Know Not Why: A Novel

by Hannah Johnson

  I grin at him. “Any time, boss man.”

  He sighs.

  “—and hey, maybe you could actually write your own song to perform! I know you can write songs, so don’t even pretend you can’t! It probably has to be about Christmas, though! It can’t be about, like, Howie or something. I bet it would be hard to write a Christmas song! There are so many already that are so good. And what would you write it about? Maybe Christmas tree ornaments? I know that there’s already a song about Christmas trees, of course, but I always thought it was kind of sad that there wasn’t one about the ornaments, because they’re a very special part of the holiday season too, and …”

  +

  At the end of the day, I’m the one who gets saddled with washing the pile of dishes that’s gradually accumulated by the sink. As is the universal law of dishwashing, as soon as I’m done rinsing the last glass, something falls with a sinister plop into the soapy water.

  I pull it out to discover it’s Cora’s favorite mug, the one that sports the charming combination of that The Scream painting and the words ‘BUSH AGAIN?’. It’s kinda cute to see some old school political distress.

  “Gee,” I say, “thanks for that.”

  She smirks at me. “Maybe I just like watchin’ the way you move, dish boy.”

  “A well-dressed young lady prude like you? No way.”

  “Oh, suck it.” She grabs a box of Hot Tamales out of her purse and starts shoving handfuls into her mouth. “Kristy wants to take me shopping. I think she’s convinced she can get me to throw out my whole wardrobe and start over.”

  “I dunno, I wouldn’t write off the possibility. You look adorable.”

  “Oh hurrah,” she drawls, “you’re just as great as Arthur.”

  “Well, he is the boss of me,” I remind her as I finish up the dishes. I dry my hands on a paper towel, then start over to grab my coat from the rack. But before I can get there, Cora steps in front of me. I stare down at her.

  “Uh,” I say, “move? Possibly?”

  But she doesn’t move. Instead, she lifts up her arms. I’m scared for like a fraction of a second (you can’t blame a brotha for that when you’ve been through what I’ve been through), but then – she hugs me.

  It’s a nice hug, too. No slamming me against the wall. No biting involved.

  When she finally pulls away, I ask, “What the hell was that?”

  “I’m just happy for you,” she replies with a shrug. “That’s all.”

  I stare at her. I’m not really sure what to say to that.

  “I’m allowed to feel happiness for others, Jenkins,” she adds sardonically. “Having a tongue ring doesn’t revoke your privileges.”

  I feel sort of … well, touched, honestly. But I can’t really figure out what to do with that, so instead what I do is tug on her pink, pink sleeve and say, “Sure, you can feel happiness now, fairy princess.”

  She laughs and backs off. “Fuck you, loser.”

  I watch her as she opens the fridge and shoves the rest of her lunch into her bag, along with a couple of Kristy’s yogurts and an iced tea that I know is Arthur’s. You can take the yak coat off the girl, but you can’t take that wild, unchecked yak spirit from her heart.

  I think back to our fearsome disaster of a night together, with the Old Yeller and the awkward and her pretty much jumping me in an alley. And then her pretty much jumping me in the car. Me pretty much wanting to jump out of my whole existence. And suddenly, I feel really grateful for that whole crazy-ass experience. I’m not sure where I’d be if it hadn’t happened, but … chances are it wouldn’t be here. It’s not like I know where stuff’s going to go from this point. Probably more difficult, scary, confusing, stressful-as-all places. But I’ve got a crazy old bastard trying to force-feed me citrus in the name of my own health, and that? That’s not something I’d trade.

  “Thanks, Cora,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she replies, with this little smile that’s almost gentle, “sure.”

  As we walk out together, she gives me a handful of Hot Tamales. It’s a gesture I appreciate. A growing boy can’t live on grapefruit and grapefruit alone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  On the eve of the concert I come home from work and change into a Radiohead t-shirt, upon the grounds that Radiohead makes music, music is the theme of the evening, and therefore, I’m pretty much dressed for the occasion. God, I am one dapper son of a bitch.

