Confectionately Yours #4: Something New (8 page)

M
y favorite store, Frantic, is two blocks up from the Tea Room. There are always really amazing window displays in the front and usually a street musician performing by the entrance. The store is packed with fun clothes, funny stuff, and beautiful room decorations. I usually can’t afford to buy much, but it’s the kind of store that’s fun to look in, because there are a million things that make me smile.

Anyway, this week’s window display is all shoes, and they’ve been set up so that they’re walking in circles in this Dr. Seuss–style contraption. I’m not usually a shoe girl, but there’s a pair of silver flats in the window that I really wish I could have. They sound dressy, but they aren’t, and they look like they would be really comfortable. I have a pair of
black flats, but they have a hole in the bottom near the toe on the right side, and the heels are worn down. I’m pretty hard on shoes. Anyway, I don’t wear flats much. Just if I have someplace to go where I want to look nice. The problem is that my black flats are supposed to be my “nice” shoes, but they don’t look nice at all. I could use some new ones. But since I don’t really go to that many nice places, I really don’t want to ask Mom for the money. It seems kind of dumb. So, instead, I just watch those pretty silver shoes pad around in a circle with the other shoes in the display, back and forth, back and forth.

I’m debating whether or not to go inside and try on a pair — just for informational purposes — when I hear a familiar voice nearby.

“Hey, that was great,” Kyle says to the guitarist sitting on the curb. “Do you know anything by Muddy Waters?”

“Do I know any Muddy?” The guitarist breaks into a grin and busts into a blues riff. Then he starts singing in a deep, gravelly voice. He’s football-shaped, with large glasses and a heavy beard, and he holds his guitar like he’s about to wrestle it to the ground. I’ve seen him playing on the street a few times, but I’ve never stopped to listen before.

Kyle is nodding and tapping his foot to the beat. He claps once or twice, like he wishes he had something to do with his hands. I imagine that if there were a piano nearby, he would hop onto the bench and join in.

I go stand beside him, and when the song is over, I say, “Hey, Kyle, it’s me — Hayley!”

“Fred!” Kyle is beaming, as if my presence has just put a cherry on top of the best day ever. “Do you know Winthrop Little?”

Winthrop tips his hat, revealing long, scraggly gray hair, and I giggle a little as I say hello. For one thing, the guy looks more like a renegade motorcyclist than a “Winthrop.” For another, he’s definitely not “little.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Winthrop says politely.

“Winthrop loves jazz,” Kyle says. “We like all the same records.”

“Really, I’m a blues man.” Winthrop strums a few bluesy chords.

“He’s played all over the country,” Kyle tells me. “Even opened for some of the greats.”

“All true,” Winthrop puts in.

“Wow.” I want to ask Winthrop what he’s doing in Northampton, but I don’t want to be rude. Mostly, I just think it’s amazing that I’ve seen him on the street maybe fifty times, and I’ve never really listened to him before.

“Listen, I’ve got to get going,” Kyle says, digging in his pocket. He drops a folded bill into Winthrop’s open guitar case. “Catch you later.”

“On the flip,” Winthrop says. “See you around, Hayley.” Then he launches into a new song.

Winthrop’s deep, bluesy voice follows us as Kyle and I fall into step down the street. “So — what’s up, Hayley?” Kyle asks.

“Oh, nothing.”

“You seem … thoughtful.” Kyle doesn’t say more. He’s not the type to ask questions.

“I just … I kind of yelled at Chloe for something that really isn’t her fault.” I explain about Tessie and the poster.

“Aww — you yelled at two puppies, huh?”

“Kind of,” I admit.

Kyle nudges me gently on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Hayley. Chloe knows you love her. People get mad sometimes; it’s no big deal. And dogs never hold a grudge.”

“That’s the truth.” I stop walking and inhale a deep lungful of cold spring air. It’s misty, and a little cold, but I don’t mind. I can feel the damp on the tips of my eyelashes.

“Hayley — are you going to the barbecue?” Kyle asks suddenly. “I was wondering if you might want to go together?”

The dampness on the ends of my eyelashes thickens, and Kyle blurs in front of me. My throat is closing, and I feel like I’m going to choke.

Kyle waits a moment, and then flashes an embarrassed smile. “You aren’t saying anything,” he says. “Are you — thinking it over?”

“Kyle, I —” There is a lot that I wish I could say, but don’t really dare. “Marco asked me already.” My words are limp, but they’re the best I can do.

“Oh. So you’re going with him.”

“I’ve already said yes.”

“Got it.” Kyle looks like he understands. Like maybe he understands the whole thing.

Like maybe he understands it better than I do.

And who knows? Maybe he does.

K
yle dropped a five-dollar bill into Winthrop’s guitar case. It was folded in a square. I saw it.

And I know Kyle did that on purpose. He isn’t one of the rich kids. Or he doesn’t seem to be. But how many kids in my school would have given five dollars to a street musician? How many would stop to talk to him?

When I’m with Kyle, the world just seems bigger, somehow. More interesting. Brighter. It seems like an adventure, and anyone who is brave enough is welcome to step into it.

It’s like he sees the best in people. I know he sees the best in me. When I’m around him, I just wish that I could be more like him.

He’s so easy to talk to. You never have to make anything up.

And here is the real confession:

I wish I could say yes.

Yes!

Yes!

