You and Me and Him (4 page)

Then we both put on our best Julia Child and say,
“Bon appétit!”

I laugh and dig in. It’s delicious, if I do say so myself.

“Remember,” Dad says. “You’re smart and strong and brave!”

“You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, kisses my cheek, and heads for his workshop.

I try to finish my homework, but my mind keeps hopping around, from my fight with Mom, to my dad’s concern, to wondering about Tom and Nash, to trying to figure out what Kayla is up to. After a useless half-hour, I toss my pre-calculus book on the floor and go downstairs. I can hear Dad banging around in his workshop, fine-tuning one of his inventions. Mom’s door is cracked open.

“Maggie,” she says as I walk past.

I stick my head in the door.

Mom is lying in a nest of papers. She shifts her headphones off her ears. “Honey, I’m sorry about earlier.”

I shake my head. “No biggie.”

“Still, I’m sorry. And dinner was delicious.”

“Thanks,” I say, and head to the kitchen.

I turn on the oven and start pulling out the ingredients for oatmeal cookies. I can’t play an instrument, and I can’t draw like Nash, but I can make damn good cookies. I learned from the best; my grandma was a master cookie maker. Like her, I get creative with the recipes. I invent all kinds of combinations, making up new versions of old cookies. I don’t want to eat all those cookies myself; I just like making them.

So I give them away. I hand them out to people at school or people who come into Square Peg Records, where I work. I’m sure half of them throw the cookies away. If I’m honest, I probably wouldn’t eat something a stranger gave me in a record store. But that part doesn’t matter. I love seeing the surprise as it dawns on someone that I’ve given them something delicious for no reason at all.

Tonight I’m going to make oatmeal with extra cinnamon, sunflower seeds, and something else. I haven’t decided about the something else yet. I’m blending the eggs and butter together when my phone rings.

“Hi, Cece,” I say, adding some sugar to the bowl. “What’s up?”

“I thought you were going to call me,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say. “My mom started going off and I forgot. What are you doing?”

“Homework,” she says. “You?”

“Baking cookies.”

“Oooooh! What kind?” Cece will eat as many cookies as I’ll let her. She’s one of those thin, waifish, smart girls who never gain a pound. Cece could be stunning if she wanted to play it up. But she has better things to do.

“Oatmeal,” I say. “And something. I haven’t decided yet.”

“My favorite!” she says.

“They’re all your favorites.”

“True! So what did your mom and you fight about?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Not meeting her rigorous standards.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Cece says. “I’m glad you and Nash are in English. It would be so boring without you. I was thinking about reading a biography on Jackson Pollock for my first outside reading book. Do you know any good ones?”

“Cece, don’t do that just because Nash was a little intense today.”

“I’m not. I’m really interested. Nash was telling me more about Pollock in calculus. You know he really changed the face of modern art.”

“Okay. Cool. I just don’t want you doing stuff just because—” I stop, not sure how much to say. “There are a lot of good books out there. Make sure you choose one that’s right for you.”

“Sure. Of course.” She’s quiet for a minute, but I know she’s still on the line. I can hear her breathing. “Soooo, Tom seems nice.”

“Yeah,” I say. “He’s okay, I guess.” I know where she’s going with this.

“You guys all seemed like you were really hitting it off,” she says. “So does Nash . . .” she starts. “I mean, is Nash . . . interested in Tom?”

I let out a long breath. “Cece, Nash hardly knows the guy.”

“Oh, okay,” Cece says. “Right.”

“Cece, I’m sorry, but Nash is . . . You know you can’t expect—”

“No, no. I’m good.” I can almost see her holding up her hands to ward off whatever she thought I was going to say. “So are you going to bring me cookies tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I say. “In English. See you then.” She hangs up and I finish the batter. I decide to put dried apples in the mix, knowing they’ll taste sweet against the extra cinnamon. I wrap the cookies individually—it makes them easier to hand out—and put them in a bag for the morning. I save one, put it on a plate, and pour myself a glass of milk. The cookie is still warm, and the apple pieces are soft and tart on my tongue. I am happy with the result, but even as I eat it, I am thinking about my mom. I’m a fat girl eating a cookie: Will anyone ever see more than that?

