by N. K. Smith
Fox’s now familiar laugh creates a little tickle of nerves deep in my belly. “I paid for your dinner, deal with it, Saigikins.”
I shoot a look at him in an attempt to silently tell him that wasn’t a part of the deal because I can think of nothing to say. I should express gratefulness at his gift of a meal, but nothing comes. He shuts the passenger door, then moves around to his side. As he slides in, all I can manage to say is, “Saigikins? Really?”
Chapter 6
Fox
“Those are awful nice clothes to be working in, kid.”
I shut the front door, look over, and give my dad a thumbs up. “Didn’t work tonight. Went out with an awesome chick.”
When I sit down on the couch and kick my feet up on the coffee table, Pop turns his eyes back to the television where a match between ManU and Arsenal replays.
“Ready for the season to begin?” I ask. The English Premier league won’t have new matches until August.
But my dad doesn’t answer. He says, “I don’t think they like being called chicks, Fox.”
“Maybe not back in the Iron Age when you dated, but I don’t think they care much nowadays.”
When I what I’ve said hits me, I feel like crap. He married mom right out of high school and had me not long after that, so it’s not like he’s dated more than one or two girls. But Pop just asks “Gonna go see her soon?”
I know he’s talking about my mom and not the awesome chick I just mentioned. “Yeah.”
“She keeps asking about you.”
I nod. “Yeah. Just going to finish a painting, and then I’ll go.” Last time she asked about our vacation to Florida. It was just me and dad, and she’s never been, so I decided I’d draw her a picture of the palm trees. “She any better?”
“The doctors think the new meds are working.”
“Are they?” I ask.
“Well, she talked about you without getting hysterical but wouldn’t let me touch her hand when I tried, so I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell.”
“Was she talking about the shadows and men with the fire eyes?”
“No.”
“Then the meds are working. When she goes back to talking about the apocalypse man and his legion of black souls, then we’ll know the meds aren’t working.” I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t already know.
“So about that.” Pop brings his gaze back to me. “You left one of your notebooks on the table. I looked through it and those pictures are kind of—”
“Don’t worry. I’m just drawing the crap I remember her saying.”
“Why?”
I throw him a moderately embarrassed look. “Because as frightening as it is coming out of her mouth, it makes for a great story.”
Again, he turns his eyes to the TV. “Not sure how I feel about that.” He pauses, then asks, “You going to write the words?”
I hear hope in his voice and love that he’s never given up on the idea that I’d someday go on to be a very literate person. Verbally, I’m fine, but when it comes to putting words down on paper, well, there’s just no point.
“No, but I hope this chick I went out with will. We’re working on another one, but I think she’ll totally be able to write this one with me, too.” I’m happy to turn the topic of conversation back a few minutes.
“Does this chick have a name?”
“Saige.”
“Like the herb?”
“Yeah, only I don’t think it’s spelled the same.”
“Pretty?”
“Very cute,” I answer.
“Smart?”
“Wicked smart.”
“Does she like you?”
I take a deep breath. “That I don’t know.”
***
Downstairs, I pass the time until my dad goes to bed and I can go tag another bridge by sketching an outline of Saige on my wall. When I add the color, I have a hard time with her hair. It’s sort of brown, sort of red, sort of blond on top and at the ends, and it seems to change color depending on how she wears it. Like tonight, it was down completely and looked much redder and lighter than when she pulls it up.
It’s amazing how absorbed I become in this painting. I’ve drawn her before, but this is different. She’s let me into her world, a little, not a lot, but I know so much more about her now. I bet there are a million things going on her head that she shares with no one.
She seems all meek and mild sometimes, but then, when she wants to, she gets fiery. She can be a little snotty, but I kind of like it.
When “The Ballad of Love and Hate” comes out of the speakers, the color of Saige’s hair seems to just come to me. Like I can see it perfectly, so I add a little creamy yellow over the red-bown I already have, and it’s just about the color I need. I add a little red bow in her hair just because.
It’s late by the time I’m finished and sitting on my bed to admire the work. I know I can make it better than it is right now, but there’s something special about it. I’ll be sad to paint over it.
I take a picture of the painting, but then start thinking that I should buy some canvas for this one. Maybe I won’t paint over it until I’ve done another version.
After Pop’s asleep, I paint another couple of foxes on another couple of bridges, then come home. As I lie in my bed waiting to fall asleep, I study the picture. The moonlight from the small high window shines down on the image of her. It’s not realistic. I do a lot of anime/manga style art. I suppose another guy might paint something that looks exactly like her, and I still may, but I like the way this turned out.
But I can’t sleep, so I get up and draw some stars and an owl in a tree behind her.
Then I draw myself holding her hand. While she’s looking up toward the sky, I’m looking only at her.
***
I don’t have plans to see Saige today. It’s Saturday, and I’m at the warehouse this morning and will be at the Burger Joint tonight, but I’m excited for when I do get to see her again. Last night might not technically been a date, but it felt like one. The one thing that would have sealed it as a date would have been kissing at the end of it.
