by Jeff Zentner
She arrives back at our table and sits, sliding my ice cream across the surface like an old-timey bartender. I catch it before it careens off the edge.
“See that? I changed the narrative. Now we’re not married anymore. Now I’m the Ice Cream Queen and you’re my humble servant.” She takes a huge bite and wrinkles her nose. “They need to clean their machine.”
I admire her handiwork for a moment. “Almost hate to destroy something so perfect.”
Delaney points with her spoon. “That right there? That was an alpha move I just made. Humans are pack animals, like wolves. We honor shows of strength.”
We each make it about halfway down our respective towers before we succumb to ice cream headaches and sugar overload. We lean back in our chairs and sigh, the stress, exhaustion, and excitement of the day finally wrestling us into submission.
I stare at my cup. “You realize you getting a perfect ice cream for me only makes it look more like we’re married, right?”
She holds up an unadorned left hand. “Better start ring shopping. You look like a cheap bastard.”
“You call your mama yet?”
“Speaking of those perpetually in relationships with shitty cheap bastards?”
“You gonna call her?”
“She knows my number.”
“All right. You ready?”
“Yep.”
We clear our trays and leave the dining hall. We stroll the campus for a while to acquaint ourselves. We walk aimlessly, trying to project verve and mimic the air of belonging our future classmates give off. We comment on the people and buildings we pass, trying to commit landmarks to memory.
“I probably won’t ever get married,” Delaney says out of nowhere as we stand outside the science center, squinting up at its gleaming, angular modern whiteness in the afternoon sun, shielding our eyes with our hands. “But there’d be worse people in this world to be married to than you.”
Delaney could do a lot better than me. She’ll end up with some fellow genius someday. But it still feels good to hear.
Tripp is back in our room, already with two new friends who resemble him in appearance and demeanor. I hear them from the hall, guffawing about something. They quiet down in a hurry when I enter.
This time, I make sure I have my headphones, and I go out to the fourth-floor common room. Mamaw’s and Papaw’s faces fill my screen. Seeing them together, side by side, crammed into the small glowing frame, runs me through with a keener homesickness than before.
“Long time no see,” Papaw wheezes, smiling and coughing.
“Pep tells me you’re getting settled in,” Mamaw says.
“Yep,” I say. “Hey, here’s some fun news. I have to repeat sophomore year. I guess my credits don’t transfer over completely or something. They explained it.”
They chew on the information for a moment.
“The scholarship cover it?” Mamaw asks.
“They said it did,” I reply. “Takes me through graduation.”
“I s’pose it is what it is,” Mamaw says. “And if your scholarship covers it, what’s the harm?”
“Bright side: You get more time at the good school,” Papaw says.
“It’s another year away from y’all,” I say.
“College would have been that anyway,” Mamaw says.
“I guess,” I say. “Hey, Papaw, wanna hear something funny?”
He coughs. “I do.”
“I’m taking a poetry class.” I wait for Papaw to crack some joke like Delaney did. He doesn’t.
“Well, now, I think that’s great.”
“You don’t think it’s funny?”
He gives me a reproachful look. “Why would I?”
My smile fades. “I don’t know. Poetry. Me.”
“What is there about you that you don’t belong in a poetry class?”
I fidget. “You know me. I’m not a poetry guy.”
“I think of poetry lovers as people who love beautiful things.” He stops to catch his breath. “You love the beauty in this world. Ain’t a reason I can think of you don’t belong in a poetry class. Hold the gizmo, Donna Bird,” Papaw says. Mamaw takes hold of the tablet. Papaw raises his scarred and labor-worn hands to the camera. “See these hands? Worked hard with them to give you the things I never had. You taking a poetry class is a thing I never had. By God, I want you to have it.”
“I guess it isn’t funny, then,” I say quietly.
“Pep’s not trying to fuss at you,” Mamaw says.
“I surely ain’t,” Papaw says. “Same time, I’m letting you know where I stand.”
