Eloise says, “Looks like you’ve picked up a little reading material.”
Arlene hoots from the counter. “Picked it up is about right. Or lifted it, maybe.”
“Sorry, Arlene,” I say.
Eloise says, “Don’t be sorry, life’s too short to be sorry. Don’t mind Arlene here, menopause is a terrible thing. If you need books, I’ve got some you can borrow. Why don’t you come over right now, and I can hook you up with some good stuff, not this Red Riding Hood malarkey.” She smiles over at Arlene.
Arlene shakes her head and drinks more coffee. “Good stuff. You out-of-towners think you invented this place.”
Eloise says, “That’s the trouble, isn’t it? Do you think we could grab a few of those bear claws before we go, KJ? I need a little self-love today, if you know what I mean.”
I have no idea what she means by self-love, but a chocolate-covered bear claw sounds good to me.
She puts her arm around me. “We should get one for Virgil, too, although he rarely indulges himself. Not only is he a vegetarian, he’s also deluded by the idea that sugar is bad for you, poor kid.”
In spite of the fact that I am completely terrified of Virgil’s mom and going to Virgil’s house will provide endless opportunities for me to demonstrate my epic awkwardness, I also know Eloise can give me two things I want: books on wolves and more time with the mysterious Virgil. I put away my stack of pilfered print and follow the smell of chocolate and citrus out of the Bear’s Den.
We walk to Jean Arrant’s house. It’s a long walk, even at Eloise’s pace. Maybe Eloise is poor. No adults willingly walk anywhere in this town except to the refrigerator and the bathroom.
Eloise talks like she walks, fast. “So I’m here to study predation patterns. You learned much about that yet?”
“You mean the way a wolf goes after its prey?”
“That’s what I mean.”
I try to think of something impressive to say to the professor who is also Virgil’s mom, but my brain is filled with intimidation static. I say, “They eat the weak elk first.”
“That’s the theory. Doesn’t always work out like that though. I’m mostly focusing on how predation patterns interact with climate change to result in ungulate decline.”
“Ungulates are elk, right?”
She glances backward at me. “You have some work to do.”
The road to the house has an iron gate at the entrance with carved totem poles on both sides. Eloise punches a code into a security pad next to one of the poles and the gate opens. I’ve never actually been farther than the gate.
The rambling two-story house is built in the old log-and-shingle style like the lodge at Old Faithful. In the entryway to the house, we pass some deranged bronze sculptures of girls praying. One of them isn’t wearing a shirt. Their heads are smashed in the middle and their eyes look like they’ve been carved out with scissors. “Aunt Jean did those herself.”
“Interesting,” I say.
“She calls them Young Love.”
“Nice,” I say.
We find Virgil sitting at the kitchen table. The table is the only furniture visible that isn’t covered in books, clothes, and papers. Eloise says, “Hey, kiddo. I brought you home dessert.”
He looks up at me and blinks.
She puts the bag of pastries on the table. “Not her. The bear claws, for heaven’s sake.”
“Hey,” he says, and kind of laughs. When Virgil laughs he closes his eyes and tilts his head. I’ve watched him do it a few times. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know,” I say, and for a split second I have no idea what I’m doing here except for gawking at Virgil. “I mean, your mom says I can borrow some wolf books.”
“I run a loose ship around here,” says Eloise. “Make yourself comfy while I find something for you to read, KJ.”
She turns to go. “Where’s Jean?”
“Sleeping. As usual.”
Eloise strides out saying something I don’t hear.
I sit down next to Virgil at the kitchen table. Somehow it makes me feel less nervous, even though normally it makes me a wreck to be next to him. “I ran into your mom at the bookstore.”
“She probably grabbed you by the ears, huh?”
“Sort of . . .”
“She adopts people. It’s weird.”
“Am I adopted?”
“Do you like chocolate?”
“Yep.”
“Welcome to the family.”
Virgil pulls a bear claw out of the bag and hands it to me. “My mom could live on these things.”
“My dad likes bacon.”
“What?” says Virgil.
“I mean my dad eats unhealthy stuff, too. He eats bacon all the time, so our kitchen always smells like breakfast.”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“Wow,” I say. “At my house it isn’t dinner if there isn’t something dead on the table.”
“I don’t like blood.”
“Oh.” I feel so stupid I start to eat my bloodless pastry. It also strikes me that I am not all the way comfortable with a teenage guy who is a vegetarian. I don’t know which makes me feel more uncomfortable, Virgil or me.
“How’s the article?”
“Not good,” I say. “Have you decided which pictures you want to use? I could use some direction.”
Virgil motions me to follow him. We walk down a long musty hallway that ends in a bedroom. He walks into the room and then walks out again. “Are you coming?”
“In there?”
He smiles with his eyebrows. “That’s where my pictures are.”
My romantic experiences are meager, but I’m sure there’s a rule somewhere about boys and bedrooms. I can’t pin down the rule, so I go in.
Virgil’s room is so amazing I almost forget about Virgil. Unlike the rest of the house, it has giant windows that fill the room with sunshine. Where there are not windows, he has plastered his walls into an animal encyclopedia: siberian tigers, humpbacks, lemurs, flying squirrels, iguanas, piglets, eagles, octopi, javelinas, and of course, wolves.
