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At six o’clock I head
out for the park. Papa isn’t home yet. I didn’t expect him to be, and yet I can’t help but feel disappointed. During the past week he’s only visited Mama once while I’ve gone every day, sometimes staying for hours. I know he’s busy, and Dr. Walsh suggested that maybe this is all too much for him, that he’s carrying his burden in his own way. Maybe distancing himself from Mama is the only way he can bear it.

I arrive at the park at a few minutes past six. It isn’t very big, just a little bit of grass, two picnic tables, and some trees. The kids’ play area is toward the back. I can see in a second that I’m alone. What did I expect after I bailed on him the last time? I told him I’d be here. He said nothing about taking me up on it.

The thought crosses my mind that I should just turn right around and go back home, but then I hear David’s voice. “You’re late!”

I look up and see him standing on the yellow roof of the play gym. His legs are spread wide for balance, but his feet keep slipping on the dome-shaped metal.

“What are you doing up there?” I holler. “You’re going to break your neck!”

“I was keeping watch,” he says, grinning. “Come on up. The view’s spectacular.”

“No thanks.”

His arms flail awkwardly, like an injured duck coming in for a landing. He’s making me nervous. “Get down here, David, before you kill yourself.”

Too late. One foot slides too far forward and David loses his balance. It all happens so fast I don’t even have time to scream. Suddenly he’s vanished from the roof, and I hear a dull thud behind the gym.

“David!”

I run fast, discovering him sprawled face-first in the sand, groaning. I squat down beside him wondering if I’m about to take my third ride in an ambulance in as many weeks. David rolls onto his back. Sand covers his face; it’s in his eyes, nose, and on his lips. He spits out a wet, gray wad of it. “Yuck.”

“Are you all right?” I ask, trying not to laugh. “Is anything broken?”

He sits up and spits again. “Just my pride, not that I ever had any to start with around you.” David stands up and brushes himself off. He wipes some of the sand off his face, and then shakes it out of his hair, like a wet dog would shake the water out of its coat. I can’t help but burst out laughing.

He makes a playful grab for me, but I’m faster. I twist away, just out of reach. He doesn’t try again, but grins at me from ear to ear.

“Well,” he says, “I don’t know about you, but after all that I’m hungry. How about we get something to eat?”

“Okay. What do you have in mind?”

“Well, we could head to my place. I made some mean chile rellenos for dinner last night—”

“Do you live far?

“Just through the Lowell pass off Laurel Canyon, actually. Can’t miss my house. It’s the one that looks like a rainforest.”

I love chile rellenos, but I wonder what Papa would say if he found out I’d been at a stranger’s house—let alone a boy’s—without proper security. David seems to sense my hesitation.

“Or we could just stay in town,” he says. “Ever been to Bergie’s?”

I shake my head.

“No? You’ve got to be kidding.
Bergie’s
?” David grabs his stomach and groans like he’s been mortally wounded.

“What’s Bergie’s?”

“Only the best sandwich shop in Flintridge. How long have you lived here?” His eyes sparkle at me, playfully doubting my integrity.

I look at the cars parked along the street, guessing which one might be his, but he’s already walking away.

“Aren’t we driving there?”

“What for?” he asks. “It’s just down the street, and it’s a perfect day for a walk.”

I have never heard of Bergie’s. Papa doesn’t normally let me roam around town by myself, and when we do go out it’s usually to four star restaurants. I’m sure if Papa knew I was walking into town with David, a server from one of his big shindigs, he’d probably burst a jugular. But I don’t care.

After a quick stroll up Foothill Boulevard we reach the sandwich shop. I know now why I’ve never heard of it. It’s nothing but a little hole in the wall wedged in between a vintage record shop and a hair salon. If someone didn’t know it was there they’d walk right past and never even see it. Only the long line of hungry patrons waiting on the sidewalk alludes to the fact that something phenomenal is in our midst.

“There aren’t many tables here,” David explains. “Most people order ahead for pick-up. Those who don’t have to wait their turn, but it’s worth the wait.”

“Obviously,” I reply, noting the collection of businessmen, teens, and women toting babies or shopping bags.

We find a shady spot beside the door where he tells me to wait while he slips inside. Some of the people in line scowl at me, and I realize they’re probably jealous that they didn’t think to call in their order. A few minutes later, David returns with two Styrofoam boxes in one hand and a couple of sodas in the other. We head back to the park where we settle on the floor of the wooden gazebo where local bands perform at night all summer long. David twists the caps off both sodas and hands me mine. Then he holds up one of the boxes.

“Ta dah!” he says, flipping open the lid. Lying in the box is the thickest Reuben sandwich I’ve ever seen. Corned beef piled at least two inches high on toasted rye. Sauerkraut. Thousand Island dressing. Melted Swiss. And a dill pickle spear on the side.

I stare at the monster sandwich, and then at David. “How did you know?” I ask, reaching for the meal that’s making my mouth water. It’s heavy in my hand and dripping with juice and sauce. Taking a big bite, I roll my eyes from pure satisfaction. David couldn’t have looked more pleased if he had made the sandwich himself.

“That interview you gave last year for the local paper. You know, when your dad announced he was running for governor? The writer asked a lot of ‘What’s your favorite…’ questions. And you said your favorite sandwich was a Reuben.”

