Know Not Why: A Novel

by Hannah Johnson

  “I dunno,” Mitch replies. “Like … seven?”

  “Seven out of what?”

  “Just seven.”

  “Swell,” I grumble.

  “You should talk to her yourself,” Mitch advises sagely. “It sounds like you guys need to hug it out.”

  “I guess,” I reply lamely. I can’t really muster much enthusiasm, considering how fast I managed to backpedal on our last hugging-out.

  “It’s cool. I tried to stick up for you a little. Said you weren’t that bad.”

  It’s hard to imagine that did much. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “No problem. Hey, would you do something for me?”

  I attempt to reel my brain back out of the Amber-hates-me abyss it’s threatening to fall into. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Could you find the pants I wore a couple days ago?”

  “Uh,” I say, and take in the sight of the ghastly swamp of clothes surrounding me. I’m not sure whether I’ve ever seen the floor.

  “I left some Twizzlers in there,” he explains. “I’m sort of starving, dude. I haven’t eaten for like ever.”

  “Twizzlers for breakfast?” Oh, jeez. I’m a mom.

  “Yeah,” Mitch says, totally oblivious. “Listen, I don’t think I can hold them, because that means I’d have to move my arm, but if you could like feed them to me—”

  I love the guy, but no. “Why don’t you just get something from the kitchen?”

  Mitch stares down at Amber like she’s made of porcelain. “I don’t think I should—”

  “Dude,” I say, “just set her down.”

  “But she’s so sleepy,” Mitch protests. He’s still looking at her. He says it the way you’d talk about, like, an adorable kid, or a puppy.

  “Yeah, exactly. So just put her down on the bed, and she won’t mind.”

  He looks torn.

  I maybe get a little evil. “Whaddya have out in the kitchen, Mitchy?”

  “Captain Crunch,” Mitch replies, not without some yearning. “A box of moon pies.” His eyes brighten. “Corndogs.”

  Bingo.

  “A corndog sounds good,” I say, truthfully. There’s never a time when corndogs aren’t good. “I could use a corndog.”

  Mitch gazes in the direction of the kitchen. Twitches a little.

  “We could put them in the oven,” I suggest, drawing the words out, “so they’re all crispy.”

  “Okay,” Mitch says. “I guess I can leave her here.”

  Triumph!

  I watch as he very carefully sets the Amber bomb down onto his bed, making sure her head’s rested on the pillow. It seems a little excessive to me, but whatever. Then he picks a blanket up off the floor and puts it on top of her.

  “Mmm,” Amber breathes, not opening her eyes as she stretches out on the bed. “Thanks.”

  “Sure, Ambie,” Mitch replies, getting this little smile on his face. He reaches down and very lightly brushes his fingers against her hair.

  Oh, jeez, time to go.

  “Let’s roll, partner,” I order him, and drag him out of there.

  +

  Turns out, we can’t bake the corndogs in the oven, because that’s where they keep the towels.

  “The towel closet’s got all this other crap in it already,” Mitch says. “I don’t even really know what most of it is. But it’s okay, this is a pretty sweet deal! You know how warm towels are the best? So sometimes in the morning while you’re in the shower, you just turn the oven on real low, and then when you get out of the shower, you can run out here and grab a towel—”

  That strikes me as … really wrong to do, but I don’t push it. I think that, should she ever allow me to speak to her again, I might mention it to Amber, though. That’s exactly the kind of problem her righteous fury skills exist to solve.

  Anyway, in terms of corndogs, the microwave works too.

  “I like it when you cook them a little too long,” Mitch says, with the air of a true connoisseur, “like a minute and thirty seconds, right? Because then they explode a little. And it doesn’t look great, but it gives ‘em an extra something.”

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Arthur.

  ‘Everything all right?’ it reads.

  ‘False alarm,’ I text back. ‘We’re about to settle in for a nice hearty corndog breakfast.’

  Just about lightning-fast – which is pretty impressive, considering he’s got the texting abilities of someone from my mom’s generation – I get hit back with: ‘Oh, dear God.’

  I laugh out loud.