  Dennis and Emily are staying in to make cookies and decorate the Christmas tree. We’ve been pretty slack on the whole happy holidays thing over the past couple years, and getting that Christmas groove back has been a little clunky. My dad used to drag us all out into the woods to go genuine hardcore tree-hunting, a timeless adventure that he loved, Dennis valiantly pretended to love, and Mom and I pissed and moaned about year after year. When he died, we got a fake tree instead. A really, really crappy fake tree. The bottom third of it is so loose it spins in circles every time someone comes within a foot of it without tiptoeing. It never really struck me as a very big deal. In my opinion, Christmas just don’t got that swing once the whole Santa myth gets busted.

  We didn’t even bother to drag ol’ pinus fakus downstairs this year ‘til Emily offhandedly remarked upon how unusual it was that Christmas was only a handful of days away and we still didn’t have a tree. Real quick after that Mom forced Dennis and me to lug it down, along with all the boxes of Christmas lights and crap.

  Considering Mom’s continued mission to convince Emily we’re the most functional of families, this seemed like a pretty sloppy move. I’m starting to think that her less-than-love for Emily is quelling her overall motivation in that department. For awhile, we kinda just let the tree stand there in the living room, all crooked and neglected. But Emily – oh, Emily – took a long look at it this morning, then finally pronounced, “I think we could make this look very nice.”

  To which my mom wasted no time in replying, “Well, sweetie, I think you could too.”

  My mom, for the record, claims she’s gotta go have dinner with a coworker tonight, but I’m pretty sure that’s code for kidnapping someone and forcing them to hang out with her so she doesn’t have to spend an evening untangling garlands with Emily.

  I kind of wish she’d warm up to her, to be honest. Sure, Emily’s a weirdo, but you know who else was probably a weirdo? Jesus. ‘Tis the season.

  I come downstairs to find Dennis and Emily immersed in the business of cookie baking. They’re both wearing aprons; Emily somehow wound up with the plain red-and-white striped one, while Dennis got saddled with the frilly, flowery masterpiece Nana Jenkins bestowed upon us many a year ago. He’s rocking it with dignity. He’s also steadily trying to sneak pieces of cookie dough. Emily is just as steadily swatting him away.

  “Hey,” he says as I get my coat on, “don’t you get too crazy down there. If some eighth graders start getting fresh, or passing out drugs or something, just say no.”

  “You kidding? Eighth graders have all the best crack.”

  “Eighth graders don’t have crack, do they?” Emily asks, looking concerned.

  “Most of them don’t,” Dennis replies, patting her on the shoulder.

  “I suppose that’s comforting,” she says with a little frown.

  “In eighth grade,” I say, “Pixy Stix were my drug of choice.”

  “How you’ve grown,” Dennis deadpans.

  “Hey. I’m a Laffy Taffy man now.”

  My mom comes in, looking pretty damn fancy. Skirt, hair curled, the whole deal. I get the sense that it’s because the longer she spends holed up getting ready, the less time she has to spend around Emily.

  “All right, you two,” my mom says, “don’t burn the house down.”

  “We’ll try not to,” Emily replies with perfect sincerity.

  My mom stares at her for a couple seconds too long. “I appreciate that,” she finally says.

  “Ehh, don’t worry, Mom,” Dennis adds, throwing an arm around Emily
’s shoulders. He’s the tiniest bit too jovial. “She’ll keep me in line.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” Mom turns to me. “You ready for your rock show, delinquent child?”

  “Oh, I am ready for rockin’.”

  We walk out to the driveway together. Mom’s wearing heels, so she’s pretty slow-moving. She pauses next to my car. The passenger’s seat is sporting the bouquet of flowers Kristy, Cora, and I went in on earlier.

  “Flowers?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “For Arthur,” I explain. And then, since that alone sounds a little too because-I-am-his-lovetoy for me to be comfortable with, I throw in, “It was Kristy’s idea.”

  “And you got entrusted with flower duty? You?”

  “Hey,” I say, lifting my hands. “You can’t see it through the gloves, but these thumbs is green, sista.”

  “Oh, my baby boy, you’re fooling no one.” The love around here, it’s unstoppable. “This is very sweet of you, supporting him at his gig.”

