Here, There, Everywhere Page 5

  “You know, my sarcasm detector isn’t broken,” I teased back.

  A laugh escaped her lips. “Seriously, you did great. When I took drivers’ ed, I flunked the driving part of it. Like, the important part, where you have to drive.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. A very proud moment. I’m pretty sure I ran over every orange cone, drove through a red light, and when I parallel parked, we were five feet from the curb. Traffic was backed up for three blocks.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I still can’t parallel park.”

  “Oh, I’m a pro now,” Rose responded. “I could parallel park a bus.”

  I looked at her and smiled. “I’d like to see that.” My awkwardness percentage had dropped to around eighty after lingering near a hundred since she’d shown up at the café. “So you share a car with your mom too, huh?” I asked.

  “I guess, if you can call it that. She still freaks out about me driving.”

  “Maybe it had to do with flunking drivers’ ed?” I joked.

  She shook her head and laughed. “Shut up. No, she just worries. It’s only the two of us, so sometimes I think I’m all she has to worry about.”

  I almost asked about her dad, but decided she’d offer that information when she was ready. Besides, I didn’t like talking much about mine. “How long have you been playing at Hilltop?” I asked instead, lifting a small branch that had grown over the trail for her to walk under.

  “I started last summer, then worked a bit over Christmas and spring break, and now again this summer. My mom’s been working in the memory care unit since we moved to Buffalo Falls three years ago, so she was able to get me the job. I don’t make much money, but I get to play the grand piano.”

  “You’re really great, Rose. I’m sure people tell you that all the time, but it’s true.”

  “Aw, thanks. I love it. It’s probably my favorite thing to do.”

  “I can see why.”

  The trail led us deeper into the woods. It began as compact dirt, but soon became sand the color of bone. In contrast to the prairie and cornfields surrounding Buffalo Falls, the park had a mystic, definitely not Illinois feel. Large green ferns unfolded below ancient oaks and maples. Red-headed woodpeckers flitted from tree to tree, jackhammering their faces into the bark in search of food. The odd chipmunk scampered across our path, stopping on hind legs to look guiltily at us, then scurry away.

  After a half hour or so, we came upon a wooden bridge where we took a moment to rest, appreciating the cool breeze brought by the rushing water of the creek below.

  “This place is amazing,” I said. “I can’t believe it’s only a fifteen-minute drive from town.”

  “Should be a fifteen-minute drive.”

  “We happened to take the scenic route today. We should come back in the fall, when the leaves turn.”

  Rose didn’t reply, just stared at the water. I noticed she had a dimple on the left side of her mouth, above her chin. The late afternoon sunlight danced through the leaves, illuminating her face with broken light.

  I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me, so I repeated myself. “Wouldn’t it look awesome here in the fall?”

  After a pause, she flashed a quick smile at me. “For sure. Come on, let’s keep going.”

  Ahead, a stone staircase had been carved into a towering hill. As we climbed, the air seemed to cool a degree with every step—a welcome relief. The stairs, spaced several feet apart, created an unusual climbing rhythm: UP, step, step, step, UP, step, step, step.

  Halfway there, we saw the payoff at the summit: a giant sandstone cave burrowed deep into the cliff. At least a hundred feet high, the gaping cavern looked big enough to bunk an army platoon. Grub would have loved it. We craned our necks to take it all in.

  “Wow,” Rose said. “This is incredible.”

  By the time we finally reached the mouth of the cave my thighs were burning, but it was worth it. Rose and I began to explore different ends of the cave. The ground was hard and covered with trampled dead leaves. Charred remains of campfires spotted the perimeter, the occasional half-incinerated beer can decorating the ash. The soft sandstone walls were a time capsule—fresh carvings jumped out, sharp edged and deep, while older ones had been smoothed by the years.

  “Hey, look at this!” called Rose. She now stood in the center of the cave, under the rim. Her head was tilted back and her tongue stuck out. I walked over to meet her and looked up as well. White roots hung far above, dripping cold water.

