by Erynn Mangum
“Okay. You’re human. And?”
“And how do I focus when it’s hard to, I guess?”
Andrew points to the couch, and I push the Hulk’s handle back into the locked position. I plop down on one end, and he takes the other end.
“Maya, focusing isn’t as much about what’s going on out here in our peripherals as what’s going on in here in our heads,” he says. “It’s the same no matter what you’re doing. I’ve seen people who can read with such intensity that they don’t look up when there’s a water-pipe explosion next door, but I’ve also seen people who can read only two words before they remember something they forgot to do.”
I nod, not really getting where he’s going with all this.
“It’s the whole Mary and Martha thing, Maya,” he continues. “If you’re focused on what you need to get done that day or on something that’s bothering you, you’re not going to get anything out of your Bible reading. But if you focus on the words in front of you and pray for the ability to see beyond the page into how the words can make a difference in your life, you’ll be able to get a lot out of it.” He stops. “Make sense?”
“Um. Kind of.”
“Try that tonight and let me know how it goes, okay?”
“Okay.”
I go back to the Hulk and turn it on. The little pots with fresh-cut flowers on the tables are rattling as I drag the vacuum back and forth.
There’s a note on my bedroom door when I get home to our dark apartment.
Maya — I am going to bed early to prepare for Calvin’s 2:24 a.m. wake-up call. Please try to quiet him before I get up this time. Good night. — Jenny
“Surly,” I say to Calvin, who’s batting his tail on my comforter in greeting as opposed to getting up in a real nice-to-see-you effort. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
I change into a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Grabbing my Bible, I plop on the bed.
“Okay, focus, focus,” I say. Calvin noses my knee.
I open up to John 15. “These things I have spoken to you so that My joy may be in you.”
Calvin sighs, and I look over at him. “What’s wrong, baby?”
He wags his tail, so I guess he just wanted some attention. Well, my philosophy is: You have to show affection to gain affection. At least it is if you’re a dog.
“In a minute,” I tell him, going back to the Bible.
“Roo!”
“Hush.”
He buries his nose in his paws and huffs his breath out.
I look back at the passage in John, but the words are not connecting with my brain. Focus.
I read a few more words. “And that your joy may be made full. This is My commandment, that you love one another, just as I have loved you.”
Love one another.
Based on our conversation last night, I think Jen thinks she’s falling in love with Travis. She’s infatuated at least.
“Well, it’s not like it’s hard to fall into infatuation,” I tell Calvin.
He squints at me.
“Well, it’s not. Travis is a great guy. He’s sweet; he’s considerate; and he’s definitely good-looking.”
Calvin shares my sentiments. “Roo!”
I thoughtfully rub his ears. “I just wish I knew how to tell her, Cal. I mean, she should know about the past. I should tell her.”
Calvin wiggles closer to my hand.
I give him a good rubdown this time. “How about you stay quiet tonight, huh? No more Wednesday-night nightmares, okay?”
He licks my hand in apology, as if to say, I don’t mean to.
“I know.”
I look at him and rub his ears one last time before I rake my hand through my hair. “How about ice cream?”
“Roo! Roo!”
“Come on, then.”
I pad out to the kitchen and open the freezer. Calvin hops along behind me happily.
“Vanilla or mint chocolate-chip?”
Calvin plops on his rear end in front of me and cocks his head.
“You’re right. No contest.” I pull out the artificially colored green ice cream and find a bowl. When you think about it, mint chocolate-chip ice cream is kind of gross. They take perfectly good all-natural ice cream and inject it with this green dye just so you feel like you’re getting a genuine mint taste.
I know the mint plant is green, but is the extract? And if it isn’t, who decided that everything minty in nature should be green? The people who make Andes mints?
Wait a second. I look closer. A spoonful has been stolen from this ice cream! I whip my head around, looking for the ice-cream thief. Jen wouldn’t have taken it — she’s head over heels into this whole natural thing. Who else has had access to my freezer?
Mrs. Mitchell!
I shake my head. Well, well.
I scoop a hefty bowl, squirt some chocolate syrup on top, and grab a spoon. We head back to my room, and I plop on the bed and look at my Bible.
Lord, I’m sorry. I can’t focus right now.
I spoon the ice cream into my mouth and reach for a sticky note.
Reasons I Cannot Focus:
1. Jen and Travis. Their names even sound good together.
2. I’m still freaked out by Mrs. Mitchell.
2½. Mrs. Mitchell stole a scoop of ice cream. Nutritious food, my eye.
3. Jen is falling in love with Travis.
4. Travis is probably falling for Jen.
“It’s a good thing, right?” I ask Calvin, who is salivating over my ice cream. I look at him for a minute and sigh. “What do you know? You’re a beagle.”
I just feel so … I don’t even know the words. Guilty? Confused? Trapped in this fake ignorance of Travis?
And the truth will make you free.
“And hurt a bunch of people,” I remind whatever part of my brain brought back that verse. “So, it’s not all fun and games.”
Jack keeps telling me just to sit Jen down and tell her. “Rip off the Band-Aid,” he said earlier today. “Tell her you’ve wanted her to know for a while, but it just seemed awkward, and then you didn’t know what to do.”