My second day of school consists of the same classes, same kids, same awkward lunch with Nash and Tom, same humiliating PE session with Ms. Perry. I have a sinking feeling that junior year is notorious more for the mind-numbing tedium than the challenging content. I usually love school, but sometimes I think the teachers go out of their way to make it tortuous. I know some of the kids do.

I hand out most of the cookies, but I’m pretty careful about which Cedar Ridge students get to sample my creations. Lots of people beg, but only a few are worthy. The jerks from PE asked for some during lunch. Denied. They went on to make unimaginative comments about there not being enough cookies in the world for them to consider getting with me. As if.

After school Nash and I pass through the door of Square Peg Records, and I let out a breath I don’t even realize I’d been holding. My boss, Quinn, gave me this job only after I came in begging three times a week for most of my freshman year. He really doesn’t need the help, but he got tired of telling me no. Basically, Quinn lets me work there out of the kindness of his heart. The record shop is a life-saving oasis in the cultural desert that is my town. My days at Square Peg are the best of my week.

Quinn is straight up the coolest adult on the planet. He was born in Cedar Ridge but left for a brief, lucrative brush with fame when his postpunk band got some attention in the eighties. The band didn’t last long. I never got the full story, but I know Quinn got his heart broken in the fray. Anyway, the residual cash was enough for him to move back here and open a record store that would be legendary in Seattle but can’t possibly be making money here in Cedar Ridge. When we arrive, Quinn’s grooving to the Smiths’ 
Louder Than Bombs,
singing along like he always does.

“How do you do that?” Nash asks.

“Do what?” Quinn says.

“Know every lyric to every record you play in this place? You even know the B-sides. It’s freakish and slightly unnerving.”

“It’s a gift,” Quinn says. “And maybe an occupational hazard.”

Nash heads right for the import bins. On days I’m working, he usually hangs at Square Peg awhile, then plants himself at one of the downtown coffee shops until I’m done, anything to postpone going home.

I throw my loaded backpack under the counter and start looking through a stack of records Quinn has sitting out.

“Those just came in,” Quinn says, looking at something on his laptop screen. “From a divorce, I think. They had a garage sale, but the vinyl didn’t sell. I’m looking up the Lou Reed album to see if it’s worth anything.”

I pull the album out of the stack and ease the record from its paper sleeve, holding it by the edges like Quinn taught me. “No scratches or warping,” I say, flipping it to side two. “A slight nick in the first track on side two, but nothing major.”

Quinn puts on his reading glasses, which he keeps hanging from a chain around his neck like he’s some kind of 1950’s librarian. He bends down and examines the record from my angle. “Good eye,” he says. “I missed that.”

He takes the record and slides it back in the sleeve. Quinn goes back to searching the Internet while I sort through the rest of the stack.

I pull out R.E.M. and put it on the turntable.

Quinn glances at me, but I see the corners of his mouth pull into a slight smile.

The music begins and I crank the volume, singing along and dancing around behind the counter. The store is empty, except for Nash, so by the time Michael Stipe is belting out the chorus of “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,”
we are all three flailing and pogo dancing like crazy people, screaming right along with him. I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye and stop mid-gyration as I realize Tom has come in and is dancing with us. Then the song is over and the guys are cracking up, breathless and happy for a moment.

Quinn follows my stare. “Sorry about that! Just trying out some of the new merchandise. Best way to sell it is to know it firsthand.” He replaces R.E.M. with another Smiths album and returns to searching for info on the Lou Reed record.

“Tom!” Nash pats his hair and straightens his shirt. “When did you get here?”

“Sometime mid–dance party,” he says. “Is that a regularly scheduled thing? Or did I get lucky?”

“You got lucky,” I say.

Tom walks over to Quinn, holding out his hand. “I’m Tom.”

Quinn looks confused.

“New guy,” Tom adds.

Quinn nods, shaking Tom’s hand, but I see he’s trying to put the pieces together.

“What are you doing here?” I ask before Quinn can start wheedling information out of Tom. My voice sounds squeaky, and I let out this ridiculous little giggle that sounds like I’ve stepped on a herd of mice hiding behind the counter. Quinn stares at me. I clear my throat and will my voice to a deeper range. “So, what brings you to Square Peg?”

“Nash is going to show me around. I came downtown early to explore a little on my own.”

