by Gae Polisner
It’s not that all this love is too much for one person—like me—and it’s not because I’m too sensitive or I cry too easily; it’s because, for some people, life is so unfair.
I heard your story before I even knew who you were.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, there is another kid with a summer birthday, a boy, and he is standing next to me, and I am holding cupcakes. The boy is little as I am, but he already comes with a big story, a story I had heard around the neighborhood, about his family, about him, about his older brother. I heard a story from kids at school, from my own sister, and believe me, it wasn’t a good one. I wasn’t looking straight at him and he hadn’t even spoken to me yet, but I already knew the story wasn’t true.
“Hey, Lukas, you too?” Joy said, following me to the front of the room, where Mr. Carter was motioning for us.
“Me too, what?” I asked, even though I should have known, but this was way back in second grade.
“August,” she said. “Both of us! See?”
“Oh yeah, right.” She was talking about our birthdays.
“What day is yours?” she asked, and when I said mine and it turned out to be only two days after hers, she said, “How weird is that? What are the chances?”
All of this happened on the last day of school, because Mr. Carter, our teacher, had told us he’d use the last day of school for summer birthdays. That way, we’d get the same treats and attention the other kids got. No one even stood up when he called July. Then he called August, and her and me both stood up and headed to the front of the room.
I knew her name well, of course—Joy Fonseca. But even though we’d been in class together a whole year, and even though her family’s apartment was in the building right next to ours in Dolphin Gardens, that was the first real thing she ever said to me, the first time it seemed like she wanted to be talking to me on purpose, at least.
Hey, Lukas, you too?…What are the chances?
I remember it all perfectly, how she was skinny and small, and had this gigantic Tupperware container filled with homemade cupcakes, vanilla and chocolate, all swirled with thick tie-dye frosting, she was trying to maneuver. And I had a shoebox of slice-and-bake cookies I had made with my brother’s help, because I hadn’t told Mom my birthday was going to be celebrated.
Weird how those few seconds stay in my head. The sugar smell of her cupcakes wafting up, the way she said her words all stiff and formal, which can still sound more like a grown-up’s than a kid’s.
What are the chances? Both of us in August, she had said, or something like that.
I had answered with math. Or tried to. “Well, twenty-two kids divided by twelve months is…” But I couldn’t finish the problem that was forming in my head.
“You’ve got the right idea, Lukas,” Mr. Carter had said, stepping up to pat me on the back. “There’s definitely a math problem to be solved here.”
But not by me, at least not back then. Luckily, Joy didn’t care. She just laughed, getting what I was trying to do.
I still got embarrassed, and my words trailed off, and my face went hot, and my hands got all gross and clammy.
“You good at math, Lukas?” Joy had said, but it was more like she was telling me than asking. Then she had reached a hand up to flip her thick brown hair off her face and nearly dropped her container, with all the pretty rainbow cupcakes about to spill out. I quickly hoisted my shoebox under my arm so I could help her. “But it must be less than that, right?” she added once we’d secured things. “Because we’re both in August, so that makes it out of eleven months, not twelve.”
She had giggled, unsure of herself, but we knew right then that we both liked math pretty good, which is part of what got us hanging out together. For the rest of that whole summer, and after that. Math and word puzzles and riddles and scavenger hunts and playing outside the Dolphin Garden Apartments on the strip of grass with the swings. Even in the years that came after, when we didn’t actually wind up in classes together.
That day, in Mr. Carter’s class, was the day that sealed it. I had put my shoebox down and took her big plastic container for her, holding it while we walked the rows of desks together, her doling out those tie-dye-swirl cupcakes.
Afterward, she’d said, “Thanks, Lukas, you’re nice,” her voice rising on those last two words, almost like she was surprised or asking a question.
Like it took her a whole school year to realize it.
Later she explained how everyone talked about us—Mom and Justin and me—because my dad was dead and my mom worked so much, and so Justin and me were alone a lot of the time, off in the playground or skateboarding down Main Street, and younger than other kids whose parents might let them hang out alone. Except I wasn’t alone, because Justin was always watching me. But probably from the corner or something sometimes, so he could talk to his friends and I didn’t have to feel like such a baby anymore.
“Not to be mean or gossipy or anything,” Joy had cleared up. “More like because people worry about you and your brother…because you have no dad and all.”
And, anyway, by the end of third grade, Mom was dating Rand, and he was great at first, so it was almost like we had a dad, so maybe people wouldn’t talk about us anymore. But then he moved in and started to show his true drinking colors and so everyone pretty much knew—or, worse, heard because of their fighting. So, yeah, he could be a jerk, but he could also be good and helpful and fun, so it was harder than you’d think to get rid of him.
“But you’re nice, not wild…not a troublemaker,” Joy had said to me that first summer, a few weeks after school ended, and we were hanging out a lot together.
“What if I’m both?” I asked, probably wanting to sound tougher than I was.
She kicked a pebble in my direction. “Then I like you even better,” she had said.
I smile, thinking about that now as I lock our front door and step outside into the bright sunshine.