I think I know my roommate better than that. She’ll definitely get her feelings hurt. And then she’ll do the whole quietly-wander-about-the-house routine while I beg for forgiveness anytime she comes within a three-foot radius. It happened when I accidentally ate the pie she made the first time her mom visited us.
I didn’t know the pie was for her mom. There was not a note or anything on it. Just a freshly baked blueberry pie on the counter. Naturally, I assumed it was for us.
And this — this is quite a bit bigger than a pie.
Hi, Jen, did I mention that Travis and I looked at engagement rings, too? No? Oh, sorry, I guess I skipped over that part.
Yeah. I dip another spoonful of mint and chocolate and green dye #76. The best thing to do is to keep my mouth shut. Jen doesn’t know; Travis doesn’t recognize me; and Jack will stay quiet because he believes it’s my job to tell her.
It will all be better if I clam it up tight.
And the truth will —
“Wonder what’s on the Style Network?” I ask Calvin, cutting off the voice and picking up the remote.
The meadow is green and frosted with dew, looking like a painting I saw not too long ago in a home-and-garden magazine. Jen looks around, a huge, thick, mattresslike blanket in her arms.
“Here looks good,” she says to me, throwing the blanket on the grass. I sit down, hefting a cooler onto the blanket with me.
“Cushy,” I say. The blanket is probably thicker than my sofa.
“Isn’t it? What’s for lunch?”
I open up the cooler. “Well, I brought a bunch of good things….” I look inside and gasp.
Ten miniature frogs are hopping around inside the cooler.
“What?” Jen asks innocently.
“Oh. Nothing, nothing,” I say, not wanting to alarm her. I look over her shoulder. “Oh, what a pretty forest,” I sa
y, unenthusiastically. The second she turns to look, I dump the cooler out.
“Yeah, it’s great. Seriously, what are we eating? I’m starved.”
I open the cooler, looking for something edible. There’s a piece of lettuce, a cucumber, two Andes mints, and a bottle. I lift out the bottle.
“Green dye?” Jen reads the label. “Why are you bringing green dye on a picnic?”
I force a laugh. “Well, funny story.” I put the bottle down, but the lid pops off and the dye splashes all over my face.
Jen screams, “Oh, no!”
I yelp, “Oh, gosh!”
“Your face is green!” Jen’s voice started slowing down. “Your face is green! Yoooouurr faaace is greeeeen….”
“Roo!”
I jolt awake, nearly falling off the bed again but catching myself just as I’m sliding off the side. “Calvin!” I hiss.
He quiets momentarily.
“Hush!”
He jumps up on the foot of the bed and curls into a ball.
Falling back, I drift back to sleep.
My phone rings on Thursday right as I’m leaving for Cool Beans for my two o’clock shift. I glance at the caller ID.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Maya. How’s it going?”
I nod to my car as I unlock it. “Pretty good. You?”
“Good. Listen, I have a question.”
“I figured.” Mom never calls without a reason.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She sighs. “Anyway, do you remember the black sweater that I wore to your great-aunt’s funeral?”
I climb in the car and squint out the windshield, thinking. “Um. No.”
“It’s long-sleeved, and I wore it with that black-and-white skirt?”
“Did I go to Aunt Josephine’s funeral?”
Mom thinks for a minute. “Oh, wait. I guess you didn’t.”
“Then, no. I don’t remember the top. What about it?”
“Well, now you’re not going to be able to help me,” Mom groans.
I back out of the driveway, tucking the phone between my shoulder and my ear. “Help you with what?”
“A co-worker of your dad’s is having a retirement party, and I was wondering if that sweater was too somber to wear to it.”
I can’t help the smile. Sometimes, it’s really obvious that Mom misses having a girl around the house.
“What did Dad say about it?”
She tsks her tongue. “Oh, you know Dad. He couldn’t care less what I wear.”
I grin. “True.”
She sighs. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll just have to figure it out.”
I start driving toward Cool Beans and smile lightly. “Hey, Mom?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“I miss you, too.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s Sunday, and I’m walking out of church after listening to Andrew talk about something in James, I think.
Jack is right next to me. “So, what time are you going to your parents?” he asks.
“I’ll probably leave around four.”
“Okay. What are you doing until then?”
We get to my car, and I toss my purse on the passenger seat. “I don’t know. Maybe watch a movie or something.” I look up at the clear sky. The day is sunshiny, but it’s cooler. Plus, Sundays are my favorite days just to chill in front of a good movie or a good book.
Jack nods. He squints as he looks back at the church. He looks nice today — straight-cut dark jeans, a white polo shirt, hair slicked into a sticky-up preppy style.
He starts biting his lip, and I frown.
“What?”
He nods toward the church. “Look.”
Tim Watterby is standing there talking to a blond girl I’ve never seen before. Tim is probably the cutest guy I’ve ever met, but he’s so darn self-conscious. He can barely say hello to a girl without either (a) bursting into a spontaneous retelling of his entire childhood in a very loud, uncontrolled voice or (b) getting sick and running for the bathroom.
It appears that this is an example of option a.
