The Loser's Guide to Life and Love (9 page)

Ellie walks into Reel Life early tonight.

“Hi, Sergio,” she says in that voice of hers that's shy and friendly at the same time.

“
Alô
, Ellie,” I say. “
Como vai?
”

She giggles a little and answers. NOT in English.

I'm pretty much stunned.

Ellie smiles at me. “You look surprised, Sergio.”

No kidding. I probably have the exact same look of surprise that movie stars have when paparazzi cameras go off unexpectedly in their faces. Especially if they've been caught stepping out with their English nanny instead of with the wife.

“That was Portuguese, right?” I ask weakly. Like I
would know anything at all about Portuguese.

Ellie looks pretty crushed. “Is my accent that bad?”

“No!” I rush to reassure her with kindness and also suaveness. “Your accent is
muy, muy bien
!”

Which (technically speaking) is Spanish. But then maybe Sergio is trilingual.

Ellie's face brightens. “Do you really think so?”

“Sim,”
I say. “I really think so.”

She gives a modest shrug. “My voice teacher says I have a good ear for language. But he probably says that to everybody.”

“Voice teacher?”

Ellie nods, her eyes shining. “That's one of the reasons I'm here this summer—to study with this amazing, practically legendary teacher who lives here in Salt Lake. I'm studying Italian, too, because you ought to know Italian if you want to sing. I've already taken French and German, but you know how high school classes are.”

“Sim,”
I say again. “I know.” Frankly, I feel like I'm being strangled to death by my own bow tie.

“And now that I've met you, I'm getting my aunt Mary's boyfriend, Rick, to teach me”—here Ellie glances over at Scout, who's busy checking in DVDs, and whispers—“some
Portuguese
.”

My stomach drops a little. “Rick? This is short for ‘Ricardo,' perhaps? Is this
Senhor
Ricardo from Brazil too?”

Ellie shakes her head. “No. He went on a Mormon mission there—just like Scout's brother. Only it sounds like he's in the north, whereas Rick was in Florianopólis, which is in the south.” Ellie looks at me. “What part of Brazil are you from?”

“Somewhere between the north part and the south part,” I say. “Most Americans haven't heard of it.” Including me.

“Well, Brazil is a huge, amazing country, isn't it?” Again she smiles. “Hey! Maybe you and Rick can meet someday. Maybe you and Rick and Mary and I can all do something together!”

“That would be great!” I say, secretly praying that Ellie will quickly drop the idea of a social hour with me and Senhor Rick.

“Anyway,” Ellie continues, “I just wondered if I could hang around the store until you go on dinner break. Maybe we could eat together. I promise I won't bother you until then, Sergio.” She glances over at Ali, who is entertaining a customer with a new magic trick. “I don't want to get you or Scout into trouble.”

I immediately stop worrying about the prospect of meeting
Senhor
Ricardo. Instead, I nearly do an end-zone victory dance in my frilly Reel Life shirt, right there on the spot.

Ellie is asking me out!

Me!

Ed! Otherwise known as Sergio!

Yes!

 

Ali gives me a half-hour dinner break, which means Ellie and I will have to chow down fast.

“Do you want to go to Burger King?” I ask. Scout hates BK. She prefers customized burgers, like the Big H pastrami at Hires or the double cheeseburger at B & B Burgers up by the university. Burger King, however, does have the virtue of being fast. And nearby.

“I have an even better idea.” Ellie smiles. “Follow me, Sergio.”

“I hear and obey,” I say.

She leads me out of the store and through the parking lot to a shiny new 4x4 Dodge Ram truck with smoked windows.

“It's Mary's. She let me borrow it tonight,” Ellie explains as she unlocks the door, crawls inside the cab, and invites me to join her.

On the seat between us is a very full picnic basket.

“Hey, Boo Boo! Let's grab this pic-a-nic basket and run for it before Mr. Ranger gets here!” I say.

It does cross my mind that cracking Yogi Bear jokes would be something that Ed—not Sergio—would do. But Ellie just laughs and starts up the engine.

