“He seemed hungry,” Mom replies, casting an amused smile at Mitch. “And I know I should clean out the fridge, but if I can get your buddies to do it for me—”
“Is it good?” Mitch ponders, staring in fascination at the marmalade.
I finally let my eyes rest on Amber.
“Hey,” I say to her.
“Hey,” she replies, stirring more honey into her tea with extreme concentration.
“Emily and Dennis up?” I ask my mom.
“Up and out,” Mom replies. “He wanted to show her around town.”
“Oh. Show her what?”
“I don’t know,” Mom says, shaking her head. “But he was very enthusiastic. It was sweet. He really seems to like that girl.” A pained expression fleets across her face. Amber’s too. Presumably for a different reason.
“I was just getting an earful about her, as a matter of fact,” Amber tells me.
“Not an earful,” my mom protests. “Maybe half an ear.”
“I can’t believe she had the nerve to hate on Mansfield Spark. You did explain to her that it’s got a point, right?”
“Oh, honey, I didn’t even bother to try. I was still getting over the dead pig story.”
“The whole point is that Mansfield Park is the neglected little freak of the Austen family. Sure, you’ve got your one thousand trashy sequels about Darcy and Lizzy’s sex life, but no one until you even thought of writing four hundred pages of smut about Fanny and Edmund.”
“And then Fanny and Henry Crawford.”
“And then Fanny and Edmund again.”
“And then Fanny and Edmund and Henry Crawford.”
“Don’t forget Mary Crawford.”
“Maybe it was a little tacky to toe the incest line,” my mom muses.
“Whatever,” Amber replies dismissively. “Edmund and Fanny are cousins. It’s always been there to an extent.”
“How are you my mother?” I want to know.
Mom ignores me.
“I can’t believe Mansfield Park’s her favorite,” Amber sighs.
“I know,” my mom agrees despairingly. “It says so much about a person.”
They are speaking in code. Austen code.
“I mean, any of the others—”
“Any of them—”
“—would recommend her so much more to me. She’s the first girl I’ve ever encountered who doesn’t seem to aspire toward being Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Who doesn’t want to be Elizabeth?”
“I suspect,” my mother says delicately, “she’s got a bit of Fanny Price about her.”
Amber groans. “Oh, Jesus.”
“Exactly! Is it so wrong that I want my boys with Elizabeths? I’ll settle for Emmas or Cathy Morlands. An Elinor, a Marianne—”
“Are there any skanks?” I interject helpfully. “’Cause if so, you should probably wish them upon me.” (Check me out, working my heterosexuality into everyday conversation.)
“Yeah, I’m sure you and Isabella Thorpe will be just darling together,” Amber replies, rolling her eyes.
“But Mansfield Park,” my mother laments. “Oh, Amber. Remember when Dennis decided he was in love with you for about a month in eighth grade?”
“Kinda, yeah,” Amber replies. She sounds totally normal, and if she has this tiny little split-second where something crosses her face, well, it’s subtle enough that Mom doesn’t notice.
My oblivious, oblivious mother sighs. “Why couldn’t those days have lasted?”
“But then you wouldn’t have this great new prospective daughter-in-law,” Amber replies, even managing a wicked grin in the heights of her secret pain. Tough as nails, this girl.
“Oh, please,” my mom says, reaching over to squeeze Amber’s shoulder. “I’d take you in a heartbeat.”
Man, this is even starting to make my soul hurt.
And so I do something about it.
And that something is ask: “What about the one with the crazy bitch in the attic?”
Silence.
“What?” Mom says, blank.
“I thought we were discussing our favoritest of Austen titles. I’m not hearing any love for the one with the crazy bitch in the attic.”
“You are kidding, right?” Amber finally asks.
“… the crazy woman?” I amend.
Amber stares at me. And stares, and stares. “You’re an English major.”
“I’m an English major ‘cause it sounded way cooler than studying crap that exists,” I retort, trying to seem shameless. There’s maybe the tiniest spark of shame, but let’s just keep that between you and me. “I’m not your average English major. I’m the rogue, the renegade, the underdog.”
