Keeping the Moon (18 page)

So did Isabel. "Just do it. And don't give him your number, even if he asks for it."

"Isabel," Morgan said.

"Don't," she repeated. "I'm serious."

"That would be great," I said to Josh. "I won't be home till mid-August though, probably."

"Oh, okay," he said. "You want to just give me your number now?" Someone guffawed in the background--another boy-- and I heard Josh cup his hand over the receiver.

"Um," I said, and Isabel narrowed her eyes at me, one hand on her hip, "you know, I just got slammed with a bunch of tables. But you can get it from Caroline. She lives right next door."

"She does?" he said. "She didn't tell me that."

I
bet she didn't,
I thought. Morgan laughed out loud, but Isabel just nodded and got her lunch out of the window.

"Look," I said, "I should go. But call me, okay? In August."

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"In August," he said. "I will."

I hung up the phone and looked to Isabel. Norman had put down his book and was watching from the kitchen. Since he'd come back from the bazaar he'd acted strange, ducking his head and not meeting my eyes. I didn't know what his problem was.

"Our Colie," Morgan said proudly. "Look how she's grown."

"You're still slouching," Isabel said.

I smiled at Morgan, who sighed and filled another salt shaker. "Young love," she said. "It makes me really miss Mark."

"Ugh," Isabel said, pouring herself a Coke. "Don't start."

"It was so nice of him to surprise me like that," she said for at least the hundredth time. Mark's unannounced visit had settled her doubts once and for all and left a perpetually dreamy look on her face: Isabel said it could only be love--or gas. "I want to do something to surprise him, you know?"

Isabel just rolled her eyes.

"He's calling me in August," I said, wrapping the phone cord around my wrist.

"Don't accept his first offer for a date," Isabel told me, pulling a magazine out from her stash by the bus pan. "Say you're busy at least once. Twice is better. You call the shots, Colie."

"Right." I wondered how I would handle things when she wasn't around.

I heard the kitchen door slam shut. Norman was gone, his book lying open on the prep table. When I looked outside he was standing by his car, which was packed full with things he'd gotten at the bazaar. Mira's beanbag chair was stuffed in the back seat, a bit of orange fake leather poking out the window.

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"Sheesh," Morgan said. "What's going on with Norman?"

Isabel turned another page of her magazine. "He's jealous."

"Of what?"

Isabel looked at me. "What do you think?"

"Not me," I said. "What are you talking about?"

"He likes you. Didn't you see his face when you were talking to him at the fireworks, Colie? It was obvious."

"No," I said. "You're wrong."

"I am never wrong about these things." She glanced outside at Norman, who was now sitting in the front seat of his car, fiddling with the glove box. He slammed it shut; it dropped open. Again. And again.

"Shit!" he yelled.

"See?" Isabel said simply. "He's jealous. He probably had a whole plan for winning your affection. He probably," she said, thinking, "was going to ask you to sit for a portrait."

The portrait. Hot chocolate. "Oh my God," I said, slowly. "Last night. I totally forgot."

"Forgot what?" Morgan said.

"He was going to make me hot chocolate."

"Was he really?" Morgan said, sitting up. "Man, that is good stuff! I am
not
lying to you. He makes it with milk, not water, and then he--"

"Morgan." Isabel put down her magazine.

"Yes?"

"Shut up." She turned to me. "So? What do you think about him?"

"Norman?"

"Duh." Isabel rolled her eyes at me. "Yes. Norman."

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I looked outside. He was sitting on the back tailgate of his car now, in his orange T-shirt and black Ray Ban sunglasses. What did I think of Norman? Yes, he was cute. And he'd been nice to me since my first day in Colby. But he wasn't Josh. On the other hand, he wasn't Chase Mercer, either.

"I don't know," I said. "I like him a lot, but he's just so ..."

"So what?"

I thought of Josh, with his easy good looks. Then of Norman's uneasy sleep under all those mobiles. "I mean, he's kind of... he's not really my type."

"Your type," Morgan said.

Isabel arched her eyebrow. "And what, exactly, is your
type?"

"You know what I mean," I said. "All that collecting he does. And the sunglasses, and his car ... I don't know. He's just... Norman. You know."