“Okay, I figure it will take us five minutes to drive to Liberty Park and five minutes to drive back. If we had
more time, we could ride the Ferris wheel there. As it is, we'll have twenty minutes to eat and whatever. Interested?”

“Sim,”
I say. “I'm
muito
interested.”

Especially in the “whatever” part.

 

Although the park is crowded—it's always crowded on a summer evening—Ellie immediately finds a place to dock Mary's truck. Not only that, but we have an excellent view of the pond, which gleams black and silver at twilight.

That is just how incredibly
right
things go for you when your name happens to be Sergio.

Ellie and I get out of the truck and spread a blanket on the grass. Then she reaches into the picnic basket and produces something on a pretty china plate wrapped in plastic.

“Recognize this, Sergio?”

I squint. It looks like a peeled banana with caramel stuff drizzled all over it.

Ellie's face falls a little. “Maybe I didn't get it right. It's a
banana frita
for you. Rick showed me how to make it.”

“Of course I know it is a
banana frita
,” I say. “My grandmother, she made me
banana fritas
all the time when I was small. I was just too overwhelmed to speak.
Obrigado
, Ellie. Thank you for this
banana frita
.”

Ellie smiles broadly. “Rick promised to teach me how to cook all your favorite dishes, Sergio.”

The more I hear about this
Senhor
Rick, the less I want to meet him.

Ellie, however, sighs happily as she gives me the food she has prepared with her own hands. She watches me eagerly for my reaction.

“This is terrific,” I say over and over, thinking how much Scout would enjoy this meal.

After we finish eating, Ellie leans back on her elbows and looks up at the sky. “It's beautiful tonight, don't you think? Look at those shadows over there, leaping across the grass. It makes me think of things…unseen.”

Things unseen. I have no idea what Ellie is talking about, quite frankly. But I agree with her anyway. Wouldn't you, if you were me?

I do know this. It's amazing how comfortable I feel right now. If I were still the Dork McIff, I would be asking myself silent desperate questions about sweating: Am I sweating? Is it sweat you can smell or sweat you can see? Or (worst-case scenario) is it sweat you can smell
and
see at the same time?

If I were still Ed, I would be wondering if I should keep my arms at my sides from the elbows up, in case I had sweat stains, and I would also be wondering if my palms were growing unnaturally moist, like stuff growing in a Petrie dish. Sometimes my palms get so wet, you
could use them for sprouting things in science classes, such as beans and bacteria.

But now that I am Sergio from central Brazil, I am not worried. Sergio rarely sweats, and when he does sweat, it is a good manly sweat.

“It's almost the twenty-first of June,” Ellie is saying. “Midsummer's eve.”

She watches the leaping shadows with a faraway look. “‘Over hill, over dale / Thorough bush, thorough brier / Over park, over pale / Thorough flood, thorough fire / I do wander everywhere, / Swifter than the moon's sphere.'”

“Come again?” I say.

She laughs a silvery laugh.

“It's one of the fairy speeches in
A Midsummer Night's Dream.”
Ellie sighs happily.

I digest the fact that I'm sitting in a park on a blanket with a beautiful girl who memorizes Shakespeare for fun.

A dragonfly flits by.

“I used to pretend that dragonflies were fairies when I was a little girl.” Ellie giggles. “You probably think I'm a total geek now.”

“A geek? You? Never.”

“Do you like Shakespeare too?” she asks me hesitantly.

“DO I LIKE SHAKESPEARE?” I say. “
Sim!
I
love Senhor
Shakespeare!”

Ellie grows radiant beyond words. “I knew it! Which play is your favorite, Sergio?”

Very fortunately for me, Mrs. Stensrud, my sophomore English teacher, made us listen to a recording of
Macbeth
in class. Also, I read most of the Spark Notes.

“Macbeth,”
I say. And then, for Ellie's listening enjoyment, I toss off a line. “Out, out damn spot!”

“Lady Macbeth.” Ellie nods knowingly, then shivers at the thought of that wicked woman caught up in her own deceit, just like an Orc caught in Shelob's web.