“All right, Pep, you hold the tablet now. My turn.” Mamaw raises her hands to the camera. “See these hands? I’ve also worked hard with them to give my family a good life. I want you taking classes that let you work with your mind.”
“You win,” I say. “What are y’all doing tonight?”
“We started a jigsaw puzzle of a lighthouse last night. Likely as not, we’ll keep on that,” Mamaw says. “How about you?”
“There’s supposed to be a get-together tonight for the students. But I’ll probably skip it.” Delaney and I customarily blew off school functions to hang out together. “Hey, maybe you can set up the tablet and we can chat while you do the puzzle.”
“Well, I think you ought to go to the shindig,” Papaw says.
“Make some new friends,” Mamaw says.
“I’ll have plenty of time to meet people. Just tonight let’s hang out,” I say.
“No, sir,” Papaw says. “Booting you out of the nest. Get with Tess and go be kids. You don’t need to be hanging out with the old folks on a Friday night.”
“Jeez.”
“It’s best you give this whole experience your all. You can’t do that when you got one foot at home. When I was in the service, me and the boys had a big time together. There weren’t no such thing as gizmos where you could get on the video camera with the people back home.”
“I’ll go. Dang, y’all.”
* * *
I shower off the Greyhound voyage and the last residue of home. My old life, washed down the drain.
I’m sure a lot of kids arrive here and find the lack of doors in the bathrooms unnerving. I might be the only one who finds it a comfort. Then again, they get to be free of the memories that make me appreciate the lack of bathroom doors. So I guess they win there too.
Back in my room, the sun is setting through the window. Tripp is gone, and so I pause to drink in the stillness.
I put on my best, least-wrinkled button-down shirt and nicest jeans. I use a tissue to blot a couple of smudges from my boots. I fix my hair. I got it cut last week, and I marveled at how much summer-bleached smoky-blond hair dappled the floor by the end.
I’d thought about how funny it would be if when you got to heaven, God could give you a printout with all of your life’s vital statistics. How much hair you produced. How many colds you defeated. How many times you skinned your knees. How many nightmares you endured. How many pancakes you ate.
Every brave thing you did.
Every heartbreak you overcame.
Everyone you mourned.
Everyone you ever loved.
Everyone who ever loved you.
The day gave up its heat quickly at sundown, and the early autumn twilight feels like cool water on my face. From somewhere I can smell wood smoke. The moon gleams in the periwinkle sky before the sun is even completely gone.
I stroll with Cameron and his roommate, Raheel, to the gymnasium, where the mixer is being held. Cameron and Raheel had made a sweep looking for stragglers to muscle into going to the mixer, and they’d caught me.
“Okay, back to what we were talking about before,” Raheel says as we walk.
“I think this is batshit,”
Cameron says. “And I both love it and hate it already, but I’m listening.”
“Have you seen Game of Thrones?” Raheel asks me.
“Never had HBO,” I reply. “And it wasn’t my grandparents’ type of show. My pap—grandpa—used to call shows like that ‘wizard grabass.’ ”
Raheel grins wolfishly and rubs his hands together. “Ahhhh, but now you have your new buddy Raheel, his box set of all eight seasons, his willingness to serve as your tour guide, and his ever-readiness to rewatch the entire series.”
“So regale us with your theory,” Cameron says. He turns to me. “Raheel thinks The Princess Bride takes place in the universe of Game of Thrones.”
“I have seen Princess Bride. My mom loved that movie,” I say, reminding myself to keep mention of my mama to a minimum.
Raheel clears his throat grandiosely. “Cameron, nod vigorously in agreement. We begin with Westley. He leaves home, and when we see him again, he’s dressed in all black and has been at sea. Clearly he became a man of the Night’s Watch and was assigned to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, where he was kidnapped by pirates.”
“This is already a lot to remember,” I say.
“Raheel will remind you,” Cameron says. “Trust me.”
