by Tanya Boteju
Maybe not even that anymore.
He got his food and sat down with me. Gus let out an eager whine from beneath the table, and I slipped him a piece of a pancake.
Dad took a sip of his coffee. “So what’s the plan, Stan?”
I swallowed another mouthful. “Shower.”
“I was going to say . . . ,” he murmured, giving me a cheeky sideways glance.
I kicked him under the table. “Then probably head to Jill’s and help out around there. Charles is coming over around five.”
“Okay. I have to be at the fairgrounds in a bit to finish tuning up the machines. Meet you back here, then?” His curls sprang out haphazardly in wild, bed-head fashion. On him, the look was somehow artistic. On me, it was more like . . . undecided.
It was nice to see him looking forward to the festival, though, and I gave him a smile to make sure he knew I was looking forward to it too. “Yup. Meet you here.”
After breakfast and a quick rinse, Gus and I headed back out to Jill’s.
Jill was Mom and Dad’s best friend, and she’d stepped in to help my dad and me after Mom left last year. She owned and operated one of the only artsy places in town—the Garden and Gifts Emporium. Her business mixed landscaping with garden decor. She made everything in the store, from clay gnomes, to birdhouses, to pots, to wooden trellises. She showed me how to work with wood and clay and shared all kinds of tips about gardening.
Dad said Jill was really sad after Mom left, but she didn’t let it make her bitter. Instead she focused her attention on us. She used to be married but left her husband many years ago, before she moved here from Seattle. She’d never shared the specifics of that part of her life, though. All I did know from the plain evidence was that she’d never remarried and seemed content enough on her own.
I plopped my bike down on her front lawn, among several garden gnomes. These were not the “garden variety” garden gnomes one might expect, however. Instead Jill had cornered the market on oddball gnomes—old man gnomes in tutus, lady gnomes in butler uniforms serving up platters of snails and tulips, gnomes lying on their bellies in pink camouflage, looking through binoculars—one of Jill’s goofy gnomes decorated almost every lawn around here. We had three of them in the backyard and six out front. They were her go-to birthday gifts, and we didn’t mind a bit, since the ones she made us were always one-of-a-kind and bore some resemblance to the birthday person of honor. We had more than one sturdy gnome in a muumuu, and last year she gave me one with a curly ponytail that sat on top of a wrought-iron bicycle, its nose buried in a book.
“Hey! Anybody here?” I called out, entering through the front door.
Jill’s shop was also her home, and it was close to the high school. She’d renovated a two-story house so that the second floor accommodated her primary living space, while the main floor contained the kitchen, a shop space, and storage.
I paused in the middle of the front room, a wide space with Jill’s smaller goods, like clay plates, figurines, and such. The room was both workspace and display area, and while warm and welcoming, the floor remained under a perpetual layer of clay dust, and grit seemed to float in the air.
Hearing no reply, I went through the kitchen and out back to an enormous yard half-covered with plastic corrugated roofing. Most of Jill’s stock tumbled out in every direction—giant plastic pots packed with dirt and trees, a crowd of garden gnomes in one corner, a trio of wheelbarrows that never seemed to sell, trellises in varied shapes and sizes, shovels, trowels, rakes, and more.
As I pushed open the screen door from the kitchen, I let out another shout.
“Who the hell’s hollering at me this early in the morning?” Jill’s gruff voice arose from somewhere behind a wheelbarrow full of potted plants. She could be a little rough around the edges, but Jill was as dependable as the clock tower standing in the town square, and about as sturdy, too.
She emerged, a wide-brimmed black hat hovering around her head like the fins of a stingray. “Well, well. If it isn’t Nima Clark!”
I ignored the fact that she’d left the “Kumara” out of my last name. She’d taken to doing that after Mom left—an indication that some resentment had taken root. I couldn’t blame her, so I let it slide.
She tipped her hat up and wiped her brow. “Just in time to help!”