  My immediate compulsion is to start professing my hatred for him, stat. ‘Actually, he’s making us go, otherwise he’ll fire us all, because he’s a sick sorry nasty weird lame-o who doesn’t have any friends to support him, he’s paying us overtime, he makes me want to kill myself, Arthur, ew, gross.’ It all blossoms in my brain, finely honed instinct at work. But I fight it back. That’s not how I want to do this anymore.

  “The ladies wanted to go,” I say instead. And then, a feat of tremendous bravery: “Besides, he’s not so bad.”

  “You two are getting along again?” She sounds so calm and oblivious.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “We’re buddies.”

  She smirks at me. “He’s not atrocious anymore?”

  “Not so much.” It sounds so obvious in my head, so P.S. I Love Him, but then it comes out and sounds like ordinary conversation. I know I should be frustrated, and I kind of am. She’s gonna have to figure it out sooner or later. But I’m also really relieved.

  “That’s good. I think you could use a friend like him.”

  “Yeah. I guess. So. What poor unfortunate colleague did you force to hang out with you?”

  “Professor Herrick and I have to discuss how to adapt to some changes in the English department faculty this next semester. Pressing business that, much as I wanted to stay in for a lovely cozy evening at home, needs to be attended to immediately.”

  “Ahh, Herrick.” I bust out my nastiest of sneers. “Tell him I want my five points on that Shakespeare paper.”

  “A two ninety five out of three hundred is still something to be perfectly proud of,” Mom says, patronizing and loving it.

  “You don’t write ‘very good’ in all the categories on the grading rubric and then take five random points off anyway. That’s unfair. That’s sick. Those, Mother mine, are what I like to call shenanigans.”

  Her mouth quirks in a smile, and she pats me on the head. “My little overachiever.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say, “that’s me.”

  I didn’t really mean anything by it. It’s just – well, ‘overachiever’ isn’t exactly a label that gets slapped on me left and right. If there’s a way to be more under than an underachiever, then I’m that. Plus some extra. This is basic knowledge.

  But after I say it my mom looks sort of thoughtful and sad. I force myself to smile. No teeth or anything, just lifting the corners of my mouth up. Maybe I could’ve tried a little harder on that one, to communicate that I am actually ecstatic and content in every area of my existence. See? We’ve got some high-class underachieving going on right here, right now.

  “Behave yourself, kid,” she finally says, and brushes her gloved hand briefly against my cheek.

  I bust out a grin for her, teeth and all, so she won’t worry. “You too, Mamacita.”

  +

  I meet up with Kristy and Cora in the high school auditorium parking lot. The yak coat is back, marking the end of Cora’s week of pink-clad penitence. Kristy’s bouncing up and down. Presumably it’s to keep herself from freezing to death, but with Kristy, you never know.

  “Ooh, you brought the flowers! Arthur’s going to like them so much! Do you think the show will be very long? I hope they don’t wilt. They probably won’t wilt. And, okay, I know he told us not to do this, but I couldn’t resist, so – look!”

  She unfurls a bright red banner. It looks like about half the contents in the store went into making it: it’s shiny, it’s beady, it’s ribbony, it’s glitter-glue-tastic. In the middle of a mad frenzy of stars and candy canes and musical notes are the words ‘WE LOVE YOU, ARTHUR!’ As she unrolls it all the way, sequins flurry off of it and drift down onto the pavement.

  “Isn’t it the best?” Cora says, pleased. “He’s gonna be so pissed off.”

  “So pissed off,” I grin.

  “We won’t hold it up too much,” Kristy says firmly. “We’ll just show it to him afterwards. I think it’s nice! He’ll get that it’s nice.” After a moment’s consideration, she adds, “Maybe we should just tell him that Howie made it.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “there’s no way he’s gonna believe I made that.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Kristy agrees. She eyes the banner fondly and giggles to herself, then starts to roll it back up.

  “Hey,” come some familiar tones, and we look over to see Amber approaching us. Her sister April’s one of the pre-teen superstars that’ll be rockin’ it onstage, so we agreed to meet up here. She’s got her hands in her pockets and she looks a little bit nervous. For some reason, that makes me nervous.

