It Started with Goodbye

by Christina June

  “What was that for?” Her gesture stunned me. There wasn’t much hugging in my life with Dad gone.

  She shrugged. “Sounded like you needed it.”

  The corners of my mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Thanks. These haven’t exactly been the best few weeks of my life, to tell you the truth.”

  She nodded and picked her shears back up. “I know.” She tapped her head. “Reporter, remember? I pay attention.”

  I nodded back at her once and turned back to my vines. Maybe Abby wasn’t the only one being obvious. Just like her outfit was a beacon for Hunter, signaling him to profess his undying devotion to her, my sudden, odd, and probably inappropriate attachment to a potential client, whose only “conversation” had been a handful of jokes made over the interwebz, was a blinking neon sign that I was in need of some kind of intervention. Or maybe just a friend. My fingers twitched slightly, my hand eager to slip into my pocket and make contact with my keys, and I chastised myself for forgetting that what I wanted wasn’t there anymore.

  Settling in on the Schmidts’ couch, I opened my laptop, intending to finish up Emily’s cover proposal. To my shock and amazement, a small bomb exploded in my inbox instead.

  Hi Tate,

  Sorry I took forever to get back to you. No rest for the weary when it comes to music unfortunately. I shouldn’t complain; I love it. But a man needs a break sometimes. Also, your survey is wicked hard. I hope my answers are helpful, but some questions made me feel like I was filling out an online dating profile. What do you do with them anyway?

  SK

  I opened the attachment he’d sent with his email with a smirk on my face. My questions were thought-provoking, but I certainly wouldn’t have called them “wicked hard.” Did he not self-reflect? Was I the only one who did that? I shrugged to myself and read on.

  Name: Seamus Kipsang

  DOB: February 19

  Location: Vienna, VA

  Occupation: cellist and student (does this count as an occupation? No one is paying me . . . yet)

  Favorite Color: Brown

  Brown? Who liked brown? This is the question that probably gets asked more in a lifetime than anything else, and he picked brown? That made me a little nervous for his mental state and his judgment.

  Favorite Music: This is the worst question for me to answer, by the way. You can’t ask a musician to pick a favorite. I have a list. I love Bach and Beethoven, but who doesn’t? My current favorite modern classical musician is Tanya Anisimova. She’s from Russia but lives in Virginia now. She taught a master class at school last year, and I fell in love. I’m hoping to play something of hers for my senior recital next year. Does that make me sound like a geek? Probably. Non-classical, I really love Ben Howard, Halsey, The Lumineers, Hozier, Neko Case, Ben Folds, Mumford and Sons, Sarah Jarosz . . . I could keep going if you need more.

  I immediately googled Anisimova and found a gorgeous cello and harp duet on YouTube. I’d never been much of a classical music fan, probably from lack of exposure other than whatever Tilly was practicing on the piano, but the notes she played and the way she dragged the bow methodically across her instrument slayed me. The musical honey seeped over me; my chest tightened and my breath caught in my throat as I listened. I had to turn it off so I wouldn’t cry. The cello struck me as such a sad instrument, wallowing in grief or overcome with turmoil, but maybe that was just my state of mind projecting.

  Favorite TV Show: Not much of a TV watcher, but I do follow sports. I might have a slight obsession with the All Blacks.

  Hmm, no idea what that meant.

  Favorite Movie: Any old school horror movie. Especially The Shining and Carrie.

  Carrie happened to be my most favorite movie of all time. Something about her isolation and loneliness had always struck me. Not to mention the wacky mom. Go figure.

  Hobbies: I wish I had more to write here, but I’ve pretty much already answered it above. I play music, I watch rugby, I lift weights, and I hang out with my family. That’s basically it. There isn’t a lot of time for anything else, though I’m hoping that’ll change in college.

  Aside from the hanging out with family, which I only did when forced, and the watching rugby—because why would I spend my time watching sweaty guys run into each other?—and replace the music with design, we were just alike. I chuckled. Right. I knew I was grasping at straws for some kind of connection. A connection that was only in my mind. Clearly.

