Know Not Why: A Novel (31 page)

“Yeah, exactly. So just put her down on the bed,
and she won’t mind.”

He looks torn.

I maybe get a little evil. “Whaddya have out in
the kitchen, Mitchy?”

“Captain Crunch,” Mitch replies, not without
some yearning. “A box of moon pies.” His eyes brighten.
“Corndogs.”

Bingo.

“A corndog sounds good,” I say, truthfully.
There’s never a time when corndogs aren’t good. “I could use a
corndog.”

Mitch gazes in the direction of the kitchen.
Twitches a little.

“We could put them in the oven,” I suggest,
drawing the words out, “so they’re all crispy.”

“Okay,” Mitch says. “I guess I can leave her
here.”

Triumph!

I watch as he very carefully sets the Amber bomb
down onto his bed, making sure her head’s rested on the pillow. It
seems a little excessive to me, but whatever. Then he picks a
blanket up off the floor and puts it on top of her.

“Mmm,” Amber breathes, not opening her eyes as
she stretches out on the bed. “Thanks.”

“Sure, Ambie,” Mitch replies, getting this
little smile on his face. He reaches down and very lightly brushes
his fingers against her hair.

Oh, jeez, time to go.

“Let’s roll, partner,” I order him, and drag him
out of there.

+

Turns out, we can’t bake the corndogs in the
oven, because that’s where they keep the towels.

“The towel closet’s got all this other crap in
it already,” Mitch says. “I don’t even really know what most of it
is. But it’s okay, this is a pretty sweet deal! You know how warm
towels are the best? So sometimes in the morning while you’re in
the shower, you just turn the oven on real low, and then when you
get out of the shower, you can run out here and grab a towel—”

That strikes me as … really wrong to do, but I
don’t push it. I think that, should she ever allow me to speak to
her again, I might mention it to Amber, though. That’s exactly the
kind of problem her righteous fury skills exist to solve.

Anyway, in terms of corndogs, the microwave
works too.

“I like it when you cook them a little too
long,” Mitch says, with the air of a true connoisseur, “like a
minute and thirty seconds, right? Because then they explode a
little. And it doesn’t
look
great, but it gives ‘em an extra
something.”

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Arthur.

‘Everything all right?’ it reads.

‘False alarm,’ I text back. ‘We’re about to
settle in for a nice hearty corndog breakfast.’

Just about lightning-fast – which is pretty
impressive, considering he’s got the texting abilities of someone
from my mom’s generation – I get hit back with: ‘Oh, dear God.’

I laugh out loud.

“You okay, man?” Mitch asks.

“Yeah,” I reply, shoving my phone back into my
pocket. “I’m okay.”

“I thought so.” Mitch stares at me. I try my
best to be inconspicuous. “You seem different.”

“Yeah?” I ask, uber cool. “I don’t know why
that’d be.”

“You do,” Mitch says decisively. “You seem all …
chill.”

“Huh.”

I’m so used to feeling like I’m gonna be found
out at every turn that it kinda weirds me out when Mitch doesn’t
press the subject. Instead he turns his attentions to the microwave
and, after a few seconds, asks, “Did your mom ever tell you not to
stand too close to the microwave?”

And that is why Mitch rules.

“All the time.”

“Yeah, me too.” He frowns thoughtfully. “I
wonder if this is too close.”

“It’s too close,” comes the sleep-tinged but
ever-authoritative voice of Miss Amber Clark. Mitch obediently
backs up a couple feet and drags me along with him. Amber walks
into the kitchen looking dazed and ashamed of herself, the way a
normal person would after a one-night stand with … I dunno, Rudy.
She’s using one hand to run her fingers through her tangled hair,
and in the other one she’s holding—

“Mitchell,” she says, with great poise, “can you
explain to me why I woke up to find a Caprisun under the
pillow?”

It doesn’t shake him even a little. “Uh huh!
It’s ‘cause sometimes I wake up and I’m really thirsty, but you
know when you first wake up and getting out of bed just
sucks
? That way, I don’t hafta get out of bed, but I don’t
die of dehydration either.” He grins.

