“Well, grownup,” I mock, “Are we going to talk about Neon Nights?”
“No.” He stopsme immediately, and I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or hurt. From what Zeke has been talking about at the garage, Maddie seems to have found herself a new boyfriend in the guy she was dancing with at the club. If anyone understands not wanting to talk about the shit that bothers them, it’s me, so I follow his lead and shut it down.
“Okay then, so what else is up?” He gets up and puts his bowl and chopsticks in the sink.
“Nothing really.” He spins around, folds his arms, and leans on the kitchen counter. I’ve known Sean for a while now and at this point, I can tell something’s bothering him. Unlike me, he usually does want to talk about things, so adding that into the mix, seals the deal that he knows about Maddie and it’s bumming him out. I try to switch subjects to something that usually excites him — social gatherings.
“Are we still grilling for the Fourth now that your dad’s not here to burn the burgers?”
The last couple of years that Sean and I have been friends, he has had a small group of people over to celebrate the Fourth of July. It’s usually just the guys from the shop, Ronan and Mikey, and a couple of other stragglers, hanging out, drinking a few beers, and listening to Sean’s terrible taste in music. Mr. Bell always dries out the burgers and Mrs. Bell always makes up for it in sides — potato salad, pasta salad, cornbread, and homemade mac and cheese. It’s the type of celebration I don’t mind — a small crowd of people I mostly know, laid-back food, and no fancy dress code.
“Sure are. I told Mikey and Ronan when I saw them at the restaurant and the guys at the shop when I was there yesterday. I invited my neighbors but they probably won’t come and now I’m telling you. I guess that’s pretty much it.”
I want to ask if he maybe invited Maddie, but I have a feeling I already know the answer. I also want to ask if I can bring Claire, but I don’t want to rub having someone to bring in his face.
“Bring Claire,” Sean says before I even get the chance to ask. His voice is low but sincere. “And she can bring whoever. The more the merrier.”
This guy’s a class act. He’s a total weirdo, but one of the nicest guys I know.
“Thanks, buddy,” I reply as he stares at the floor. He pushes off the counter and saunters back to the couch. Right before he sits, he looks back at me, still only halfway in the room.
“You too, man,” he says and he doesn’t have to explain.
He sits on the couch and turns the volume up on the TV. I glance around the room before heading toward the couch. It’s only when I look back at where I’m coming from, that I see it. Sitting right on the edge of the counter closest to the doorframe is a small black box still wrapped neatly in a purple bow.
It hits me then just how lucky I am. You have a guy like me — a complete wreck, a shitty past, and not a pot to piss in. And then you have a guy like Sean — capable of both growing up and letting loose, a loving family, a stable home, and fucking Twizzler straws and panda chopsticks. One of us has someone who, for whatever reason, seems to be interested in sticking around, and one of us can’t even seem to get noticed. Never in my life did I thinkIwould be the lucky one.
I shoot a text to Claire just letting her know I’m thinking about her. This is all new to me, but I’m leaning into saying how I feel when the timing seems right. Then, I set down my phone and my pack of cigarettes and join Sean on the couch, as sirens pour from the TV.
“So, what’d this guy do?” I ask as the camera zooms in on a cop following a truck in a high-speed chase.
“Oh, this is good,” Sean says sitting up. “You’re never going to believe this.”
36
Claire
Ismile reading Jay’s text, checking my phone on my way out of the tutoring center.
JAY:Hope you’re having a good day.
Ever since our “date” the other night, we’ve hung out or at least talked every day. It’s completely unexpected that Jay and I have gotten so close, especially so quickly, but it’s a welcomed surprise.
“Hey, Claire!” I hear my name whisper-yelled from across the library. When I find the source, I see it’s Mrs. Wilder, the mother of the fifth grader, Josie, I just tutored in English.
“Ooh, sorry, I meant Ms. Dawson.” She gives an apologetic smile, looking to the Young Adult section where Josie’s scanning the graphic novels.
“Claire is fine,” I say.
Normally I would insist on parents calling me Ms. Dawson, for professional reasons, but being that I no longer have any of those, I don’t really have a preference.
Mrs. Wilder flashes a quick grin and then continues. “I heard you’re not coming back next year.” She creases her brow, looking to me for something — clarification or an explanation maybe. I feel my cheeks grow warm, the topic still not comfortable, especially after dinner with my parents.
“Unfortunately, no. I’m not.” I readjust my bag on my shoulder looking for something to occupy both my hands and my mind.
“That’s such a shame,” Mrs. Wilder states. “Josie absolutely loved your English class last year. I have never seen that girl more interested in reading than when it was a book you chose.” She turns back to Josie. "And that's saying something."
My heart swells from the praise. This is why I want to write novels kids will love. Because although teaching ended up not being for me, there are so many other ways to help grow a child’s world and love of reading.
