jack’s looking out the windows, too. “Lots of lattes today,” he mumbles.
“We’ve been having a major cold spell.” I smile. “Maybe we’ll have snow this year!”
Snow in Hudson is about as likely as finding water in an unopened Coke can.
“Maybe,” Jack says, kindly not destroying my pipe dream.
Our first customer comes in a couple of minutes before seven as I step behind the counter. “Good morning,” I call to the nice-looking lady dressed in a black business suit.
“Good morning,” she says. “Can I get a medium cinnamon soy latte? To-go, please.”
I ring up her total, and Jack starts making it. “And let the day begin.”
I look at our whiteboard as I pull my apron off at two o’clock. Jack and I have kept track of the drinks we’ve made with hash marks up there.
In all, we made thirty-six lattes and fifteen coffees.
“Not bad.” Jack whistles when I tell him. He finishes running the automatic cleaner on the espresso machine and takes his apron off as well. “No wonder the smell of milk is making my head hurt.”
I grin. “Maybe you could take this zoology in a new direction toward dairies.”
“And maybe I won’t.”
“You could spend your life researching cheese instead of the mating habits of monkeys. I think it’s a good trade. I could be a cheese taster. I like cheese.”
“This is just a guess,” Jack says, clocking out, “but I think there’s more to cheese research than tasting it.”
“I’ll be the taster in charge of Havarti. I like that one.”
We walk out together. I wave at Lisa, who has her apron on and is already helping a customer with yet another latte.
“Bye, guys!” she calls.
“See you, Lisa.” I smile.
We push through the door, and Jack stretches by the driver’s side of his car. “Mmm. I need a nap.”
I squint at the fuzzy gray sky. “It’s a good napping day.”
“I can’t take a nap. I’ve got a fifteen-page paper due tomorrow afternoon on the molecular genetics of the mammalia circulatory system.”
“Sounds insanely interesting.”
“It actually is.” He smiles. “And I’m giving Polly to her new owner in an hour, so I should go clean out her cage.” He gives me a light hug across my shoulders. “I’ll see you later, Maya. I’ll be praying for you with this Jen and Travis thing.” He slides into his car.
“Bye, Jack.”
He waits until I get into my car and put it in reverse before he drives away. Jack’s like that though. Always the gentleman. I get home, and Calvin greets me at the door excitedly.
“Hey, baby,” I say, giving his face a rubdown. “Did you sleep in today?”
“Roo!”
“Good boy!”
It’s about two fifteen and Jen will probably be at work for another three hours. I wander into the kitchen and open the fridge, looking for something to snack on while I start a load of laundry.
I grab an apple and head to my room. I look at my Bible lying on the bedside table and frown while I chew.
It’s my responsibility, not God’s. Andrew’s words are floating through my brain, and I sit on the edge of my bed. Calvin hops up beside me, greedily eyeing the apple.
“Careful, kid, that’s what caused the Fall,” I say, absently patting his head.
I reach for a sticky note.
Reasons I’m Having Trouble with My Devotions:
1.I feel guilty about Jen and Travis.
2. There seems to be a block between me and God Lately.
3.I never feel comforted reading the Bible anymore, only convicted.
4. It’s way easier to see what’s on the Style Network.
“See? There are actual reasons,” I tell Calvin.
I pick up my Bible and thumb through the Psalms. They are supposed to be the comforting chapters, right?
“For my iniquities are gone over my head; as a heavy burden they weigh too much for me.” I blink at Psalm 38:4.
Okay, then. Apparently David felt the same way I do at one time. I take another bite of the apple, thinking.
If I tell Jen that I kept something like this from her for the past month, she’ll be very hurt. She’ll be upset that I didn’t feel like I could tell her. She’ll blame me, herself, and Travis, and everything will just be a big, ugly mess.
If I don’t tell Jen, she won’t be hurt; she won’t be mad; she’ll stay happy; and everything will be great.
But, apparently, keeping my mouth shut is causing problems with my relationship with God.
I glance at Calvin. “Doesn’t it say to confess your sins to God?”
He looks at me
and then the apple. Not much help.
I chew quietly. So it stands to reason, then, that if I confess my sin to God, everything will be fine. Jen doesn’t need to know; my conscience will be clear; and we’ll all live happy, healthy lives.