  “Are you sure you should drink that? It’s probably . . .”

  “Probably what?” she asked, tongue still out, making it sound more like “Mammahly mah?”

  “I don’t know, like deer piss, or something. Aren’t you not supposed to drink random cave water?”

  She lowered her head and looked at me with raised eyebrows, as if I’d just told her I’d seen a unicorn in the trees. “If I die, please tell my family I loved them, and that I died as I lived, drinking questionable cave water.” She stared at me straight-faced for a moment, then burst into laughter. I laughed too.

  “All right, all right. It can’t be worse than my mom’s agave lemonade,” I said, setting the thermos on the ground. I joined her under the dripping roots and tilted my head back. The first drop splashed off my forehead. The second, my right eye. The third hit the side of my mouth. By the fourth, I had the target locked.

  Direct hit to the back of the throat.

  I choked.

  “There’s sand in it!” I hawked at the back of my throat, like when a popcorn shell lodges there.

  “Really? No sand in mine. You chose poorly,” said Rose, leaning her head back to catch more.

  I must have been feeling brave then because I approached Rose to playfully push her out of the way for a better claim on the nonsandy-water drip. A simple-enough plan in theory, yes, but where it went awry was upon execution, due to an uninvited, unannounced, and generally unpleasant arrival of a third party.

  A brown spider the size of a quarter had somehow planted itself upon Rose’s left breast. After a brief moment of jealousy, I reacted as any sane person would under the circumstances.

  “Whoa!” I proclaimed, pointing directly at Rose’s chest.

  Rose, head still tilted back, raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “Spider!” I finally spit out. Rose looked down, her eyes widening as she spotted it. I think it waved back.

  She screamed and swatted it at me.

  I screamed and spun like a matador dodging a bull.

  I’m sure the spider was the most scared of all, and have no doubt it screamed too as it cartwheeled past me into the leaves.

  I brushed myself off, performing a top-to-bottom inspection. Rose did the same.

  “What a perv. That spider totally just made it to second base,” I said.

  “No kidding. It didn’t even buy me dinner first.”

  I paused for a moment. “So what are your dinner plans tonight?”

  She slapped my shoulder. “Shut up! I just got fondled by a spider. I need to start saving for therapy.”

  “You? I just pulled some Matrix shit. I’ll need a chiropractor.”

  A laugh fell from her mouth. “You’re funny.”

  I knew it was my turn to say something, but suddenly I forgot every word I’d ever learned. I just looked at her as a warmth spread from my chest to my fingertips all the way down to my toes. She looked back.

  I softly cleared my throat. “Well, then.”

  Rose smiled and bit her lip. “Well, then.”

  She walked under the dripping roots and tilted her head back again.

  I joined her.

  Turns out cave water tastes delicious after all.

  NINE

  WE SOON DISCOVERED A TRAIL LEADING OUT THE OTHER SIDE OF THE cave, descending deep into the lowlands of the park. Once at the bottom, the cool funk of mud, decay, and oxygen-rich air filled our nostrils. We traipsed through hidden channels and canyons—
green, moss covered, and hauntingly beautiful. Stray beams of sunlight penetrated the canopy, illuminating tiny moths, which fluttered among the foliage. We traveled a narrow path along a creek that buckled and gushed around stray timber. The source of the flow soon revealed itself in the form of a seventy-foot waterfall.

  It felt like we were in a movie.

  Almost.

  Before the waterfall stood a family of six, arranged by height and decked out in matching outfits in complementary colors.

  The dad, fumbling with a camera on a tripod, waved us over enthusiastically. “Hey guys, mind doing me a huge favor?” he asked with a salesman’s toothy smile.

  Normally it drove me nuts when people asked me to commit to a favor before revealing what said favor was. Mom was the queen of that. And huge favors were the worst, because people would deceive you with smaller, no-big-deal favors first, then pounce on you unexpectedly, like a hungry puma. Before you can blink, you’re mucking out a flooded basement or babysitting your neighbors’ tyrant offspring. Like so:

  Mom: Will you do me a huge favor?

