Here, There, Everywhere

  Letty leaned closer to me. “Does the pope shit in the woods?”

  I laughed. “I think it’s ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’ or ‘Is the pope Catholic?’”

  “What’d I say?”

  “Neither of those things.”

  Letty considered this for a moment, then cackled and slapped her knee. “I never was too good at telling other people’s jokes.”

  I was about to respond when Rose appeared out of nowhere. “Hey, how’s it going, you two?” she asked.

  “Oh, hey! Going well, just . . .”

  Just what? Just coloring shirtless men?

  “Just finishing up,” I mumbled.

  Letty interrupted. “Sweet Baby Jesus, would you tell her already?”

  Rose looked at Letty, then back at me, confused.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  Letty took the stage. “In my day, if a guy wanted a gal, he told her. On the other hand, when I first laid eyes on my Dickey, God rest his soul, I knew what I wanted and I told him.” She stood and patted us both on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two alone now.” Then she danced away from the table—albeit stiffly—while singing: “I got rhythm, I got music, I got my man, who could ask for anything more?”

  We watched her shuffle away. Then Rose looked at me shyly.

  The saliva suddenly disappeared from my mouth. I blinked and tried to smile, which probably looked more like a snarl. I had two options now: (1) collapse to the ground and explain how my spine had suddenly disappeared or (2) stop snarling and ask Rose to dinner.

  Say something nice, ask her out.

  “Do you eat dinner?” I blurted at Rose, more aggressively than intended.

  Rose jumped. “Dinner?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and shut my eyes. “I mean you and me.”

  “You and me?”

  Step to the ledge. Don’t look down. Take a breath. And . . . jump. “I was thinking we could have dinner together. You and me. At the café. I’ll cook.” I opened one eye to see how far Rose had run away, but she still stood in front of me.

  “Sounds great,” she said, hiding a smile.

  Relief filled me like a helium balloon. “Great!”

  “Tonight?” Rose asked.

  “Tonight what?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Oh, right. Yes. Tonight.”

  “What time?”

  I tried to remember what time people ate dinner. “Six o’clock.”

  “Perfect! See you soon!”

  And with that, Rose walked off to help Candy with craft time.

  I reached for my phone to check the time.

  No phone.

  Dammit.

  I checked the clock on the wall.

  Five after four.

  “Grub!” I yelled, scanning the room. He was off somewhere with Blackjack, no doubt. “Private Grub!”

  Ever so faintly, the echo of footsteps could be heard running down a hallway. Without missing a beat, I ran toward the sound. I timed it perfectly: Grub reached the end of the hallway the same time I rounded the corner. I swooped him up in my arms, tossed him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and ran for the exit. He may have said something, but I wasn’t listening. No time to explain.

  As I threw my leg over the Schwinn, I felt his fingers dig into my shoulders. I pedaled as if fleeing an erupting volcano.

  I burst through the door of World Peas Café. “Mom . . . café . . . tonight . . . Rose.”

  Mom placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side, making it look spring-loaded. “Son. Need. Use. Manners.”

  “Please . . . dinner . . . can’t cook . . . need café.”

  “Mom not robot. Son not ask right.”

  I took a few deep breaths to regain my ability to speak.

  “Rose is coming here. Tonight. At six. I told her I’d cook dinner.”

  “That’s much better.” She furrowed her brow while nodding and looking at the floor, finally grasping the gravity of the situation. “So, what is your plan?”

  Criminy. Did there have to be a plan for everything?

  “I’m working on it,” I lied.

  Grub stood off to the side, looking slightly worried and windblown.

  Mom nodded again, staring off into the middle distance. I could practically see the gears turning behind her eyes as she pondered my predicament. She pursed her lips and nodded, having reached a verdict. “Manny, come with me, we’re going to the store. Zeus, go home, take a shower, and change your clothes. Be back here at five thirty and I’ll have something started for you.”

  I looked at my mom—her messy ponytail, her plastic flip-flops, her green-smoothie-splattered clothes. “You know you’re the best, right?”

