Know Not Why: A Novel (32 page)

“You’re still your middle school music teacher’s
bitch? Yowch.”

“I’m providing the piano accompaniment.”

Well, now, this is interesting. “For real?”

“It’s a very big deal,” he deadpans. “Don’t get
too starstruck, if you can help it.”

“We’re coming,” I abruptly decide.

“What?”

“The ol’ gang. We have to. Moral support for our
concert pianist.” I pat him on the shoulder.

He looks like he just got offered a breakfast
corndog. “That is so absolutely beyond unnecessary.”

“Nope. We’re going. Does Kristy know about
this?”

“N—”

“Hey, KQ!” I yell. “Did you know Arthur’s
playing piano for the middle school Christmas concert?”

There’s a faraway squeak, followed by the
pitter-patter of footsteps. Kristy bounces into the room and
doesn’t stop ‘til she’s right next to us. “
What
? Arthur! You
told me you were just helping them rehearse a little! You mean
you’re actually going to be on the stage? That’s
amazing
! We
all have to go! We’re going! Oh, gosh, you know what would be so
fun? To make a poster, like all the girls hold up in the audience
on American Idol—”

“No,” Arthur says, quickly and desperately.
“Nothing that relates in any way to American Idol—”

“—and then of course we’re going to have to
bring you flowers. Gosh, I never get sick of bringing people
flowers! What’s your favorite kind of flower? No, wait, I bet I can
guess! Plus, you’d probably want to be surprised, right? Hey, is it
weird to clap for the piano player, like, individually? Does your
applause count for them too at the end of the song? I bet it must,
because hello, what would the song be without the piano player? But
still! Maybe it’ll get quiet at some point and we can clap for you
special! Ha ha ha, I bet you would be sooo embarrassed. Okay, don’t
worry, we won’t! But, gosh, that’s so
cool
, I’m going to be
so
proud
of you! Do you think maybe they’ll let you do a
little solo piece or something? Sure, you’re not a middle schooler,
but you’re a total music genius, so I think it should be
allowed—”

“Thank you,” Arthur mutters into my ear, “so
very much.”

I grin at him. “Any time, boss man.”

He sighs.

“—and hey, maybe you could actually write your
own song to perform! I know you can write songs, so don’t even
pretend you can’t! It probably has to be about Christmas, though!
It can’t be about, like, Howie or something. I bet it would be hard
to write a Christmas song! There are so many already that are so
good. And what would you write it about? Maybe Christmas tree
ornaments? I know that there’s already a song about Christmas
trees, of course, but I always thought it was kind of sad that
there wasn’t one about the
ornaments
, because they’re a very
special part of the holiday season too, and …”

+

At the end of the day, I’m the one who gets
saddled with washing the pile of dishes that’s gradually
accumulated by the sink. As is the universal law of dishwashing, as
soon as I’m done rinsing the last glass, something falls with a
sinister plop into the soapy water.

I pull it out to discover it’s Cora’s favorite
mug, the one that sports the charming combination of that The
Scream painting and the words ‘BUSH AGAIN?’. It’s kinda cute to see
some old school political distress.

“Gee,” I say, “thanks for that.”

She smirks at me. “Maybe I just like watchin’
the way you move, dish boy.”

“A well-dressed young lady prude like you? No
way.”

“Oh, suck it.” She grabs a box of Hot Tamales
out of her purse and starts shoving handfuls into her mouth.
“Kristy wants to take me shopping. I think she’s convinced she can
get me to throw out my whole wardrobe and start over.”

“I dunno, I wouldn’t write off the possibility.
You look
adorable
.”

“Oh hurrah,” she drawls, “you’re just as great
as Arthur.”

“Well, he
is
the boss of me,” I remind
her as I finish up the dishes. I dry my hands on a paper towel,
then start over to grab my coat from the rack. But before I can get
there, Cora steps in front of me. I stare down at her.

“Uh,” I say, “move? Possibly?”

But she doesn’t move. Instead, she lifts up her
arms. I’m scared for like a fraction of a second (you can’t blame a
brotha for that when you’ve been through what I’ve been through),
but then – she hugs me.

It’s a nice hug, too. No slamming me against the
wall. No biting involved.

When she finally pulls away, I ask, “What the
hell was that?”

“I’m just happy for you,” she replies with a
shrug. “That’s all.”