  “You okay, man?” Mitch asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “I’m okay.”

  “I thought so.” Mitch stares at me. I try my best to be inconspicuous. “You seem different.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, uber cool. “I don’t know why that’d be.”

  “You do,” Mitch says decisively. “You seem all … chill.”

  “Huh.”

  I’m so used to feeling like I’m gonna be found out at every turn that it kinda weirds me out when Mitch doesn’t press the subject. Instead he turns his attentions to the microwave and, after a few seconds, asks, “Did your mom ever tell you not to stand too close to the microwave?”

  And that is why Mitch rules.

  “All the time.”

  “Yeah, me too.” He frowns thoughtfully. “I wonder if this is too close.”

  “It’s too close,” comes the sleep-tinged but ever-authoritative voice of Miss Amber Clark. Mitch obediently backs up a couple feet and drags me along with him. Amber walks into the kitchen looking dazed and ashamed of herself, the way a normal person would after a one-night stand with … I dunno, Rudy. She’s using one hand to run her fingers through her tangled hair, and in the other one she’s holding—

  “Mitchell,” she says, with great poise, “can you explain to me why I woke up to find a Caprisun under the pillow?”

  It doesn’t shake him even a little. “Uh huh! It’s ‘cause sometimes I wake up and I’m really thirsty, but you know when you first wake up and getting out of bed just sucks? That way, I don’t hafta get out of bed, but I don’t die of dehydration either.” He grins.

  “Ah,” Amber says faintly. She hasn’t really looked at me yet. I feel kind of nauseous, which just isn’t a way anyone wants to feel when they’ve got the promise of a delicious corndog before them.

  Mitch explains mightily on: “And it’s okay to sleep on, ‘cause they’re in those pouches, so they’re kinda squishy. You couldn’t sleep on, like, a Sobe, that’d be like, ouch.”

  “You’ve tried, haven’t you?” Amber asks wearily.

  Mitch conveniently doesn’t hear that. “You can have it, if you want,” he adds generously.

  Amber stares down at the Caprisun.

  Under normal circumstances, here’s where I would let out a ‘Dude, really?’ I don’t. I don’t really feel like I’m entitled to speak in her presence ‘til she gives me permission.

  To my surprise, she looks down at the Caprisun and says, “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Sure,” Mitch beams. “You want a corndog? We’re microwaving them extra long, so they get extra tastylicious.”

  Amber shifts her eyes to the ceiling, like she’s imploring some higher power to help her decide whether to hold onto the last vestiges of her dignity. “Fine,” she says at last with an I’ve-already-lost-everything-else shrug. “Why the hell not?”

  “Yesssss!” Mitch punches the air in delight.

  I, meanwhile, start pretending I’m not here. Not Here suddenly seems like a damn badass place to be.

  “Morning,” Amber says then, coming over and leaning against the counter next to me.

  “Hi … there … you,” I respond, with such total grace and dignity.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she says. “I’m not mad at you.”

  Wow. This just seems … wrong. Traplike. It must be a trap. Complicated lady wiles at work.

  “I’m not,” she persi
sts, rolling her eyes. “I’m sick of being mad at you, it’s exhausting. Hanging out with them wasn’t that bad last night. I’m over it now. Everything’s good.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I say suspiciously.

  “Shut up, moron,” she orders, shoving me. “Don’t push your luck.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I agree. What can I say? It’s good advice if I ever heard it.

  “Is Kristy okay?” she adds, without even a trace of bitterness.

  “Yeah,” I say. Not technically a lie. “Everything’s good.” Also the truth.

  Everything stops being good about ten minutes later when Rudy tromps on into the kitchen, totally bare-ass naked. “Dudes, it’s cool, it’s cool, it’s cool – yo, Howie, man, could you pass me a towel?”

  +

  I’m corndog-breakfasted, showered, changed, and to work by nine. Mom, Dennis, and Emily were all a little baffled by my night-long disappearance, but I just fed them a story about Kristy being really upset. As far as they know, I spent all night holding her hand and handing her tissues and feeding her fruit snacks until, at three thirty, a heartfelt phone call rendered all things right and lovey-dovey in Kristy-and-Cliff land again.

