Behind the counter, a heavily tanned man in a white tank top who looks way too young to be bald is polishing glasses. When he sees Chris, his face brightens up and he says in an extremely camp voice, “Why hello there! If it isn’t my favorite baby face!”
“Hi, Milo,” Chris says.
“Hello, sweetheart. Oh, I love your T-shirt!”
It reads Hug Dealer.
If I were alone with him I’d ask him if I could have some. Except I wouldn’t because I’m shy.
“Thanks.”
“So who are your friends?”
“Just some guys from school,” Chris says.
Milo turns to us. “Well, guys from school, don’t just stand there! Come on in, don’t be shy! Welcome to the Korova. Why don’t you find yourselves somewhere nice to sit, and I’ll be right with you.”
Chris leads us to a booth by the window. It’s a bit cramped for seven people, but we just about manage by squeezing Zoey, Alfonso, Sandy, and Jason on one side of the table and Chris, Jack, and myself on the other, with Chris serving as a safety buffer between Jack and myself. As soon as we’re settled in, Milo leaves his place behind the counter and comes walking over to us—if you can call it walk.
He sashays.
“So, my little kitties,” he says as he stands in front of us, clasping his hands like a proud mother. “What will it be? We have some glorious cheesecake, homemade by my lovely husband Hans. Between you and me, Hans makes the best cheesecake in the world. It’s even better than my mother’s, but don’t tell her I said that or she’ll disown me. I can’t have her disown me, I want that Renoir. I mean, it’s a fake Renoir, but even so. It’s just so beautiful. So, who wants some cheesecake?”
After this deluge of words we’re all gasping for air and when we don’t shake our heads quickly enough Milo says, “All right, seven slices of cheesecake coming up. And what would you like to drink? You have to try our milkshakes. They’re home made by my lovely husband Hans.”
“Does Hans ever get out of the kitchen?” Zoey asks.
“No, darling, I chained him to the oven. But that’s okay, he likes it hot.” He winks at her.
Zoey giggles. “I bet he does. So which flavors do you have?”
“We have them all, darling. Strawberry, lemon, orange, tomato and basil, you name it. If we don’t have it, I’ll take out the whip and have Hans make it especially for you.”
“Oh my.” Zoey pulls a face. “I wouldn’t want to do that to Hans, so I’ll have a strawberry shake.”
“Excellent choice! Made with fresh local strawberries.”
We all order milkshakes in various flavors, and when Milo turns to leave, Chris says, “Oh, and don’t forget the special surprise!”
“Please,” Milo says. “As if I could ever forget a single word coming from your pouty lips.”
“Surprise?” Sandy says. “What surprise?”
Jack glares at Chris. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
The rest of us exchange bemused looks, but Chris remains silent and smiles.
After a few minutes, Milo returns with our milkshakes, plus a solitary strawberry cupcake with pink glazing, a burning candle stuck in the middle of it.
“So,” Milo says, “who’s the birthday boy?”
Without looking at Milo, Jack sighs and raises his hand.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” Milo says. He places the cupcake in front of Jack. When he leans in to plant a kiss on his cheek, Jack reclines and raises his hands. “Please don’t.”
“So shy,” Milo says, clasping his hands again. “How adorable! Well happy birthday to you anyway, sweetheart. And many happy returns.”
Jack doesn’t look happy. “Thanks.”
When Milo leaves to get our cheesecakes, Sandy looks at Jack. “I didn’t know it’s your birthday.” She leans across the table, puts her arm around his neck, pulls him closer and kisses him on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Jack.”
We all echo Sandy’s congratulations. “Happy birthday, Jack!”
“Watch out, the candle!” I say.
“Oh my God!” Sandy quickly grabs her long blond hair and pulls it away from the flame before it catches fire.
“You better blow out that candle before we burn the place down,” Zoey says. “But don’t forget to make a wish.”
Jack quickly blows out the candle, pulls it out of the cupcake and drops it on the table. Then he picks up the cupcake and takes a halfhearted bite out of it.