“Ah,” Amber says faintly. She hasn’t really
looked at me yet. I feel kind of nauseous, which just isn’t a way
anyone wants to feel when they’ve got the promise of a delicious
corndog before them.

Mitch explains mightily on: “And it’s okay to
sleep on, ‘cause they’re in those pouches, so they’re kinda
squishy. You couldn’t sleep on, like, a Sobe, that’d be like,
ouch
.”

“You’ve tried, haven’t you?” Amber asks
wearily.

Mitch conveniently doesn’t hear that. “You can
have it, if you want,” he adds generously.

Amber stares down at the Caprisun.

Under normal circumstances, here’s where I would
let out a ‘Dude, really?’ I don’t. I don’t really feel like I’m
entitled to speak in her presence ‘til she gives me permission.

To my surprise, she looks down at the Caprisun
and says, “Okay. Thank you.”

“Sure,” Mitch beams. “You want a corndog? We’re
microwaving them extra long, so they get extra tastylicious.”

Amber shifts her eyes to the ceiling, like she’s
imploring some higher power to help her decide whether to hold onto
the last vestiges of her dignity. “Fine,” she says at last with an
I’ve-already-lost-everything-else shrug. “Why the hell not?”

“Yesssss!” Mitch punches the air in delight.

I, meanwhile, start pretending I’m not here. Not
Here suddenly seems like a damn badass place to be.

“Morning,” Amber says then, coming over and
leaning against the counter next to me.

“Hi … there … you,” I respond, with such total
grace and dignity.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she says. “I’m
not mad at you.”

Wow. This just seems … wrong. Traplike. It must
be a trap. Complicated lady wiles at work.

“I’m
not
,” she persists, rolling her
eyes. “I’m sick of being mad at you, it’s exhausting. Hanging out
with them wasn’t that bad last night. I’m over it now. Everything’s
good.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say suspiciously.

“Shut up, moron,” she orders, shoving me. “Don’t
push your luck.”

“Yeah, okay,” I agree. What can I say? It’s good
advice if I ever heard it.

“Is Kristy okay?” she adds, without even a trace
of bitterness.

“Yeah,” I say. Not technically a lie.
“Everything’s good.” Also the truth.

Everything stops being good about ten minutes
later when Rudy tromps on into the kitchen, totally bare-ass naked.
“Dudes, it’s cool, it’s cool, it’s cool – yo, Howie, man, could you
pass me a towel?”

+

I’m corndog-breakfasted, showered, changed, and
to work by nine. Mom, Dennis, and Emily were all a little baffled
by my night-long disappearance, but I just fed them a story about
Kristy being really upset. As far as they know, I spent all night
holding her hand and handing her tissues and feeding her fruit
snacks until, at three thirty, a heartfelt phone call rendered all
things right and lovey-dovey in Kristy-and-Cliff land again.

The fruit snacks detail was a little random, but
hey. Authenticity. At least I stopped myself before I claimed that
they were shaped like Disney princesses or tractors. They always
say that too much detail is the thing that messes a lie up. Me, I
know how to rock the exact right amount of detail.

I’m getting pretty good at this whole lying
thing.

Honestly, it’s not the most encouraging
realization. It’s not like it can go on forever. My family, my
friends, they’re not going anywhere. Arthur’s not going anywhere
either. Sooner or later, they’re gonna have to exist in the same
realm. And hell, in the event of that unpretty collision, the fact
that I lied about fruit snacks probably won’t help my case.

But whatever. I’m pushing the thought out of my
mind for now. Goddammit, I’m gonna feel good for a couple of
seconds.

And so it’s good that I feel as I make my way
into the store. Kristy’s there already, counting the money out into
the cash register. Arthur just so happens to be there too. I
suppress a smile at the sight of him.

“Good morning, Howie,” Arthur says, all brisk
and professional. He’s a little smiley around the edges,
though.