  Me: Sure.

  Mom: Take out the trash?

  Me: No problem.

  Mom: Will you do me a huge favor?

  Me: Sure.

  Mom: Put that tofu back in the fridge?

  Me: No problem.

  Mom: Will you do me a huge favor?

  Me: Sure.

  Mom: Leave Chicago behind, move to a small town, and start a new high school one month before final exams?

  Me: . . .

  But in this case, I knew exactly what “huge favor” the man wanted, so I decided to comply.

  “Sure, we’ll take a picture,” I said as the youngest in his brood broke formation.

  “Thanks, bro,” he said, as if he were sixteen too, not forty-seven. “Just press that button there. Take a bunch, don’t be afraid.”

  “Got it,” I replied.

  “Don’t be afraid, Zeus,” Rose whispered once the man was out of hearing distance.

  “I’ll try, but don’t leave me, just in case.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m here for you.”

  The man hustled back while barking out orders. “Maisie and Marlo, switch places with each other. Michael, straighten your shoulders. Honey, grab Mason before he shoves more sand in his diaper. All right, gang, everyone look natural!”

  “Everybody say ‘jalapeño-cheddar-jack cheese!’” said Rose.

  After I snapped a dozen of what felt like the exact same picture, the man thanked us again, then he and his wife herded their litter away.

  “They better send us a Christmas card,” Rose said, then pointed left of the waterfall, where large sandstone boulders studded the hill. “Let’s go sit over there.”

  We climbed to one of the flatter stones that looked like it could seat both of us. I attempted to brush the sand from it, which proved to be as easy as brushing water from a puddle. We sat anyway.

  “You said you moved here three years ago. Where from?” I asked.

  “Iowa City. My dad taught history at the University of Iowa, but now he’s up in Minnesota.”

  “I’ve never been to Iowa City. Do you miss it?”

  “A ton. It’s a cool town, really artsy. Lots of music and festivals. It has this beautiful outdoor Ped Mall where they have the Iowa Arts Festival. Jazz bands, craft shows, food trucks . . . I used to go every summer when I lived there.”

  “I know how you feel. There was so much to do in Chicago. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to this town.” I kicked a loose piece of sandstone and watched it tumble into the water below.

  “How long ago did you move here?” Rose asked.

  “April.”

  “Gotcha. I guess that’s why I don’t remember seeing you at school.”

  We sat for a while watching the water crash off the rocks. The static noise covered our own silence. I remembered the bag of trail mix Mom had packed and pulled it out of my pocket. The chocolate morsels had long ago melted, coating the nuts and dried fruit with a sticky layer of confection.

  “Want some?” I offered the bag to her.

  “Absolutely.”

  “So, how long have you been playing piano?” I asked. “You must have started before you could walk.”

  “Not that long ago, actually.” Rose licked some melted chocolate from her knuckle. “A little over three years, right when I moved here.”

  “What?! How’s that possible? You don’t even use sheet music.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but piano just makes sense to me somehow. I mean, think about it. It goes from left to right, low to high. Twelve notes and they just keep repeating. Black keys are sharps and flats, white keys are naturals. They all fit perfectly together.”

  I snorted. “For you maybe.”

  “I suppose. For some reason my fingers just seem to know where to go. Do you play anything?”

  I hesitated. “I have a guitar.”

  “That’s awesome!”

  “I’ve only been learning for a few months. I wouldn’t call it playing, but I can make a few noises come out of it,” I admitted.

  “Sweet, you’ll have to show me sometime! I’ve never played a guitar, but it can’t be that much different from a piano, can it?” She looked out into the crashing water. “It’s all just notes, whether it’s a voice, or a piano, or a guitar, or a tuba. Vibrations. Harmony and dissonance. Major and minor. Check it out—hear that hum from the waterfall? Mmmmmm,” she hummed. “Hear that?”

  I listened. It sounded like water to me. “Uh, I don’t think so.”