I stare at her. I’m not really sure what to say
to that.

“I’m allowed to feel happiness for others,
Jenkins,” she adds sardonically. “Having a tongue ring doesn’t
revoke your privileges.”

I feel sort of … well, touched, honestly. But I
can’t really figure out what to do with that, so instead what I do
is tug on her pink, pink sleeve and say, “Sure, you can feel
happiness
now
, fairy princess.”

She laughs and backs off. “Fuck you, loser.”

I watch her as she opens the fridge and shoves
the rest of her lunch into her bag, along with a couple of Kristy’s
yogurts and an iced tea that I know is Arthur’s. You can take the
yak coat off the girl, but you can’t take that wild, unchecked yak
spirit from her heart.

I think back to our fearsome disaster of a night
together, with the Old Yeller and the awkward and her pretty much
jumping me in an alley. And then her pretty much jumping me in the
car. Me pretty much wanting to jump out of my whole existence. And
suddenly, I feel really grateful for that whole crazy-ass
experience. I’m not sure where I’d be if it hadn’t happened, but …
chances are it wouldn’t be here. It’s not like I know where stuff’s
going to go from this point. Probably more difficult, scary,
confusing, stressful-as-all places. But I’ve got a crazy old
bastard trying to force-feed me citrus in the name of my own
health, and that? That’s not something I’d trade.

“Thanks, Cora,” I say.

“Yeah,” she replies, with this little smile
that’s almost gentle, “sure.”

As we walk out together, she gives me a handful
of Hot Tamales. It’s a gesture I appreciate. A growing boy can’t
live on grapefruit and grapefruit alone.

Chapter Twenty-One

On the eve of the concert I come home from work
and change into a Radiohead t-shirt, upon the grounds that
Radiohead makes music, music is the theme of the evening, and
therefore, I’m pretty much dressed for the occasion. God, I am one
dapper son of a bitch.

Dennis and Emily are staying in to make cookies
and decorate the Christmas tree. We’ve been pretty slack on the
whole happy holidays thing over the past couple years, and getting
that Christmas groove back has been a little clunky. My dad used to
drag us all out into the woods to go genuine hardcore tree-hunting,
a timeless adventure that he loved, Dennis valiantly pretended to
love, and Mom and I pissed and moaned about year after year. When
he died, we got a fake tree instead. A really, really crappy fake
tree. The bottom third of it is so loose it spins in circles every
time someone comes within a foot of it without tiptoeing. It never
really struck me as a very big deal. In my opinion, Christmas just
don’t got that swing once the whole Santa myth gets busted.

We didn’t even bother to drag ol’
pinus
fakus
downstairs this year ‘til Emily offhandedly remarked upon
how unusual it was that Christmas was only a handful of days away
and we still didn’t have a tree. Real quick after that Mom forced
Dennis and me to lug it down, along with all the boxes of Christmas
lights and crap.

Considering Mom’s continued mission to convince
Emily we’re the most functional of families, this seemed like a
pretty sloppy move. I’m starting to think that her less-than-love
for Emily is quelling her overall motivation in that department.
For awhile, we kinda just let the tree stand there in the living
room, all crooked and neglected. But Emily – oh, Emily – took a
long look at it this morning, then finally pronounced, “I think we
could make this look very nice.”

To which my mom wasted no time in replying,
“Well, sweetie, I think you could too.”

My mom, for the record, claims she’s gotta go
have dinner with a coworker tonight, but I’m pretty sure that’s
code for kidnapping someone and forcing them to hang out with her
so she doesn’t have to spend an evening untangling garlands with
Emily.

I kind of wish she’d warm up to her, to be
honest. Sure, Emily’s a weirdo, but you know who else was probably
a weirdo? Jesus. ‘Tis the season.

I come downstairs to find Dennis and Emily
immersed in the business of cookie baking. They’re both wearing
aprons; Emily somehow wound up with the plain red-and-white striped
one, while Dennis got saddled with the frilly, flowery masterpiece
Nana Jenkins bestowed upon us many a year ago. He’s rocking it with
dignity. He’s also steadily trying to sneak pieces of cookie dough.
Emily is just as steadily swatting him away.

“Hey,” he says as I get my coat on, “don’t you
get too crazy down there. If some eighth graders start getting
fresh, or passing out drugs or something, just say no.”