  Said nervousness can be blamed for me greeting her thus: “Ambie!”

  “I will murder you for real, Howard,” she replies. And lo, I am heartened. It’s like magic.

  “You brought a sign?” she asks, gaping at Kristy’s creation.

  “Yep! We weren’t supposed to, but we couldn’t help it. Howie told me your sister’s in it, too, so I thought I’d …” She turns the poster around to reveal that on the back, it says, ‘AND APRIL.’

  “Oh wow,” Amber says, taken aback.

  “It just says ‘And April,’” Cora points out. “That could mean anything.”

  “No, she’ll think it’s cool,” Amber says. It’s obvious she’s trying to be nice. “She pretty much loves anything that sparkles.”

  Kristy beams.

  “Why do you have flowers?” Amber asks me as we move inside.

  “Kristy thought it’d be nice for Arthur.”

  “Ooh, it’s Arthur’s lucky night. Is his boyfriend coming?”

  I got this, I think. It’s no biggie, I think.

  Except by the time that I open my mouth to answer, Kristy and Cora have already got it taken care of. Kind of.

  “They broke up, actually,” Cora says. “Arthur doesn’t have a boyfriend now.”

  “Nope!” Kristy agrees. “No boyfriend for Arthur.”

  “He’s a single, lonely little old man,” Cora says.

  “Well, not little,” Kristy says considerately. “He’s tall.”

  “He’s pretty tall,” Cora allows.

  “Huh,” Amber says, looking confused. Understandably so. “That’s … too bad.”

  “Oh, I think he’s better off,” Kristy replies quickly. “This way, he can find somebody who really appreciates him! If there’s somebody like that out there somewhere. Which I don’t know for sure, because I haven’t really met anybody who’d go well with him. But I bet there is someone! Somewhere!” She very carefully doesn’t look at me. In a way where she sneaks a glance every couple of seconds and then forces her gaze up to the ceiling to compensate.

  “Or maybe not,” Cora throws in, “because Arthur’s a pain in the ass.”

  “That too!” Kristy chirps.

  “Poor Arthur,” says Amber.

  +

  We sit in the front row. Arthur is gonna love that. The room is full of people, most of them parent-shaped. All the kids start filing onto the stage and sloppily making their way o
nto the risers. There’s lots of stumbling and giggling and awkward twitching – ah, to be young and devoid of stage presence. Mrs. Fitzgerald, who’s been the music teacher ever since I was in school, comes onstage wielding a baton. That strikes me as irrationally optimistic, but I guess I’ll let it go. Last is Arthur, who inconspicuously sits himself down at the piano in the right corner of the stage. He’s wearing a red sweater. Kristy waves furiously at him, beaming. She starts to reach for the poster; I catch her wrist. She makes a sheepish face.

  I grin up at Arthur. I can’t help it. He smiles back down at me for a couple of seconds.

  Then he turns back to his epic duties and starts shuffling through the music on the piano. He gets everything in order, Mrs. Fitzgerald waves a hand in his direction, the kids look varying degrees of excited, nervous, and bored, and he starts playing.

  Cora shouts, “DO ME, PIANO MAN!”

  And then a teacher swoops down and kicks us out.

  +

  We stand out in the lobby and stare at each other.

  “Oh no,” Kristy says at last, miserably. “Arthur’s going to be so disappointed.”

  “Arthur’s going to fuck your shit up,” I tell Cora. “Stickler boss style.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” she protests, but her eyes are bright and it’s easy to tell she’s trying real hard not to laugh. “His red sweater made me do it. It was too much sexy. I couldn’t take it.”

  Kristy stares forlornly down at the rolled up poster in her hand. It’s been trailing glitter all the way out.

  I’m still holding the stupid bouquet of flowers. Considering I’m surrounded by three girls who could do it without looking like a huge tool, well, it just all seems kind of mean.

  “You want these?” I ask Amber.

  “No,” she says.

  “Figures,” I mumble.

  “I can’t believe you got me in trouble,” Amber says, disoriented. “You run with a dangerous crowd.”