  Personal Style: Like clothes? I’m a jeans and T-shirts guy. Is that relevant?

  I frowned. That one bordered on dating website for sure. I’d used it because it could be useful in coming up with a style for a site or a logo. I didn’t want to use primary colors and Comic Sans—shudder—for someone who wore suits and shiny dress shoes every day. Maybe I should’ve taken that question out.

  Pizza Toppings: WHY DO YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS? DO YOU SEND YOUR CLIENTS PIZZA? Now I’m hungry, of course. I like pepperoni and mushrooms. I have this thing about too many toppings. It hides the taste of the crust and the cheese and it makes the slice all floppy, and there is absolutely nothing worse than floppy pizza. Am I right?

  I squeezed my eyes shut so the tears wouldn’t come streaming out. Tears of laughter this time, though. I started reading that answer and began laughing immediately; my lungs ached and my sides burned by the time I could control myself again.

  I had a very valid reason for asking that question. A pretty sneaky one, if I did say so myself. And SK’s answer proved my theory perfectly. There are always exceptions, but in my experience, people who liked plain cheese or just one topping were often minimalists. I couldn’t very well give that client a site or a poster loaded with icons and words and patterns and blinking lights, now could I? These people were Ikea. Clean lines, a singular color, simple fonts, less is more, words that made an impact. People who liked “the works” on pizza liked things everywhere. I imagined that people who ordered every topping on the menu also had piles of magazines and newspapers in their homes, ten knickknacks on every shelf, and a bow tied on anything that would stand still. For those clients, I might use the full spectrum of colors, various fonts, a slideshow of photographs, all the bells and whistles. In other words, the pizza-topping question was a litmus test.

  I wiped my eyes and read the final answer.

  Any other relevant preferences: Now that I’m at the end, I am literally dying to know what you’re going to use these answers for. Please, if you have any compassion, divulge your secrets, O Wise One. I don’t have anything else to add, other than I’m a little scared of you now.

  I giggled and started typing back a response.

  SK,

  Sorry if I stumped you. Don’t you need to know your answers to these types of questions for college apps? You should probably get used to this kind of interrogation. Your answers help me figure out what kind of person you are so I can decide what kind of design would best represent you. You actually answered the pizza topping question perfectly. Very helpful.

  What’s an All Black?

  Carrie is my favorite movie too. Small world.

  So, based on your answers, I’m going to make a simple site without a lot of fluff, but that is a little whimsical, and highlights your musical career. Yes?

  Tate

  P.S.—Can you please send me a detailed résumé?

  P.P.S.—Brown???

  I pressed send and stretched out on the couch, where I promptly fell asleep. What felt like minutes later, the music on the television—the theme song to some wacky reality show about a little girl wearing way too much makeup—woke me with a jolt. I checked the clock on the cable box and saw it was well past the time Belén would be expecting me home. I groaned loudly, snatched up my bag and laptop, and sped back home.

  Belén was waiting for me at the door when I pulled in. “Why are you late, Tatum?” She tapped her toe, still clad in the pumps she’d left the house in that morning, on the hardwood floor of the entryway. Her signature move.

&n
bsp; Sometimes I wondered what it was like being inside her head. I imagined it was like a pinball game, with thoughts and opinions zooming around and slamming into her skull, setting off bells and alarms. I had to take a deep breath just thinking about that kind of chaos.

  I squared my shoulders, hoping to pull off a please-believe-me stance. “Well, Belén,” I said calmly, “as it turns out, the Schmidts had some car trouble on the way home. They said to apologize for any trouble they’ve caused you.” The lie rolled off my tongue a little too easily.

  She raised an eyebrow, and I raised one right back. Before she could say anything to contradict me, I marched forward in a fashion that mimicked what I saw daily from her and went into the house. I might have made a victory face as well, but I definitely did not turn around for her to see.