“You kidding? Eighth graders have all the best
crack.”

“Eighth graders don’t have crack, do they?”
Emily asks, looking concerned.

“Most of them don’t,” Dennis replies, patting
her on the shoulder.

“I suppose that’s comforting,” she says with a
little frown.

“In eighth grade,” I say, “Pixy Stix were my
drug of choice.”

“How you’ve grown,” Dennis deadpans.

“Hey. I’m a Laffy Taffy man now.”

My mom comes in, looking pretty damn fancy.
Skirt, hair curled, the whole deal. I get the sense that it’s
because the longer she spends holed up getting ready, the less time
she has to spend around Emily.

“All right, you two,” my mom says, “don’t burn
the house down.”

“We’ll try not to,” Emily replies with perfect
sincerity.

My mom stares at her for a couple seconds too
long. “I appreciate that,” she finally says.

“Ehh, don’t worry, Mom,” Dennis adds, throwing
an arm around Emily’s shoulders. He’s the tiniest bit too jovial.
“She’ll keep me in line.”

“Thank goodness for that.” Mom turns to me. “You
ready for your rock show, delinquent child?”

“Oh, I am ready for rockin’.”

We walk out to the driveway together. Mom’s
wearing heels, so she’s pretty slow-moving. She pauses next to my
car. The passenger’s seat is sporting the bouquet of flowers
Kristy, Cora, and I went in on earlier.

“Flowers?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“For Arthur,” I explain. And then, since that
alone sounds a little too because-I-am-his-lovetoy for me to be
comfortable with, I throw in, “It was Kristy’s idea.”

“And you got entrusted with flower duty?
You?”

“Hey,” I say, lifting my hands. “You can’t see
it through the gloves, but these thumbs is green, sista.”

“Oh, my baby boy, you’re fooling no one.” The
love around here, it’s unstoppable. “This is very sweet of you,
supporting him at his gig.”

My immediate compulsion is to start professing
my hatred for him, stat. ‘Actually, he’s making us go, otherwise
he’ll fire us all, because he’s a sick sorry nasty weird lame-o who
doesn’t have any friends to support him, he’s paying us overtime,
he makes me want to kill myself, Arthur, ew, gross.’ It all
blossoms in my brain, finely honed instinct at work. But I fight it
back. That’s not how I want to do this anymore.

“The ladies wanted to go,” I say instead. And
then, a feat of tremendous bravery: “Besides, he’s not so bad.”

“You two are getting along again?” She sounds so
calm and oblivious.

“Yeah,” I reply. “We’re buddies.”

She smirks at me. “He’s not atrocious
anymore?”

“Not so much.” It sounds so obvious in my head,
so P.S. I Love Him, but then it comes out and sounds like ordinary
conversation. I know I should be frustrated, and I kind of am.
She’s gonna have to figure it out sooner or later. But I’m also
really relieved.

“That’s good. I think you could use a friend
like him.”

“Yeah. I guess. So. What poor unfortunate
colleague did you force to hang out with you?”

“Professor Herrick and I have to discuss how to
adapt to some changes in the English department faculty this next
semester. Pressing business that, much as I wanted to stay in for a
lovely cozy evening at home, needs to be attended to
immediately.”

“Ahh, Herrick.” I bust out my nastiest of
sneers. “Tell him I want my five points on that Shakespeare
paper.”

“A two ninety five out of three hundred is still
something to be perfectly proud of,” Mom says, patronizing and
loving it.

“You don’t write ‘very good’ in all the
categories on the grading rubric and then take five random points
off anyway. That’s unfair. That’s
sick
. Those, Mother mine,
are what I like to call
shenanigans
.”

Her mouth quirks in a smile, and she pats me on
the head. “My little overachiever.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, “that’s me.”

I didn’t really mean anything by it. It’s just –
well, ‘overachiever’ isn’t exactly a label that gets slapped on me
left and right. If there’s a way to be more under than an
underachiever, then I’m that. Plus some extra. This is basic
knowledge.

But after I say it my mom looks sort of
thoughtful and sad. I force myself to smile. No teeth or anything,
just lifting the corners of my mouth up. Maybe I could’ve tried a
little harder on that one, to communicate that I am actually
ecstatic and content in every area of my existence. See? We’ve got
some high-class underachieving going on right here, right now.