"You got it, babe," Garrett yells back.
Oh, the humanity! He's like a neutered barista.
"Hey, can you make me one, too?" I ask.
"Make your own," he says.
Whew. The real Garrett is still in there somewhere. I shrug and walk out of the kitchen.
"Oh, come on," says Cappie. "Don't go away mad, Blake. Just go away. No, I'm kidding. Blake! Hey!"
I step back in. "What?"
"I'll fix you a shake," she says, smiling.
I study her. Very few of her teeth are showing, which reassures me. "Really?"
"Sure. How hard can it be?"
Garrett pours his concoction into two glasses, he and Cappie clink, and they each take sips.
"Ahh, perfect," says Cappie. "Now I'll make one for your brother, and we can break bread, or dairy products, together like civilized people."
She steps over to the blender and examines it as if it's a NASA control panel. Picking up the ice cream scoop from the counter, she plunges it into the carton of chocolate chip ice cream and digs around inside. She pulls the scoop back out a little too forcefully, and a huge glob of ice cream goes flying across the room.
The Dog Formerly Known as Prince, who has been lurking under the table all casual-like, makes his move. He snarfs up the ice cream, shuddering a little at the cold.
"Cappie, Blake can make his own," says Garrett. "Don't even bother."
"No, no. I want to do it. It can be a peace offering. I've been cranky with him."
Garrett and I watch her slop around in the melting ice cream, getting it all over her hands and even a little on her face. Then she dumps way too much milk into the blender and reaches for the switch.
"Wait!" yells Garrett, but he's too late. Cappie flips the switch, forgetting the lid, and ice creamy liquid shoots out of the blender like a scene from a movie. She bangs off the switch.
The counter, the floor, and Cappie are coated in milk and flecks of chocolate.
The Dog Formerly Known as Prince wags his tail and makes his way over to her, all helpful.
I laugh so hard I fall on the floor.
***
The beach is cold.
Not just cold like, Brr, wish I'd worn my heavy coat.
Cold like, Ohmygod where's my hat and gloves, oh that's right, I'm wearing them, but they're drenched from the rain! And the coat feels more like a T-shirt because the wind is knifing through it.
That kind of cold.
We take turns holding umbrellas over one another so we can point our cameras without getting them wet. And forget about trying to get shots of the horizon because ... where is it? All we can see is a solid wall of dark gray meeting medium gray topped with light gray.
I've never gone to the beach before and had exactly zero percent fun. Today is that day. I'm sure most of our shots will be blurry from us shivering as we tried to focus. A couple of people go to the trouble of setting up tripods in the sand. Maybe they'll have better luck.
Marissa even attempts to build a sandcastle.
"Dude, it's getting washed away by the rain even as you build it," I comment.
"No, it's not," she says. "I totally love castles, don't you? I'm going to travel all over Europe after high school and see lots of castles. Think of the photo ops!"
I grunt. "The only castle I've ever seen was the one at Disneyland."
She laughs. "You can come to Europe with me." She sticks a tiny piece of driftwood on top of the mound of sand, like a flag. "There. Finished." She stands up, the knees of her jeans soaked. "Take a picture of me with my castle, please? My hands are sandy. I don't want to get any on my camera."
I try to stop shivering long enough to shoot a couple of photos of her and the blobby castle.
After an hour of sandy slogging, Mr. Malloy herds us back to the bus and makes the driver stop at a Coffee Jones, where he buys every single one of us a hot chocolate. That's pretty cool of him. And I'll say this for Beret Boy: he didn't bitch once about the weather. He held umbrellas, he offered encouragement, and he pointed out angles that we were too busy being wet and cold to even notice.
We drape our wet coats over the seats at the back of the bus and put our wet shoes in a circle near the heating vent. We warm our hands on our hot chocolates and giggle together like people who've survived a brush with the elements.
The bus warms up on the drive back. Mr. Malloy banned electronics on the trip, which seems totally power mad. Come on, an hour and a half without iPods or Game Boys?