But Saige isn’t the kind of girl I can just go straight in for a kiss with. I mean, she’s probably the kind of girl who would smack me if I tried and she wasn’t ready for it. I’m at a loss on how to do it, since I can’t imagine having a long drawn out conversation with her about if she wants to be anything more than the author of my graphic novel. Hey, Saige, so I was thinking about kissing you. How do you feel about that?
She already thinks I’m stupid. Well, at least she used to think that. I’m sure while she thinks I have a low intellect, stupid isn’t a word she’d pin on me. And now that she knows about the dyslexia, I hope she understands that what goes on in my head isn’t exactly what the world sees or what gets translated into grades. It’s not that I don’t want to work hard for something. It’s just, there are so many other distractions that keep me from caring all that much about acing a test over what happened back in 1492 or what author X is trying to imply about situation Y.
Take Saige herself for example. She’s the best distraction there is right now.
“Hey, where’s your mind, man?”
I blink and turn to the left. Jason’s standing with a cart full of product, waiting for me to acknowledge the order and start packing. “On a girl,” I say as I pluck the order sheet from his hands and scan the list.
It’s a big order, so I brace myself for the next forty-five minutes of heavy concentration. No one here knows about my dyslexia. They might not let me do this job, or pick orders either, if they knew, but packing is easy. All I have to do is match a title on the page with a title in the cart, put a checkmark on the sheet, then put the book in the box.
“A girl?” Jason repeats.
I glance up at him and see he’s probably a little too interested. “Yeah.” I could just leave it like that, but Jason likes to talk, and I could use a little advice. “How di
d you know you wanted to be with your wife? I mean, was it sudden or gradual?”
He considers this for a moment, then answers, “A little of both to be honest.”
“How?”
“Well, she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, so I knew I wanted her, but at that point, I was all about playing the field, you know? I wanted her for the moment, but after a while I couldn’t stand thinking about someone else— another girl instead of her—and don’t ask me how much rage boiled up inside me when I imagined another guy with her.”
“So how did you get her to be your girlfriend?”
Jason’s expression shifts. He creases his forehead and presses his lips tight as he looks at me. “I’ve known you for a few years now, and if I’m not mistaken, you’ve dated plenty of girls, right?”
I nod. “Right. But not like this one. She’s pretty and smart and funny and kind of a pain in the ass, but when I think about her, I know I’m supposed to be with her. And when I look at her, I see us together.”
“But?” he prompts.
“But I’m not so sure she sees it.”
“She doesn’t give you any signs that she’s into you or not?”
“I mean, she laughs at my jokes. Okay, chuckles, not belly laugh or anything.”
Jason tilts his head to the side and gives me a duh look. “Your jokes aren’t that funny, Fox, but it’s hard not to chuckle at the way you tell them.” He pauses while he turns his eyes to our boss. Once Mr. Morgan is on the other side of the shelving, Jason asks, “So she doesn’t give you any clues on how she feels?”
“Nope. She’s like a closed book, or a Japanese movie without English subtitles. You just don’t know what the hell’s going on.”
“Have you asked her?”
“That seems like last resort kind of thing. I mean, how do you strike up that conversation? I don’t think I’d have this problem with another girl, but Saige – that’s her name – is different. She doesn’t look me in the eyes. She spends most of the time looking at her hands, and she doesn’t offer information freely, unless it’s her opinions, but even then, she’s not exactly direct about it.”
“People who don’t look other people in the eyes are shifty. I’d stay away. The fact that she can’t hold a connection like that means she’s probably dishonest.”
Something tightens in my chest when Jason says this. I have a sudden urge to punch him in the gut, but I don’t. “She’s not dishonest. Everything about her is genuine. I think she just doesn’t like that sort of thing.”
Jason shakes his head and is about to say something when Mr. Morgan starts walking over to us. Jason closes his mouth, shoots me a look, then walks away to get another order sheet.
“How’s it going, Fox?” Mr. Morgan has told me I can call him Joe, but I try not to call him anything.
“Good, you?”
“Fine. When you get done with that order, come see me.”
I’m not a worrier by nature, but when it comes to my jobs, it’s a little different. Without them, all of my plans change. “Everything okay?”
He nods, but doesn’t speak as he walks away. I rush through this order, but then realize I haven’t check marked all the titles on the sheet, so I pull everything back out and redo it, this time with quality in mind. When I’m done, I find Mr. Morgan in his office, sifting through papers and mumbling to himself about what a mess his desk is.
I knock. “Mr. Morgan?”
“Ah, yeah, Fox, come in.” He points to the chair. “Sit.”
When he stops fiddling around with the papers on his desk, I point to the framed picture of his family at Disney World. “Are you and your family going to go again this year?”
“Probably not. The twins say their too old for Mickey Mouse and my daughter is just at the point where princesses aren’t cool anymore.”
“But you do a big vacation every year, right?”