  The fruit snacks detail was a little random, but hey. Authenticity. At least I stopped myself before I claimed that they were shaped like Disney princesses or tractors. They always say that too much detail is the thing that messes a lie up. Me, I know how to rock the exact right amount of detail.

  I’m getting pretty good at this whole lying thing.

  Honestly, it’s not the most encouraging realization. It’s not like it can go on forever. My family, my friends, they’re not going anywhere. Arthur’s not going anywhere either. Sooner or later, they’re gonna have to exist in the same realm. And hell, in the event of that unpretty collision, the fact that I lied about fruit snacks probably won’t help my case.

  But whatever. I’m pushing the thought out of my mind for now. Goddammit, I’m gonna feel good for a couple of seconds.

  And so it’s good that I feel as I make my way into the store. Kristy’s there already, counting the money out into the cash register. Arthur just so happens to be there too. I suppress a smile at the sight of him.

  “Good morning, Howie,” Arthur says, all brisk and professional. He’s a little smiley around the edges, though.

  “Morning, boss.”

  “How are you?”

  “Can’t complain.” I am ever-so-casual. “You?”

  “Can’t complain,” Arthur echoes. His mouth curves slightly.

  I look over at Kristy. She’s staring really, really hard at the stack of fives in her hand and practically twitching with suppressed delight.

  And then the bells on the front door ring, and in comes … some stranger. At first glance.

  Further glances go on to prove that it’s none other than Cora Caldwell, Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts Rebel and Saboteur. But it’s Cora like I’ve never seen her before. Like nobody’s ever seen her before. She takes off her coat – gray, nondescript, yak-free – to reveal a pair of khakis and a pale pink button-up shirt. Her crazy explosion of hair is pulled back into a ponytail. All of her piercings are gone.

  “Whaaaaaaat,” I say.

  Kristy’s jaw drops. “Cora! Look at you!”

  She ignores both of us and marches right up to Arthur.

  “One week,” she says bluntly. “You get one week of Cora Caldwell, Model Employee, okay? Then I go back to normal. I’m sorry, I’m sucking up, there. Now can you please not be a prig about this?”

  Arthur’s quiet for a long time.

  “Pink suits you,” he finally says, with the most miniscule of smirks.

  “Fuck off,” Cora drones, turning around and waltzing away from him.

  “What was that?” he calls after her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kraft,” she says in syrupy tones.

  Arthur smiles. “I must say, I don’t hate that at all.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Cora scowls.

  “I love your shirt, it’s so cute!” Kristy squeals. “Where’d you get it?? I would totally love to have one just like that.”

  “Ugh,” Cora groans, throwing herself over the counter in woe. “Don’t make it worse.” She stops mid-moan and fixes her eyes on me. “What’s up with you?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

  “You look different.”

  “Oh yeah? How?”

  She squints thoughtfully at me.

  She can’t tell. There’s no way anybody can tell.

  “You glow the lazy sated glow of a man who finally, finally got laid,” she declares.

  The hell?

  Cora switches her attention to Arthur. “Hey, you’ve got it too.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I hurry to say.

  “I totally thought so too!!!” Kristy exclaims. “But I didn’t want to say anything!”

  “Ohhhhh!” Cora grins broadly at us. Despite the Kristy costume, she’s never looked more Cora than she does in this moment. “Well, damn, boys. Somebody’s been naughty. High five.”

  When I don’t immediately reach up to high five her, she grabs my wrist with her free hand and slaps our palms together. Non-consensual high-fivery – a low blow, but unsurprising from her.

  Then she starts growling out “Sexual Healing” while Kristy laughs her ass off. This progresses real quick into a full-out dance party.

  “Ladies,” Arthur says.

  Cora just keeps on growlin’. Marvin Gaye probably would have blushed at this shameless display.

  “Ladies,” Arthur says again, more steely-toned. “Both of whom are model employees.”

