36 Questions That Changed My Mind About You

by Vicki Grant

  -Guaranteed government funding of high school arts programs

  -Endangered species (including snakes even though I can’t help thinking the world would be better off without them)

  -Female circumcision

  -Good grammar

  -The right to a safe workplace

  -The mess my family is in

  -Anything by/about Jane Austen, Emily Brontë, or Taylor Swift

  -The size of my lips

  On the other hand, you can joke all you want about my pretensions, my misconceptions, and my sad, sad delusions about someday becoming a short, white, female Nelson Mandela. In fact, I wish you would. I like it when you make me laugh at myself.

  QUESTION 33: (If you’re still reading by this point which, frankly, would be an absolute miracle and so not like you. Or at least the you I know. Or think I know.) A) If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? B) Why haven’t you told them yet?

  A) I’d be sorry I hadn’t told you the answer to Question 28. (I bet you thought I’d forgotten about that.) I spent the whole night before we were supposed to meet trying to come up with a “very honest” answer that I could actually say to you without the application of drugs and/or alcohol. I came up with one (although I might need a little nip of something to spit it out).

  B) “Why haven’t you told them yet?” Because I have to tell you to your face. That’s the only way I can and/or should do it. I’ve got to think of myself, too. Because, honestly, if you don’t want to see me, you probably don’t deserve to know the answer, in which case it’ll be my secret which I will take to the death.

  So, now, a question for you: Do you want to see me?

  If you do, you know how to reach me.

  Hopefully yours, I remain,

  Betty

  PS Would it be appropriate to add xoxo? If not, please ignore.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Days passed. Hildy shut down her brain. That was the only way she managed to get to class, get her paper done, get some sleep, exhale. Max bought her dark-chocolate-and-sea-salt caramels and made her eat. Xiu sat patiently on her bed and covered Hildy’s head in tiny braids. “He’s an asshole,” she said. “So uncool just leaving you hanging like that after you opened your heart and everything.” Although she couldn’t resist adding, “But SBJ says he’s an excellent drummer and kind of funny, when he actually talks, that is.”

  Hildy switched with another girl so she could do her poetry presentation after spring break instead of before. She took three extra buses to get to her dentist appointment so she wouldn’t pass the stop near his house. She did her best to control her anxiety whenever she saw a tattoo, a doodle, a question mark, a fish. She was in survival mode.

  She went to class every day but only to get away from home. Even empty, the house buzzed with unhappiness, as if misery were some bad fluorescent bulb but the only light they had. Her parents talked like marionettes in front of her, droned like agitated bees behind closed doors. And Gabe? He’d become a teenager. Sullen, angry, with not even enough energy to actively hate anything out loud.

  She’d never have bothered going home if it weren’t for him. No one made meals anymore or checked his homework or his clarinet practice or his personal hygiene. She couldn’t bug him about that stuff—he was no longer open to advice—but she could at least feed him. Give him some semblance of normalcy.

  It was a Monday. Six days after she’d left the note at Bob’s. Four days after she’d given up hope. Three days since she’d fit into her old size two jeans. She was at a café, far enough from school that no one she knew would ever go there and fair-trade enough that Paul wouldn’t, either. She had her laptop open in front of her. She was three paragraphs into her Brideshead Revisited paper, and had been for hours. There was a thin wrinkled film on her coffee. She looked out the window. It was almost five and snowing hard. The place was emptying out. Even committed caffeine addicts were packing up. Word was the buses might stop running and nobody wanted to get marooned out here in the middle of nowhere.

  Other than Hildy. She wouldn’t have minded.

  But there was Gabe to consider. He’d eat a few packages of raw ramen and sleep in his clothes if she didn’t get back and at least pretend there was a point to all this.

  She packed up her stuff and headed out into the storm. She’d forgotten to wear a hat that day. Her ears were freezing. Within blocks, snow had infiltrated her braid, burnt her forehead, and given her the bushy white eyebrows of an Antarctic explorer.

  She stopped at the Kwik-Way and got three frozen dinners. One for her. Two for Gabe. She put them in her purse. (She’d stopped thinking of it as a satchel, even though it held more of the world’s woes than ever.) She trudged the rest of the way home, squinting against the snow. Both cars were in the driveway when she got there, so people were in the house, but it was unlikely anyone had bothered to get the mail. That’s just what it was like these days.

  Their grandmother had given Gabe a subscription to Tropical Fish Hobbyist. Hildy wiped the snow off the mailbox and checked to see if it had arrived. Gabe pretended he didn’t care about fish or Nana or anyone acting like he still mattered, but he did.

  No magazine. Just a few bills for her parents. Multiple flyers despite the NO FLYERS sticker. And a letter.

  Addressed to her.

  Hildy immediately recognized the handwriting. It was neat and boxy like the font in a cartoon strip.

  No stamp.

  He must have dropped the letter off here himself.

  Bob had been here. He’d come looking for her.

  She raced around to the back of the house and barreled in the door.

