“Who the cuss is Solomon the Spud?”
* After hunting for the most ridiculous mascot I could think of, I finally settled on this one.
* If one sentence could describe their early relationship, it would be this one: “I refuse to be amused by her antics.”
6
IN WHICH JUNIPER PONDERS THE SEXINESS OF LEANING
As it turns out, Solomon the Spud is the mascot of Autumn Grove High School. Back in my day—saying that makes me sound like a grandmother griping about how easy kids today have it, but whatever—the potato mascot didn’t have a name. I’m not sure what naming him accomplished, but I guess it’s good they’ve got something to call him now instead of justthe school potato, which is what we always said.
“What does that mean, though?” I say to Aiden now. “How do you meet someone at a potato?” We’ve moved from the kitchen to the living room, where he’s sitting in a straight-backed chair while I’m lounging on the couch. I don’t know why anyone would choose to sit when they can sprawl, but to each their own.
Aiden sighs, pushing his hand through his hair. “It probably means the statue behind the school. There’s a Solomon statue on the opposite side of the track, back next to the trees.”
My mind is still reeling, nebulous tendrils stretching thisway and that, but one concrete thought emerges. “A potato statue feels wholly unnecessary,” I say.
“I agree,” Aiden says, nodding. “But no one asked for our opinions, so there is indeed a statue of Solomon the Spud.”
That…might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
And this whole situation is completely bizarre. What the heck is going on right now? Someone wants to tell me about my parents? Usually anonymous notes are mysterious or threatening; this one really isn’t. It sounds like someone is trying to be friendly and helpful, judging by the wording. They even used a little heart instead of a dot at the bottom of the exclamation point.
I stare at that miniature heart for a second, trying to stop my hands from shaking. But my knuckles are white where I grip the invitation, and there’s a weird tangle of emotions fighting for dominance inside. They’re living entities, all these feelings, and the image pops into my mind of the creeping vines I saw climbing the wrought-iron fence around the cemetery yesterday.
It feels like those vines are growing in my gut now, in my bones, my lungs—squeezing and strangling until I can barely breathe.
My eyes move from the heart exclamation point to the strangest word on the entire piece of cardstock:parents.
My mother didn’t even remember who my father was. How does someone in this town know what my own mother didn’t know? How is that possible?
“I’m going to bed,” I say, my voice faint. “I can’t think about this anymore. My brain is going to explode.”
Aiden hesitates and then nods. He looks like he wants to say something, but I’m grateful when he remains silent. If he asks me how I’m feeling, I’m pretty sure I’ll burst into tears. I’m not much of a crier, but it does happen on occasion—usuallywhen I’m overwhelmed or embarrassed. Like my body takes emotional overload and siphons it off in the form of tears.
I drag myself up both flights of stairs, big and small, emerging into the loft. It’s little more than a landing with a door. The bedroom on the other side of that door is actually nice, though. I settled in earlier, getting all my bedding in place and my clothes in the closet, tucking away the box with my mother’s few remaining possessions. The sloped ceiling is painted white, coming to the peak in the center of the room, right over the bed. There’s a skylight on one side, too; I’m going to have to get used to not having curtains blocking out the light in the mornings, but I love being able to look up and see the sky.
I close the bedroom door behind me, my feet shuffling across the hardwood floor as I head to my bed. I let myself fall straight forward, my body sinking into my fluffy white comforter and my face smooshing up against my pillow. I force myself to relax until I’m melting into my bed like butter in a pan.
I should brush my teeth and my hair. I should put on pajamas. I should turn off the light. But I don’t do any of those things. I just close my eyes and wait for sleep to take me.
When I come downstairsthe next morning, Aiden is already awake and seated in the same chair he sat in last night. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing different clothes, I might think he hadn’t moved at all. I silently thank the inventor of flannel pajama pants and white t-shirts for his or her impeccable service to our nation before tearing my eyes away. I think Aiden probably would not appreciate being stared at.
So my gaze jumps instead to the little corner heoccupies. I was too distracted last night to notice details, but now I take them all in; the bookshelf, the stack of books, the reading glasses. I drift toward that bookshelf, eyeing the contents curiously; there’s row after row of classics, most of them with creased spines and blunted corners. There’s a small statuette, too, a bust of some kind; upon closer inspection, I see that it’s Shakespeare. I shake my head, amused, before looking down at Aiden to see what he’s reading.
Hamlet. The play. He’s just…reading it. At seven-thirty on a Saturday morning.
I have no words.
“I know I’m devastatingly good-looking, but please stop staring at me,” he says flatly without looking up, and I jump.
“I wasn’t staring at you.”
I was. I totally was.
Then, in an attempt to change the subject, I say, “You realize you look like dark academia personified?”
“I don’t know what that means,” he says, his voice musing. He turns the page and continues to read.
