“Délicieux!” Charlie declared when she was done. Lloyd seemed pleased. We said goodbye and headed back outside. Charlie was still hungry, so I took her to the corner store. She bought some beef jerky and a Mars bar and wolfed those down, too.
“I thought French people didn’t eat junk food.”
“Oh, no. We love our junk food just as much as you Americans.”
“Canadians.”
“American, Canadian. It is the same thing, no?”
“No. It is not the same thing, not at all—”
She burst out laughing. “I am joking! I told a joke in English. I am very good.”
And very beautiful, I thought, even with all that beef and chocolate stuck in your teeth.
I untied Templeton’s leash from a signpost. He peed against a fire hydrant. Charlie bent down and gave him her last piece of jerky; he inhaled it. “How long have you had this strange little creature?”
“I got him just over a year ago, at Christmas.”
“He was a present?”
“Not really, no. I volunteered at the animal shelter over the break.” Just thinking of that Christmas brought on a residual wave of sadness. Mup’s dad—her last surviving parent, and technically my grandfather, although I’d never met him—had died just before the holidays. She’d flown to Buenos Aires for the funeral, even though he had disowned her when she’d come out. The flight had blown our Christmas budget, and the trip left her depressed. The mood in the house was bleak. To top it off, Sal had gone on a monthlong trip with Friendship Force to Australia, so I couldn’t escape to his house, and Alex wasn’t even in the picture yet. So when I’d heard the SPCA needed dog walkers to fill in for vacationing volunteers, I leapt at the chance. “Templeton was in the very last cage,” I told Charlie. “He was a mess. I don’t know what had happened to him in his last home, but he looked like he’d just given up.”
Charlie knelt down to pet Templeton’s head, and he made a purring sound. “Pauvre petit.”
“No one was interested in adopting him. He was going to be euthanized in a few days. So I decided that those days should be good ones. I took him for a walk every morning. And he was so sweet and so grateful….He’d look at me with his one good eye and smile—”
“Smile?”
“He smiles. I swear. The day before he was scheduled to die, I couldn’t take it. I walked him back to our place and begged the Mumps to let me keep him.”
The three of us began to walk back home. There was a crescent moon in the sky.
“Wilbur, that is a beautiful story. You saved Templeton’s life.”
I didn’t tell Charlie that, as far as I was concerned, it was the other way around.
Falling for her
Helpless to fight it
Charlotte’s the match
And now it’s ignited
From “The Match,” by Wilbur Nuñez-Knopf
“Wilbur, wake up!” I opened my eyes to the sound of Charlie’s voice, sat up too fast, and hit my head.
Right. Air mattress. Alcove. Templeton, snoozing and farting at my feet.
“You must come and see!”
When I stepped around the corner, Charlie was sitting in the bay window, wearing blue-and-white-striped men’s pajamas. Her nose was pressed to the glass, like she was a little kid. “Look!”
I peered outside. It had snowed during the night. Our street was blanketed in white. “It is so beautiful,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, looking at her. “Beautiful.”
The Mumps had bought bagels and cream cheese from NU Bügel. Charlie wolfed down two of them and drank three cups of black coffee. She’d changed into a long white sweater, which she wore over another pair of cool tights; these ones had cat faces all over them. A pink-and-purple scarf was wrapped artfully around her neck. Her only makeup was bright red lipstick. She was not what anyone would call a traditional beauty; her nose was almost as large as mine, and her eyebrows were thick and furry like mine, too. But when you put the pieces together, they clicked.
She was like a tropical bird. A flamingo, maybe, or a toucan. She was so…colorful.
I, on the other hand, wore my standard gray sweatshirt and baggy beige pants. I’d long ago gotten rid of anything that made me stand out in any way, including my beloved Tilley hat.
I stifled yawns between mouthfuls of bagel. I’d barely slept. I was terrified that I’d fart in my sleep and stink up the room, because as a vegetarian I do eat a lot of legumes; Sal says I’m the gassiest person he’s ever met. Then, when I’d finally started to drift off, I was wakened by a snorting sound. At first I thought it was Templeton. But it was Charlie, snoring loudly in her sleep.
When I was done with my breakfast, I left Charlie to discuss politics with Mum while I went outside to shovel snow. Once I’d done our walkway, I started on Sal’s. It was slow work, because I needed to stop every few minutes to rescue Templeton, whose long, low-to-the-ground body kept disappearing in the fresh snow.
Sal’s door opened as I reached the stairs to his porch. “Well? Where is she?” He was dressed for the day, looking dapper as always in a sweater vest and brown trousers, his favorite fuzzy pink slippers on his feet.
I was about to answer when suddenly, whack! I was hit in the side of the head with a snowball.
“Sorry! I could not resist!” It was Charlie, standing on our front porch. She’d traded her yellow faux-fur coat for Mum’s orange parka, which she’d bought for standing around outside on movie sets. “Your mother loaned me this coat. Now I feel like a fresh-baked baguette!”
I wiped a blob of snow from my ear. “Sal, this is my billet, Charlie. Charlie, this is my neighbor and best friend, Sal Goldstein.”