I rolled my eyes, but with a smile. I knew she’d waste no time putting me to work. Soon I’d be starting my regular job with Jill anyway—a part-time gig I’d had since I was twelve. But today would be full of free favors, which I didn’t mind a bit.
“All right. What can I do?” I asked, walking over to her. She was wearing overalls and a ratty T-shirt, both covered in dirt and dust and who knew what else.
“Wheel these out to the van and start loading them up. Then come get more.” She went back to digging up plants from her garden bed. Typical Jill—straight to the point. Niceties weren’t her strong suit when there was work to be done.
When we finished loading up the plants, Jill allowed us to enjoy some iced tea in the backyard.
“How’s the summer lookin’, doll?” she asked, resting her head against the back of the bench we shared and splaying her long legs out in front of her. She’d removed the floppy hat, and her short blond hair lay flat and damp against her scalp.
I measured my response. The only people who knew about my feelings for Ginny and the sad outcome of those feelings were Charles and Ginny, and that’s how I wanted it to stay. It’s not that I thought Jill or my dad would care about the object of my affections. I just couldn’t bear the thought of my embarrassing attempt being revealed to the masses. It was bad enough that it’d happened at all.
“So far, so good,” I lied, then followed with a bit of the truth. “Just some reading and putzing around with Charles.” As I said it, I immediately felt a twinge of desire for something else poking in between my ribs, jabbing at the familiar emptiness. Like maybe, if I could change things up somehow, I might be able to fill some of that blank space. And maybe, if I weren’t so blank, people would actually be drawn to me. To want me.
Unfortunately, change wasn’t my strong point.
But staring at Jill’s plant beds, those thoughts were quickly replaced by my irritating run-in at the community garden that morning. “Oh, except that a-hole, Gordon Grant, keeps ruining my summer buzz.”
“Gordon Grant?” She twisted her mouth, thinking. “That Bill Grant’s kid?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” I’d seen Gordon’s dad plenty of times around town but had never spoken to him. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy I’d want to talk to.
“What’d he do?” Jill asked.
I told her about that morning, the past couple of days, and his general crappy attitude.
“Hmm. Well, you know, I expect if he’s sleeping in his truck, it’s because something’s keeping him from sleeping at home. And I bet that something is Bill.”
“What do you mean?”
She rubbed her eyes and said nothing for a few moments. Then she sat up abruptly and dusted some dirt from her pants. “He’s just not a nice man, is all.” She took a few giant gulps of her tea, like she was trying to finish it quickly.
Ignoring the hint, I asked, “How do you know him?”
She wiped her mouth with her shoulder. “I just do. From around.” And then, dismissively, “All I’m saying is there’s usually more to the story than meets the eye. Sometimes assholes are just hurt souls.”
Her poeticism surprised me a little. Jill wasn’t usually one to fiddle around with words. But her tone signaled a clear end to the conversation, so I left it alone. I took a few sips of tea and changed the subject. “Anything else you need me to do before I go? Any gnomes going to market today?”
“Yep. But I’ve got plenty of time for that. You go on.” She winked at me. “I’ll see you tonight at the festival.” She downed the rest of her tea and stood up, spreading her arms out wide in a stretch.
“All right. If you’re
sure.” I quickly finished my tea too. Grabbing her glass and mine, I turned to leave them in the kitchen and go.
“See ya, kiddo.”
“See ya.”
Biking home, I thought about what Jill had said. I guess I’d never really considered Gordon’s backstory. He didn’t give you much chance to cut him any slack, after all. But now I wondered if his dad had anything to do with why he’d stopped coming to the garden, or with how he was in general. The more I thought about Jill’s words, and about the fleeting moments of something other than anger or unpleasantness I’d seen in Gordon recently, the more curious I became.
CHAPTER 4
Just after five, Charles appeared, all gussied up in his hip shirt and cords. I wore my usual summer wear—blue jean shorts, black tank top, backpack, hair in a ponytail. I was only his wingman, after all. We left the house together—me, Charles, and Dad. Eventually, Dad would do his own thing, but we liked to walk up together.