  She patted my face and smiled. “I know. Now go get handsome.”

  FOURTEEN

  ROSE KNOCKED ON THE CAFÉ DOOR AT EXACTLY SIX O’CLOCK. MOM HAD closed the shades to keep the setting sun from blinding us through the western-facing windows, or maybe it was to give us some privacy. Either way, I was glad the glass was covered. The café seemed almost romantic in the dim light.

  I faced the door and took one final moment to compose myself. I brushed a lock of still-damp hair off my brow and inhaled slow and deep. This was the real deal, a date date.

  Quick smell check: pass.

  Quick breath check: passable.

  Quick skills check: adequate.

  Good enough.

  I swung the door open. It broke free from its slightly off-kilter frame with an obnoxious metallic grunt. Not exactly the cinematic moment I’d hoped for. Rose stood before me, looking radiant, backlit by the early evening sun.

  “Good evening,” I said, suddenly wishing I hadn’t, for the only appropriate follow-up to that is “I vant to suck your blood!”

  “Hey there.” She grinned at me, making me forget about my less-than-stellar greeting. “You look nice,” she said, clearly noticing I wasn’t in a faded, sweaty T-shirt for once. Instead, I sported my one and only button-down shirt, a gift from Aunt Willow that had spent most of its existence in the back of my closet. A light green plaid pattern, it featured white pearl snap buttons, short sleeves, and probably could have used a good ironing. But too late for that now.

  Say something nice, return the compliment! my brain instructed me.

  I looked at Rose, trying to make sure my gaze came across as observant rather than creepy. It was a fine line, one generally defined by the length of time your eyes remain fixed on certain body parts.

  She wore a light blue summery dress drawn tight across the middle, accentuating her hips and waist.

  Nope, can’t comment on that, I thought. Definitely creepy.

  Her wavy black hair fell upon bare shoulders, her lips a shimmery, soft pink, like the best part of a peach.

  Still creepy.

  A thin, gold necklace rested above a modest view of cleavage, which, while my favorite feature, I made sure to avoid noticing altogether.

  Tap out now, while you’re ahead.

  “I like that color,” I said, nodding in approval at her dress, as if I knew a single thing about fashion or shades of blue. It was a low-risk, low-reward comment, much like saying, “Why, yes, I do enjoy a good nap,” or “Cheeseburgers are swell, they are!”

  “It’s periwinkle.”

  “It matches your toenails,” I noted, looking down at her feet. Several crisscrossing straps held together a pair of thin-soled sandals, from which blue-topped toes poked out.

  “How observant,” Rose replied. “I brought more nail polish, in case you want to paint your own. You know, to bring out the blue of your eyes.”

  I flushed then, flattered she’d noticed the color of my eyes. She was obviously much better at this compliment game than I was.

  “Great idea. Come on in.” I motioned with my arm and she walked past me into the café, the pleasant smell of lotion-perfume-girl-whatever-it-was trailing behind her. I shut the door and flipped on a ligh
t, suddenly worried the dimly lit room might qualify for the creepy category.

  “You shaved,” she observed.

  “I did,” I said, cupping my face as if just realizing it myself.

  “I like it. Let me feel,” Rose said, reaching a hand up. She lightly brushed a few fingers along my cheek. “So smooth!”

  “Thanks,” I said, wondering if that was a compliment or a jab.

  I led Rose back to the kitchen, where my maiden culinary voyage was about to begin. Once inside, Rose stopped in her tracks. She whipped her head at me. “You did all this?” she asked.

  I had to admit—it did look impressive. A package of angel hair pasta sat open next to a full pot of water. A large cutting board displayed a loaf of crusty Italian bread, a wedge of Parmesan, and a crock of herbed butter. Fresh basil lay heaped in a pile next to a bottle of olive oil, a head of garlic, and a bowl of pine nuts. In the corner of the kitchen, a small round table had been covered in a red, checkered cloth, with a single candle in the center, waiting to be lit.

  For a split second I considered claiming the work as my own. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

  “Let me guess,” said Rose. “You’re bound to secrecy under the National Brownie Security Act.”

