Here, There, Everywhere Page 4

  Screw it, I thought, and started walking over to her. Realizing she was going to have to deal with me, she approached me as well. We met at the edge of the seating area.

  She spoke in a loud whisper. “What are you doing here? I specifically canceled my order yesterday.”

  I matched her loud whisper. “Yes, you did. We’re just offering a complimentary cup of tomato bisque soup and a triple chocolate brownie as a way to say thanks for your business.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she peered at me over her red frames. “Triple chocolate brownie?” she asked, attempting to hide her interest.

  “It’s made with all-natural ingredients. The chocolate is imported from—”

  She cut me off, grabbing the box from my hands. “I’ll take it. Thank you.” She spun back into the common room and hissed at Rose. “Play something cheerful, you’re upsetting the residents.”

  I looked over to Rose, who hadn’t noticed I was there yet. She smiled tightly, then transitioned straight into “If You’re Happy and You Know It” without missing a note. Missy tried rousing the crowd by singing the words and acting them out, only to be met by a few off-timed claps, thuds, and groans.

  “Why don’t we get special deliveries? The food here tastes like horseshit!” yelled the Tom Jones Cackling Woman from yesterday. The two old ladies beside her grumbled in agreement.

  Missy whipped around on her heel. “Letty Kowalczyk, if you don’t watch your language, you’ll need to stay in your room during activity time.”

  “Oh, go on!” called Letty. “You know this place would be duller than a pig’s ass without me!”

  Missy took a deep breath and turned to one of the nurses on duty. “Please remind Mrs. Kowalczyk that her profanity upsets the residents and is inappropriate in group settings.” She clipped away toward her office, opening the cardboard box as she went.

  “Of course, Ms. Stouffer,” said the nurse, though Ms. Stouffer was already well out of hearing range by then.

  Letty glanced at her two sidekicks and rolled her eyes.

  By the look of things in the room now, Rose was on the “if you’re happy and you know it, fall asleep” verse. I checked the clock. Almost three o’clock on the dot. Rose would be finishing soon. That meant—what? Run up to her, drop the box on the ground, and run away? No way. Loser move. I’d have to say something first. “My name is Zeus. I’ve brought you a brownie.” No, too formal. “I’ve been watching you play. I brought you a brownie.” That made me sound like a stalker. “Hey, what’s up? My name’s Zeus.” Perfect. Then go for the handshake and compliment her playing. Solid plan. Smooth as silk. Anything after that would be a bonus.

  Now was my chance.

  I checked Grub’s status. He’d hidden behind the potted plant as soon as he’d seen Missy. Good. He could hunker down there for now.

  I’m not going to lie—my heart was pounding out of my chest at that point. Rose finished the song and one of the nurses addressed the residents, telling them music time was over. The ones that could stood and shuffled past me, while others were wheeled away.

  And then, it was just the three of us in the room. I was only ten feet away from the piano. Rose pulled the sliding black cover over the keys, then walked toward me.

  I held out the box. “It’s a brownie.”

  What? There’s no way I told my mouth to say that. My first words ever spoken to her could not seriously have been “It’s a brownie.” Plan failed, abort mission! Escape! Seek cover!

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the box. “Are you okay?”

  I must have looked a mess. “I’m lovely. Uh, I’m great . . . you’re love . . . you’re welcome.” What language had just come spilling out of my mouth? Dear God. Please get me the hell out of here. Love, Zeus.

  “Okay, well, good-bye,” I said, then turned to walk away, hoping to find the nearest hole to crawl into.

  “Wait.”

  I turned around. “Me?”

  She smiled and stuck out her hand. “I’m Rose.”

  My hand met hers. “Zeus.” Her skin was soft and warm.

  “So did you make the brownie?” she asked, nodding to the box in her other hand.

  I finally released her grip and shoved my hands in my pockets. “Yes. No. Sort of.”

  I sounded ridiculous.

  She raised her eyebrows at me.

  I babbled on. “Let’s just say I made the brownie happen. That’s all I’m allowed to tell you. The rest is a matter of national brownie security.”

