“Dude. No man should reference The Princess Diaries with that much ease. The Princess Bride, sure. But The Princess Diaries, nuh uh.”
“It’s a heartwarming family film,” Mitch says stubbornly. “And Anne Hathaway’s cute like crazy, even with those walrus eyebrows in the first half. I stand by it.”
I decide not to pursue the concept of walrus eyebrows, and say instead, “You are a braver man than I.”
“But the thing is. Like, that’s how it’s supposed to be, right? I bet it really matters to her. Not, like, standing under some stupid little plant with me, and everybody watching. I didn’t want to be the jerk who made her first kiss that. But then she seemed pissed.”
He looks so – so genuinely troubled. His forehead’s scrunched up, and his eyes are sad. It strikes me all at once that Amber deserves somebody who cares about her like that. I don’t know what’s going on with the two of them, and I can’t say in all honesty that I like it, and I have no clue whether Amber could ever reconcile herself to love a non-Dennis man who not only lacks a British accent, but watches The Princess Diaries without shame and sometimes forgets to change his socks. But after so many years of, after forever of watching Dennis not care, and only pay enough attention to her to keep her stuck on him – well, I like the idea of someone being all mad about her, all the-sun-rises-and-sets with her. If nothing else, Mitch is a great friend to her. That odd twitch of feeling in the depths of my soul, I think it might be called approval.
“Again,” I say, “I think that’s about my brother. Not you.” I hadn’t meant to share this part with Mitch, but now I feel like he earned it. “He was kind of encouraging her to keep things going with Blind Date Guy, even though she didn’t like him.”
“She didn’t like him?” Mitch’s eyes light up like the living room just turned into Disneyland.
“Nope. He was all hung up on his old girlfriend, or something.”
“That sucks,” says Mitch giddily.
“She had me bring these for you, bee-tee-dubs,” I add, busting out the copies of King Solomon’s Mines and The Lost World that she sent over.
“Oh, hey, sweet,” he says, taking them.
“There’s crazy African juju and dinosaurs and shit,” I explain, very intellectual. “I think she has you figured out.”
“Awesooooome.” He grins. “She’s the best.” Wise man, Mitchell Ballard.
Apparently, the conversation has taken a jolly enough turn that his appetite is back with a vengeance. He sets the books aside carefully, then reaches for not one but two drumsticks and starts taking alternating bites out of each of them. The universe attains its symmetry once more.
He’s chomping happily away, throwing occasional glances at the books from Amber with a fondness that suggests they, like, are Amber, and I kinda feel like, well, if there’s any time that’s gonna be good, now’s probably it. I clear my throat. “Hey, you know that stuff I was saying earlier about Bert and Ernie and … stuff?”
“Yeah,” he says, going to town on that chicken, “I didn’t get any of that, man, sorry.”
“Not gonna blame you there. Yeah. Uh. That was actually my weird, pansy-ass way of telling you that …” Here we go. “Arthur and me, we’re seeing each other. We’re together. Togetherly seeing each other. In a way where there’s … well, the Brits call it snogging.”
Mitch’s jaw drops. It offers me a lovely display of his half-masticated chicken.
“Dude!” Rudy exclaims, thundering out of his room like the Odyssey Cyclops leaving his sheep cave. The walls shake. I can’t believe I didn’t realize that he might be listening with his big weird magical-giant ears. “Dudes. Dudes who dig dudes. I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation, so sorry, sorry, sorry, but may I just say: called it.”
We both stare at him.
“Huh?” I finally offer.
“You,” Rudy beams, “being all cock-a-dude-ledoo. Called that.”
“You … did?”
“Yeah,” Rudy says proudly. “Mitch, tell him, yo.”
“You mean,” Mitch says, “all those times that I’d bring up Howie, and you’d go, ‘Howie. That dude’s gay,’ you, like, for real meant—”
“Yeah!” Rudy says. He points at me. “That dude’s gay!”
I am not really sure how to feel about this.
“I thought you were just,” Mitch says, “you know. Saying you thought he was lame. Which, uncool, by the way,” he adds, waving a chastising drumstick at Rudy.