“A
mazing job, Artie. As usual,” Meghan says as she stands back from the lime-and-yellow poster. It really pops against the bland beige wall.

“Thanks!” Artie grins as she makes a minuscule adjustment to make it even straighter than it was before.

“What was wrong with the old posters?” I ask.

Meghan jumps a little and turns to face me. “Oh, hi, Hayley. I didn’t realize you were there. Studies show that people stop seeing the posters after a few days or so. It’s good to freshen them up. We’ll surprise everyone tomorrow morning.” The last bell rang ten minutes ago, and the halls are deserted. I’m only here this late because I have to talk to Señor Derby about the advanced class situation.

“But we’re keeping everything in the same color palette,” Artie explained, waving the old yellow poster. “So that people recognize the brand.”

“Great,” I say, as if I know what we’re talking about.

“You should do your posters in green and yellow, too,” Artie suggests, “so that people realize that you two are together.”

“Brilliant!” Meghan says, holding her hand up for a high five. Then Artie says, “Thank you” in a British accent, and Meghan says, “No, thank you” in the same accent, and they go on that way for a while, and all the time I’m just standing there, like, “Say whaa?” Because — since when do those two have an in-joke?

“Okay,” I tell them. “I have to start over with my posters, anyway.” I explain about the dog pee incident.

“Yeah, Meghan and I have been meaning to ask you why your posters weren’t up yet,” Artie says. “We were wondering.”

“If you need help, just let us know,” Meghan says, and now I’m seriously feeling weird, because since when do Artie and Meghan get together to talk about
me
?

“Uh — I’ll try to get them up tomorrow,” I tell them, even though I’m a little annoyed that I’m not getting any sympathy for the dog situation.

“Well, well, well,” Omar says as he rounds the corner. “I see you’ve finally managed to organize something, Meghan.”

“I’ve been organizing stuff all year, Omar,” she snaps.

Omar just purses his lips as he holds up his campaign poster and rips a piece of tape from a roll with his teeth. Then he slaps up the tape — not even straight along the edges, just all wonky and haphazard — and plasters the poster right next to Meghan’s. Omar’s poster isn’t as pretty as Meghan’s. At all. It’s just large, chunky black lettering written crooked on the right. But what it lacks in prettiness, it makes up for in largeness. It’s huge.

Meghan takes one look at it, and I practically see steam coming out of her ears. “‘Ideas that matter’?” she demands, reading the poster.

“Yeah — good one, right?” Omar says.

“Like my ideas don’t matter?”

“I didn’t realize you had any ideas,” Omar replies.

“Omar!” I say. “That’s not fair. Meghan’s done a lot of stuff.”

“I have a ton of ideas,” Meghan huffs. “Just because I didn’t like your one idea —”

Omar glares at her. “Meghan, the role of the class president
is to listen to the people in the class, then help them make things happen.”

“Omar — the class president has to do one thing at a time,” Meghan says. Her voice sounds strained, like it’s taking her a lot of effort not to start screeching. “You couldn’t lead a trip to the bathroom.”

“I guess we’ll let the class decide,” he says, and turns on his heel to walk away.

Artie shakes her head, frowning at the poster. “Unreal. He didn’t even hang it up straight.”

“Don’t you dare,” I say as Meghan reaches for the poster.

“What?” She looks guilty as she pulls the poster off the wall. “I’m just straightening it.” She hangs it up again, although I’m pretty sure she wanted to shove it in the trash. She stares at it a moment longer, then sighs. “Okay. I can’t let this get to me.”

“It isn’t personal,” Artie tells her.

“Well — it kind of
is
personal,” Meghan says. “But that doesn’t mean I have to care. I’ll be a better president than Omar, no matter what he thinks. And besides — I have other stuff to think about. Like the barbecue. Speaking of —”

“We were going to get some frozen yogurt and talk about decorations,” Artie announces. “Do you want to come?”

The mention of the barbecue has made me feel slightly queasy. “No, I — no, thanks. I have to meet Señor Derby.”

“Oh, I was thinking,” Artie went on, “since I’ll have to do decorations, and Hayley is making cupcakes, and Meghan is in charge of the whole thing, maybe we should meet up early and all go over to the barbecue together?”

Meghan lifts her eyebrows at me, but she doesn’t say anything.

I think about the moments that I’ve already let pass by — the moments in which I could have told Artie about Marco. But this isn’t like those moments. If I let this one pass, it’s as good as a lie. I have to say something. “Uh … I think I’m already going with Marco.”

“Well, whatever. He can join,” Artie says.

I look over at Meghan, my face pleading.

“I don’t think it’s that kind of situation.” Meghan’s voice is gentle.

Artie looks at Meghan for a long moment, as if it’s taking time for this sentence to compute. Finally, Artie looks at me. “Oh,” she says.

I want to say that I don’t know what kind of situation it is, but I know that will only make things messier. Instead, I inspect a crack in the floor that I’d never noticed before. It looks a little like the northern border of Texas. How fascinating.

“Okay, well … Okay.” Artie tosses her gorgeous long hair over her shoulder, and smiles as if this is all normal — fine — just what she expected, although I’m sure it isn’t. “Are you ready to get going, Meghan?”

“Sure,” Meghan says. “See you later, Hayley.” She gives me a little hug, and then heads down the hall.

Artie doesn’t say good-bye. She just follows Meghan out the door.