  She laughed. Thank God she laughed. “How mysterious. Thank you.”

  Relief washed over me like a tidal wave. I think I started breathing again. “No problem. I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I will. So you work at that new café on Main Street?” she asked, looking at the sticker on the box.

  “Yeah, my mom owns it. You should check it out some time.”

  She leaned toward me as if to whisper in my ear. “If I do, will I get a glimpse of the secret brownie operation?”

  She was close enough I could smell her perfume, or lotion, or whatever girls wore. I stopped breathing again.

  “Absolutely. Better go now,” I said, pointing to the exit with my thumb over my shoulder. “Work to do. Back at the café.”

  She smiled, then walked past me in an aromatic whoosh of sun-ripened raspberries and vanilla. “I’ll stop in soon. See you, Zeus.”

  “See you, Rose.”

  Yes.

  SEVEN

  I WASN’T SURPRISED WHEN ROSE DIDN’T MAKE AN APPEARANCE AT the café that same day. I’d expected that, even though I stuck around later than usual, just in case. No big deal. Giving her at least twenty-four hours seemed perfectly reasonable. If I were her, I’d wait a day too.

  Wednesday arrived, bringing with it another day of deliveries. Adding to my general level of humiliation and discomfort, Mother Nature showed up for work an emotional wreck. Periods of bright, intense sunshine alternated with thunderous downpours, as if she were having delusions of grandeur one moment and sobbing about it the next. By the end of the day, Grub and I looked like sewer rats, our hair and clothes drenched with rain and sweat.

  Wednesday afternoon, still no Rose. Nor had Missy Stouffer called to place a new delivery order. But no need to panic. It was still midweek. I’d give Rose another day before I lost all hope.

  Thursday was a cloudless, Rose-less, hundred-degree day. From the minute we walked out the door, the humidity hovered at steam room levels. I sweated a gallon for every mile I pedaled. I tried to convince Grub to stay behind in the air-conditioned café, but he insisted the heat didn’t bother him, that it was fun.

  And still no Rose. Despite all my best efforts, my natural defense mechanisms began to kick in. I felt like I was back in psychology class learning about the stages of grief.

  Denial. She’s still coming. She had said, “I’ll stop in soon,” right? Yes. If not today, then definitely tomorrow. Nothing to worry about.

  Anger. Definitely not coming. So why did she say she would? Just to toy with me? I hope I never see her again.

  Bargaining. Maybe she’s busy. Maybe something happened to her. I shouldn’t have hoped I’d never see her again.

  Depression. I’ve made a complete fool of myself. What made me think she’d ever come?

  Acceptance. Well, it was fun while it lasted. At least I got a handshake out of it.

  By Friday, I had convinced myself that I shouldn’t spend any more time obsessing about Rose. Thank God Missy Stouffer had canceled her salad plan and I’d never have to go to Hilltop again. Instead Grub and I made our usual deliveries downtown with no risk of running into anyone I’d later waste hours and hours thinking about. It was probably a good thing too, since the temperature remained in the triple digits, causing me to sweat through a new T-shirt every hour. I remembered being little, playing in the sun all day and barely breaking a sweat. Now I rode my bike one city block and my armpits turned into faucets. What the hell?

  We fin
ished our deliveries and returned to the café to turn in the money. Grub jumped off the pegs and covered me as I parked the bike on its kickstand and approached the door with the money bag.

  “All clear, sir!”

  “Thank you, private.”

  My mom darted around the café watering the numerous hanging plants. Big shocker—Mom was a plant fanatic. I grew up learning all the Latin names of her houseplants. My favorites were spider plants (Chlorophytum comosum), snake plants (Sansevieria trifasciata), and the pothos (Epipremnum aureum). When I was younger, she’d grab a wooden spoon from the kitchen and shout the Latin names at me—Hedera helix!—as if casting spells in Harry Potter.

  It might sound kind of lame but I used to love it.

  “Mom, whatever all-natural, goofy deodorant you buy me isn’t cutting it. My pits are sweating like Niagara Falls and I smell like a dog fart.” I set the money bag on the counter, then leaned on it with my elbows.