“Oh, no, man,” Rudy says, holding his hands up. “You kidding me? That’s so derogatory. Me, I don’t hate. I wasn’t hatin’. Just statin’.”
“Whoa,” I say. I don’t really know what else to be saying. “And you had this figured out …?”
“Like the first time I met you,” Rudy says with a shrug. “What can I say? For some reason, my gaydar is off the hook.”
“That’s true,” Mitch acknowledges.
“Sure, man. When I used to watch Doogie Howser reruns as a kid, I’d be all like, ‘That guy’s gay.’ And I was like in fifth grade. I dunno, man, I just knew. Hey!” he says, the lights of epiphany shining grandly upon his visage. “You! Doogie How-zer. And it works ‘cause your name is Howie, and it works ‘cause you’re gay! Man. I love it when stuff operates on two levels like that. Makes my brain all tingly.”
I think we may have a burgeoning great thinker among us. Beware, Foucault.
“Well,” I say, “too, uh, bad you didn’t let me know sooner, I guess.”
“Nah,” Rudy says sagely. “That’s the kinda stuff that you’ve gotta figure out on your own, I think. Soul searching’s one of those things you do alone.”
Mitch and I sit in impressed silence at this wise reflection upon the nature of existence.
“Like jerking off,” he finishes, “or taking a dump.”
Aaand he’s Rudy.
“Wait, whoa, what, you brought chicken? Scorizzle to my stomachizzle! Don’t mind if I do, DooHow. Don’t mind if I do.”
+
“Do you think we’re too old for this?” I ask the next afternoon, casting a glance at a couple of kids who are looking at Amber and me with suspicion from the merry-go-round. “Have we reached a point where our enthusiasm for playgrounds is creepy?”
“Not as creepy as the fact that that little boy just ate something out of his friend’s nose,” Amber replies, claiming one of the swings with great regality. “Besides, we’ve been hanging out here since before their parents started dating. We’ve got dibs.”
“Nice,” I say. I am fiercely down with dibs.
“Now push me, slave.”
Being naught but her humble minion, I press my hands against her back. She goes swinging forward, and doesn’t make any attempt to help me out. No leg pumping action at all. Typical.
“Yeah,” I say, “you’re not gettin’ anywhere if you’re just gonna sit there and let your feet drag in the dirt, lazy-ass.” I don’t realize that maybe even the PG-rated talk should be off-limits, considering the present company, until the words leave my mouth. Backtrack time! “Lazy-butt. Lazy-bum. Lazy-rump. Lazy-derriere – that’s just me, nonchalantly projecting my knowledge of foreign tongues out into the universe. Take a second language, kids! Stay in school!”
“Knock it off, you’re harassing the youth,” Amber orders. I catch the chains of her swing and hold her hostage in retaliation.
“Free me, Jenkins!” She makes a few futile attempts to kick her feet back at me. Utterly pointless. I am unconquerable.
“Uh, yeah, maybe I will if you quit this verbal abuse attack.”
“Never. You can take my freedom, but never my scathing remarks.”
“Okay. I will settle, at this point in time, for your freedom.” In one totally bad-derriere ninja move, I let go of the chains and wrap my arms around her from behind. She is paralyzed in my unearthly grip of steely man strength.
“Unhand me, blackguard!”
“What the hel—…ck’s a—”
&n
bsp; “It means, like, scoundrel,” Amber informs me impatiently. She keeps flailing her arms around. “Which you are. When I get out of this – and mark my words, I will – you’re gonna be at my mercy. You’re gonna owe me lots of pushing. And an underdog!”
“That, madwoman, is a price I’ll never pay.”
Unfortunately (and, if we’re being real, unsurprisingly), Amber too is inclined toward bad-derriere ninja skills. She manages to wiggle her way out of my steely manbrace and swing free. Then, just to salt the wounds, she twists her swing around as she’s flying back my way and kicks me. There might be some very manly, dignified falling over on my part.
The kids seem happy to laugh their tiny heads off at this for a little while, but eventually, I think they find themselves intimidated by the epic battle being waged between us.