  Tilly, ruled by early dance practices and her mother’s iron-fisted grip, had probably gone to bed long ago. In moments of fleeting compassion for her, I felt bad that she had such a rigid schedule. That was always quickly swatted away, since I knew dancing was a choice she’d made. The soft glow of the television illuminating the basement stairs told me that Blanche was still awake. I practically tripped down the stairs, not interested in spending more time with only myself for company in the silence of my room. Blanche was on the couch, which wasn’t nearly as lovely and smooshy as the one at the Schmidts’ house, her perfectly tiny feet crossed on the coffee table.

  I hovered in the doorway, hoping she’d invite me to join her.

  Hearing my footsteps, Blanche looked up. Her brown eyes met mine, and she smiled. “Hello, Tatum. How was your evening?”

  “Fine. Just did my job. How was yours?” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, not wanting to talk about my job. At all.

  She reached a hand into the pocket of her cropped pants and pulled out a fistful of five-dollar bills. “I won bunco!”

  I laughed at the proud, jovial expression on her face. “What’s bunco?”

  “A dice game old women play for money.” She smirked. “My friend Carolina is out of town for the summer; I think I mentioned this to you the other day. I’m taking her place in the weekly game while she’s gone.”

  “And you won on your first shot?” I raised my eyebrows, impressed. But also, not surprised. It was Blanche, after all.

  “It seems that way. A bit of luck, that’s all.” Blanche chuckled and put the bills back in her pocket. She patted the empty space to her left. I knew better than to hesitate.

  “Better not let Belén see you with your feet on the table like that. She’ll bust out the Pledge and make you polish it.” I flopped down next to her and promptly put my feet up right beside hers, sandals still on.

  “If she has a problem with feet on tables, she can wipe up the nonexistent marks herself.” Blanche’s eyes went back to the television screen. She was watching an episode of The Golden Girls. Anyone who liked funny TV and didn’t need everything in her house to be just so was all right with me.

  “Can I move in with you?” Living with Blanche, where I could be relaxed and not on guard twenty-four/seven sounded pretty great right about now.

  “I think your father might miss you.”

  “No one else would.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  I disagreed, but bit my tongue. I’d never felt like I was anything more than an inconvenience for Belén. A fly she needed to keep swatting away. I could just see the sigh of relief she’d let out if I left for my stepgrandmother’s house.

  Blanche pointed to the screen. “You know what I love about this show? They argue and bicker, and yet they’re still the best of friends. They’re four totally different people, and somehow they find ways to love each other in spite of those differences.”

  I side-eyed her. “Are you trying to tell me something wise? Teach me a life lesson?” I hoped not. I didn’t need one of the very few people who seemed to be in my corner crossing over to the dark side.

  “Tatum, you are free to interpret my words any way you like. I was simply expressing what I like about a television show.” She smiled, still watching the screen. “Did you know that this is how I improved my English?”

  “Watching Dorothy and Sophia go head to head?”

  She nodded. “Exactly. When we came to the United States from Chile over thirty years ago, I knew English, but not as well as I would have liked. One of our friends who had immigrated at the same time told me that watching American television programs would help, so that’s what I did. The Golden Girls was my favorite.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Did you name yourself Blanche after that Blanche?” I stifled a giggle at the possibility of this diminutive, sweet-yet-sly woman renaming herself after a geriatric tart.

  “Yes. I like her because she knows who she is and doesn’t apologize for it.” She looked over at me pointedly. Suuure, this wasn’t a teachable moment. Blanche had metaphor written all over her face.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Why can’t it just be a TV show?” As much as I appreciated her and the sentiment, my brain was stuffed so full of this so-called life wisdom that it was starting to leak out my ears; there wasn’t room for more.

  “Why would it be anything else, Tatum?” She turned back to the show, put a hand on my knee, and squeezed gently.

  Tate,

  The All Blacks are only the very best rugby team in the world. How do you not know this? Look up a video of the Haka. It’ll blow your mind. I’ve been trying to convince my orchestra friends to do it with me before a concert, at least once before we graduate.