Sounds of the growing night wash over us. Ellie reaches for the picnic basket, and without thinking I take her hand.

If I were Ed, I would have pounced on her hand. Clumsily. Like a slobbering overeager puppy pouncing upon a bedroom slipper. Yes, master! Look at me, master! I have your bedroom slipper now, master! Watch me chew it up and shred it into tiny useless bits because I adore you so, master!

But now that I am Sergio, I confidently take Ellie's slim white hand and hold it lightly in my own.

My palms, in case you're interested, are dry. Like the desert. Where Sergio has ridden camels with the sons of many sheiks.

Ellie looks at me. “I just knew there had to be somebody else like—” She stops as though her own words have
taken her by surprise. “Somebody exactly like you, Sergio.”

And then she kisses me and I almost stop breathing. But not quite, because I definitely kiss her back.

In public.

On a blanket.

In a park.

Beneath a white, rising moon.

 

Scout doesn't look at me when I return, but Ali actually slides his sunglasses down his nose and fixes me with a stare as I sail through the door.

“What are you grinning about?” he asks.

“I'm grinning because I am just so very happy to be a Reel Life employee, sir!” I say, wondering where I'd suddenly found the courage to smart off in front of Ali. “In fact, I'm so happy to be a Reel Life employee that I feel like doing a little dance to the happiness gods, right here in the middle of your store!”

And I do. Sort of. I sing, sort of, too. “‘Do a little dance! Make a little love! Get down tonight! Whoa! Get down tonight!'”

On the “whoa” part I actually drop to my knees and slide across the floor. Or I would if it weren't for the carpet. As it is, I drop to my knees and stay there.

Ignoring me completely, Scout picks up a load of DVDs for shelving purposes and walks to the back of the store. Ali, however, stares at me for a few seconds before
coolly sliding the sunglasses back up his nose. Then the most amazing thing happens. A smile breaks out on Ali's face. He gives a long, low chuckle.

“Not bad, McIff,” he says.

I spring to my feet like an actor who's just received an Oscar. “Does this mean you like me, Ali? That you really, really like me?”

“Cut the Sally Field crap,” he says. “Follow me. I want to show you something.”

I follow Ali to the back office. He reaches into his desk and pulls out a deck of cards. He shuffles it quick and clean like a Vegas dealer, then holds it in front of me.

“Pick a card. Any card,” he says.

I pull one out from the middle of the deck.

“Now look at it,” Ali commands.

Queen of hearts.

“Put it back.”

I put it back. Ali reshuffles the deck with lightning fingers, then pulls out a card. He shows it to me.

“Yours?”

Awed and amazed, I nod.

“Queen of hearts, baby,” Ali says.

“How'd you do that? That was great!”

He dismisses me with a grin.

 

“Are you mad at me or something?” I ask Scout as we leave the store after closing up. I always walk her to her
car even though she says it's not required—she can take care of herself.

Scout shakes her head no.

Call me psychic, but I'm not convinced.

“You've been avoiding me tonight.” I persist.

“I have not.”

“Remember that time I called your name, and you turned your back on me? That pretty much looked like avoidance to me.”

Scout gets ready to respond, but a horn blares and makes us both jump.

“Scout! Sergio!” Ellie is waving from the passenger window of Aunt Mary's truck. The driver is another very beautiful girl who looks exactly like Ellie, only a few years older. She waves too. Only it's one of those tight constipated little waves that queens in carriages give to peasants shortly before running them over.

“It's Ellie,” I say to Scout. “Let's go over and say hello.”

The memory of Ellie's sweet kisses lingers on my lips. Like honey, except not sticky.

“These are the friends I was telling you about, Mary,” Ellie says as we approach. “This is Scout and this is Sergio. Scout and Sergio, this is Mary, my mother's baby sister. She's the one I'm living with this summer.”

Aunt Mary smiles warmly at Scout, who starts to thaw like a Popsicle right there on the spot.

“Aunt?” I say in the mocha-smooth tones Sergio would use. “You don't look old enough to be an aunt.”

Is it just my imagination, or does Mary's smile grow chilly as she turns her attention to me.