He nods. “I think this year we’ll do a road trip. The kids are old enough to start seeing the sights of the country. I’ve been thinking about the Grand Canyon, the four corners, Mount Rushmore.”
“Wow. The whole nine.”
“Yeah. You ever been?”
“No. My dad took me to Florida one year and we went up to Maine another year, but nothing off the east coast.”
“You’ve got your trip planned for the end of the summer though, right?”
“Yeah.” I can’t help but smile. “That’ll be awesome.”
I can tell he’s ready to get down to business when he readjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “Fox, where do you see yourself in five years?”
The question takes me by surprise. “I don’t know.”
“Have you thought about the future much?”
“Not really. I mean, I have, but it’s usually about fun things I want to do.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, bungee jump or skydive. Go to the World Cup. Hold Liverpool season ticket to an English Premiere season.”
“So have you thought about what you want to do for a living long-term?”
“I want to make graphic novels.”
“But that takes some startup money and some time to get projects off their feet, and just like with regular novels, you might still need a day job, right?”
I hate the details he wants me to think about. “I guess.”
“I’ve been talking to your supervisor about succession planning.”
“What’s that?”
“Succession planning. Who should be trained to fill his role when he gets promoted.”
“He’s getting promoted?”
Mr. Morgan holds up a hand. “Not right this second, but one day it’ll happen, and we need to have someone trained to replace him.”
Slowly, it dawns on me. “And you want me as that person?”
“You do a good job, Fox. What do you think about becoming full-time?”
I can feel my eyebrows raise and it’s a little hard to contain my excitement about the offer, but then I remember. “I have a second job. I’ve worked there since I was sixteen, and I make—”
“I suppose you could still work there part-time if you wanted, but keep in mind, going full-time also means a raise.”
I think of my plans. “But I have my trip planned.”
“Yes. This won’t affect your vacation to England. In fact, instead of taking it all unpaid, you’d receive at least a week or two as a paid vacation since you’d be full-time.”
That sounds sweet, but then I think about Saige. Would working eight or nine hour days at the warehouse five days a week this summer, then working a few days each week at the restaurant, impact what I’m trying to achieve with her, both personally and with the two books? I’d have way less time with her.
“What if we started that at the end of the summer? I’ve just got some things I’ve been looking forward to and working full-time plus part-time just seems like too much.”
Mr. Morgan doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he says, “I suppose we could wait. Your vacation would still be unpaid then, but there’s no harm in waiting.”
“Then yes, let’s do it.” Gaining responsibility and pay is something I should want, even though it makes me feel like I’m losing out on something else. Still, this is how you become an adult.
***
Between my shifts at the warehouse and the Burger Joint, I go home and watch a few minutes of a Chelsea match with my dad. We’ve both seen it before, so we’re not moved to groans of despair or cheers of excitement.
“Hey Pop, I want to text Saige.”
He doesn’t respond because I don’t think he’s listening, so I open my phone, grab her number from the contacts, then toss the phone over to him. He grunts when it lands on his stomach.
“Will you text something for me?”
He gives me a look, and I know what he’s thinking. Sure enough, he says, “You should do it. It’ll help with—”
“It’ll help with nothing,” I say. “Except sho
wing Saige I’m an idiot who can’t spell.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“I know, Pop, so help me not look like one.”
He sits up. “Fine. Tell me what you want to say.”
“Why don’t aliens eat clowns?”
“Fox,” he starts, but I stop him by pointing at him.
“Type it, please.”
It takes him forever to do it, then it takes half a minute or so for her to respond. “She says, what?”
“Now type, because they taste funny.”
As his slow thumbs type, he asks, “Do you think these jokes are going to—”
“They’re funny.”
“Are you sure about that, Foxy?”
“She’ll laugh or at least smile.”
The phone buzzes and my dad reads, “I don’t know how to type out a groan, Fox, but that was pretty bad. Besides, clowns aren’t funny, they’re frightening.”
“Okay. Now type, off tomorrow, want to hang? MMV needs serious attention.”
After a second, my dad reads her return text. “Fine. Not too early. Myka and Val are coming by, too, so be prepared for a full day of steampunk.”
Pop tosses the phone back to me and asks, “What the hell’s steampunk?”
***
Saige opens the door, and I almost can’t get my body in motion when she invites me in because she’s in almost the exact dress I drew her in Friday night.
I don’t know how it happens or why, but a lot of the stuff I draw comes true. I’ve never seen her in a dress before, so the fact that she’s in one close to the one I drew feels like a sign. A very good sign.
“You look beautiful,” I say as she closes the door.
She rolls her eyes. “Myka guilts me into wearing girlie things every now and then.”
“Well, you look nice.”
We turn away from the door, and I take in the painting that hangs on the foyer wall. Moving closer to it, I squint to make out the author’s signature. It’s a bunch of squiggly lines, so I can’t read it. “Whose painting is that?”
“It’s mine.”
“I mean, who painted it?”
“My dad.”
“Really? He’s a painter?”
“He was,” she says before walking past me and leaves me to follow her.