A few people skulk to the back so they can text furtively on their cells. Others play cards, but most of us gather around Nate, who brought his guitar. It's all very Woodstock, only we're covered in sand instead of mud.
Marissa finishes her hot chocolate and sighs with satisfaction. A slight smile curves her lips as she listens to Nate play the guitar. After a few minutes she wanders off to a seat by herself. She wipes the fog off her window and stares out at the passing scenery.
I listen to Nate pluck out another song, then I join Marissa.
"How ya doin'?" I ask.
"Good." She smiles lazily at me. "Isn't it pretty out there?" She indicates the trees. "I wish I had a camcorder. I would let it run for the whole drive. Then I could watch the trees and the fields and cows and stuff go blurring by anytime I wanted." She slides down in the seat and closes her eyes. "But I'm so sleepy. I'm going to close my eyes for a minute. My mom and I were up late last night. She's not ready for bed when she gets off work, so I stay up and talk to her."
"What's your mom's job?"
"She's working downtown, cleaning office buildings at night after everyone leaves."
Huh. Good for her."
She hates it," mumbles Marissa, yawning.
I feel kind of sleepy, too. I think about moving to a different seat, but I'm too lazy to even do that. I slide down and close my eyes. A few minutes later Marissa's head drops against my shoulder.
We wake up when the drone of the motor stops. Our day of perspective and texture is over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Owning a fancy camera doesn't make you a photographer
It just makes you the owner of a fancy camera.
—Spike McLernon's Laws of Photography
"Happy, slappy, toe-tappy Friday to you, people. The weekend is anon. That's a word meaning 'soon,' according to my ever-present and effervescent advisor, Mr. Hamilton." There's a muffled voice in the background, and Cappie adds, "From the Middle English." Then she cracks up, and a male voice joins in her laughter.
"Is that Mr. Hamilton?" asks Shannon.
"Where?"
"On the radio. In the background," says Shannon. "It sounds like him."
"I don't know."
We're eating lunch with Riley and Kaylee—West Park High's newest BF-GF couple. Jasmine stopped by at the beginning of lunch, but she left after a few minutes. Probably feels like a fifth wheel. That must suck.
Cappie's voice rings out again. "I've got a giftie for you nifty listeners. From 1993, when you were still a dream, just a gleam in your parents' eyes, here's 'Laid,' by James."
We listen for a minute. I've never heard this song before, but it shreds! The guy is wailing about his bed being on fire with passionate love, and his girlfriend only coming when she's on top; then he starts doing this wild "eeeeeee" kind of yodel. Cappie may be a freak, but she knows her music.
Shannon lowers her voice. "Do you think there's something going on with them?"
"Who?"
"Cappie and Mr. Hamilton."
"What?"
"She always seems very cozy with him."
"He's a teacher. "
"He's a hot teacher."
"Shannon!"
"I'm just saying."
"She acts cozy with a lot of guys," I say. I haven't told anyone about Cappie and Garrett, because, well, I'm pretty sure she's capable of removing my entrails through my rectum, and I don't need that.
Riley and Kaylee aren't paying any attention—they
're in their own little world at the moment, their heads close together as they share an iPod and a cup of pudding. We eat lunch in companionable silence for a minute; then Shannon says, "My grandma is in the hospital again."
"Oh, no. Is she going to be okay?"
"Yes," she says firmly. "We Gold women are tough."
"Gold? Your last name isn't Gold."
"No. It's my grandma's name. Before she married my grandpa. Anyway, we come from a long line of tough women. Grandma's been in the hospital before, and she always gets better."
"Oh. Well, good." I hold her hand. "I always knew you were gold."
Shannon has a faraway look in her eyes. "My great-grandma came over to America from Ireland. Did I ever tell you that?"
"No." Maybe I should try that "gold" line again. I don't think she heard it.
"She came over here when she was seventeen—can you imagine? She worked as a maid in a big New York hotel."
"Huh."
"She married a Jew, Harold Gold, which is where we got the name. It was scandalous back then."
Of course."