  “You’re very good at guessing.”

  “And your mom was very sweet to do this.”

  “She was,” I agreed. “She even left sticky notes all over the place with instructions.”

  “So where are they?”

  “I threw them away. I didn’t want you to see them.”

  Rose let out a laugh, sat at the table, crossed one leg over the other, and folded her hands upon her knee. “Okay then,” she said with a big smile. “This is going to be interesting. What are we having?”

  “Pasta with a-pesto and a-garlic bread,” I said in an accent that I meant to sound Italian but more closely resembled a cartoon character.

  “Mmm, sounds amazing! Is that your specialty?”

  “We’ll soon find out.”

  “You’ve never cooked it before?”

  I hesitated before answering. “Not specifically.”

  “So, unspecifically?”

  Another pause. “Yes.”

  “Well, I have to say I’m intrigued and confused.”

  “I have to remain a little mysterious.”

  “Okay, Mr. Mysterious. Let’s see what you got.”

  And for the next hour, I bumbled my way through a series of mistakes. If not for Rose’s intervention, we’d have been crunching on raw pasta dipped in ketchup by midnight. Early on, she realized I had absolutely no idea what I was doing and joined in, helping with the process. She demonstrated how a head of garlic was different from a clove, for instance, and the importance of putting a lid on the blender before turning it on.

  Despite our combined efforts, the pesto sauce and garlic bread were slight disasters, the former being incredibly pine nut heavy, the latter, blackened bricks. I don’t think either of us cared though; we laughed throughout the entire operation, bonding over our attempts to produce something edible.

  By the time we sat to eat, the candle had become a stub, more wick than wax.

  “That was the best meal I’ve had all night,” said Rose.

  “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll keep the sticky notes.”

  “No worries. I enjoy picking pine nuts out of my teeth. And I like my garlic bread properly blackened. God knows what diseases we’d catch from undercooked bread.”

  The girl was awesome.

  “In fact, I’m not sure how you’ll ever top this evening, Mr. Gunderson,” she continued, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

  “Oh, I’m just getting started, Miss Santos,” I said, leaning back and crossing my own arms.

  “Good, because I happen to be free on Sunday.”

  “This Sunday?”

  “This Sunday.”

  “As in, the day after tomorrow?”

  “The very one.”

  Hold up, hold up. Did Rose just say she wants to see me two days from now? I mean, the hike was a fluke, tonight was pure luck, but a third date? That means we’re, like, a thing, right? As in dating. As in, she may be my girlfriend soon, if I play my cards right?

  I remembered what Dylan had told me about confidence. About how girls like it. So I cleared my throat. “This Sunday it is, Miss Santos. Be prepared for an amazing surprise,” I said, opening both hands in front of me, like a magician showing the crowd he’s not holding any cards.

  Which was true. I had no cards to play.

  But I did have two days to find some.

  FIFTEEN

  “WHO STOLE THE KISHKA?” SANG THE ACCORDIONIST. “WHO STOLE THE kishka? Someone call the cops!”

  A large balding man wearing tall black boots, blue pants, a fluffy white shirt, and a thick sheen of sweat dominated the dance floor with his wife. By dance floor, I mean cracked asphalt shaded by a rent-a-tent, whose perimeter had been decorated with beer-branded pennant flags and a large banner that read Taube County Polka Festival.

  “Look at them go,” said Rose, licking the mustard off her fingers after taking a bite of the sausage we’d split.

  “I have to say, I’m impressed,” I replied. “This must be the highlight of their year.”

  Rose looked at me incredulously. “Their year? This is the highlight of my life!” We both laughed.

  We’d only been at the polka festival for thirty minutes, but it sounded like they’d been playing the same song the entire time. A simple drum kit, a clarinet, a tuba, two trombones, and an accordion were manned by six men in lederhosen, who gently bounced to the rhythm upon a flatbed trailer. The makeshift stage leaned precariously toward the back right corner, making me question the drummer’s safety.