Either that or they’re just, ya know, weirded out. In any case, they take off.
“Ha ha, suckers!” I call after them. I can’t help it. I’m prone to random terrible lapses in maturity. This time, it results in me getting called a, quote, ‘tall butt-face.’ Worth it.
“Hey,” I say as I sit down on the swing next to Amber’s, “he called me tall. Deal with that, Artie 6’2” Kraft.”
Amber doesn’t seem to be basking in the full height of this victory. Instead, she’s looking forward at nothing in particular, and – uh oh – I’m pretty sure she’s got Nostalgic Face. “You remember that time you dared Dennis to throw himself off the swing when he was up there really high, and he did it?”
“Yeah,” I say. The gravel’s covered in snow now, but looking down at the spot in question, I still remember him face-planting onto it. My parents were picking gravel bits out of his skin for hours. They grounded me for three days for facilitating that evil plan. Turns out ‘I never thought he’d be dumb enough to do it’ doesn’t hold up very well in Mommy and Daddy Court.
“I always thought that was so weird, that he did it,” Amber says.
“Me too.”
She’s quiet for a long time. “Do you think he knows? About me always liking him?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I don’t add the part where I feel inclined to fall on the ‘probably’ side of the ‘I don’t know’ spectrum.
“I think he might know,” she replies. I watch as she pushes the snow aside with her boot, going at it until gravel’s exposed from underneath. “The way he was acting about me and the whole John thing. It just had such a vibe of, ‘Yes, yes, you go for him and leave me alone.’ That was so the subtext.” She lets out a short laugh. “Although, ya know, to be fair, I think the me-subtext in even bringing it up in the first place was to make him jealous. Or some crazy person equivalent thereof, considering there’s no way that he ever … would be. Technically, I know these things.”
“What are you gonna do about him?” I ask, swinging to the side to knock my foot against hers.
“Jeez, I don’t know.” She swings into me, bumping my shoulder. “Forget about him, I guess. Get over it. Blind dates or no blind dates.”
“Really?”
“I’ve always had reasons for liking him so much. He’s funny and smart and we’ve just got this … I don’t know, rapport that I like. It’s not like I was being totally deluded and pathetic for ten years.”
“I know,” I say.
“But at the same time, I think I was clinging to the idea of him. It’s like, I had him, and he was my excuse, and that way, there wasn’t that huge sense of … of there being someone out there somewhere for me and me having to go through the horrible process of trying to find them. You know?”
“Sure.”
“Instead it was like, ‘Nope, I found mine. Found my one. He just doesn’t like me, isn’t that rotten luck.’ Destination spinsterhood. Which was really easy, in a strange way. And I’m still in this place where … he walks into the room and the whole world gets like twenty times better. He can say anything to me and I’ll remember it for months, and … and love it because he said it and he said it to me.” I feel bad for her, really bad, and a little bit angry too. It’s a funky, directionless anger: I’m not really sure what the target’s supposed to be. But what she’s saying, it’s a concept that I newly know, it’s something that I’ve only ever felt around Arthur, and it just seems so fucking unfair that it’s not guaranteed to go both ways. “But at the same time,” she adds, “it’s like, now there’s this whole new sense of screw him.”
“I like this sense,” I say. It’s easiest to blame Dennis. Maybe it’s lousy to do, but it’s a little satisfying, too.
“He’s with Emily, and they seem happy, and I like her. And I shouldn’t let myself dwell on the fact that she’s this weird, like, uber-Amber. I shouldn’t be bitter about that. There should be no shaking my fists at the heavens like Lear over it.”
“No dwelling,” I say. “No Learing. That way lies badness.”
She laughs. “I think I officially give up,” she declares, meeting my eyes. “He’s got his life, and I’m not really in it, and that’s fine, and screw him, and may he be happy in the Amberless existence he’s chosen. I think I might be done.”
I feel a flash of pride toward her. That’s my Amber. “You should be done.”
“I should?” she asks, with a sharp inhale that she doesn’t quite allow to become a sniffle.