“Jane Austen and Jane Eyre are different, sweetie,” my mom says, tousling my hair with pitying affection.
“That’s all well and good,” I reply impatiently, swatting her off. “But which one’s skankier?”
“Jane Austen never got married,” Amber says. “Jane Eyre found out she was accidentally having an affair with a married man so she cut things off and went to be a spinster schoolteacher. She was fictional, by the way.”
I pretend to ponder my options for a second. “Nope. Not skanky enough. What about the crazy wife in the attic? It sounds like she likes to get fuh-reaky.”
“Oh, babe,” Mom says, “at the least I like to think that I’ve raised you to appreciate the value of a spinster schoolteacher.”
“You’re like a spinster schoolteacher variant,” I point out. “Let’s not get Oedipal.”
“Fair enough,” Mom says.
“Please, Howie, you just know your mom’s fighting back guys wherever she goes,” Amber adds. “Infatuated schoolboys, smitten coworkers, the whole deal.”
“That’s true,” Mom acknowledges with a fake-demure nod. “Especially the schoolboy part.”
I cover my ears. “Augh! First Sparky Mansfield, now this?”
“Not to mention,” Mom continues, dropping the harlot schoolmarm schtick (thank God), “that actually—”
“LADIES, LADIES, LADIES.” Mitch interjects. “And Howie.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem, dude. Announcement.” He pauses grandly, standing before us with the jar of marmalade (now open) and the spoon he used to sample it. A fleck of it flies across the room and onto the counter top as he waves his arm. “This nonsense is delicious.”
“Mitch, honey, I’m really not sure how long that’s been in there,” my mom says warily.
Mitch does not give a damn. It’s why I keep him around. “Seriously though, you guys, those Australians know what they’re doing.”
“Is anyone going to explain to him about how it’s England?” Amber asks in an undertone.
“Nope,” I say.
“I think it’s sort of sweet,” says my mother.
Amber sighs. “Mitch, let me explain something to you.”
+
While Amber breaks down the real deal about marmalade, I get ready for work. When I come downstairs again, it’s with minty fresh breath and a plan to weasel myself back into her good graces. I hide my hand – the hand holding the object that will, God willing, win her heart – behind my back.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table with Mitch. The marmalade is on the table, one in a line of many of its refrigerator brothers: maple syrup, strawberry jam, blackberry jam, some frosting, and some chocolate sauce. They’ve also got a packet of saltines. It’s not hard to decipher what’s going on here: namely, major tastebud experimentation. Mitch, ever boldly going where no man has gone since elementary school, is clutching a cracker that’s got all the toppings on it.
“That is disgusting. It’s disgusting! I am of the serious belief that you are five and big for your age.”
“Try it.”
“No way.”
“Amber. Come on. Try it.”
“There is not enough ‘no’ in the universe.”
“What if I make it fly? Here, I’ll make
it fly. Bzzzzzzzz!!”
“Mitch, no—”
“Bzzzzz – oh, oh, it’s comin’, it’s comin’—”
“You are a dork, you are the dorkiest of all the dorks—”
“It tastes better if it flies into your mouth, Amber, it’s like food science—”
“It’s like food science? What does that even mean?”
“Uh, it means a little thing I like to call delicious. Bzzzz—”
“Oh, fine.” Amber snatches the cracker out of his hand and shoves it into her mouth. It’s the kind of thing that’ll garner Mitch’s respect for life.
Sure enough—
“What what? Hell yeah! Pound it!”
She pounds it accordingly, laughing. “God, this is so gross—”
I figure I might as well get in on this while there’s a smile on her face. “Hey, Amber, can I talk to you for a second?”
Her expression darkens a little. I think she’d frown at me if she wasn’t so busy chewing. She covers her mouth with her hand (ever the lady) and asks, “Aren’t you gonna be late?”
“No biggie,” I reply. “Walk with me.”
For a second I think she’s gonna refuse, but then she stands up. “Fine.”