  Mom turned to me, then motioned with her head. “Someone’s here to see you.” I looked in the direction of her nod, and a cold sweat rushed down my spine when I saw who it was.

  Rose sat at a booth and gave a shy wave. “Hi,” she said.

  I froze as my brain attempted to decode the situation. A moment passed, then another, though it felt like hours.

  Say something! said part of my brain.

  Do something! said a different part.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, then smiled and waved back, still leaning on the counter. “Hi,” I replied.

  Nailed it.

  “BZSHOO!” Grub lay prone on the floor, Nerf gun aimed straight at Rose.

  Rose feigned a wound, grabbing her chest with both hands. “You got me!” She slid down the booth, a casualty of café warfare.

  “Grub, don’t—” I began.

  Rose popped her head back up, laughing. “It’s okay.” Then she turned to Grub. “But watch out! Next time I’m bringing my grenade launcher.”

  “Manny, come give me a hand,” said Mom from the back of the café.

  “On my way!” yelled Grub, crawling away on his stomach and elbows.

  And then we were alone, me a sweaty mess still leaning on the counter, Rose looking like a ray of sunshine. I tried to think of something funny or clever or cool to say, but the image of me bursting through the door babbling about my personal-hygiene issues replayed through my mind. I held a long blink to erase it.

  “How’s it going?” I finally asked. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Yeah, sorry I couldn’t make it sooner. I didn’t realize the café closed at four. I usually don’t leave Hilltop until five.”

  I waved it off with a flick of my wrist. “No big deal,” I lied. “Glad you made it.” That much was true. “Mom just serves breakfast and lunch here for now. I should’ve told you.”

  “It’s a really nice place.” Rose looked around, nodding her head in approval as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Were you—have you been here long?” I stammered.

  Rose shrugged her shoulders. “Not really. I’ve been hanging out with your mom. She’s awesome.”

  “She’s pretty cool,” I agreed, eyeing the kitchen door, wondering if Mom could hear us.

  I took a few steps toward the booth, unsure of what to do next. I hadn’t thought this through. Just minutes ago I’d convinced myself Rose didn’t exist. Now, here she was. This was what I’d wanted, right? For her to show up at the café?

  Yes.

  Maybe.

  Pretty sure.

  Oh, hell no.

  Most definitely.

  Now what?

  I took a quick survey of my surroundings. Mom would be closing soon to clean and prepare for the next day. Not a cool place to hang out if I wanted to be alone with Rose, which I did. “Do you want to go somewhere?” I asked, nervously shuffling some pamphlets on the counter.

  “Sure! I’m up for whatever. Where do you want to go?”

  My mind went blank. If we’d been in Chicago, I’d have had a hundred ideas. But Buffalo Falls? Where the hell was there to hang out? Under the bridge? My eyes fell upon the pamphlet in my hand, titled Top 10 Hikes at Metea State Park.

  “Hiking?” I said, surprising myself at the sound of the word. I’d never been hiking in my life. In fact, I had no idea where Metea State Park even was. Where I grew up, hiking meant taking the Orange Line train downtown to Navy Pier. And how would we get to the park anyway—with Rose on the back pegs of the Schwinn? Or worse, take the Lego?

  “That sounds fun,” Rose exclaimed, her eyes lighting up.

  Damn. This wasn’t going to end well at all.

  Rose popped up. “Ready?”

  “Yep.” I paused, glancing at the parking lot. “Cool if we take your car?”

  Rose paused too, and bit her lip. “I don’t have a car. I walked here.”

  “No problem.” Plan B it is, I thought. “Hold tight just a second.” I stuck my head in the kitchen where Mom and Grub were washing dishes and lowered my voice. “Hey Mom, can I borrow the Lego? Just for a couple hours?”

  “Sorry, the Lego is reserved for friends only, not customers.”

  Ouch. She clearly hadn’t forgotten my less-than-civil proclamation the other night that I’d never make friends here. “Please?”

  She turned to face me with a smug mom look, then grabbed the car keys from her purse and tossed them to me. “Just be home before dark.”