  “I gotta hand it to you, Zeus,” said Rose, tossing a disk-shaped pickle in her mouth. “I didn’t see this coming.”

  “I said you should wear polka dots, but you didn’t listen.”

  “I’ll never doubt you again.” She handed the boat-shaped cardboard container back to me. “I can now scratch polka festival off my bucket list.”

  I tossed a pickle in my own mouth and grinned, happy that Rose was happy. Honestly, I’d been a bit worried about my idea at first, but Dylan had been right. You had to be creative around here to find things to do, especially on a budget. So I’d spent the better part of the weekend scrambling to come up with something.

  Friday night, after our dinner at the café, Rose and I had walked to the park in the center of town. We sat together on a bench, watching the fountain spurt and bubble around a statue of Abraham Lincoln. We threw in a few pennies and made silent wishes to ourselves. It sounds simple, and it was, but it felt really great. Neither of us wanted the night to end. Instead it went too quickly, as the best ones always do.

  Saturday morning, I woke feeling all warm inside. For a moment anyway, until I jumped straight up in bed, realizing the task I’d created for myself. I drank half a pot of coffee—more than twice my normal dosage—which ultimately was more of a hindrance than a help.

  After ricocheting around our apartment like a meth-addicted squirrel for hours, I ended up at the café, head in hands, rubbing my temples from the caffeine crash. Mom was too busy to offer any advice, which was okay, since she’d basically orchestrated the entire dinner herself the night before. (Hearing about the evening’s success had pleased her to no end.) As I leaned on the counter, something caught my eye. A newspaper lay open to a full-page ad.

  Taube County Fiftieth Annual Polka Festival Extravaganza! Food, Music, Beer, Fun! Sunday, June 18, 2:00 p.m.–8:00 p.m. Bring your dancing shoes! Live music by Kyle and the Kielbasas. Free admission!

  Bingo!

  I tore off the page, and twenty-four hours later, there we sat, sharing a Polish sausage.

  “I told you,” I said, finishing the last bite. “I’m full of surprises.” I wagged my eyebrows at her.

  She pointed to her mouth.

  I sto
pped chewing and gaped back at her. What the hell did that mean? Kiss me? Feed me?

  She tapped her mouth again.

  I stared at her blankly and shrugged my shoulders.

  “You have mustard on your lip.” She dabbed at my mouth with a standard-issue, disintegrate-upon-contact festival napkin as I wavered between embarrassment and pleasure.

  The band had moved on to a new verse, “You can take my shinka, take my long kielbasa,” to which the crowd sang along.

  Without warning, Rose grabbed my hand and led me toward the packed dance floor.

  The thought occurred to me—why, for the very first time we held hands, did my fingers have to be stained mustard yellow and slick with grease?

  Neither of us were skilled in the art of polka dancing, but aside from the bald man and his wife, no one else seemed to be either. We basically hopped from one foot to the other in unison, my left hand holding her right and my right hand on her upper back. I could feel the heat from her hand where it rested on my shoulder, occasionally squeezing for extra purchase.

  Before long, the crowd formed a circle around us, clapping on the downbeat. Even the bald man and his wife stopped to watch, looking quite amused. I knew I had a stupid grin on my face, but I couldn’t wipe it off. Rose’s eyes had crinkled up, and she wore a grin to match.

  I couldn’t believe I was (A) at a polka festival; (B) dancing at a polka festival; and (C) not mortified by A or B. I’d hardly danced in my life. But being with Rose made me feel invincible and willing to try things I’d never do otherwise.

  As the band revved up for the end, I led Rose into a spin, pulling her into me, her arms crossed in front of her. We fell back in a dip as the music ended, which she accented with a high kick.

  The crowd burst into applause. Rose and I took small bows, turning to acknowledge our audience.

  Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing. I took her by the hand and led her out of the tent while the band geared up for the next song. We made our way to the edge of the festival grounds, eventually discovering a grove of oak trees shading a narrow creek.

  “Over there!” I said, spotting a bench by the trickling water. We sat for a moment, catching our breath.