Leave it to Zoey to address the elephant in the room.
“So Jack,” she says. “What was that between you and the coach earlier? Did he wish you a happy birthday?”
I shoot her an angry look and kick her leg under the table. Unfortunately, it’s Sandy who cries out in pain.
“Ouch!” she says. “Who kicked me?”
I smile at her sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“It was nothing,” Jack says without looking up from the table.
“Matt said you called him names,” Sandy says, retroactively providing a valid justification for that kick against her leg.
Jack takes another bite out of his birthday cake, chews, then shrugs and says, “I’ve been calling Maddie names since kindergarten, so what else is new? He knows how it’s meant.” He looks at me. “Right?”
I’m pretty sure all the verbal abuse Jack has directed at me in the last ten years was meant exactly as it came across, but I’m stumped by his simple yet impeccable logic; also, I don’t want to rile him up any more than I already have today, so I just say, “Right.”
We sit at the Korova for about an hour. After the slow and awkward start we talk about the Track & Field tryouts (though carefully avoiding Jack’s verbal derailment), about everyone’s extracurriculars, and about school in general. The atmosphere is getting more and more relaxed, and I’m actually beginning to enjoy myself when Jason looks at his watch and announces that it’s time for him to go home and study.
“Yeah,” Sandy says, “me too.”
Zoey nods and nudges Alfonso. “Yeah, we should go too.”
Alfonso looks a bit confused because he only just got started on his third milkshake, but Zoey’s glare is unequivocal, so he shrugs and says, “All right.”
Zoey gets up and looks at Jack. “Are you coming too, Jack?”
“I’ll stay a while longer,” he says, shaking his head.
Zoey looks at me and shrugs as if to say, ‘I did what I could,’ and I acknowledge her with a nod.
“Don’t you have to go home and, like, celebrate with your family or something?” Sandy asks, but there is no reply. Jack just stares at the table in front of him, looking unusually miserable.
As Chris gets up to hug Sandy and Zoey good-bye I jump at the opportunity to change seats. I slide into the vacant opposite bench, relieved to put a table between Jack and myself. That same table is now between me and Chris, which is unfortunate, but at least it’s easier for me to look at him now without twisting my neck.
The others leave and take the relaxed mood with them. I’m left behind with Chris and Jack, and that feeling of awkwardness that has been lingering under the surface. We sit in silence for a while and slurp the rest of our milkshakes until Chris finally puts his hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“Sorry if that was awkward for you,” he says.
Jack shrugs, and I’m not sure if that shrug is just a shrug or a way to get rid of Chris’s hand. “Never mind.”
“I wasn’t planning on bringing that many people along, you know? But then again, I didn’t want you to spend the afternoon all by yourself.”
I have no idea what Chris is talking about and I feel out of place, as if I’m eavesdropping on a private conversation that isn’t meant for my ears. I probably should have taken the opportunity and left when the others did. Now I’m stuck here between my crush and my nemesis, unsure what to do or say, so I just try to blend into the furniture and pretend I’m not here.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says. “It’s okay.” Then he
gets up and grabs his bag. “I need one now.”
Chris nods. “Yeah, me too.” He gets up too and walks over to the counter to pick up the check.
While I’m still wondering what ‘I need one now’ means, Jack kicks my foot. It’s not a violent or aggressive kick by any means, just a way to catch my attention. He looks me straight in the eyes, for the first time since the coach made him apologize to me. “Are you coming or what?”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Outside.”
I grab my bag and follow Jack and Chris to the door. As I pass the counter, Milo winks at me. I smile awkwardly and check if my shoes are still on my feet.
“Thank you!” Milo calls after us as we leave the Korova. “Have a nice day!”
Once outside, we turn left, then left again, and walk down the back alley behind the bar. Jack drops his bag on the floor next to a dumpster, leans against it and lets out a deep sigh. Then he takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, opens it and pulls one out. Chris takes one as well, and then Jack offers the pack to me.