  “It’s there. Mmmmmm. I bet I could find that note if I had a piano here. Music is everywhere. My music teacher told me she once had a student with perfect pitch. He could listen to the second hand on a clock ticking and tell you what note it was.”

  “That’s nuts.” I listened again for the hum of the waterfall, but still couldn’t hear it. I believed her though. “So what are your plans this summer? Besides playing at the nursing home?”

  “Well, I’m usually at Hilltop noon to five, Monday through Friday. I play the piano and help out with whatever else Candy, the activity director, wants me to do. I got out a little early today so I could stop by,” she added, her cheeks turning the slightest bit pink.

  “Cool,” I said, trying to look casually pleased though I was, in fact, absurdly pleased.

  Rose continued. “Then on Saturdays my mom drives me up to Naperville, where I have my lessons. My instructor’s teaching me music theory and how to actually read music. I just taught myself by ear until a year ago.”

  “By ear? That’s amazing, Rose. I noticed you didn’t use sheet music when I was at Hilltop. So someone shouts out Tom Jones, or whatever, and you can just play it?”

  “Usually, as long as I’ve heard it before.”

  I shook my head. “That’s crazy.”

  “Well, the Hilltoppers do tend to request the same songs over and over again. But I try to play some of my own favorites, too, for a little variety.”

  “That first afternoon I walked into Hilltop, you were playing this song. . . . The melody’s been stuck in my head all week.”

  “Hum it for me.”

  I hesitated, then tentatively began to hmmm-mmm my way through a few bars of the song.

  Rose grinned and nodded in recognition. “That one.”

  “So what is it? I know I’ve heard it before. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Not telling,” Rose teased.

  “Is it by the Beatles?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Deep cut?”

  “Maybe.”

  I laughed. “Okay, okay. It’ll come to me eventually.”

  “I’ll wait,” Rose said, grinning again.

  “You better. So what came before your piano rock-star status? Test pilot? Child ninja?”

  “Ha, I wish. I’ve gone through some phases, I guess, but just the usual. I had my video-game phase, my dance phase, my drawing phase. I don’t know. Noth
ing seemed to stick until piano. What about you? What’s your story?”

  And for the next hour we talked. I learned she’d be a senior this year; she learned I’d be a junior. I learned her parents had divorced when she was ten; she learned I’d never met my dad. We talked about Chicago and the universe and the Beatles and my weird plant knowledge. For a while we sat silent and let the sound of the water do the talking for us. I couldn’t believe how well everything was going. Eventually, our conversation circled around to future plans.

  “What comes next?” I asked. “You’ll be a senior, so does that mean college in a year?”

  Before Rose could answer, the sound of distant chatter floated toward us, quickly turning into the unmistakable roar of screaming children. They descended upon our sanctuary like locusts, at least fifty of them, mud covered and wet. It must have been some sort of summer-camp outing, based on the small number of frazzled twenty-something-year-old chaperones trying to maintain control. The buzzing swarm flew past us up the sandy hill, claiming the land as their own. Rose and I shared a look, shrugged our shoulders, and laughed.

  Before long, the horde left, but by then the sun had started to set and our once sunny spot had been overtaken by the growing shadows of the cliff wall. Since the park closed at dusk, we headed back to the car.

  As I drove back to town, the sun at our backs and the windows down, I looked over to Rose, whose hair flew wildly in the wind. She stared out her window watching the trees and houses whip by. A low fog had settled over a bean field. Ahead, a half-full moon rose, glowing orange and crimson, mirroring the sunset. When we arrived back in town, the streetlights had turned on, giving the world a luminescent glow.

  I’d never felt happier sitting next to someone.

  TEN

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, A SATURDAY, I STOOD ON DYLAN RAFFERTY’S doorstep again, salad in hand. A young woman opened the door, his sister, Maggie, no doubt. They shared the same wavy blond hair and chestnut eyes. She held a phone to one ear.

  “Hold on a sec,” she said into the phone, then to me, “You must be Zeus, the salad guy. Come on in, just give me a minute to wrap this up.”