“Next, we have Fezzik, Vizzini, and Inigo Montoya. Clearly, Fezzik was rescued from the fighting pits of Meereen. Vizzini? A eunuch from Lys, like Varys. Inigo Montoya? Braavosi dancing master like Syrio Forel…”
“I’ve never heard anything more brilliant and stupid simultaneously,” Cameron says when Raheel is finally done.
“It sounded pretty well thought out,” I say.
Raheel puts his arm around me and speaks to Cameron. “This guy? I like him. Now I finally know a cool person from Tennessee.”
“I’m still waiting to meet a cool person from Las Vegas,” Cameron says.
Raheel blows on this thumb like he’s inflating a balloon and slowly raises his middle finger.
We arrive at the gym, where small groups of two, three, and four are entering, the faint sound of music bleeding outside as they open the doors.
“Y’all, thanks for walking with me. I’m supposed to meet my friend Delaney and her roommate out front here,” I say.
Raheel points at me. “This weekend. Game of Thrones. Winter is coming. That’ll make sense later.”
I give him a thumbs-up, and they enter, the last remnants of their conversation fading from earshot—“Dude, Callie is not gonna be here tonight.” “How do you know?” “I’m just managing your expectations so you don’t…”
I feel awkward standing there alone while people trickle around me. I’m about to text Delaney when I look up to see her approaching with another girl. As they near, I notice something different about Delaney. She’s wearing dramatic smoky-pink eye makeup. She looks great.
“Your eyes. Wow,” I say.
“Viviani did it.”
Viviani stands behind Delaney. She’s short, about Delaney’s height. Her hazel eyes are ablaze with the same makeup that’s on Delaney. Dimples bookend an incandescent smile. Shiny copper-colored hair in tight curls frames her face and crowns her head. It’s rose gold at the ends, like she’s growing out a dye job. She wears a Captain America T-shirt and black jeans tucked into black boots. She waves. “Hi. I’m Viviani. Vi.”
The way she says her name—Vee-vee-AH-nee—effervesces on her tongue. It makes the way I say it sound leaden and earthbound. “I’m Cash.”
“I recognized you. Delaney said you looked like a young River Phoenix.”
“I don’t even know who that is,” I say.
“Stand by Me. Sneakers. My Own Private Idaho. He wasn’t in very many movies, because he died young,” Delaney says.
“Is that good?”
“Dying young?”
“No. Looking like River Phoenix.”
“I wouldn’t compare you to an ugly actor, dumbass,” Delaney says.
“All right, well, everything else Delaney told you about me is a lie,” I say to Vi.
“She said you were cool,” Vi says.
“That you’re also allowed to believe.”
“I didn’t say that,” Delaney says. “I maybe implied it.”
“You guys want to…,” Vi says.
“Let’s do this,” Delaney says, sighing.
As I walk side by side with Vi, whatever perfume or lotion she uses wafts over. It’s a buoyant, shimmering blend of honeyed pineapple; something lemony and floral, like magnolia blossoms; something verdant, like ivy; and freshly laundered cotton sheets drying in a humid breeze.
“Delaney told me she doesn’t like big crowds,” Vi says.
“Me neither,” I say. “You?”
“I’m from a city of six million, so I have no choice but to be used to crowds.”
“Delaney and I are from a town of six thousand, so we get lots of choice.”
My pulse accelerates as we enter the dimly lit gym, sidestepping a pair of girls filming themselves. Music blares. There are tables set up with food and drink. Small groups of students huddle in close circles, talking, holding plates and cups. Occasionally one cluster will send an envoy to another. I scan the room, and I don’t see Tripp and his new posse, which suggests this isn’t the cool place to be. Which is fine. We form a small, tight ring.
“I want to know how you convinced Delaney to let you do her makeup,” I say to Vi.
“She told me I had beautiful eyes,” Delaney says. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me.”
“No, it won’t. I’ve tried it so many times,” I say.