We turned a corner toward the center of town, and the festival opened up in front of us like some whirling, buzzing panorama. The square was in full swing. It housed the game booths, food tents, and main stage.
Ginny and Jill were both working booths just off the square, so we might see them later. I was simultaneously eager at and distressed by the prospect of seeing Ginny but tried not to let it get in the way of my enjoyment of the festival itself. In fact, the colors and textures of the festival could be the perfect antidote to my lackluster palette, and as we entered the square, a gnawing desperation for something—anything—to invigorate this drab summer and my matching life pulled at my stomach and chest. I dragged Charles and Dad around with me, craning my neck to see what each booth offered, pushing them through the crowd to get to the next thing.
Charles kept foiling my attempts to find some excitement. He’d brought his big, fancy camera that his parents gave him a couple of years ago and was trying to snap photos of anything and everything, it seemed. It was obvious to me, though, that he was trying to spot Tessa without looking like he was trying to spot Tessa by using his camera as binoculars. I sighed emphatically every time he stopped to take a picture.
Dad just had his hands in his pockets and a wide, closed-mouth smile on his face, cheerfully taking in the sights wherever I led him. As Charlotte Bronson danced past us in clown makeup, she handed him a small happy-face sticker, and he gleefully pasted it to his cheek. The sight made me smile.
It also made me a little sad. I wondered if his smile was genuine or if he wore both smiles to cover his true feelings, like I’d been doing. Was he thinking about Mom? It was hard not to, surrounded by all these vibrant sights and sounds. I thought about all the times she tried to drag us to see the smaller, stranger acts at the south end of the festival and how both Dad and I looked at her skeptically before leading her back to the main tent for the usual circus antics.
Maybe she’d left us because we’d held her back. Maybe she needed to see something beyond our familiar, small world.
Maybe she’d grown as bored with me as I was becoming with myself.
I spun around, looking for something, anything to turn this sad clown existence into a death-defying trapeze act as soon as possible.
Unfortunately, my zeal ended abruptly when I saw Gordon and Davis standing close by at the shooting booth. It’s a small town, but the frequency of my Gordon sightings was becoming ridiculous.
Gordon seemed to be taking this very seriously. He’d propped the toy shotgun against his shoulder and was peering over the barrel as though hunting deer. He waited patiently for the conveyer belt to change direction before shooting, using that small pause to make his move.
Davis leaned over the counter, talking incessantly, trying to throw Gordon off his game. The bored booth girl tugged at her cheeks as if to stay awake. Gordon pulled the trigger and wounded one poor, stuffed mouse. It fell to the tarp spread on the ground for gunshot victims. The girl went over to Gordon first to take away the gun (smart), then stooped to pick up the mouse. She threw it on the counter in front of him, but Davis swiped it off. Gordon didn’t seem to care. He just threw the girl another couple of bucks and snatched the gun back. I tried to remind myself of Jill’s words, but watching him intently maim small stuffed animals made it difficult.
Davis huffed and crossed his arms. “C’mon, man. I’m bored as fuck.”
Gordon’s sight line dropped for a split second before he relinquished the gun and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, whatever. Let’s get out of this shithole.” There was that tight jaw again.
As they turned to go, I was relieved to know I wouldn’t have to see them again tonight, but also found myself wishing I could somehow understand what the hell was up with that guy. Then I found myself shocked at my wish.
Charles’s voice cut into my observations. “What are you looking at those two for?” He pulled at his shirt and rubbed his nose. He was clearly agitated—nervous about the Girl.
“Just trying to figure out what makes people tick, is all.”
“Yeah,” he replied, barely listening. “Come on, let’s keep looking.”
“Looking for what, Charles?” I asked, eyebrows raised in mock curiosity.
“For . . . nothing. Whatever.” He sniffed and looked away. I jabbed at his shoulder. He smacked my hand.
Dad took that moment to pat us both on the head and wander over toward the hardware stall. Charles and I began picking our way through the game booths to see how much we could win with five dollars each.
A little while later we headed over to the Old Stuff table with a bottle of pink cream soda and a bag of hard-earned candy in my backpack. By this point, the razzle-dazzle atmosphere had managed to creep its way into my bones and I was really starting to enjoy myself.
I’d resolved to at least browse the Old Stuff items and greet Ginny with a blasé “Hey,” but when we got there, she seemed pretty busy chatting up a couple of guys I didn’t recognize, which substantially reduced my resolve and my enjoyment.
I stared tactlessly at them as they flirted and teased each other. Their laughter was boisterous and unrestrained. I don’t think I ever made Ginny laugh like that.
Charles bit his lip and shot me awkward glances. I squeezed all my disappointment and frustration into my fists and turned to go. Charles followed.
Since the square wasn’t big enough for rides or circus tents, these were relegated to the Weeds. We hadn’t seen Tessa yet, and Charles was getting a bit antsy, so we decided to try our luck down there.
The crowd tended to shift as you got farther south. More of the “oddball” kids gravitated toward this end of the festival, probably because there were fewer adults, but also because the attractions became somewhat less traditional. In general, Bridgeton didn’t offer much in the way of avant-garde interpretive dance and such—but unusual things did drift here once in a while from surrounding areas, and many of those unconventional things tended to pop up during the festival.
At the moment, though, we had a minor emergency on our hands. Tessa had just burst out of the Fast Pick, talking up a windstorm with two girlfriends of hers. She held an open bag of chips and crashed into me, too busy chatting to look where she was going.
Since she was three inches shorter than my five foot six, I couldn’t help but look down my nose at her.
“Oh! Sorry, Nima. Didn’t see you there. Chips?” She held the bag out.
“Thanks, no.” For Charles’s sake, I fought hard against the part of me that just wanted to shield him from the heartache he’d inevitably suffer at the hands of this popular, confident girl. “Maybe Charles would like some, though,” I said, yanking him in front of me.
Tessa smiled at him and held out the bag. He looked at her, looked at me, and without breathing, I don’t think, managed to murmur, “Thanks.” But then it got (more) awkward as he dug his hand into the chip bag and did that thing where his hand stays in a little too long and you just know he’s touching every single chip in there. And then he pulls
out just one and you’re wondering, What the hell took you so long?
At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what Tessa was thinking, given the look on her face.
I wrapped my fingers around his skinny bicep. “Come on, Charles. We were supposed to meet the others soon, remember?” I lied.
“What?” He was still holding the damn chip.
“Come on.”
“Okay . . . bye, Tessa.”
Great galloping goddess, at least he got that out. I kept a firm grip on him until we were safely out of earshot.
“Buddy,” I said, swiping the chip out of his hand, “we gotta work on your reaction time.”
“Gawwwwd, I knooowwwwww.” Charles’s shoulders slumped forward. “What is wrong with me?”
Immediately feeling bad for him, not to mention hypocritical, I swung my arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close. “There isn’t one thing wrong with you. It’s not as terrible as you think.” I wished I could take my own advice.
“Really?” His eyes thinned with skepticism as he adjusted his glasses.
“Really. You’ll get another chance. Don’t worry about it.” But I only half believed myself.
By the time we made our way to the Weeds, it was already about seven o’clock. The light spread into a deep, rich orange—appropriate entrance lighting, it seemed, as large tents loomed over us and rickety rides clattered by at alarming speeds. The air became thicker with sweat, and a thin veil of amber coated every nook and cranny.
The two of us walked for a bit, not saying a whole lot. I supposed Charles was obsessing over his faux pas, and I was trying not to make him feel worse.
The tents dotted the far corner of the Weeds, and the rides occupied the rest of the space. Surprisingly, Charles loved rides. Unsurprisingly, I hated them. I couldn’t see the point of scaring the crap out of myself. Life is terrifying enough as it is.