  Her father was sitting at the kitchen table. Her mother was standing, arms crossed, by the bulletin board. They both said some sort of hi/hello thing but Hildy barely responded. She dumped the Kwik-Way bag on the counter and ran up to her room in her boots.

  She slammed the door. Threw off her coat. Tore open the envelope. There were four sheets of paper inside.

  No one needs four sheets of paper to say they never want to see you again.

  Her heart revved to life.

  Her eyebrows melted.

  She had to sit down before she could read it.

  QUESTION 29 “Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.”

  Seriously? You have to ask?

  QUESTION 30 “A) When did you last cry in front of another person?”

  I was 6. I lost Pookie. The big boys at school made fun of me. I never cried in front of another person again.

  (p.s. My life changed when Pookie disappeared. I realized you can’t count on anyone, even yellow puppies with pink hearts & dog tags that say “Boy’s Best Friend.” From then on I’ve always had stuffed toys with an s.)

  “B) By yourself?”

  The day I got your letter. I saw it on the floor of my apartment, bent down to pick it up & cracked my head on the corner of my dresser. Bawled my eyes out. You should have seen the bruise.

  QUESTION 31 “Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”

  Can I tell you more than one?

  The answer is yes cause I’m the ump & I get to decide.

  Things I like about Betty

  1. You embarrassed yourself trying to find me. I picture you all fushia & flustered & I’m weirdly flattered by that. Even more flattered than by what you said in the letter.

  2. You cried over your little brother but knew better than to cry over me. I like smart girls (& naked girls & maybe French girls altho I’ll have to reserve judgment until I actually meet one).

  3. You like it when I make you laugh at yourself. (I like laughing girls, too.)

  4. You’re making me wait to find out the answer to Question 28. It would make me nervous if you were suddenly too nice to me.

  QUESTION 32 “What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”

  The size of
your lips

  That’s about it

  QUESTION 33 “If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone?”

  That I’ll be @ The Groundskeeper 7 tonight

  (“Why haven’t you told them yet?”

  I just did)

  CHAPTER

  21

  Seven.

  Oh my god.

  Seven tonight.

  Hildy looked at her phone. Jumped off her bed.

  6:22. Dirty hair. Dirty clothes. Unbrushed teeth. Unrehearsed answers. A howling snowstorm. Thirty-eight minutes to get to the North End.

  She’d never make it.

  She shook her hands in front of her. She hopped up and down. She did several tight turns of her room. And then she thought: Stop.

  Get a grip.

  She Googled the Groundskeeper’s number and hit dial. She checked her armpits while it rang. Found an almost-clean shirt while it rang. Rebraided her hair while it rang. Gave up.

  Suppertime. They must all be too busy to answer.

  She washed her face in her bathroom, brushed her teeth. Slapped some concealer under her eyes. Threw a bit of mascara on. Found those earrings he liked.

  She took a breath and turned to the mirror, thinking it was going to be terrible. But then she smiled at the idea of him writing that letter and her eyes disappeared in all those lashes and she thought, I’m okay. I’m good.

  Happy.

  She’d make it. She’d just have to.

  She put on her coat, grabbed her satchel, then, at the last minute, threw in the cards with the remaining questions, too. They might need them. Whenever they’d had a problem—dead air, wrong turn, misunderstandings—the questions had helped.

  There was a knock at her door.

  Gabe.

  She forgot to tell him she’d brought dinner.

  It wouldn’t kill him to microwave it himself. He was going to have to start taking a little more responsibility, at least for tonight.

  She opened the door. Her mother and father were standing there, several safe inches apart. Blank, unsmiling. Parental humanoids.

  “Sweetheart,” her mother said, and Hildy knew it was going to be bad. “Your father and I need to talk to you.”

  Hildy knew what they were going to say. She looked back and forth between them. Their heads were tilted, their eyes sad and wrinkled.

  Bob didn’t have a cell phone.

  She couldn’t reach the café.

  This was her last chance.

  They’d had years. They’d done this. Not her.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “This is important, I’m afraid.” Her father’s principal voice.

  “I’ve got to go.” She pushed her way past them.

  “Go where?” they said in unison as they turned and watched her race down the stairs.

  “Out.”

  “In this storm?” Her mother leaned over the railing. “Out?!”

  “I’m taking the Volvo.”

  “No, you are not. Not in this weather. Police are saying stay off the roads. Greg. For god’s sake. Say something.”

  He did, but Hildy didn’t hear it. She was already out the door.

  CHAPTER

  22

  She considered taking the car anyway. What were they going to do? Arrest her? But the plow had just come by and snowed it in. She’d never dig out in time.

  She wrapped her scarf hijab-like around her head and neck and ran toward Robie Street. A cab. A bus. Hitchhike. There had to be some way to make it.

  She turned the corner and saw the fuzzy glow of a bus lumbering through the snowfall. She raced toward it, arms flapping overhead, satchel slapping at her back.

  The bus drove past. She swore and kept running after it. At the intersection, it stopped and the driver leaned out the door. “C’mon, girl! I see you.” The light turned green, but he waited for her.

  She got on, thanked him, out of breath. The two other people on the bus clapped and cheered for her.