“Lord,” I say, feeling awkward. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell Jen about Travis. I should have told her in the beginning, but I didn’t because …”
I sigh. Why didn’t I just tell her?
Because you didn’t want to share that torch.
“I didn’t tell her because a part of me still wishes I were with Travis. Wished. Wished, Lord. Past tense. That part is … uh, over. Please forgive me. And please take away this guilty stuff in my stomach. I promise I’ll always tell the truth from now on. And just so You know I’m serious, I’ll stop watching the Style Network and start having devotions every night again.”
I nod. “Amen.”
There. I breathe a sigh of relief. I confessed; God knows; and I’m not watching the Style Network every night anymore.
Things will all get back to normal now. “How sweeeet it is to be loooooved by yooou!”
“Jack, please!” I finish squirting a healthy dose of whipped cream over a double-shot large mocha for a tiny teenage girl who needs more calories.
She giggles at Jack’s off-key sing-along with Michael Buble playing over the speakers in the store.
I hand the infatuated sophomore her drink and turn to Jack. He’s been singing for the past two days. I can take Jack’s voice for about two hours before I start digging in my pocket for a bobby pin to scrape out my eardrums.
At my last count, it had been fifteen hours.
Let’s put it this way: Jack Dominguez is not the next American Idol.
“You don’t like my voice?” he asks sadly.
I wince. “Well, compared to what?” If we’re comparing his singing to an air horn, then yeah, I love his voice.
“Michael Bublé?”
“Um.”
He pouts, but I can tell he’s faking.
“Sorry, Jack. Michael wins.”
He grins. “At least tell me I beat him in looks.”
“You beat him in looks.”
“Well, thanks!” He beams.
I shake my head. “It is ridiculous that giving a parrot to some poor unsuspecting couple makes you this happy.”
“She’s no longer my problem. I sent her off with a wave and a song.”
“No, there was no a song. Endless songs.” I rub my forehead.
“You know, if I didn’t have such a secure self-esteem, you’d be seriously damaging it, Pattertwig.”
“Could you maybe just whistle for a few minutes? Or better yet, let Michael sing while you make coffee quietly?”
“Ouch.” He rubs his heart. “That stings.”
“Sorry.”
He’s quiet for all of three minutes. Michael’s rendition of the Motown classic “How Sweet It Is” ends, and Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” begins. There’s the happy chatter of twenty-some-odd people visiting over lattes and MixUps.
“In other wooorrdsssss, please be truuuuee!”
“Jack!”
He starts laughing. Two girls sitting at the bar giggle. A grin slips out in spite of myself.
He grabs my hands and starts whirling me around behind the counter in a fifties-inspired swing dance. “Fill my heart with soonngggg,” he sings, haphazardly twirling me past the espresso machine.
I’m giggling now. The big-band music finishes, and he catches me by the sink. The people sitting at the bar and at the few tables right by the counter start clapping.
“Thank you! We’ll be here all week,” he says, bowing. “Go ahead, Maya, take a bow.”
I roll my eyes and laugh, trying to catch my breath. “Get away from me.”
He spreads his hands to the people. “Come back next week for our Polka Fever festivities.”
I snap a towel at him. “You are insane!”
Alisha walks in then, looks at everyone laughing and Jack bowing, and shakes her head. She smiles at Jack. “I take it you’re sleeping better now.”
He grins happily. “Yup.”
“Welcome back. It’s nice to have you coherent again.”
“You might want to remind Maya of that,” Jack says.
Alisha looks at me as I hand her an americano. “He won’t stop singing,” I tattle.
“Didn’t I tell you no singing in here when there’re customers?” Alisha teases.
He shrugs. “I guess I forgot.”
“I’ll let it slide this once.” She sips her drink. “This is perfect. Got the inventory list for me, kids?”
We go over the list and sales figures, and she picks up our time cards. “Lovely,” she says, putting her sunglasses back on her face. “Maya, have a good day. Jack, behave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She grins.
Jack turns to me after she leaves. “So, you’re doing better.”
I nod. Last night before I went to bed, I opened my Bible and read all about burnt offerings in Leviticus. And while it honestly wasn’t that interesting, it made me keep thinking about this whole idea of giving up stuff. So, I kept my promise and didn’t turn on the Style Network. Even though I missed a brand-new episode of How Do I Look?