The blond looks interested at first, but after ninety seconds of anyone’s mouth moving like that, I’d assume you’d get real tired, real fast.
“Poor guy,” I say.
“He needs to relax.” Jack shakes his head. “Some people just can’t talk to girls.”
“Well, girls are pretty scary.” I roll my eyes. “I just don’t get it.”
Jack looks at me. “Get what?”
“Why guys are so intimidated by girls.”
Jack laughs. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“Pattertwig, girls are way intimidating.”
“Not me,” I say. “I’m not intimidating.”
“Sure you are,” he disagrees.
“Jack, I’m five foot two, and my idea of self-defense is Tae Bo,” I say, making a fist with my hands. “That’s laughable, not intimidating.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not in that way… . It’s more like …” He moves his hands around, searching for the right word in the air. “I don’t even know how to say it.”
I watch Tim for a minute and then look at Jack, who is back to watching Tim. “I have eaten an entire bag of Cheetos in one sitting. Is that intimidating?”
“Novice. That’s all I’ve got to say. Novice.”
I purse my lips. The blond girl waits for Tim to breathe, then interjects a hasty good-bye.
Poor Tim.
Jack sighs for him.
“I can score six holes-in-one on Harvey’s Miniature Golf course,” I say.
“Doubtful. I’d have to see it to believe it.”
“I can tell what color M&M it is with my eyes closed,” I try again.
Jack nods. “Okay, okay! You’re intimidating. Happy?” I grin at him. He laughs again and slings an arm over my shoulders. “So, you need to kill a few hours? Let’s go get lunch and then go golfing. I need to see this putter in action.” He fakes a golf swing.
“You’ll get killed. Are you sure your ego can handle the humiliation?”
Jack pats his chest. “Nutkin, my ego has handled more humiliation than the average soul and emerged even stronger because of it.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. I’ll see you there, loser.”
After Jack and I finish lunch, we head for the golf course. Jack is right behind me the whole way. I can’t help the grin. My dad is the king of miniature golf. He had us on those fake lawns as soon as we were old enough to stand by ourselves. I hit my first hole-in-one at the age of three.
Jack doesn’t stand a chance.
“Okay,” I say, fifteen minutes later, golf club and neon pink ball in hand. “We’ll play by who gets the most holes-in-one. Deal?”
“You’re going down, Davis. It’s a scientific fact that men are more suited toward golf than women.” He tosses his blue ball up in the air and catches it.
“Words aren’t tasty, Jackie. Don’t make me make you eat them,” I say. “Hole one!”
I march over to the first hole. There’s a big elephant with his trunk blocking half the drive. The hole is straight behind him.
“Ah, the ever-popular Elephantidae” Zookeeper Jack says. “Ladies first.”
I plop my ball on the green, squint at the path, and tap it lightly.
“Too soft,” Jack says right away.
The ball bounces against the trunk, hits the edging on the green, rounds around the elephant, and falls gently into the hole.
I clear my throat. “I believe that counts as one.”
Jack scratches his head. “I might have misspoken earlier. See, when I said golf was for men, I meant the kind without a large Asian mammal between me and par.”
“Too late, Jack. Hit the ball.”
He hits it too hard. The ball careens into the trunk, whacks against the edging, and does a clean hop over the opposite side’s edging and starts rolling down the hill to the river running throug
h the whole course.
“Dang it!” Jack takes off after the ball.
I grin.
By hole number six, I’m winning four to one. Jack saunters over to the zoo animal of choice for this hole, a giant mom giraffe and her two babies.
“And here we have a Giraffa camelopardalis” Jack says, patting the mom’s side. “In Middle English times, it was called a ‘camelopard.’”
I laugh. “You need to know all this why?”
“Because when I’m the director of the San Diego Zoo, some little kid is going to ask me why the giraffe has spots like a leopard and a face only a mother could love.” He grins.
“And your answer will be?”
“Because God made them like that. Why else?”
I nod slowly. “And it has taken how many years of school for you to learn that? Couldn’t you have just read Genesis?”
“Enough, Nutkin. You’re just jealous that you don’t get to work with such amazing mammals every day. Try to hide your envy of me.”
I laugh. “Whatever happened with Polly?”
“She’s still on my porch, still quoting The Mask of Zorro. Only now, it’s all the bad lines.”
“Well, she is on your porch. I’d be upset if you left me on your porch.”
Jack grins at me. “I’ll keep that in mind. I don’t think I’d have as hard a time getting rid of you. You’re cuter than Polly.”
“Aw, I think that was a compliment!” I coo. I line up my putt and gently strike the ball. It rolls right between the two unrealistic giraffe babies and drops into the hole. “Yet another sinker,” I say.
“You’re cheating.”
“Am not. You cannot cheat at miniature golf.”
“Can too. You could drop it in.”
I point at my club. “Then I am obviously not cheating.”
“Maybe my golf ball is dented.” He starts inspecting it, turning it in the sun.
“Come on, you big whiner, hit the ball.”
He sets the blue ball on the green and putts it too softly. It stops rolling halfway to the hole.
“I believe that’s five to one,” I say. We start walking to the next hole.
“So Zach and Kate will be at dinner tonight?” he asks.