“Oh.” I look at Nash. He didn’t mention Tom was coming by or that they had plans.

Tom is waiting.

I guess it’s my turn to say something. “Cookie?”

“Huh?” Tom asks.

“You made cookies?” Quinn holds out both hands. “Gimme!”

I hand him one of the last three wrapped oatmeal cookies, toss one to Nash, then offer one to Tom.

Tom takes it, nodding, then holds it up to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Mmmmmm,” he says. “Smells amazing.”

“I think this cookie is my soul mate,” Quinn mumbles.

Tom takes a slow bite, and his face rearranges into an expression I would bake all day to see. “Maggie, you clearly have a gift,” he says, spraying a few oatmeal crumbs onto the counter. He wipes them off with his sleeve. “Sorry,” he says. “They’re . . . I mean, seriously . . . Wow!”

The three of them chew in silence as the Smiths sing “This Charming Man.” Looking at Tom, I know the kind of man they mean.

“So.” Tom wads up the plastic wrap and looks around the store. “Slow day?”

Quinn lets out a little snort. “You could say that. Slow day, week, month, decade.”

“Well, vinyl’s a hard sell,” Tom says, setting down his backpack and starting to peruse the records in the sale bin. “But some of us understand its appeal.” He holds up a record and flips it over to look at the tracks.

I smile. “So, Tom, you a big fan of tribal fertility chants?”

Tom plops the record on the counter. “Yep,” he says. “I’ll take this one. And do you have any of the song stylings of Mr. Tom Jones? My mother says I was named after my great-grandfather, but my dad told me the name was actually in honor of Tom Jones.”

I show him the Pop Music section, and Nash joins him there. They stand, heads together, looking at records and talking. I can’t hear them over the music, but Nash lets out an occasional staccato giggle I know is his nervous laugh. I return to the counter, and Quinn pounces.

“Sooooooo? Cute. New. Available?”

“Shhhhhh!” I whisper back. “Nash has dibs.”

“You should go talk to him. Maybe Nash isn’t his type.”

“News flash, Quinn: Neither am I.”

“News flash, Maggie: Tom’s clearly a practiced flirt.
Anyone
could be his type.”

Tom and Nash arrive at the counter with two more albums and a Square Peg Records T-shirt.

“Find what you wanted?” I ask, bagging up the records.

“I think so.” Tom rests against the counter and leans in close.

I can smell the cherry cough drop he’s been sucking on.

“Okay,” he says. “What do I need to know about Cedar Ridge?”

“Not much to know,” I say. “Smallish town. Smallish minds. A place people move to, to keep their kids safe from the temptations of Seattle.”

“And what do Cedar . . . Ridgians? Ridgites? Ridgers? What do people here do for fun?”

“I’ll go with Cedar Ridgians,” I say. “And Nash will tell you there’s nothing fun to do here.”

“True story,” Nash says, his face grim. He hops onto the counter, sitting next to where Tom’s leaning. Tom elbows Nash’s knee, and Nash gives him a gentle kick.

“And what would Maggie say?” Tom asks. He starts picking up things off the counter and putting them in different spots.

“Maggie would say she doesn’t know.” I return each item to its original location.

“There must be something?” Tom grabs a bundle of pens and starts arranging them into a spiked bouquet.

I remove the pens from his hands and throw them back into the cup on the counter with a tiny bit more force than is technically necessary. Persistence may be admirable, but it can also be damn annoying.

“I read. Hike. Work here,” I say, flashing Quinn a sycophantic smile.

“You hike?” Tom sounds a little surprised.

“Ughhhh!” Nash groans. “Please don’t tell me you’re a hiker. How can you be a hiker when you’ve lived in all those lovely, non-nature-infested cities?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but living in cities has made me love being outdoors more,” Tom says.

Nash gives a shudder. “Well, Maggie’s your girl, then. Hiking’s almost an illness with her.” They both eyeball me as if trying to make this piece of information fit the image before them.

I know the nice thing to do is invite him along. I like to hike alone, but he’s new and probably bored and lonely. And he’s trying. Shit.

Quinn gives me a look, the one he gives when I need to be nicer to customers.

“Um, I’m hiking to the waterfall this weekend,” I say. “I, uh, I guess you can come if you want?” But my heart isn’t in the invitation.