“The man who knocks.” She extended her mittened hand. “It is very nice to meet you, Mr. Goldstein. I promise I will not throw snow at you.”
“Much obliged. And please, call me Sal.” I noticed that he didn’t immediately take her hand. “What are your views on the Vichy government?”
I had no idea what that was, but Charlie clearly did, because she hocked a loogie into the snow. “I spit on the Vichy government! My great-grandparents on my father’s side fought for the Resistance.”
Sal’s face relaxed into a grin. He took her mittened hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “In that case…enchanté.”
* * *
—
“Why do you think he asked me about the Vichy government?” Charlie asked as we headed to school.
“Um. What exactly is that, again?” I tried to sound like I knew but had temporarily forgotten.
“It was the puppet government in France during World War II. They collaborated with the Nazis. It is a stain on our history.” She scooped up some fresh snow and licked it with her tongue. “I guess Sal might have been alive during that time?”
“He was.” I told her what I knew of Sal’s story, which wasn’t much, because he didn’t like to talk about it. “He was born in Germany. When he was really little, his parents were sent to a concentration camp for being ‘political dissidents.’ He never saw them again.”
“Wilbur. That is terrible,” she said.
“I know. I can’t even imagine.”
“What happened to him?”
“Friends of his parents managed to get him on a Kindertransport to England. He lived with a family on a farm throughout the war. When he was sixteen, he made his way to Canada on a merchant marine ship.” I shook my head. “He didn’t know anyone. He hardly had any education. But he built a life for himself. He’s the most courageous person I’ve ever met. And also the most positive.”
“You are lucky to have him as a friend.”
“Very.”
We met up with Alex and Léo at the corner of College and Augusta. Charlie and Léo got caught up in French, so Alex and I had a chance to ch
eck in. “How was your first night?” I asked.
“Great! Léo’s teaching me all the swears in French. And he likes to cook too, so we made the pasta all’uovo from Salt Fat Acid Heat. He wants me to teach him how to cook Persian food. How about you?”
“Stressful. I’ve never slept with a woman before.”
“You still haven’t—”
“I mean, aside from sleeping in between Mum and Mup until I was five.”
Alex made a face. “See now, that’s the sort of thing you can say to me if you must. But don’t say it to anyone else.”
“Gotcha.”
The four of us headed north on Huron Street, winding our way through the University of Toronto campus to get to our school, which was just north of Bloor. We picked up Fabrizio and Christophe along the way. Mr. P had told us all to gather in the band room, and we spent the morning playing our repertoire for each other. One of our numbers was “Play That Funky Music” by Wild Cherry, which gave me a chance to showcase my cowbell skills.
When we were done, the French students played for us. Mademoiselle Lefèvre explained that Paris schools don’t have bands, so she’d formed this group through a conservatory. “We are called Les Jeunes de Paris.”
They had a few brass instruments and lots of strings: guitars, a banjo, and Charlie’s ukulele. I guess I thought that, being from Europe, they’d play a lot of classical music. But they played mostly pop songs; my favorite was David Bowie’s “Space Oddity.”
Charlie was amazing. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She stuck her tongue out just a bit while she was playing.
At one point, though, I noticed that I wasn’t the only one watching her.
Tyler Kertz was watching her, too.
Correction:
He was watching me watching her, then he was watching her…
Which made the whole thing feel that much worse.
* * *
—
He swooped in as we headed down to the Art Gallery of Ontario after lunch. Charlie and I were walking side by side, chatting about the acting classes she took once a week back home. “We start with exercises. Like, we lie on the floor and pretend we are sponges, filling up with water,” she was saying, when suddenly I was elbowed right off the sidewalk and into a pile of slush.
“Charlotte, we haven’t properly met. I’m Tyler,” he said, flashing a pearly white smile.
Charlie smiled. “Has anyone ever told you you look like Chris Hemsworth?”
He ducked his head, like he was embarrassed. “I’ve heard that once or twice. I’m sure you get told all the time that you look like Emma Stone?”
Barf! It was just so phony! I waited for Charlie to slay him with one of her disdainful looks.
But she didn’t. Not even close.
She blushed. “Oh! No. I do not believe you, but merci.”
He chatted her up the rest of the way, while I trailed after them like a sad puppy.
The moment we stepped inside the AGO, Alex said, “Come with me to the washroom.”
“But I don’t have to—”
“Not a request.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the men’s. He checked under the stalls to make sure we were alone. “You like her, don’t you? As in, like her, like her.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“No. I mean, only to people with eyes.” He started to laugh. Alex’s laugh is normally highly infectious, but this time I just couldn’t join in.
“It’s so dumb. As if I’d ever stand a chance.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because. Look at her. Then look at me.”
We both studied my reflection in the mirror. “It’s true that you’re not classically handsome,” said Alex.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better, because so far, so bad—”
“Let me finish. I was going to say, you have character. And character matters. My mom says it’s why she fell in love with my dad. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s way better looking than him.” He spoke the truth; Mr. Shirazi liked to say that Mrs. Shirazi looked like a Persian Salma Hayek while he looked like a Persian Danny DeVito. “And I’m shaped like a meatball,” Alex continued. “A meatball with a mouthful of metal! But Fabrizio thinks I’m awesome, even though he’s way better looking than me—”
“Patently untrue, aside from the fact that you’re awesome—”
“My point is, he likes me for me. Maybe the same can be true for you and Charlie.”