"No," she said, folding her arms. "I don't know."

"He's sweet," I said. "But I don't know if I could ever really go out with him. He's a little out there. You understand
that,
Isabel."

"No, I don't understand that," she said slowly. Morgan put down her salt shaker. "What I do know," Isabel said, gathering steam, "is that when you showed up here all in black, with your friggin' lip pierced and your hair a ratty mess, with more attitude than even I have, 'out there' did not even
cover
what I thought of you."

"Isabel," Morgan said.

Isabel held up a hand to stop her. "No," she said. Then she turned back to me. "Look, Colie. Don't let some cute guy make you forget yourself. I never would have encouraged you if I

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thought you would become like that girl who came in here and called you those things."

"I'm not," I said, hurt.

"Right now, you are." She picked up her magazine again. "Norman is the nicest, sweetest boy I've ever met. If you think he's not good enough for you, you must be better than any of us."

"I didn't say that," I said. I could feel my throat getting tight. Even Morgan wouldn't look at me.

"You didn't have to," Isabel said. "You, of all people, should know that what
isn't
said can hurt the most."

She was right. Mira's words that morning should have taught me something. I took off my apron and balled it up, stuffing it beside the coffee machine. Then I walked out from behind the counter, down the hallway, and locked myself in the bathroom.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror: my new hair, my new eyebrows. My new me. If Isabel was right, I could never forgive myself. Just as my mother vowed never to forget the Fat Years, I could never let myself forget my Years of Shame. If I did, I was no better than Bea Williamson or Caroline Dawes.

I watched Norman from the bathroom window. He was bent over the tailgate, looking for something. He'd never been anything but nice to me.

For the rest of the day, I kept to myself. Isabel was gone by early afternoon, leaving Morgan and me to close together. Norman was in the kitchen finishing up.

All I knew about him was what I'd seen and assumed. So many times I'd sat watching from my room as he lugged strange objects into his apartment: dead fish mounted on plaques, some-

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one's old hockey trophies, a stack of TV trays decorated with the faces of presidents, even an antique waffle iron that was so heavy it got away from him, tumbling down the grass to hit the birdbath with a crash.

Then there were the portraits. That slow, loping way of moving. The sunglasses. And, finally, how I'd hurt him without even trying. When I finally asked Morgan about him, she looked up at me and smiled, as if she'd been waiting for the question.

"Oh, Norman," she said as we sprayed trays with Windex. She glanced back into the kitchen, where he was in the walk-in cooler, examining a box of lemons. "He's a sweetheart."

"He is," I said quietly. If anyone could forgive me for how I'd acted, it was Morgan. "What's his story?"

She put her tray aside and folded her rag, neatly. "Well," she said seriously, "he's had a lot of family trouble. His dad is Big Norm Carswell. He owns that auto dealership, the one with the searchlight, right before you come over the bridge? You've probably seen the commercials. He's got white hair and throws his arms around a lot, screaming about good deals."

"Oh yeah," I said. He was on a lot during wrestling. "I've seen those."

"Yeah," Morgan said. "Anyway, he's a big deal around here. City Council, Tourism Board, all that. Norman's two older brothers have both gone into the business. But Norman ..."

She trailed off as the cooler door slammed, waiting until Norman emerged with a handful of lemons and went outside.

"Anyway," she went on quietly, "Norman's just not the car salesman type, you know? And a couple of years back, when he started talking about applying to art schools, his dad just

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freaked. Said he wouldn't pay for it, that it was a waste of time, all that. It was so ridiculous. Norman had already gotten a scholarship; he starts this fall. He's
good,
Colie. You should see his stuff."

I thought of the portrait in Mira's house, and the one I'd seen of Morgan and Isabel.

Norman was on the front stoop now, studying his lemons. He threw one up in the air and caught it.

"So," she continued, pulling down another tray, "it finally got so bad that Norman moved out of his Dad's house. This was, like, last year, when he was seventeen. He packed everything in his car and was just living back here, by the Dumpsters, until Mira told him to come stay with her. It was the same week that cat showed up near dead on her front step. So she took them both in."

"Wow," I said, looking out at Norman, who was still tossing and catching the lemons, studying their falling patterns. "That's amazing. I mean, that his dad would be like that."

