Know Not Why: A Novel (25 page)

“Try it.”

“No way.”

“Amber. Come on. Try it.”

“There is not enough ‘no’ in the universe.”

“What if I make it fly? Here, I’ll make it fly.
Bzzzzzzzz!!”

“Mitch,
no
—”

“Bzzzzz – oh, oh, it’s comin’, it’s comin’—”

“You are a
dork
, you are the dorkiest of
all the dorks—”

“It tastes better if it flies into your mouth,
Amber, it’s like food science—”

“It’s like food science? What does that even
mean?”

“Uh, it means a little thing I like to call
delicious
. Bzzzz—”

“Oh, fine.” Amber snatches the cracker out of
his hand and shoves it into her mouth. It’s the kind of thing
that’ll garner Mitch’s respect for life.

Sure enough—

“What what?
Hell yeah!
Pound it!”

She pounds it accordingly, laughing. “God, this
is so gross—”

I figure I might as well get in on this while
there’s a smile on her face. “Hey, Amber, can I talk to you for a
second?”

Her expression darkens a little. I think she’d
frown at me if she wasn’t so busy chewing. She covers her mouth
with her hand (ever the lady) and asks, “Aren’t you gonna be
late?”

“No biggie,” I reply. “Walk with me.”

For a second I think she’s gonna refuse, but
then she stands up. “Fine.”

She follows me outside to my car. I open the
passenger’s seat door for her.

She stares at me. “Seriously?”

“If you would, good lady.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, okay.”

I close the door behind her, then walk around
and get in. I turn the car on.

“What is this? Are you kidnapping me or
something? Because, you know, ooh, ahh. Bold.”

I don’t speak. Speaking would ruin the perfect,
momentous solemnity of the moment. Instead, I reach over to the CD
player with my free hand, and I press eject. Out come the Femmes. I
take the CD out and, after a pause rich with poignancy (in my head,
anyway), I hand it to her.

“Wow,” she deadpans, but I can tell she’s trying
to figure out what’s going on. “Thanks so much. You know how I
love—”

“Take it. Keep it. Lock it up. You are their
guardian now.”

“What?”

“I’m relinquishing my Femmes rights. From now
on, whenever I chauffeur you around, you get free musical
reign.”

She laughs a little. “You’re such a pain in the
ass.”

“In their place,” I finish, revealing the secret
weapon, “I bring you this.”

And I hand her the CD, which has been collecting
dust under my desk ever since she thought it would be hilarious to
give it to me as a joke a few years back.

“Boys for Pele,” she murmurs, taking it from
me.

“Boys for Pele,” I confirm gravely.

Maybe not epic to everybody, but
everybody
didn’t bear witness to my many ‘whose genius idea
was it to give Tori Amos a goddamn harpsichord?’ laments. Oh, the
battles Amber and I fought over this one.

I figure surrendering is worth it. I just want
stuff to be good with her. The only thing I’ve always had is stuff
being good with her.

“And if I want to play Professional Widow on
repeat a thousand million times …”

“My ears may bleed, but I’ll drive on.”

“You’re such a stupid bastard,” she declares, a
smile breaking out onto her face. She leans forward and wraps her
arms around me. “I love you.”

“Right back atcha,” I murmur into her hair.

“I’m sorry I freaked out at you,” she says when
she pulls away. “I mean, of course you can be friends with whoever
you want and date whoever you want. It’s just … you’re all I’ve
really got going for me here.”

“I get that. I totally get that. You’re all I’ve
really got going for me
anywhere
.”

“Oh, now you’re just sucking up,” she says,
shoving me. In a nice way. “But, you know, I’m sorry. I don’t want
you to think you can’t tell me stuff because I’ll go all
crazy-bitch-in-the-attic on you.”

“Sister, I’m
down
with crazy bitches in
the attic. I thought we established this.”

“Of course. And that was—”

“Jane Eyre. Not the same as Jane Austen.”

“Aw, you’re learning.” She pinches my cheek. I
scowl at her. Then she gets serious again. It’s kind of starting to
freak me out, honestly. “Howie, you can tell me stuff, okay? I
don’t need you to, like, exist in this cage where I only let you
out to be my trusty friend boy.”

“I know,” I say, but I’m feeling kind of
nauseous all of a sudden. There’s this moment, this moment that
seems so clear, and I realize that I could just tell her. I could
just say the words – the ‘Actually, I’m kind of crazy about my
boss, my dude boss, and yeah, it’s in a gay way’ words – and she’d
know
and I’d be … man, I don’t even know what I’d be.