The good thing about not being rich anymore is you live closer to town, practically right on the edge of it. I head across the grass, past the swings, around the corner, and toward Main Street, picking up my pace toward Vincent’s.
I don’t know what in the world tells me this is a good idea, but it’s too late now. It’s done. I did it. I opened the envelope. And now I’m going to read it.
Here goes.
It’s okay. I’m not going to do anything. I’m just going to read it.
It’s not about money
But it is about dough.
In a world with no dolphins,
Surely, you’ll know.
P.S. Starting easy. Basically a “gimme.” You’re welcome.
Find the table with the other kind of PIe.
There. I read it.
I stare down at his handwriting, which I’d know anywhere, and, yeah, it hurts. It’s like someone has a clamp and it’s pressing down on my ribs, squeezing my heart, but I can still breathe, which is a good sign.
I am whelmed. But not overwhelmed.
And, yes, that’s a word, thank you very much.
At first, and for a long time, whenever I thought about that day, about what happened, I’d be crying so hard, my lungs tightened and no air could get in. It was once so bad, my dad had to rush me to the emergency room. The closer we got to the hospital, the more and more I thought I was going to die.
They told us, at the hospital, it was a panic attack.
So now I know.
And now I can breathe.
So I look down at the clue again.
Basically a “gimme.” You’re welcome.
You’re right. Thank you. This is an easy one.
Vincent’s Pizza.
It’s where we eat sometimes, on weekends or after school. I haven’t stepped foot in there, not once. Since. But I know exactly
where Lukas means, and not just the restaurant, but which exact booth. I bet it’s the one by the window that looks out to the landing, and for a tiny second I think I can taste on my tongue sweet pineapples doused in white sauce.
The worst, I know. I know!
Of course, I was making money babysitting before Lukas got that job walking dogs. But eventually he was making more money than I was watching people’s kids, their human kids. You’d be surprised how many people around here will pay someone just to take their dog for a walk and pick up the poop in a plastic bag. But, at first, I had all the money. I made twenty-one dollars in one Saturday afternoon, and the first place we went was Vincent’s Pizza.
Third booth on the right.
“Jolie, you okay in there?” It’s my mom, outside my bedroom door.
I guess they worried when it got quiet, when I stopped picking out notes on the guitar. There was a long time they made me keep my door open whenever I was alone in my room. I sure don’t want that to happen again.
“I’m fine, Mommy.”
I slip Lukas’s note back into the envelope, hide it under my pillow, and pick up the guitar again. It’s actually not that hard. There is a diagram in the book Natalia got me that shows you where to put your fingers. I’ve already learned two chords. I try to open my mouth and sing the words, but I can’t. I hold on to the neck, press down on the strings, and, with my other hand, strum, up and down, across the guitar.
“Just practicing,” I call out.
I move my fingers around and try another chord, but I keep looking down at the pillow. I can’t help but wonder, and soon as I wonder, then wonder turns into a wish, and a wish quickly becomes anxiety.
What if his clue is still there?
Waiting for me.
It couldn’t be. And even if that one is there, there’s no guarantee that any of the others would still be where he put them. A year later? No way. Reading the clue was one thing, but what I’m thinking now is a bad idea.
Should I go find the second one?
My parents would never let me go look. That, I know for sure. Even if it didn’t require heading from place to place, not knowing where I was going or how I was going to get there, my parents aren’t exactly loosey-goosey when it comes to letting me wander around by myself.
Besides, all the clues can’t still be there.
Can they?
My breathing feels tight.
But then again, what if they are? What if the clues are just waiting out there in the world?
What if I can find them?
I bet Lukas was really clever about where he hid the clues. He is smart, really smart. Smarter than anyone I know. Than anyone gives him credit for. Except me.
And I know it sounds stupid, but I always kind of dreamed he and I would get married one day, which probably explains some of the things that came flying out of my mouth, which I am already starting to forget.
Cupcakes and scavenger hunts and holes in the sand.
It can’t hurt to look.
I owe him that much.
I shut the Ariana Grande easy-chord songbook, lean my new red birthday guitar carefully against my bed, grab my wallet, and stuff Lukas’s first clue deep into the back pocket of my jeans, because whelmed is decidedly better than overwhelmed.
It’s hard to walk through the jingle-jangling door of Vincent’s Pizza with no money, because it smells so good and I haven’t eaten yet today, so I’m starving. But I spent my savings on Joy’s gift, so I’m going to have to suck it up for now.
So many thoughts hit me with the good smells, and all of them make me happy. Like the time in fifth grade Joy bet me five dollars I couldn’t eat a large pizza with pepperoni and onions all by myself, and I had to prove I could, so we stayed there for a whole three hours while I finished.
“Bet your stomach is hurting pretty bad,” she said when we were walking home.
“Is not,” I insisted. Then we both got quiet, and she started laughing because I was practically running, I had to get home to the bathroom so bad.
Or the other time we decided to order slices with all the gross things on them we never usually eat, like mushrooms and pineapple and Alfredo sauce. We each got to pick the other person’s toppings, and Jairo was willing to make it, so I ended up with artichokes, which are gross enough, but pineapple with Alfredo sauce is more disgusting. Joy laughed so hard trying to eat that, the pineapple-flavored white sauce came shooting out her nose.