She follows me outside to my car. I open the passenger’s seat door for her.
She stares at me. “Seriously?”
“If you would, good lady.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure, okay.”
I close the door behind her, then walk around and get in. I turn the car on.
“What is this? Are you kidnapping me or something? Because, you know, ooh, ahh. Bold.”
I don’t speak. Speaking would ruin the perfect, momentous solemnity of the moment. Instead, I reach over to the CD player with my free hand, and I press eject. Out come the Femmes. I take the CD out and, after a pause rich with poignancy (in my head, anyway), I hand it to her.
“Wow,” she deadpans, but I can tell she’s trying to figure out what’s going on. “Thanks so much. You know how I love—”
“Take it. Keep it. Lock it up. You are their guardian now.”
“What?”
“I’m relinquishing my Femmes rights. From now on, whenever I chauffeur you around, you get free musical reign.”
She laughs a little. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”
“In their place,” I finish, revealing the secret weapon, “I bring you this.”
And I hand her the CD, which has been collecting dust under my desk ever since she thought it would be hilarious to give it to me as a joke a few years back.
“Boys for Pele,” she murmurs, taking it from me.
“Boys for Pele,” I confirm gravely.
Maybe not epic to everybody, but everybody didn’t bear witness to my many ‘whose genius idea was it to give Tori Amos a goddamn harpsichord?’ laments. Oh, the battles Amber and I fought over this one.
I figure surrendering is worth it. I just want stuff to be good with her. The only thing I’ve always had is stuff being good with her.
“And if I want to play Professional Widow on repeat a thousand million times …”
“My ears may bleed, but I’ll drive on.”
“You’re such a stupid bastard,” she declares, a smile breaking out onto her face. She leans forward and wraps her arms around me. “I love you.”
“Right back atcha,” I murmur into her hair.
“I’m sorry I freaked out at you,” she says when she pulls away. “I mean, of course you can be friends with whoever you want and date whoever you want. It’s just … you’re all I’ve really got going for me here.”
“I get that. I totally get that. You’re all I’ve really got going for me anywhere.”
“Oh, now you’re just sucking up,” she says, shoving me. In a nice way. “But, you know, I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think you can’t tell me stuff because I’ll go all crazy-bitch-in-the-attic on you.”
“Sister, I’m down with crazy bitches in the attic. I thought we established this.”
“Of course. And that was—”
“Jane Eyre. Not the same as Jane Austen.”
“Aw, you’re learning.” She pinches my cheek. I scowl at her. Then she gets serious again. It’s kind of starting to freak me out, honestly. “Howie, you can tell me stuff, okay? I don’t need you to, like, exist in this cage where I only let you out to be my trusty friend boy.”
“I know,” I say, but I’m feeling kind of nauseous all of a sudden. There’s this moment, this moment that seems so clear, and I realize that I could just tell her. I could just say the words – the ‘Actually, I’m kind of crazy about my boss, my dude boss, and yeah, it’s in a gay way’ words – and she’d know and I’d be … man, I don’t even know what I’d be.
But then I look at her, and … she’s Amber. I’ve known her my whole life. She knows me. Better than anybody. I can’t. I can’t bring myself to screw us up.
“I tell you stuff.” I force a smile. “I tell you all kinds of stuff.”
She gives me a fond little smile. “Yeah, I know.” Then she sighs. “Besides, I’m just a little awful right now because of the whole … you know, your brother thing. Your brother having a girlfriend thing.”
“Oh, Christ. I think we’re all awful over that. She is a friggin’ lunatic.”
“Really?” I can tell she’s trying not to look too pleased. “Your mom really didn’t seem over the moon about her.”
“You kidding? She’s ridonk.”
“Ridonk.”
“That’s right. Ridonkulous. For when ridiculous isn’t enough. Because it isn’t. She’s – she’s awkward and weird and, um, not to be a shallow bastard man here, but the lady ain’t exactly a looker.”
“Really?”