"So don't mess with me!" she says all of a sudden, mock-ferocious. "The blood of the Gold women runs in my veins!"
"Ugh. Blood," I say, turning over her hand to study the veins in her wrist. "Look! It's right there." I point to the veins. "I can see it!"
***
"You'll never believe what happened at the ME's office today," says Garrett.
"Shut up, I'm busy," I say. I'm the current high scorer in Splat-tercrash 3—Gore Galore.
"No, listen, you'll love this," he says.
My dad always thinks we're going to love his gross stories, too.
"So Dad's working on this guy. The dirty guy, we call him."
Sigh. I can't drive this virtual ambulance when Garrett is yammering. I hit pause.
"He's all filthy and greasy-haired. He's got hollow teeth, even! And the ones that aren't hollow are just black stubs."
I make a face, rubbing my mouth.
"Anyway, he doesn't have any track marks, so he doesn't seem to be a junkie. Dad's gotta figure out why he kicked off. But first he notices this bump on the guy's face, looks like a bruise or something. Dad's thinking, Huh, wonder what this is? and he scrapes at it with his knife, and blam! All this gray pus starts splurting out."
"Aauugggh!" I scream.
Garrett cracks up. "It's the first time I've ever seen Dad grossed out. He does this little squeamed-out dance, his arms all—" Garrett demonstrates a thoroughly icked-out Medical Examiner Move. Something you don't see very often, I'm guessing.
"Garrett?" I say.
"Yes."
"I don't need to hear that shit. In fact, I could have gone the rest of my life without hearing the story of the dirty guy. Okay?"
"Come on, it's funny! Can't you picture Dad?" He demonstrates the grossed-out jig again.
This time I do laugh. I can't help it. I'm a Hewson.
***
The aroma of roasting turkey floats upstairs, where I'm on the phone with Shannon. "I wish you were here," I say, sprawling on my bed.
"Me, too," she sighs.
Even though she's miles away from me, the sound of her breath in my ear gives me wood. "Let's do something tomorrow," I say. "Go to a movie or something."
"I can't."
Why not?"
"I'm getting up early to go Christmas shopping. It's a family tradition. The day after Thanksgiving is when they have the best sales." She pauses and says with a little catch in her voice, "I can't believe Grandma won't be able to go this year. She loves the sales. And she always buys us hot chocolate and we sit and watch the ice skaters in the Meriwether Mall."
"Aw. Sorry, babe."
She sniffs. "We're going to take her some Thanksgiving dinner in the hospital."
That's nice."
We're quiet for a moment.
"Hey, Blake? I was talking to Ellie the other day. About ... things. She was very, um, helpful."
Things?"
I hear someone calling her in the background.
"Oh! I've got to go," she says. "The cousins are here."
Wait! What about Ellie? What things?"
Nothing. Never mind."
Synapses are firing in my hot little brain. Talking about things with Ellie. Ellie who is allegedly doing it with her boyfriend. "No, don't go yet! WHAT THINGS?!"
She snickers. "I can't say right now. Hi, Lainie!"
"Call me later, then!"
"I will."
Small silence.
"Bye," she says.
"Bye."
I hang up, noticing the silent I love yous suspended in midair.
***
The traditional Thanksgiving gluttony is over and we're all lying around like tranquilized rhinos.
Mom is on the phone with Nonna. "Me, too, Ma. I can't wait. Kiss Poppy for me. I'll call you next week."
We're going to New York for Christmas break to visit the grandparents. Mom's so happy that I can't help but feel happy, too, even though this means missing Christmas and my birthday with Shannon.
That's right. I have the stupidest birthday ever invented: December 26. What day of the year do people least want to give someone a present? Correct! The day after Christmas. I can't tell you how many combo-presents I've gotten over the years. And! To add insult to injury, this means I will turn sixteen three thousand miles away from my sweetness.
I've been harboring a secret fantasy that Shannon's Christmas present to me will be ... Shannon. And I could give her every inch o' my love, in the immortal words of Led Zep.