“Uh, no, thanks,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t smoke.”
“Come on,” Jack insists. “Don’t be such a pussy.”
“Nah,” I say, feeling very audacious to resist the temptation. “I’m an athlete in training, you know?”
I’m expecting them both to snicker and sneer, but instead, Chris pats me on the shoulder and says, “Right on, Matty,” and even Jack just shrugs and says, “Suit yourself.”
The two light up their cigarettes. Jack takes a deep drag, puts his head in his neck and lets out a sigh of relief. “God, I’ve been looking forward to that all day,” he says, smoke coming out of his nose and mouth as he speaks.
“I know, right?” Chris says. “It’s as if the smoke fills some void that desperately wants to be filled.”
“Yeah.”
“So how long have you guys been smoking?” I ask.
“Couple of months,” Chris says.
Jack nods. “Steve’s party. I was so drunk, and when his older brother offered me a cigarette I just thought, ‘Why the hell not?’ I mean, the world is going to the dogs and we’re all gonna die anyway, so what does it even matter?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess it’ll matter a lot whether I die a slow and painful death from lung cancer, or—”
“Or,” Jack interrupts me, “whether die you a quick and painless death in a car crash or in a mall shooting?”
I look at him. “I didn’t know you were such a cynic.”
“There’s a lot of stuff you don’t know about me, Maddie.”
It’s a surprising response that invites further prying. It’s almost as if he wants me to ask what he means by that, as if he wants to share things that he’s never told anyone before, but I’m not taking that risk. I might be misreading this signal, and I don’t want to clash with him again. Not in the mood he’s in today.
“I guess,” I say.
“So Jack,” Chris jumps in, “will you be celebrating with your family today?”
He shrugs. “Mom asked me what I want for dinner, so I guess we’ll be having dinner, my mom, my sister and my stepdad. But nothing fancy.”
“Right,” Chris says. “So what will it be? Mac and cheese?”
“Shut up!” Jack says, but he smiles. “No, I asked for burgers and fries. My mom does awesome burgers.” He looks at his watch. “Speaking of which, I better be going. I can’t be late for my birthday dinner, can I?”
He takes a last drag of his cigarette and throws it into the dumpster. It seems a bit reckless, but since the world is going to the dogs anyway I guess he’s not very worried about causing a conflagration. And right now I don’t care much either, because for all I care the world could perish in a storm of fire and brimstone—with Jack in it or not—as long as I get to spend a few minutes alone with Chris.
Jack picks up his bag and fist bumps Chris. Then he reaches his fist out to me, but before I get to fist bump him, he raises his hand and flicks my nose. Not very strongly, and it doesn’t even hurt, but it’s enough to remind me that in Jack’s eyes I’m—if anything—the last among equals.
As I rub my nose, Jack cackles and leaves.
“Enjoy your burger!” Chris calls after him.
“Yeah yeah.” Jack waves his arm dismissively and turns the corner.
“Wow,” I say when he’s gone. It’s the best way I know how to express my confusion over everything Jack said and did today.
“I know, right?” Chris takes a last drag from his cigarette, then flicks it into the dumpster. I find it even more disturbing—and, quite frankly, more disappointing—than when Jack did it, but again I choose to let it slide.
“So how do you know Jack?” I ask.
“Jack? We actually met at that party. Steve Henderson’s party. My sister was dating Steve’s brother at the time.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you had a sister. Or that Steve had a brother, for that matter.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I met him out on the patio, and when I saw his cigarette, I wanted to bum one off him, but he had bummed it himself, so he shared it with me. We started talking, got along, and the rest is history.”
“Right,” I say.
“So what about you?”
“Me? I met Jack in kindergarten. We never talked about anything meaningful, we never got along. The rest is also history.”
“You don’t like him very much, do you?” Chris asks as we slowly stroll back to the main road.