“Hell to the yeah times infinity,” I say firmly. “You’ve always been better than this.”
She gives me a wistful smile. “You’re my favorite twin, anyway.”
“Yeah, now.”
“Always,” she corrects.
That one earns her two underdogs.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Arthur takes me to his apartment. Douchey Patrick’s at work. Arthur reasons that it’s not breaking in when he’s going to be living here again soon enough anyway, and half of the stuff is his.
“You say that now,” I tell him as he unlocks the front door. “But what if we walk in on something not meant to be witnessed by our unsuspecting eyes? What if he’s got some nubile young man-wench covered in marmalade and tied to the bedposts, awaiting his return?”
“Marmalade?”
“Mitch found some in our fridge awhile ago, and ever since, it’s seemed so rife with comedic value.”
He doesn’t seem to find the dangers of intruding on a marmalade-slathered man-wench very high, because he steps right inside. I follow him.
It’s nice. Mitch’s apartment, this is not. The floors are glossy wood, with the occasional rug to mix things up. I’m pretty sure all the furniture matches, and I spot something that looks distinctly footstoolish. Hello, antique ottoman. We meet at last. The walls are covered in framed art, and painted really pale yellow. A piano’s hanging out in the corner. There’s a tall bookshelf that is, impressively, neat whilst being completely packed. The whole place has an atmosphere that’s really light, especially considering we’re in the dead of winter.
I realize after a couple of seconds that there’s not a TV.
“Man,” I say, awed, “you’re like, cultured and shit.”
“I don’t know,” Arthur replies, smirking. “It seems a little lackluster, sans angel-kittens poster.”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
“Isabelle?” he calls, setting his keys onto the coffee table. It’s fascinating – perhaps irrationally fascinating – to watch him here. Arthur in his native environment, at long last.
A slim grey cat slinks in from down the hallway. Its eyes flash in a way that seems somehow unnatural. Or at least mighty evil.
“We meet again,” Arthur grumbles.
“Whoa. Why did I not know you have a cat?”
“She’s Patrick’s,” Arthur informs me. “She hates me completely.”
“Really?”
“Really. I don’t think either of us will be all that sad to part ways forever in a few short weeks, now will we, you little hellion?” He takes like two steps closer.
She gives him a disdainful look, does a bitchy ta
il-swish, and then turns and disappears back down the hall.
“That was touching to witness,” I say. “Really.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“I want to watch it again in slow motion with a Sarah McLachlan song in the background.”
“You should have seen the time I got saddled with taking her to the vet. That was—”
“Poignant?”
“Traumatic. Humiliating. Emasculating.”
“Emasculating?” I raise my eyebrows.
“I’d regale you with the story, had I not made a solemn vow with myself never to think on it again for longer than five seconds. That’s all right, though. This is the true lady of the household.” He sits down at the piano. His hands dust over the keys briefly, leaving a few notes of nonsense music that sounds better than anything years of lessons could give me. “Oh, my darling, how you’ve been missed.”
I sit down next to him on the bench. “Do I get to make fun of you for talking to your piano?”
“Shhh.” He puts a finger to my lips. “Allow me this sole eccentricity.”
“Sole? Yeah, okay, watcher of Antiques Road Show, drinker of chamomile, lover of Weimaraners—”
He starts playing, and I shut up. It’s nothing I recognize at first. My musical knowledge isn’t exactly vast, so I can’t tell whether it’s something that exists or he’s just making it up as he goes along. Some gut instinct tells me it’s the latter. There’s something really free in the sound of it, and the way that his hands move. Whatever it is, it sounds serene and happy. He moves a little bit as he plays, rising and sinking with the music; I look up at him to see that he’s got this slight smile on his face, one he probably doesn’t even know is there. The music changes gracefully, easily, and I recognize what it’s turned into as the song that was on the radio when we were driving over, some cheerful Jack Johnson ditty. I watch his hands, his fingers drifting over ivory and black with something that’s like purpose but a lot looser. I can’t remember the last time anything was as beautiful to me as the movement of his hands.
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