“You remembered all that?”

“Well, not really,” he says, blushing. “My uncle is sort of a fan of your dad’s. He’s cut out a bunch of articles and stuff.”

I take another bite of the sandwich. It’s so good I can’t stand it. “What about you?” I ask between swallows. “What kind of sandwich did you order?”

He lifts the lid to his box and reveals a croissant. “Vegetarian,” he says, opening the croissant to prove it. Sure enough there’s nothing but tomatoes, cucumbers and avocado inside. I start to laugh, but my mouth is full. So I’m half laughing, half trying not to spray David.

“What?” he asks defensively.

“Your sandwich,” I answer, giggling.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Vegetarian? You don’t seem the type.”

For the next half hour we eat, we talk, we laugh. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I feel so relaxed with David that I don’t even notice when our food is gone. It’s David who finally points out that we finished eating a while ago. I feel almost disappointed that it’s over and that I’ll have to head home soon. David seems to sense the change in my demeanor.

“Hey, you mind if we stop by the record shop before I take you home?” he asks. “There’s something I want to show you.”

I don’t have anything better to do, so I agree.

The shop is small and smells of dust and cedar, probably from the incense sticks burning on the sales counter. Two ceiling fans turn overhead like propellers, sending a pleasant breeze through the otherwise sweltering store. Nearly every inch of floor space is occupied by wooden bins, each containing a stack of square cardboard album covers. David flips through one stack.

“You ever see some of these?” he asks. “Look. Madonna. Fleetwood Mac. Cher.”

“Don’t you have an iPod like everyone else?”

He glares at me for a second, but in good humor. “Sure I do, but it’s not the same. Analog reigns if you want to really
feel
the music.”

I look at him strangely. “Don’t you think you’re a little young to be into records?”

“Oh, c’mon,” David says, moving to the next bin and leafing through it. “Your dad doesn’t own an old stereo? In a house like yours, there’s got to be one hiding somewhere.”

“Papa’s got a portable player in his office. Looks like a box with a handle on it. He played some records for me a few times when I was little, but it hasn’t been used in years.”

David moves across the aisle to another bin. I walk slowly down the opposite aisle, letting my fingers glide across the top of the smooth, polished wood.

“Ah, here it is.” David pulls out an album still in its original plastic. “I read something else in that interview of yours. I spotted this the other day and thought you’d like it.”

I take the record from him and for a moment I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

“You do like Broadway musicals, right?” he asks. I nod. “Then you’ve heard of Les Misérables?”

“Of course I have. It’s my favorite.”

“I know. It’s everyone’s favorite. But this is special. Look.”

The cover is in black and white. Across the top is the title; below is a sketch of a young girl holding a stick broom. The girl’s face is the iconic image for the play. I look closer and gasp in surprise.

“It’s the original French conceptual album,” says David, “the inspiration for the English version.”

I’d heard about this, but until now I’d never thought to listen to it. But what’s even more astounding is that David took the time to share it with me. “This is amazing,” I tell him. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have this on your iPod?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, even if you did, you should hear it on LP. It’s a different experience altogether. Here, I’ll take that.”

I hand the album to David, but instead of putting it back in the bin, he carries it to the counter. “I’d like to purchase this distinctive contribution to theatrical history,” he states in the worst fake French accent I’ve ever heard.

I start to protest. “David, you don’t have to—” But he holds up his hand to silence me. The cashier rings it up and David pays with an ATM card.

“Jolly ho, my good man,” he says, accepting the bag with the record inside.

“I think that’s British,” I tell him.

“Righty-O, then.” He shrugs and hands me the package. When I reach out for it, he steps close and leans forward. At first I think he wants to tell me something, but his face keeps getting closer.

He wants to kiss me?
Now?

I don’t have time to think. A second more and his lips will be on mine. His eyes are closed now. He can’t see me pulling away. I step back, but he keeps coming. Then he takes a step forward and—Wham!

Who the heck installs electrical outlets on the floor? David trips on it and goes down—hard. On the way, he reaches for something to hold in order to break his fall. He grabs the edge of one of the record bins. It doesn’t work. David hits the ground, and the wooden bin topples on him, spewing records across the floor like square Frisbees. It’s all over in a half a second.

“David! Are you okay?” I bend down and dig through the pile. I pick up an Elvis Presley album to see David looking up at me. But the expression on his face leaves me feeling cold. I expect embarrassment, annoyance, even anger. But instead he looks wounded—right through the heart.

Once we’ve helped pick up the mess, David walks out of the store a little faster than his normal pace. I try to keep up, but his legs are longer than mine and I quickly fall behind.

“Hey!” I call out. “David, wait!”

He stops abruptly and lets me catch up. “C’mon,” I say, a little out of breath, “I know you’re mad but—”

“I’m such an idiot,” he growls, cutting me off.

“What? You’re not an idiot. It was my fault. I’m sorry—”

“Sorry for what?” He turns to face me. “Mira, I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t give you any warning. I mean, I wasn’t expecting you to make out with me or anything. I was just going to give you a little kiss, and I shouldn’t have, I know. It’s just that …well…you’re so damn pretty.”

The compliment throws me off-kilter for a second. It’s kind of corny, I know, but nice too. David begins walking again, slower this time. I walk beside him in silence, just trying to grapple with everything that’s happened.