“It’ll get some people everywhere with me. It’ll get you to certain limited places.”
“It’s cool you two came together here,” Vi says. “My best friend from Brazil, Fernanda, is at Phillips Exeter. I tried to get her to come here.”
I nod at Delaney. “Here’s who needs to talk to your friend.”
Delaney says to Vi, “I had to twist his arm to get him to come.”
Vi is aghast. “This is such a good school!”
I wave it off. “I’m here now.”
“I’m getting a Coke. Get y’all anything?” Delaney asks.
“Coke,” I say.
“Also,” Vi says.
Delaney ventures toward the tables with coolers on them, leaving Vi and me alone.
We smile awkwardly at each other.
“So how did you get the name Cash?” Vi asks. “Like Johnny Cash?”
“My mama loved Johnny Cash. My grandpa used to listen to him a lot with her. So, yep.”
“I knew it!”
“You speak incredible English.”
“When I was growing up, we lived part of the time in Miami, so I’ve practiced. Also, I’ve watched lots of American movies and TV shows and played lots of video games online with Americans.”
Delaney stops to chat. Maybe another person asking if she came here with her husband.
“What are your favorite movies and TV shows?” I ask. “I’m guessing Captain America.”
“Marvel movies. Star Wars. Lord of the Rings. Game of Thrones. Bloodfall. Supernatural.”
“I’ve never seen Game of Thrones. As I was coming here, one of the guys in my dorm roped me into watching it with him later.”
“I’m jealous of you seeing it for the first time. Can I come?”
“If we’re allowed. I’m not sure of all the rules yet.”
“You’ve seen the Marvel movies, though, yeah?”
“Most.”
“Who’s your favorite character?”
I think it over. “Who’s yours? Wait. Lemme guess.”
“Go.”
I rub my chin and squint at her shirt. “I’m gonna say…Captain America.”
She laughs. “Good try.”
“N
o?”
“My vovô knows I love Marvel, and he gave me this shirt for Christmas.”
I look at her quizzically. “Your…”
She blushes. “My grandfather. Avô in Portuguese. So, vovô.”
“That sounds like what I call my grandpa—Papaw.”
“I like that. Papaw. Okay, guess again.”
“All the girls like Thor.”
“Thor is hot. But no.”
She sometimes says th like tuh and t at the end of words with a faint tch. I like it.
“Okay…”
“I think you won’t guess.”
“Yeah, I give up.”
“Shuri from Black Panther. She’s the one I identify with the most.”
“Why’s that?”
“I love technology. I want to be a video-game developer.”
“Man, that sounds awesome.”
“Are you a gamer?”
“Not really.”
“We’ll have to change that,” Vi says. “Your turn. Your favorite Marvel character.”
I think for a second.
“This will decide if we stay friends,” she says.
“No pressure. Shuri too, then.”
“Really?” She laughs.
“I mean, she’s awesome, obviously, but—”
“I was kidding about not being your friend if you choose wrong. Brincadeira, we say in Brazil.”
“Okay, for real, then? Bucky Barnes.”
“Good choice.”
“Did I pass?” I ask.
“You passed. Why him?”
“I don’t know. He seems like a normal guy.” Bucky, who lives in the shadow of his best friend. Bucky, who knows he’ll never be as important as Captain America. “He doesn’t have magical powers or whatever.”
“None of the Avengers are magic. And he has a bionic arm.”
I suddenly remember Delaney and look for her in the crowd. I see her, three cans of Coke in hand—watching, observing—at the periphery of the congregation. I know her expression well. She’s gathering. Storing. Processing.
She told me once that she used to spend whole afternoons lying on the floor of her trailer, studying the ants—the one inexhaustible resource she and her mama had. She saw patterns emerge, over hours, from what seemed like chaotic movements. There was an overarching logic and intelligence to their motion, and if you could only figure it out, then you might have a clue to unlocking the secret of the seemingly random interactions of more sophisticated creatures. Like Middleford Academy students.