Ever since her casual "who knows?" comment, and now especially after she's had her talk with Ellie about "things," Houston and I have been on high alert, all systems go, waiting for the countdown to blastoff.
Dang. I guess I'd better buy her a real gift.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When attaching accessory lenses, be sure to attach securely
If the lens becomes loose and falls off, it may crack,
and the shards of glass may cause cuts.
—Mitsu ProShot I.S. 5.3 camera guide, 2007
I hate to contribute to the swelling of Garrett's head. He already thinks he's an expert on women. But Christmas is coming up fast, and I still have no idea what to get for Shannon.
Finally I break down and ask him. "Man, what do girls want?"
He looks up from the book he's reading. "Huh?"
"For presents. What do girls want?"
"Oh," he says, putting down his book. "For a second, I thought you meant something more profound. In which case, my answer would have been: no one knows. And also: no one will ever know. And finally: don't even try to figure it out."
"Garrett," I say with a pained look. "Buddy. Leave the comedy to me, okay? You're gonna sprain something. Seriously. That looked like it hurt. You okay, man?"
He narrows his eyes and goes back to his book. Maybe I should have let him have his "joke."
Because now I'm on my own again for gift ideas.
***
"Mom, what should I get Shannon for Christmas?"
Mom is lying on the floor in corpse pose. Not that she's pretending to be a corpse; that's what they call it in yoga.
"Blake, I'm in savasana."
"I know. Corpse pose." It's like I'm the only one in this family not obsessed with corpses.
"That means I'm trying to be completely still and achieve mental balance."
"Right!"
"So can it wait?"
"Sure." I sit down on the couch.
After a minute Mom opens one eye and looks at me.
"Are you almost balanced?" I whisper.
She closes the eye again. "Blake!" Then she sighs and says, "Think about what Shannon likes to do."
Hmm. I ponder. What does Shannon like to do? She plays soccer, but soccer is finished now. She likes to read, but buying her a book seems boring. She does something musical ... piano, maybe? "I think she plays piano."
"Y
ou think she does, or she does?"
"Um."
Mom opens her eyes and sits up.
"Are you balanced?" I ask hopefully. Maybe she can give me some ideas now.
"I'm as balanced as I'll ever be. Blake, you know Shannon better than I do. Better than most people, probably. Think of what she likes to do—not what you think she likes to do—then go to the mall and see if you get any ideas."
"But I hate shopping!"
"Then don't get her anything," she says impatiently. She gets to her feet and rolls up her yoga mat.
Strike two.
***
"Hey, Dad?"
Yeah, bud."
What do girls like?"
He looks bewildered for a moment. "Uh..."
For presents. I'm trying to think of a Christmas present for Shannon."
"Oh!" The relief on his face would be funny if not for what he says next: "Go ask your mom. I have no idea."
***
"Mrs. DeWinter?" Truly: I am that desperate.
"Yes?"
"Hi, it's Blake."
Silence.
"Shannon's b—...uh, friend."
"Yes."
Nothing. She gives me nothing! No "Hi," no "How are you?" not even a "What the hell do you want?"
"I wondered if I could, um, ask you something."
"Yes?"
Ohmygod, she has said only one word so far. Three times.
"I was wondering if you ... what you think, um ... what Shannon might like for Christmas."
Silence.
"From me, I mean." I wipe my hand across my forehead. This is a first: a phone call making me sweat.
"Oh. From you." Her voice is as flat as a pane of glass.
"Yeah. For Christmas." Oh, please, I think. Have a heart. Help me out here.
"There is something," Mrs. DeWinter says reluctantly. "Her father and I were going to get it for her." She pauses. "But maybe ... yes, maybe it would be nice coming from you."
I wait, holding my breath.
"There's a necklace she saw in the mall."
"Oh?" Now we're getting somewhere!
"Do you know that jewelry store in the mall? Metals?"
"I can find it."
"She saw a necklace in the window that she liked."
"Great! Which one?"
"Oh, you'll know it when you see it," says Mrs. DeWinter. Is she smiling? Her voice sounds like she's smiling.
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