“So you hate animals then,” I say.
“I did it last week. Weird, huh?”
“No, it’s great. These are all yours? You’ve been all these places?”
“The rhino and tiger shots aren’t mine. My dad took them.”
“He’s a photographer?”
Virgil doesn’t look so sunny anymore. “No, he’s a surgeon. He goes to Africa a lot. They’re divorced.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “Do you want to sit down?”
When he says this, I stare at him. This makes me dizzy. I sit on his bed, the part that’s made. He sits on the part that isn’t, then he lies back and looks at his work.
“So how do you like school here?” I say, trying to remain calm.
He closes his eyes. “It’s kind of a bizarre.”
I feel a twinge of protectiveness for my little patch of nowhere. “I like to think of it as unique.”
“Speaking of which . . . what was that thing in class? Where you turned colors?”
I dig my hands into my pockets. “I get nervous.”
He sits up and looks at me. “About what?
Virgil staring at me makes bad things happen. I can’t think. I don’t know how to explain to someone who’s been to wherever you go to take pictures of lemurs what it’s like to be intermittently embarrassing in West End. “I don’t know. I’m the Mission Impossible message—give me thirty seconds and I self-destruct.”
Virgil talks to the ceiling. “I don’t get it.”
“I just do stuff. Like in fifth grade. I wrote a ten-page book report on Island of the Blue Dolphins, which was about nine pages longer than every other kid’s, but the teacher failed it because I spelled everything wrong, including the title.”
“D-o-l-f-i-n-s?”
“Kenner couldn’t decide what to make fun of me for first.”
&
nbsp; “I don’t get Kenner either. He’s a dick and everybody treats him like he’s the king.”
“Just us redneck losers, I guess.” Back to protecting my school.
Virgil sits up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just not used to this. . . .”
“No, it’s true. This is a small town. When we aren’t working our butts off, there’s nothing to do but get drunk, wasted, or pregnant.”
“You really believe that?” he says.
“No.”
“So why do you say it?”
“Everybody says it.” My voice is rising. I feel awkward sitting on his bed next to him. I feel defensive, freaked out, and attracted to him at the same time. I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. His sheets have dolphins on them. He’s practically old enough to vote, and he has dolphin sheets. He’s put more time into decorating his bedroom than my dad’s put into stocking his shop.
He says, “I like your cowboy boots.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“No, really. They’re great.”
For a split second I’m thinking that these boots must be better looking than I’d realized. Then I have a terrible realization. Of course. I’ve read about this just a few weeks ago. Guys compliment girls’ shoes to tell them they’re gay. It was a three-page article in Seventeen on “gaydar detection.” But it suddenly all makes sense. The perfect hair. The perfect room. Hanging out with me.
All repressed gay guys have homely, insecure girl friends. I’m the neurotic sidekick. He’s gorgeous and I’m the village idiot. How could I have been so stupid? But then the sidekicks never know. That’s why they always get shot instead of the main character.
Virgil looks at me funny and then puts his hand on my elbow. “Are you all right, KJ?”
“I’m fine,” I say, choking a little. I have to test the water. “Do you show all the girls your bedroom?”
Virgil does the shy smile thing, still holding on to my elbow. “No girls. I did show it to Dennis though. He’s going to help me do a Web page with some of my stuff.”
I knew it. No girls. Dennis and Virgil. He’s holding my elbow because I’m the homely sidekick. I could cry.
Virgil lets go and scoots backward. “You don’t have to worry about me attacking you or anything.”
“Oh,” I say. Of course I don’t. Outside, I laugh, like a complete idiot. Inside, I gasp, like a complete idiot. He’s going to tell me now and I can’t stand it.
Then Virgil does something else I don’t get and have no cultural preparation for: he takes my hand. His hand is surprisingly big and warm. I’m totally confused. I grab my hand back. We stare at each other.
“Okay,” he says. “Not a good idea. I’ll get my pictures.”
“No. I mean . . . It’s just . . . my dad doesn’t like me to be in guys’ rooms. Even if they’re . . .”
Virgil raises his eyebrows at me. They disappear into his hair. Gay guys always have the best hair. The article said so. He says, “Even if they’re what?”
I go into bolting mode. How am I supposed to know what to do now? I say, “Even if they don’t like girls like that.”
Virgil stares and shakes his head. “Like girls like what?”
If my mouth were a faucet I would definitely need a plumber. “Don’t get mad.”
“Like what? Do you think I’m gay or something?”
“You’re not?” My eyes wander around the room. Maybe I could pretend to be having a seizure.
Virgil stands up, twisted off to one side with his hand on his hip. He looks like he’s dropped something on the floor. “No. I’m not.”
“I’m sorry.” I feel like my head is going to burst. “I’d better go.”
I run to the door and practically fling it open. Through the darkness Eloise’s voice bellows, “Don’t forget your books.” I don’t know where her voice is even coming from, but when I get to the kitchen I look down and see three books on a chair. I spin backward and Virgil is right behind me.