  “Where the heck you going on a night like this?” he said while she rooted around for her fare.

  “North and Agricola.”

  He shook his head. “Wrong bus. You want the number nine. Not sure when she’ll be coming.”

  “How far do you go?”

  “Chebucto.”

  “I’ll get off there. Walk the rest.”

  The bus driver clicked his tongue and winked. “Scott of the Antarctic. That’s the spirit.”

  She didn’t sit. She held the pole by the door and checked the time. Twelve minutes. Bob would give her a little leeway in this weather. He’d have to.

  What was the matter with the guy, not having a cell phone in this day and age?

  What was the matter with the guy?

  She couldn’t think of anything.

  She was so happy.

  She wasn’t going to let her parents and their execution order ruin that.

  “Far as I go, girly.” The bus driver shook his head and opened the door for her. “Be careful now. Some awful slippery out there.”

  She ran anyway. She slipped. Got up. Ran harder. Slipped again. Three blocks north, four east, and she’d be there. She blotted her nose on her mitten and kept running through knee-deep snow and waist-high drifts until she was just across the street from the Groundskeeper.

  Bob was standing out front under the streetlamp. He looked like he was in a snow globe, white flakes flickering in the light overhead. He had a hat pulled down low over his ears but he was in the same jacket he’d worn before. He couldn’t be warm enough with no scarf and no mitts. His arms were crossed and his hands tucked under his armpits. He didn’t see her.

  “Bob!” she shouted.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Bob!” She waved her arms. He didn’t look up.

  She was halfway across the street before she’d tried again. This time, he raised his head, turned toward her, and smiled, if only briefly.

  She scrambled over the drift the plow had left at the corner.

  “Bob. You waited.”

  “Paul,” he said. “You can call me Paul now. Not like I can hide anymore. You know where I live.”

  “Paul. Right.” She laughed. Of course. He was Paul. “I thought I was going to miss you. I just got your letter. I stayed late at school today. Gabe needed to eat. I stopped at the Kwik-Way. The car was—”

  “You’ve got mascara…” he said.

  “Oh.” Her hand went up to her face and she realized what he meant—what she must look like—and she started rooting in her satchel, hoping for a Kleenex, an old napkin, a scrap of paper.

  “Here,” he said. He took a slightly damp tissue out of his pocket and wiped under her eye.

  She jumped. He’d touched her.

  “Relax,” he said. “You’re good. I got it.”

  She nodded.

  “They’re closed.”

  She didn’t understand.

  “The café. Note on the door. Weather I guess.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Looks like everything’s closing. Least around here.”

  She should respond—she knew that—but she had nothing to say. She looked up and down the street, just buying time until her brain kicked back in gear.

  She was an actor.

  The show must go on, etc.

  Deep breath.

  “Any idea where we could go?” she said.

  He scratched his fingers up and down his neck. They were red and wet. He must be freezing.

  “The only place I can think of is a bit of a hike but the owner lives upstairs so I’ve never seen it close. Wanna try it?”

  “How much of a hike?” It wasn’t going to make any difference to her but this was like improv. Always respond. Keep the scene going.

  “Good half hour in this weather.”

  “Sure.” She shrugged as if that was nothing to an outdoorsy girl such as herself.

  “Okay.
This way then.” He jerked his head to the left.

  They started walking. He kept his hands under his armpits.

  “Want one of my mitts?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Quit being so manly.”

  “I thought you liked manly.”

  “Not ‘manly’ as in stupid.”

  He laughed.

  “Here. I mean it. Take it.” She handed him her left mitt.

  “Wow. Sheepskin. You southenders sure know how to live.”

  “Or at least shop.” She put her bare hand in her pocket.

  He laughed again. “Well, next time you’re at the mall, you should maybe pick up some waterproof mascara.”

  She groaned. “How bad this time?”

  “Depends how you feel about heavy metal groupies.”

  She slapped her hand across her eyes. He took it away and got out his Kleenex again. “There. That’s pretty much all of it.” Then he went, “Hey! Stop!” and she realized he’d seen something.

  A cab. Heading their way. They both started jumping and waving their arms, then he grabbed her hand and they ran down the street after the car until it slowed and fishtailed gently into the curb half a block ahead of them.

  “Yes!” He aimed a huge smile at her, as if they’d done this together. As if they’d made magic happen. A cab in a snowstorm, stopping just for them.

  They piled in.

  The car was hot and smelled of pine freshener and cigarettes of years gone by. The cabbie was an old guy with too-long white hair and a bright orange hunting vest. He was listening to country music.

  “Where to, folks?”

  “Cousin’s Diner,” Paul said, sliding along the backseat. The cabbie nodded and pulled out onto the street.

  “Cousin’s?” Hildy looked at Paul and laughed. “I love Cousin’s.”

  “I can’t believe you know Cousin’s.”

  “And here you thought you knew everything about me… I’m full of surprises.”

  “Yeah, well, so am I.”

  “Oh, yeah. Like what?”

  “Close your eyes and I’ll show you.”