I shrug. “He’s never given me much reason to like him. Which is fine, you know? I don’t expect everyone to like me. But I’ve never given him much reason to dislike me either, I don’t think, yet for some reason he really seems to hate me. Like, what was that on the track earlier? When he came in second in our 800-meter heat, I was happy for him, I really was. And I just wanted to give him a pat on the back and say, ‘Well done!’ or something, just like you did. I thought he’d appreciate that, but I guess not.”
“Jack can be an ass sometimes, but deep down inside he’s a good guy, really.”
I snort. “Must be very deep down inside. It rarely shows on the outside.”
“Yeah. You know, I think he’s very suspicious of people, and he’s not exactly used to getting a positive response to most of the things he does. It has a lot to do with his family, if you can call it that.”
“Why?” I ask.
“His mom and his step dad are both boozers, you know? And his stepdad has a pretty … shall we say unreserved attitude towards physical violence.”
I look at Chris, unsure what he means.
“He hits them both,” Chris explains. “Jack and his mom.”
“Wow,” I say. I had no idea. I’ve never thought much about domestic violence because it has never been an issue in my family, but I’m well aware that not everyone is so lucky. It makes me almost feel sympathetic towards Jack, which is a first, and it’s very confusing.
Chris nods. “I know it’s not an excuse. But it’s an explanation.”
“I guess.”
When we reach the main street, Chris look left and right. “Which way?”
“Depends on where you want to go.”
“I want to walk you home.”
This has got to be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.
“Right,” I say. “Left then.”
Chris looks at me with a puzzled smile. “Right, left?”
“Sorry.” I laugh. “Left.”
It’s getting dark. Most cars have their headlights turned on as we walk down Mercer Street, and we flow along with the steady stream of the last people heading home from work, evening shoppers, and the first couples heading for a night out at the movies or at a restaurant.
“So what’s your story?”
I frown. “My story?”
“Yeah. Everyone has a story. So what’s yours?”
“I don’t know,” I say, and I’m not even lying. I’m just a guy, trying to s
ettle into high school without attracting too much attention. That doesn’t seem very exciting, so I pluck up all my courage and decide to share one of my best-kept secrets with Chris. “I write stories.”
“You write stories?” Chris asks, raising his eyebrows.
Emboldened by his piqued interest, I add, “Yeah, well, nothing big. I want to write the next Great American Novel one day, but for now it’s just a couple of short stories and stuff.”
“That’s awesome! So what kind of stories are we talking about?”
“Just stories … about people,” I say vaguely.
“Are they love stories?” He nudges me with his elbow. “Come on, you can tell me. Don’t be shy.”
“Nah!” I lie, and I’m glad that in the evening twilight he can’t see how my face must be flushing. “I don’t know what to call it, really. Call it contemporary fiction, if you like.”
“All right then. Maybe I can read some of your stories one day?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. They’re probably not very good.”
“I don’t think that’s for you to decide.”
“All right then, we’ll see,” I say, eager to change the topic. As if on cue, my phone chimes. I pull it out of my pocket and quickly check the screen. It’s a text from my mom, summoning me home for dinner. I quickly reply ‘On my way’ and hit send. When I notice Chris peeking over my shoulder, I quickly switch the phone off.
“Your mom?” he asks.
“Yeah. She wants me home for dinner.”
“Right,” Chris says, and when I’m about to slide the phone back into my pocket, he adds, “Wait, I don’t think I have your number.”
“Oh,” I say and wake the phone again. “Let’s see …”
The sad and awkward thing is that I have no idea where on my phone my own phone number is stored. I swipe and tap, tap and swipe, browsing through the phone’s settings, but I can’t find that stupid number. “Damn it!”
“Can’t find it?” Chris asks with a smile.
“Apparently not. I know this is very embarrassing, but I don’t call myself very often, you know?”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” Chris says, but it’s not okay. It’s not okay at all, because I sure as hell want Chris to have my number. “Listen, I know my number, so why don’t you just send me a text?”
Cupid Painted Blind Page 8