  Brown is the color of chocolate. And toasted marshmallows. Need I say more?

  I think you nailed me. With that site, that is.

  SK

  P.S.—What’s your favorite color?

  Of course I couldn’t not look up this mysterious Haka, which turned out to be a bunch of beefy New Zealand rugby players doing a kind of tribal war dance. It was both terrifying and mesmerizing.

  SK,

  That was wild. Kinda makes me want to see it in person.

  Don’t forget to send me your résumé!

  I like green and silver.

  Tate

  I went to sleep that night with violently red cheeks, thoughts of chocolate, and the sounds of Maori chanting in my head.

  Chapter 8

  Can I join your group? My partner bailed on me.” Hunter approached Abby and me as we were shaking open the gigantic black garbage bags to start clipping, once more, our beloved honeysuckle.

  I was starting to get attached to our little area, having become friendly with this plant we were destroying. I felt bad for it. Even though Alicia repeatedly reminded us that we were doing the right thing by removing it, that it would be better for the rest of the noninvasive plants and the native animals, I felt a twinge of guilt with every clip. It smelled pretty. The flowers were sweet. Looks could be deceiving, it seemed.

  Abby blanched, in a moment lacking her usual bravado. “Sure. I mean, did Alicia say it was okay?”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t ask. I figured as long as the plants were getting the boot, she wouldn’t care.”

  I handed him a bag. “What happened to the young Padawan?”

  “My guess? He sneezed himself right out of here. That kid is allergic to everything. I was beginning to think it was contagious.”

  “Why the heck would he apply for a position like this?” Seemed like a no-brainer to me.

  “Right? He told me he had been studying plants since he was little, which made me laugh since he’s little now—seventh grade.”

  I laughed. “Guess he’d better stick with reading about them and not experiencing them.”

  Hunter and I bumped fists and Abby let out a loud cackle, totally out of character for her, and definitely not her normal laugh. I gave her the side eye.

  “So true,” she said, loudly, nodding her head so hard, her curls were flying back and forth.

  As Hunter stepped to the side to shake open his plastic bag, I leaned
in toward Abby. “What was that laugh? Back to obvious, are we?”

  Abby just shrugged and smiled sweetly at me. With a sharp inhale, she sidled over to Hunter. “So what’s going on with the band? Are you guys playing any gigs soon?”

  “Yeah, we’ve been practicing, when we can, anyway. Some of the guys have other commitments; most are taking vacations at some point. The goal is to get it together enough to play at Sol Jam.”

  Abby clapped her hands. “That would be completely epic.”

  Epic? Abby was really laying it on thick. “What’s Sol Jam?” I asked.

  “End-of-summer concert. Been going on for years now. Outdoors, five or six local bands, lots of people. A friend of a friend’s family has a place out toward The Plains with a gigantic field and no neighbors around to complain about the noise. Should be a good time. We played last year, and I’m hoping it works out again.”

  Abby watched him speak like he was a piece of talking chocolate cake. “Wow. That sounds amazing. Doesn’t it sound amazing, Tatum?”

  “Yes, amazing.” If Hunter didn’t know Abby was crushing on him, he was more clueless than she was. The romantic in me that threatened to come out every once in a while hoped it worked out for Abby. And Hunter too. Abby was a pretty great catch.

  I grimaced. “It could use a better name, though. Sol Jam? Sounds like a thirteen-year-old named it.”

  Hunter shrugged sheepishly. “I think that’s exactly who did name it. The guy who started it is in college now.”

  Suddenly, Abby smacked me in the arm. “I have the absolute best idea ever!”

  I rubbed my forearm, brows knitted. “Better than finishing up this honeysuckle and moving to a new scary plant in the shade?” My jealousy of the pairs who had chosen spots away from the raging mid-July sun knew no bounds. It was boiling hot, and my nose kept prickling from the sweetness and the dust of the field.