But mostly what hits me right now is how hungry I am.
Jairo is working today, so I could ask him to spot me a slice, and he would. He’s Justin’s friend Neco’s older brother, and he’s, like, twenty already, and way more responsible than Neco. Pretty much the nicest guy in the world. He’s worked at Vincent’s since high school, so now he’s a manager and could do it, but since I’m about to “deface the property,” like the sign over the garbage pail says not to do, it doesn’t feel right accepting a slice of pizza for free.
It’s lunchtime, so at least the place is busy enough to take the attention off me, but not so busy that I can’t get the table I wanted by myself, which is also good luck. I head toward it, our table, the one we sit at most, whenever it’s free. The one where I ate the whole pizza and she ate the pineapple and Alfredo. That’s the exact table I need.
I slide into the side facing out to the water and open the newspaper someone left here. I pretend I’m reading and waiting for food.
I turn pages importantly, then twist to see the counter. Jairo is back there, yelling orders. He doesn’t see me, and there are, like, seven people lined up, so I slip my pocketknife out, the one Dad bought Justin when he was in fifth grade, and then Justin gave me for Christmas last year, because now he has a new one, a deluxe, with twelve different things on it, including pliers, a screwdriver, and a bottle opener.
I look up out at the water in the distance, my brain thinking about the best way to carve the clue. But then I wonder about Justin and Chance, and if they’re already out on the Angler. And suddenly I’m thinking about Rand and the first time he took us out, right after he moved in with us.
* * *
Crack of dawn, Saturday, Rand, Justin, and me pile into Rand’s truck. We have a cooler full of sandwiches and fresh-baked cookies with us, because last night Mom was making a whole big deal about it, like we weren’t just heading to the Point. Now, since there’s no back seat for us kids, she stands at the truck window saying goodbye all anxious and stuff, making Rand promise to drive careful and slow and to please not drink any beer.
Just as we’re about to pull out, we notice how the sun is coming up, slashing the deep blue horizon with pink, and lavender, and gold. So Mom puts her hand on Rand’s on the wheel, and he turns off the engine, and we all get out and sit on the hood, because it’s way too pretty not to watch. “Like God himself is painting it,” Mom whispers, holding tight to Rand’s hand, but I wonder if she’s thinking about Dad.
Later, on the Angler in the middle of the bay, we choose our sandwiches and sodas, and we’re eating and talking and having fun. And then Rand has a beer in his hand, I don’t even know where from. And he’s drinking it, so him and Justin are fighting, then Justin and me are fighting, because Justin says he’s gonna tell Mom, and I’m saying, “Let’s don’t tell her, because she has enough problems without having to deal with that.”
* * *
Right on this table, there’s stuff carved everywhere, so I don’t feel too bad, even if there is a NO DEFACING sign. Dumb stuff and funny stuff and rude stuff, and lots of names and initials carved inside of hearts.
I trace my finger along one of those, mad that my brain is thinking about doing that instead—carving L.B. + J.F. inside some dopey heart just to see what it might look like there, all permanent like that. But what if she saw it? So I’d have to just scratch it right away. Besides, I have to
get this clue done, so I pull the newspaper over my hand and dig in. The wood of the table gives easily under the blade, but the curves of the 3 are still hard to get smooth so small, and with my face bent over what I’m doing, I nearly nick myself in the nose, trying.
“How you doing, Lukas?”
I have a heart attack, drop the knife on the table, and flatten my palm. The newspaper drifts and settles over my hand. Jairo stands over me. “You here alone, kid? Eating anything?” He puts a container of red pepper flakes down on my table. A lemony-smelling rag is squeezed in his other hand.
“No, just waiting,” I stammer, then add some more information because I don’t like to lie, so I need to prop it up with a little truth. “It’s Joy’s birthday tomorrow….And we do this thing. Like a treasure hunt, kind of. I know that sounds dumb. But I came here to hide one of the clues.” Leaving the knife under the newspaper, I slide my hand out, reach in my pocket, and hold out the folded next clue to him. “I was going to tape this here, under the table, if it’s okay? It’ll be gone by tomorrow, promise. She’ll know to come in here and find it.”
He unfolds the paper, leaving the black 2 in my chicken scrawl staring down at me like the mark of Zorro.
“ ‘Half up half down what’s old,’ ” he reads aloud, with no breaks or pauses where he needs to, which messes with the rhythm and the rhyme scheme, making my words, the whole clue, sound really stupid. “ ‘Is now new. Ask for her by name, eight-four-three-two.’ ” He hands the paper back to me. “I don’t get it.”
“Yeah,” I say, my ears reddening. “You didn’t exactly read it right. But she will.”
“Suit yourself,” Jairo says. “So, you want a slice?”
I nod, feeling bad. “Sure, I would. But I don’t have any money today.”
“Ah, gotcha. No worries. It’s on me. Just pay it forward,” he says.
When he goes back to put my slice in the oven, I pull the small roll of tape from my pocket and seal the clue under the table, then finish carving the rest of the numbers in:
