And it didn’t mean anything, him calling me beefcake.It’s just him being who he is.He runs his mouth.Some guys are like that.Detective Dulac wouldn’t flirt with me even if I were—I mean, he could get any guy he wanted.He’s pretty much the most handsome guy in the department.I guess I should say Mr.Somerset is, but he doesn’t work there now.
Gran’s getting ready in her room, and she’s playing something fromMy Fair Lady.She sings as she goes.She can’t hit the high notes.Well, she can’t really hit any of the notes, but she’s having fun, and the closet door is squeaking on its hinges and she’s opening drawers and the floor creaks as she dances around the room.Gran’s in love, and you might think, since she falls in love about three times a week, it would get old.But it doesn’t, somehow.It’s kind of magical, actually.Gran’s been married four times and divorced four times.Martha Shaumberg made a crack about that—Martha’s one of her friends who’s not actually her friend, if you know what I mean—and Gran said what’s the point in living if you don’t believe in love.
Me, I’m fine playingStardew Valley.
It’s winter when Gran comes out of her room.In the game, when it’s winter you can’t do a whole lot on your farm except clear things up, so that’s when you have adventures.You can go down in a haunted mine looking for treasure.Or you can travel to the oasis.Some people say winter is when you should be in town, making friends with all the villagers.And there is something special about the holiday festival.You can’t see all those people with their families, with the lights and the games and everybody having fun, and not wish real life were a little more like a game sometimes.
Gran’s got a lot of different perfumes.I don’t know the name of this one, but it’s strong, and she says it’s what Princess Diana wore.I don’t know about that, but I do know if Princess Diana wore it, everybody probably tried to stand upwind of her.I smell her before she reaches the living room, so I’m half-ready when she runs her hand through my hair.I pull away, but that’s mostly automatic at this point.
“I’m headed out,” Gran says.
I turn my cheek for a kiss, which is a mistake because then I’ve got Princess Diana all up in my nose.“Who is he?”
“Carl.”
“Dogfood Carl?”
“That isn’t nice,” but she sounds like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know that it’s any of your business, Samuel.”
“Course it is,” I say.“How else am I going to arrest him when he gets fresh?”
That makes her laugh.“What are you going to do tonight?”
“Rot here on your sofa playing video games.”But then I look up and say, “I’m going to help a friend with something, I guess.”
She’s got so much gold jewelry on she really does look like Mr.T; when Dad says something like that, he’s usually not wrong.She adjusts one of the necklaces.She’s trying not to look too pleased.“That sounds nice.Who’s your friend?”
“Somebody from work.”
“Is it a girl friend?”
“No, Gran.”
“Well, why not?”
“Because it’s not a date.I’m going to help him with something.It’s a charity, and they need volunteers.”I know what’s coming, so I beat her to the punch by saying, “And it’s better than sitting around the house waiting for you to come home and tell me how Dogfood Carl made you tingle.”
Jewelry clinks and rattles, and she soundswaytoo pleased with herself when she says, “He’s very amorous.”
“Oh my God, Gran.”
She cackles all the way out of the house.
I wait until the sound of the Cadillac fades, and then I save my game and close the laptop.I go to my room.I’m just wearing my relaxing clothes—a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts.They’re comfortable—and they’re expensive.I didn’t know sweatshirts and shorts could be expensive until Mr.Somerset started telling me about the ones he liked.Well, I had to ask him, because I could tell they were nice, but then he told me.Anyway, theyarenice, but not nice enough to go out in, so I change into jeans, and it’s cold enough for a sweater, so I put on the blue one that Gran says makes me very handsome.That feels stupid, so I take it off and put on the sweatshirt again.With jeans, I guess it’s okay.
Wallet, phone, keys.Then I remember shoes and socks.And then I check: wallet, phone, keys again.There’s this electricity rising inside me like I’m forgetting something.Or like when we did our play in third grade.It was a kid version ofThe Wizard of Oz, and all I had to do was go on and tell everybody we were in Kansas now, but I was so sweaty Mrs.Johanson thought I was going to ralph inside the Tin Man’s helmet.
I catch myself standing there, and I say, You gotta go, dingus.You gotta actually leave the house.
Right after sunset, the night’s cool and textured, and it makes me think of this deep blue velvet Gran wears sometimes, but it smells like a spring day gone cold—not, thank God, like Princess Diana.On the drive over to the college, I catch myself looking in the mirror at every light, at every stop sign.I’m idling at a crosswalk, trying to tell how stupid my hair is, when somebody finally honks and pulls out around me.
It’s easy to find parking near the college at this time of night, so I park.I check WISP’s website on my phone for what has to be the hundredth time that day.I don’t know the campus super well, so I pull up a map and find the building listed in WISP’s contact information.I can’t help it; I look in the mirror again, and I realize every single choice I’ve made that evening is stupid: the hair, the sweatshirt, driving over here.
As Dad likes to say, shit or get off the can.