  Cora stops reluctantly. Kristy chokes her giggle back with a high, squeaky hiccup sound.

  “Thank you,” Arthur says.

  “Better go get my apron on, boss!” Cora chirps, and bounces on back to the kitchen. Kristy follows her, looking like she has a whole lot of trouble staying straight-faced. The second that they’re out of the room, the sound of giggling explodes from the kitchen.

  “Relentless,” Arthur mutters, but he smiles a little. He grabs a piece of paper off the counter and heads over toward the front window. “So, things did turn out all right with Mitch and Amber, then?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. It still seems surreal that I spent a pleasant morning chowing down on corndogs and imbibing Caprisuns (Mitchy, good man, had a whole box under his bed), rather than, like, being murdered by Amber, or at least driven to feel like shit in yet another fun new different way. “Yeah, everything’s spiffy.”

  He stares at me. He looks unusually serious as he does it, too. I’m just starting to worry that he thinks I’m lying, or something, when – “Did you really have corndogs for breakfast?”

  “Arthur,” I say, “you’re smothering me.”

  “Listen. There’s a grapefruit in the fridge. I brought it for you. And I think you should eat it.”

  Oh, snap. This guy. “You brought me a grapefruit.”

  “It can’t undo the fact that you had a corndog for breakfast,” he says, with an actual honest-to-God shudder. “But I expect it can at least balance it out a little.”

  I let out a gleeful laugh. I can’t help it. His pain is so delightful. “Youuu are such an old man.”

  “No, but I’ll probably live to be one, which certainly isn’t something that everyone in this room can boast at this rate.”

  “A grapefruit. One lone grapefruit, burdened with the solemn mission to save me from my vile eating habits—”

  “Go on, mock, mock. I’m not yielding.”

  I kiss him. “Thanks, weirdo.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replies, “and disgusting.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you know you dig it.” I watch as he sets to work taping said mystery paper on the window. “What’s that?”

  “A flyer for the annual middle school choir holiday concert. Very important affair. They asked me to put one up. I meant to do it yesterday, but the li
ttle interlude with Cora caused it to slip my mind.”

  “You’re still your middle school music teacher’s bitch? Yowch.”

  “I’m providing the piano accompaniment.”

  Well, now, this is interesting. “For real?”

  “It’s a very big deal,” he deadpans. “Don’t get too starstruck, if you can help it.”

  “We’re coming,” I abruptly decide.

  “What?”

  “The ol’ gang. We have to. Moral support for our concert pianist.” I pat him on the shoulder.

  He looks like he just got offered a breakfast corndog. “That is so absolutely beyond unnecessary.”

  “Nope. We’re going. Does Kristy know about this?”

  “N—”

  “Hey, KQ!” I yell. “Did you know Arthur’s playing piano for the middle school Christmas concert?”

  There’s a faraway squeak, followed by the pitter-patter of footsteps. Kristy bounces into the room and doesn’t stop ‘til she’s right next to us. “What? Arthur! You told me you were just helping them rehearse a little! You mean you’re actually going to be on the stage? That’s amazing! We all have to go! We’re going! Oh, gosh, you know what would be so fun? To make a poster, like all the girls hold up in the audience on American Idol—”

  “No,” Arthur says, quickly and desperately. “Nothing that relates in any way to American Idol—”

  “—and then of course we’re going to have to bring you flowers. Gosh, I never get sick of bringing people flowers! What’s your favorite kind of flower? No, wait, I bet I can guess! Plus, you’d probably want to be surprised, right? Hey, is it weird to clap for the piano player, like, individually? Does your applause count for them too at the end of the song? I bet it must, because hello, what would the song be without the piano player? But still! Maybe it’ll get quiet at some point and we can clap for you special! Ha ha ha, I bet you would be sooo embarrassed. Okay, don’t worry, we won’t! But, gosh, that’s so cool, I’m going to be so proud of you! Do you think maybe they’ll let you do a little solo piece or something? Sure, you’re not a middle schooler, but you’re a total music genius, so I think it should be allowed—”

  “Thank you,” Arthur mutters into my ear, “so very much.”