We stare at each other again.
“Whatever,” he says.
I gather up the books. I can’t get out fast enough. I say, “I’m sorry.”
“Life’s too short to be sorry.”
He escorts me past his great-aunt’s demonic sculptures. He opens the door and holds it open, but not in a nice way. I rush out the door and don’t look back. I should have tried the seizure.
TEN COOL THINGS ABOUT WOLVES
1. A wolf can use its hair to tell other wolves it’s going to beat them up.
2. A wolf can run at speeds of between 28 and 40 miles per hour for up to 20 minutes, can jog almost indefinitely, and may cover distances of up to 125 miles in a day. That’s what I call endurance.
3. A wolf’s teeth and jaw strength could pop a monster truck tire.
4. The wolf pack could have its choice of elk victims but it chooses the sick, old, or weak. I think that’s so ecologically polite.
5. Wolf pups are low on the pecking order but they still get to wrestle with the alpha without getting their head ripped off.
6. A wolf’s sense of smell is practically bionic. It’s more than a hundred times better than humans.
7. Wolves pee with form and function: they can mark territory, show dominance, and leave little love scents. They can even tell their family what’s for dinner.
8. Wolves like to sing on family vacations. And they harmonize.
9. Wolves are the most popular villain in European fairy tales, but they are really the least likely of the major predators to eat you or your grandma.
10. Wolves never worry about yesterday or tomorrow.
7
TAKING INVENTORY
DAD GETS ME up early to help with inventory. “How are things?” he says over reel boxes.
“Things?” I say.
“School.”
“A’s except for math.”
“How bad?”
“Not good.”
We unpack boxes for a minute. I rip. He stacks. Then I try again. “I took a review test I probably bombed. I can never tell. It’s starting to sound familiar to me though.”
He takes a bag out of my hand. “You’ve gotta have decent math grades, KJ.”
“I’m pretty sure I know that,” I say.
“Don’t back off just because it’s hard. You can’t back off.”
We both stop talking now. This is old, ugly ground.
Dad goes through his checklist. He hands me a box of fishing line. I hand him a set of waders that are in the wrong stack. He says, “What I meant is, how are other things at school?”
“Other things?”
He stacks the waders. I know he’ll wait me out.
“I like the newspaper. I’m supposed to write a column about the wolves.”
“Wolves?” Dad looks amused. “That ought to make you some enemies.”
“Yeah, Kenner and his friends. I’m brilliant at making enemies.”
He stops stacking. “Oh yeah?”
“Mandy and Joss told me I’m conceited.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“You think I’m conceited?”
“You don’t look like their little brother anymore.”
“Geez. That’s what they said.”
I rip off some packing and hand him two reels. That was almost a compliment. I say, “Plus there’s this new guy who is really great who I’ve thoroughly offended.”
Dad looks the reels over in the light. “Teenage boys don’t listen enough to be offended.”
“I said I thought he was gay.”
“They listen to that. You really like him?”
I unpack another reel.
He says, “Well, keep your shirt on.”
I hand Dad the reel. “Not every guy is like that.”
He nods. “I thought you said he wasn’t gay.”
We work for another twenty minutes without talking.
Finally he says, “So the year’s off to a good start then.”
&nbs
p; “It’s like this every year, only worse. It’s my pattern.”
Dad unwraps a flannel shirt with a pseudo-Indian design on it and shakes it at me. Maybe the ugliest shirt I’ve ever seen. “A pattern is only a pattern if you follow it.”
“What if I am that pattern, Dad? Well, not that pattern. What were you thinking when you ordered that beast?”
“I like it.”
“I’m the pathetic random pattern. I’m a nonsequential but recurring loser. I’m fluid stupidity.”
Dad smashes plastic wrap in the trash can. “You love a good bellyache, don’t you, Katherine Jean? Do you think you’re the only kid who ever had a bad day or got a bad grade? If you don’t like your life, change it.”
As long as I can remember, this is how it goes. My dad can only listen for so long before he has to judge, criticize, or give advice that involves telling me to “buck up” because “life isn’t fair.” That’s his pattern.
I take the box openers and split open a box of fishing socks and somehow manage to slice myself. Blood jumps out of my finger onto the box and the socks inside. I step back and blood escapes to the floor.
Dad barks at me, “You’re bleeding!”
“Sorry!” I bark back. Scaring my dad scares me a lot more than blood. I run to the sink in the back room and run my finger through the water. Outside the room, I can hear my dad cursing.
Sometimes I wonder if my dad wishes that I had died with my mom. He could have remarried and started a new family. The cold numbs the deep slit in my skin. I wish I knew how to change my patterns—all of them. But it’s like the blood in my finger. I screw up and there it is, just the stuff I’m made of, making a mess again.
After work I head over to the tree house with the books Eloise gave me. I’ve wrapped them in a special bag to keep them nice. They feel heavy and important in my arms. I pick my way slowly through the dying grass and fallen trees that cover my path. Overhead ravens argue and the changed light of fall shifts in the branches of the trees.
Kristen Chandler Page 5