I felt a brief flicker of optimism; then I remembered: “I think Tyler likes her. And I think he only likes her because I like her.”
“Ugh, he’s such a jerk.” He thought about it for a moment. “But you know what? You still have the advantage. Because you get to spend twenty-four–seven with her. Not him. You.”
I looked down at him, because he’s ten inches shorter than me, and smiled. “Thanks, Alex.”
“You’re welcome, Wil.” Then he initiated our secret handshake.
It was just like old times.
* * *
—
When it was time to leave the gallery, we couldn’t find Mr. P or Mademoiselle Lefèvre anywhere. Laura was just about to have them called on the PA system, when the door to the all-access washroom opened, and they stepped out. Mademoiselle Lefèvre’s hair was mussed, and the buttons on Mr. P’s shirt were done up crooked. “That is just all kinds of wrong,” muttered Fabrizio.
Alex was going to Fabrizio’s with their billets, so Charlie and I walked home just the two of us, through a bustling Chinatown and into Kensington Market. The sky was a vibrant blue, and the snow was starting to melt.
“I need to get Templeton out for a walk,” I said. “He’s been home all day. Come to think of it, I should get Sal out for a walk, too. He doesn’t like going out by himself after a heavy snowfall.”
“I will come with you. We will walk them both.”
Templeton and Sal were both delighted to get out. The four of us slow-walked through the market. Charlie held Templeton’s leash, Sal held his cane, and I held Sal’s arm.
“Mmm, the food looks so good,” said Charlie as we walked past the cheese shops, bakeries, butchers, fishmongers, and produce stores.
“Wilbur and I know where to get all the free samples,” Sal told her. “If you’re interested.”
“Oh, please! I am always hungry. My father thinks I have a—how do you call it? A tapeworm.”
We started in Viktor’s cheese shop. He let us try six different types of cheese before telling us to move along. The bakery had a tray of brownie samples sitting on the counter; we ate them all. Then Brenda, the woman behind the counter, gave Sal a giant cookie because she thinks he is “adorable and looks like Leonard Cohen.” He shared it with us once we’d left the shop. We sampled a gross green smoothie and eight flavors of ice cream, too. In between sampling, Sal and Charlie talked about Paris. “I know your city well. My wife, Irma, and I went there for our honeymoon, and every ten years after that. Six times in total.”
They spoke in a mixture of English and French (because speaking three languages fluently is another one of Sal’s skills), and I mostly zoned out, happy to just be in the moment with my best friend, my awesome dog, and a fabulous girl.
Charlie burped as we reached the far end of the market. “Now I am full,” she said. “Can we invite Sal for dinner?”
“I have supper at Wilbur’s on Wednesdays and Sundays,” Sal told her. “But tonight, I have a standing date with my bowling buddies.”
“Sal is extremely popular,” I said.
We dropped him off at his place. As we headed down his walk, then up ours, Charlie linked arms with me. “Has anyone ever told you you look like that boy in that old movie? Napoleon Dynamite. Only with bigger eyes. And dark hair instead of blond.”
“N-no,” I
stammered, absorbing the compliment. I hadn’t seen the movie, but if she was talking about an actor, I figured he had to be good-looking.
I felt happy, and not the type of happy I felt when I was with Sal, or Alex, but a special, heart-expanding happy, reserved just for Charlie.
The feeling lasted until that evening, when the Mumps threatened to ruin it all.
Mothers, Smothers
I love you with all my might
But I sometimes wish the umbilical cord
Wasn’t wrapped so tight
From “Smothers” by Wilbur Nuñez-Knopf
Mup cooked dinner that night, which was a relief. She made a Tex-Mex casserole. Charlie had three servings.
After we’d cleared away the dishes, the Mumps pulled out the karaoke machine. They got things started by singing a duet of “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” by Elton John and Kiki Dee. It was an ancient machine, with music to match. Then Charlie got up and sang a song called “Poison Arrow” by ABC. She was a truly awful singer; but what she lacked in ability, she made up for in sheer enthusiasm. “I take theater lessons in Paris,” she told the Mumps when she was done. “And whenever we put on a musical, I know I will have a very small part!” Then she laughed. I’d never met someone so completely, cheerfully comfortable with their absence of talent.
“Now you sing, Wilbur,” she said, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me to my feet.
“Sorry, can’t. Templeton needs his evening walk.” There was no way on earth that I would intentionally humiliate myself in front of anyone, let alone her.
The temperatures had plunged again, so Templeton and I only walked a few blocks before he sat down in the middle of the sidewalk and refused to go any farther. I wound up carrying him home while he licked my face and smiled at me, looking awfully pleased with himself.
When we got back inside, the karaoke machine had been put away. Charlie was sitting on our purple couch in between Mum and Mup, directly underneath a framed ad of a stylish 1960s woman in a pillbox hat, bright red roses in the foreground, with the tagline Kotex is confidence.
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