But then I look at her, and … she’s Amber. I’ve
known her my whole life. She
knows
me. Better than anybody.
I can’t. I can’t bring myself to screw us up.

“I tell you stuff.” I force a smile. “I tell you
all kinds of stuff.”

She gives me a fond little smile. “Yeah, I
know.” Then she sighs. “Besides, I’m just a little awful right now
because of the whole … you know, your brother thing. Your brother
having a girlfriend thing.”

“Oh, Christ. I think we’re all awful over that.
She is a friggin’
lunatic
.”

“Really?” I can tell she’s trying not to look
too pleased. “Your mom really didn’t seem over the moon about
her.”

“You kidding? She’s ridonk.”

“Ridonk.”

“That’s right. Ridonkulous. For when ridiculous
isn’t enough. Because it
isn’t
. She’s – she’s awkward and
weird and, um, not to be a shallow bastard man here, but the lady
ain’t exactly a looker.”

“Really?”

“Amber, you are so much prettier than her. So,
so, so, so. If there was a way to italicize your speech, I would do
it right now to communicate
how much so,
and it still
wouldn’t get it across all the way. Not to mention that your sanity
and actual interesting personality have kinda got it goin’ on.”

“Shut up,” she orders, very diplomatic, but I
can tell she’s fighting back a smile. “I bet he really cares about
her.”

“For now,” I snort. “There’s no way that’s
lasting. There’s just no way. And if it does, I will sabotage that
friggin’ love connection myself, because no way is
that
marrying into this clan.”

“Kitty got claws,” Amber smirks.

“Kitty got claws, and kitty will scratch her
shit up,” I confirm.

She smiles at me. “Hey, Howie?”

“Yep?”

And that’s when she puts the CD in.

“Aughhhhhh!” And the harpsichord, it harps and
chords madly on.

Chapter Eighteen

As soon as non-work stuff starts to go okay, the
universe retaliates by making work stuff suck.

The sorry fact of the matter is that people just
don’t come in so much anymore. It’s not like we were ever busy to
begin with – I’m still pretty sure that your average human doesn’t
even know that arts and crafts stores exist – but now it’s, like,
tumbleweeds.

It’s not like I’m giddy about Artie Kraft’s Arts
‘N Crafts descending into ruin. I like having a job, and if we’re
being realistic, this is pretty much my only employment option that
doesn’t involve fast food or heavy lifting. Not to mention that I
don’t want any of my coworkers to suffer the pitfalls of this place
going down – especially Arthur, who I’m guessing wouldn’t take the
failure so well.

Stuff keeps happening to make that abundantly
clear. As time goes by, he starts to develop this
look
. It
happens, unfailingly, when the customers are trying to be nice.
Like, some granny’ll come in and buy some wool for a sweater, and
while she’s paying she’ll reach over and pat Arthur on the hand and
say, “
I
still think this place is very nice, dear. Don’t you
mind anyone else.” Cue The Look. Or, worse: “Hang in there.”

In those moments, it seems like maybe he won’t.
Which sounds flippin’ ridiculous: it’s Arthur Kraft. Arthur Kraft
doesn’t need to be told to hang in there.

I don’t think.

But then one afternoon the ladies and I are
pretending to be busy – a noble art you tend to get good at when no
one’s set foot inside for the past hour – when Arthur comes out.
The Look is there.

“Cora,” he says in a voice so composed that it’s
scary, “may I speak to you for a moment?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says easily, and doesn’t
budge.

“I was thinking in my office.”

She smirks. “Why, Principal Kraft? Am I in
trouble? You gonna give me detention?”

Arthur doesn’t answer. Just stares her down.

“There was totally a Principal Kraft on Sabrina
the Teenage Witch.” Ah, Kristy. Valiantly jumping in to save us
all. “There was this one episode where he and Sabrina’s Aunt Zelda
started dating, and—”

Arthur’s not having it. “Kristy, if you could
…”

“Sorry,” she squeaks.

I give her a ‘hey, ya tried’ look. She stares
miserably back.

“What’s up, Arthur?” Cora asks bluntly.

He raises his eyebrows. “You’d like to discuss
it here?”

“There aren’t exactly any customers to
startle.”

Yowch. Bad call, Caldwell.