"Well, he'd made up his mind about what he wanted Norman to be. He'd assumed too much." She didn't look at me as she said this, but I knew the lesson was there, and I was expected to take it. "And it's so sad, that his dad just doesn't get it," she added. "He never has."

"Get what?" I said, as Norman launched a lemon into the air, keeping it circling with one hand. After a moment he added another, using both hands now.

"Our Norman," Morgan said, as the third lemon was tossed up, and Norman juggled them higher and higher until they

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blurred into a band of bright yellow. "He's just..." And she glanced outside, seeing him, and smiled. "He's special, Colie. That's why you have to be careful. Okay?"

"Okay," I said. She nodded, like we were straight, and went back to work.

Later, when I was done, I went out and found him by the Dumpsters, rummaging through the backseat of his car.

"Hey," I said.

He barely lifted his head. "Hey."

I sat down on the stoop. "What's up?"

"Nothing," he said into the back of the car. He picked up a canvas and leaned it against his bumper, then rested another against it.

"Are those new?" I asked him.

He shook his head. He still wasn't looking at me. "Just some old stuff."

"Look, Norman," I said slowly, knowing this counted, "I'm hoping you'll give me another chance. To get my portrait done."

"I figured you weren't interested."

"I am," I said. "I was stupid. I forgot."

Now he did look up. "You don't have to feel obligated," he said. "I mean, I'm not desperate or anything.'

"I know," I said. "I wanted--I
want
--to do it."

He bent over to rearrange the canvases, shoulder blades moving beneath his shirt. "I don't know," he said. "I'm pretty busy these days."

"Oh," I said. I wasn't about to beg; I felt bad enough as it was. "Okay." I stood up and started inside.

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I was about to open the back door when he called after me. "I didn't really think about that when I asked you."

I just stood there half in, half out.

"I mean, a portrait is a big commitment," he went on. "It's not just a one-day kind of thing."

"I've got time," I said.

He turned back to the car. I didn't know why this was so important to me, but winning Norman back was suddenly all I wanted. So I stood there, wishing he would turn around.

He didn't. I started back inside, but just as I did I heard him say, very quietly, "Well, okay." I had to strain to hear him. "I mean," he said, sounding resigned, "I guess there's still time."

I felt my shoulders relax and I let out a breath I didn't even know I'd been holding. "Good," I said. "Thanks, Norman."

"But," he told me in a firm voice, "you missed out on the hot chocolate. No second chances on that."

"Okay," I said. "I can take that. When do we start?"

"You still have those sunglasses?" he asked. "The ones I gave you?"

"Yeah."

"Bring them down to my place tonight, around eight, so I can do a sketch. After that we'll work on it there in the evenings, and here, during the day," he said, going around and shutting the tailgate with a bang.

"Here?" I said. "You can do it here?"

"Yeah," he said. "Right here, actually. Under that." And he pointed over my head. "I'll see you tonight."

I turned and saw a sign I'd never noticed before. It was white,

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painted with red letters, deliveries, it said. And then, underneath, LAST CHANCE ONLY.

"Okay," I said. "I'll be there."

The first time I'd been in Norman's room I'd thought it was a mess. What I discovered that night was that it was, actually, a carefully ordered universe.

Norman's universe. And in it, everything had a place, from the huge collection of plastic cartoon and action figures on a bookshelf---arranged according to height, like a class picture-- to the mannequins he'd had with him the first day we met, which were seated neatly against the walls as if waiting for appointments. There was a workbench lined with baby food jars, each full of something: washers, bolts, brightly colored thumbtacks, rusty nails, marbles, seashells, tiny plastic doll heads. It looked like he could take anything and make it worthwhile.

The walls were painted white and covered with canvases-- some I'd seen before, like the one of Morgan and Isabel, and some I hadn't. Only one other, however, featured the sunglasses theme.

It was a portrait of a man who looked to be in his early twenties, leaning against an old-model car. He had a crewcut and wore a white shirt and a tie, black pants and sunglasses, with his arms folded across his chest. Behind him the sky was blue and broad and his head was thrown back with laughter, as if someone had just cracked the funniest joke in the world. I wondered who he was.