  “Thank you.” I whirled out of the kitchen and joined Rose near the front counter. “All good,” I said, jangling the keys.

  We walked back outside, where the humidity hovered between Amazon rainforest levels and the inside of a mouth. I walked to the passenger door first and unlocked it for Rose.

  Grub came running out of the café. “I’ll ride bazooka!”

  “Wait! Grub!” I said, trying to grab him, but he’d already pulled the passenger seat forward to climb in back.

  “Ride bazooka?” Rose repeated, looking amused.

  “It’s what Grub calls riding in the back seat of the car, or on the back pegs of my bike. You know, instead of riding shotgun in the front. Riding bazooka.”

  Rose looked at Grub, who’d taken up position in the rear, guarding us from enemy attack. “That’s really cute,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said, unconvinced. How the hell was I going to get Grub out of there without looking like a jerk?

  Mom appeared in the nick of time.

  “Come on, Manny, I need you to stay here and guard the café,” she said, leaning into the car. “We can make banana bread.”

  Grub whipped his head at Mom, then hopped out of the Lego. “Yes!”

  “And here you go,” said Mom, handing me a full thermos and a baggie of homemade trail mix. “In case you two get hungry.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said, holding her gaze a second longer to let her know I really meant it.

  “Sure thing. Have fun!” she called, herding Grub back into the café.

  “Let’s try this again,” I said, holding the passenger door open for Rose.

  “What a gentleman,” she teased. I shut the door behind her, then walked around to the driver’s side and let myself in.

  Next came the fun part: driving that fucker.

  It had been a while since I’d last driven, months ago, in fact, when I’d borrowed our neighbor’s car in Chicago to make a food run.

  And it hadn’t been a stick shift.

  “You can drive stick shift?” asked Rose as I strapped on my seat belt. Despite the windows being down, the inside of the car was surface-of-the-sun hot, and the vinyl seats blistered the back of my legs.

  “Yeah, I got this.” I replied. I was fairly certain the clutch had something to do with starting the car.

  “You just push the clutch in,” I began.

  I pushed the clutch in.

  “. . . turn the key,”

  I turned the key.

  “. . . and give it a little gas.”
>
  The engine turned over, I floored it, released the clutch, and screamed as the car backfired and shut off.

  Rose clapped a hand over her mouth, unsuccessfully trying to suppress her laughter.

  I laughed too, which made her laugh more, which made me laugh more, which turned into an all-out laughing fit. She actually had tears in her eyes and hiccups by the time we were done. After a few more attempts, I got the Lego running, and we headed off to Metea State Park, wherever that was.

  EIGHT

  “MIKINAK OVERHANG,” ROSE READ OFF A SIGN AS WE WALKED FROM the asphalt parking lot onto the hiking trail.

  “I wonder what that is?” I replied.

  Rose shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “So you’ve never been here either?”

  “Nope.”

  “When we aren’t back by Christmas, they’ll send search parties, right?”

  Rose laughed. “We won’t get lost, look.” A map of the park lay just ahead on a brown metal stand, cemented to the ground. Plexiglas covered the map, upon which people had etched proclamations of eternal love, For a good time call so-and-so, and a number of rudimentary phalluses.

  “You are here,” I said, pointing to the respective balloon-shaped arrow on the map.

  Rose turned her head toward me. “See? We aren’t lost. We’re here.”

  I laughed. “Glad that’s settled. Okay then, onward?”

  “After you.” Rose gestured for me to lead the way, then joined me on the trail.

  The drive there had been a comedy of errors, but after several wrong turns, a couple engine stalls, and one bifurcated raccoon carcass, we’d found the entrance to Metea State Park. It should have been simple—a ten-mile straight shot west on Route 17—which I’d have known if I’d had the map app on my phone. Instead, I decided to follow the Stone River, cruising ten miles per hour under the speed limit, unable to find fourth gear. An hour later, totally lost, I admitted my blunder and Rose navigated us the rest of the way on her own phone.

  Aside from the rhythmic murmur of the cicadas and our footsteps, we walked in silence. After a few minutes, Rose spoke. “Those were some pretty sweet driving skills,” she teased.