“Fine.” Arthur pauses. The tension mounts. I
think Kristy might actually start biting her nails in a second.
It’d be a shame, since she just spent fifteen minutes explaining
the detailed procedure that was painting them last night. There are
little smiling daisies on her thumbs.

“Why,” Arthur asks Cora, “have you been shopping
at Holly’s?”

Kristy honest-to-God gasps.

What’s even lamer is that I have to stop myself
from following suit.

Cora goes from zero to scary in two seconds
flat. “You were going through my shit?”

“I happened to see the bag with your things in
the kitchen.”

“It’s my nephew’s birthday tomorrow. I got him
some watercolors.”

“At Holly’s.”

“No, I just liked the bag;
yeah
, at
Holly’s. Fine. You caught me.”

It is the worst. The actual worst. Kristy and I
are hiding behind the counter for dear life, Cora’s morphed into
the uberest of uber-bitches, and Arthur’s staring at her like she
just committed the highest form of treason and deserves death by
firing squad.

“Cora,” Arthur finally says, sounding
freakishly, terrifyingly calm, “Why. Would you shop. At
Holly’s.”

There’s a horrible, bad pause. A death pause.
Cora looks like she’s weighing all her options; there’s something
sharp and primal in her eyes.And then:

“It’s cheaper.”

She spits the words out like the foulest of
obscenities.

“You get an employee discount
here
.”

“It’s still cheaper. You give me a raise, maybe
I’ll buy my art supplies here.”

“This is unacceptable.”

“Really?
This
is unacceptable?” She slams
her hand down on the counter. Kristy and I wince. “‘Cause I wasn’t
aware that nine bucks an hour gave you the right to tell me where I
can and can’t shop.”

Oh, shit, Arthur looks pissed. Like, actual
pissed-for-real, where he doesn’t even bother to cover it with
composure. “Holly’s is directly responsible for running us out of
business. The fact that you would be so completely
insensitive—”

“Hey, Arthur, you ever think that Holly’s is
running us out of business because it’s the better fucking
store?”

Oh, hell no.

“Jesus, Cora, come
on
,” I mutter. Kristy
lets out a miserable whimper.

Arthur and Cora stare at each other, western
showdown style.

“Maybe you should leave,” Arthur says at
last.

“Noooo,” Kristy whispers in a tiny voice.

Cora’s jaw drops. “You’re firing me?”

“I’m giving you the afternoon off to think about
what you’ve done.”

“Oh.” She groans. “Oh, you did not just say
that.”

Arthur folds his arms over his chest. “I’d
advise that you make more of an effort with your job performance
from now on.”

Cora snorts. “Whatever, dude, the whole
point
is that you don’t have to make an effort here. You
think any of us work here because we’ve got a real passion for arts
supplies?”

Kristy practically jumps over the counter. For
such a happy little pixie, she’s ready to sacrifice herself in a
heartbeat if the cause is worthy. She’s Joan of Arc with a really
bouncy ponytail. “I like—”

“Kristy has a passion for the lint you scrape
off the laundry screen,” Cora cuts in. “Kristy doesn’t count.”

I feel a surge of protectiveness, of ‘nobody’s
burning my lady coworker at the stake!’ Luckily, it’s overpowered
by many, many surges of unholy terror. I’m realistic enough to
understand my chances, should I choose to take on a girl with a lip
ring.

“I was just joking about that,” Kristy says,
after a few seconds of stricken silence. “It’s nice that it’s
fluffy. It’s my second favorite part about doing laundry.”

Another surge of protectiveness courses through
me, this one stronger. I gotta do something. And the best thing I
can think to do right now is ask, as conversationally as I can, “Is
it really called a laundry screen?”

Wrong move. Instead of everybody weighing in on
this fun hip new conversation topic, Cora turns her wrath on me.
Fucking damn diggity. “What about Howie? You think Howie’s really
bouncing up and down to sell yarn?”

“Ya know, buds, I really don’t think I’m the
issue here,” I hurry to say. “I’ve never even
been
to
Holly’s, and I’m not planning on—”

Arthur talks over me. Thanks, dude. Respect.
“Howie’s managed to keep his behavior professional—”

Cora barks out a laugh. “Oh, please, you guys
make out in the storage closet! I get it if that’s gonna get him
preferential treatment or whatever, but don’t pretend he’s Mr.
Bobby Craft Store.”