“Amber, you are so much prettier than her. So, so, so, so. If there was a way to italicize your speech, I would do it right now to communicate how much so, and it still wouldn’t get it across all the way. Not to mention that your sanity and actual interesting personality have kinda got it goin’ on.”
“Shut up,” she orders, very diplomatic, but I can tell she’s fighting back a smile. “I bet he really cares about her.”
“For now,” I snort. “There’s no way that’s lasting. There’s just no way. And if it does, I will sabotage that friggin’ love connection myself, because no way is that marrying into this clan.”
“Kitty got claws,” Amber smirks.
“Kitty got claws, and kitty will scratch her shit up,” I confirm.
She smiles at me. “Hey, Howie?”
“Yep?”
And that’s when she puts the CD in.
“Aughhhhhh!” And the harpsichord, it harps and chords madly on.
Chapter Eighteen
As soon as non-work stuff starts to go okay, the universe retaliates by making work stuff suck.
The sorry fact of the matter is that people just don’t come in so much anymore. It’s not like we were ever busy to begin with – I’m still pretty sure that your average human doesn’t even know that arts and crafts stores exist – but now it’s, like, tumbleweeds.
It’s not like I’m giddy about Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts descending into ruin. I like having a job, and if we’re being realistic, this is pretty much my only employment option that doesn’t involve fast food or heavy lifting. Not to mention that I don’t want any of my coworkers to suffer the pitfalls of this place going down – especially Arthur, who I’m guessing wouldn’t take the failure so well.
Stuff keeps happening to make that abundantly clear. As time goes by, he starts to develop this look. It happens, unfailingly, when the customers are trying to be nice. Like, some granny’ll come in and buy some wool for a sweater, and while she’s paying she’ll reach over and pat Arthur on the hand and say, “I still think this place is very nice, dear. Don’t you mind anyone else.” Cue The Look. Or, worse: “Hang in there.”
In those moments, it seems like maybe he won’t. Which sounds flippin’ ridiculous: it�
�s Arthur Kraft. Arthur Kraft doesn’t need to be told to hang in there.
I don’t think.
But then one afternoon the ladies and I are pretending to be busy – a noble art you tend to get good at when no one’s set foot inside for the past hour – when Arthur comes out. The Look is there.
“Cora,” he says in a voice so composed that it’s scary, “may I speak to you for a moment?”
“Yeah, sure,” she says easily, and doesn’t budge.
“I was thinking in my office.”
She smirks. “Why, Principal Kraft? Am I in trouble? You gonna give me detention?”
Arthur doesn’t answer. Just stares her down.
“There was totally a Principal Kraft on Sabrina the Teenage Witch.” Ah, Kristy. Valiantly jumping in to save us all. “There was this one episode where he and Sabrina’s Aunt Zelda started dating, and—”
Arthur’s not having it. “Kristy, if you could …”
“Sorry,” she squeaks.
I give her a ‘hey, ya tried’ look. She stares miserably back.
“What’s up, Arthur?” Cora asks bluntly.
He raises his eyebrows. “You’d like to discuss it here?”
“There aren’t exactly any customers to startle.”
Yowch. Bad call, Caldwell.
“Fine.” Arthur pauses. The tension mounts. I think Kristy might actually start biting her nails in a second. It’d be a shame, since she just spent fifteen minutes explaining the detailed procedure that was painting them last night. There are little smiling daisies on her thumbs.
“Why,” Arthur asks Cora, “have you been shopping at Holly’s?”
Kristy honest-to-God gasps.
What’s even lamer is that I have to stop myself from following suit.
Cora goes from zero to scary in two seconds flat. “You were going through my shit?”
“I happened to see the bag with your things in the kitchen.”
“It’s my nephew’s birthday tomorrow. I got him some watercolors.”
“At Holly’s.”
“No, I just liked the bag; yeah, at Holly’s. Fine. You caught me.”
It is the worst. The actual worst. Kristy and I are hiding behind the counter for dear life, Cora’s morphed into the uberest of uber-bitches, and Arthur’s staring at her like she just committed the highest form of treason and deserves death by firing squad.
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