“I confessed everything,” I tell him in a quiet voice, so all the customers don’t overhear.
Jack’s eyebrows raise. “Wow! How’d she take it?”
“No, not to Jen. To God.”
He gives me a look. “Wait, so you confessed everything to God. What about Jen?”
“Well, it says confess your sins to God, so I did. And I gave up watching the Style Network, and I’m going to read my Bible instead.”
“Uh-huh.” Jack clears his throat. “So, that’s it?”
“Yep.”
“No more anxiety?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“No more guilt?”
“Well, eventually there won’t be any.” That’s what I decided anyway. No more guilt, no more confusing feelings about Travis. It’s all a matter of deciding to move on. Right?
“And you gave up watching the Style Network,” he repeats. “How does that fit into this?”
“Well, it doesn’t really. It’s just my way of showing God that I’m serious.”
“Nutkin. I’m not a theological genius or anything — ”
“Yeah?”
“But I think you might have a sort of skewed view here.”
“Do you think I should give up TLC, too? I debated it, but I really like Stacy and Clinton.”
He shakes his head. “How about you talk to Andrew about this tonight at Bible study?”
“About what?”
“Just the whole ‘giving up stuff to compensate’ thing.” He touches my shoulder. “I think he’ll probably be able to help more than me.”
I shrug. It makes sense to me. I’m not explaining it to Jack very well, apparently. “Okay,” I say, just to pacify him. I walk over to the register to greet a new customer. “Hi there.”
“Hi. A small coffee, please.”
I’m wandering the aisles of our local grocery store at five thirty that night. Norah Jones is playing softly over the speakers, and I can hear a mom shushing her kids in the aisle next to me. I’ve got a bag of Calvin’s dog food in the basket, and now I’m staring at the cereal section.
Remember when there were only like five different kinds of kids’ cereal and all of them were advertised on the cartoon channels? I gape at the fifty different kinds of sugar-filled, colorful cereal that all claim to be part of a healthy breakfast.
Right.
I pick up a box of Mini-Wheats and decide that’s healthy enough for me.
“No, Wayne, I told them that our clients’ cases have the utmost privacy, not at most privacy.”
Harried voice, talking about clients, the word Wayne — it couldn’t be anyone but my lovely roommate in the next aisle over.
I push my ba
sket around the corner to go say hi and stop right before she sees me.
Jen’s not alone. Travis has a small carrying basket in his left hand and Jen’s hand in his right. Jen’s rolling her eyes at him as she talks to her boss.
“Yes. Yes, Wayne. Okay. All right. Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hangs up with a groan. “I’m sorry,” she sighs to Travis.
He gives her a gentle smile. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie. Is he okay?”
“Is he ever okay?”
He laughs. She smiles and scoots a little closer to him. They stop and face the pasta section.
“What sounds good for dinner, babe?” Travis asks, pulling her close and kissing her temple.
We are still in a grocery store, right? Not a gazebo in the park?
“Mmm. Fettuccine?”
“Good choice. Maybe with chicken and some fresh vegetables?”
“Sounds perfect,” Jen says, smiling into his eyes.
I silently slink back into the cereal aisle as he leans down to kiss her. I make a face. Good grief. Do people really want to see someone make out in the pasta section? I think not. Unless it’s Lady and the Tramp, I think kissing parties should avoid pasta.
Never in my life have I heard asking about fettuccine with chicken as a prompt to pucker up. Maybe it’s the new pickup line. “Hey, do you like fettuccine?”
Lord, help me remember. No guilt, and Travis is history! He can kiss whomever he wants. Still … it’s hard not to remember what it was like… .
I put the Mini-Wheats back. Tonight requires something serious.
I fill the cart with a box of Cocoa Puffs, a bag of marshmal-lows, Oreos, peanut butter, and a rental copy of My Best Friend’s Wedding.
I wait until Jen and Travis have checked out before I approach the cash register.
“Bad day?” the lady asks me.
“No.”
“Sure.” She tells me the total. “Enjoy your evening.”
“Thanks.” I grab my sugar-laden bags and head to the car. Bible study starts in almost three hours. That gives me plenty of time to go have a bowl of cereal and start the movie, especially since Jen is apparently otherwise occupied.
I get home, greet Calvin, kick off my shoes, and pour a bowl of chocolate.