“Morning, boss.”

“How are you?”

“Can’t complain.” I am ever-so-casual.
“You?”

“Can’t complain,” Arthur echoes. His mouth
curves slightly.

I look over at Kristy. She’s staring really,
really hard at the stack of fives in her hand and practically
twitching with suppressed delight.

And then the bells on the front door ring, and
in comes … some stranger. At first glance.

Further glances go on to prove that it’s none
other than Cora Caldwell, Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts Rebel and
Saboteur. But it’s Cora like I’ve never seen her before. Like
nobody’s ever seen her before. She takes off her coat – gray,
nondescript, yak-free – to reveal a pair of khakis and a pale pink
button-up shirt. Her crazy explosion of hair is pulled back into a
ponytail. All of her piercings are gone.

“Whaaaaaaat,” I say.

Kristy’s jaw drops. “Cora!
Look
at
you!”

She ignores both of us and marches right up to
Arthur.

“One week,” she says bluntly. “You get one week
of Cora Caldwell, Model Employee, okay? Then I go back to normal.
I’m sorry, I’m sucking up, there. Now can you please not be a prig
about this?”

Arthur’s quiet for a long time.

“Pink suits you,” he finally says, with the most
miniscule of smirks.

“Fuck off,” Cora drones, turning around and
waltzing away from him.

“What was that?” he calls after her.

“Thank you, Mr. Kraft,” she says in syrupy
tones.

Arthur smiles. “I must say, I don’t hate that at
all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cora scowls.

“I love your shirt, it’s so cute!” Kristy
squeals. “Where’d you get it?? I would totally love to have one
just like that.”

“Ugh,” Cora groans, throwing herself over the
counter in woe. “Don’t make it worse.” She stops mid-moan and fixes
her eyes on me. “What’s up with you?”

“What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

“You look different.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

She squints thoughtfully at me.

She can’t
tell
. There’s no way anybody
can
tell
.

“You glow the lazy sated glow of a man who
finally,
finally
got laid,” she declares.

The hell?

Cora switches her attention to Arthur. “Hey,
you’ve got it too.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I
hurry to say.

“I totally thought so too!!!” Kristy exclaims.
“But I didn’t want to say anything!”

“Ohhhhh!” Cora grins broadly at us. Despite the
Kristy costume, she’s never looked more Cora than she does in this
moment. “Well, damn, boys. Somebody’s been naughty. High five.”

When I don’t immediately reach up to high five
her, she grabs my wrist with her free hand and slaps our palms
together. Non-consensual high-fivery – a low blow, but unsurprising
from her.

Then she starts growling out “Sexual Healing”
while Kristy laughs her ass off. This progresses real quick into a
full-out dance party.

“Ladies,” Arthur says.

Cora just keeps on growlin’. Marvin Gaye
probably would have blushed at this shameless display.

“Ladies,” Arthur says again, more steely-toned.
“Both of whom are
model employees
.”

Cora stops reluctantly. Kristy chokes her giggle
back with a high, squeaky hiccup sound.

“Thank you,” Arthur says.

“Better go get my apron on, boss!” Cora chirps,
and bounces on back to the kitchen. Kristy follows her, looking
like she has a whole lot of trouble staying straight-faced. The
second that they’re out of the room, the sound of giggling explodes
from the kitchen.

“Relentless,” Arthur mutters, but he smiles a
little. He grabs a piece of paper off the counter and heads over
toward the front window. “So, things did turn out all right with
Mitch and Amber, then?”

“Yeah,” I reply. It still seems surreal that I
spent a pleasant morning chowing down on corndogs and imbibing
Caprisuns (Mitchy, good man, had a whole box under his bed), rather
than, like, being murdered by Amber, or at least driven to feel
like shit in yet another fun new different way. “Yeah, everything’s
spiffy.”

He stares at me. He looks unusually serious as
he does it, too. I’m just starting to worry that he thinks I’m
lying, or something, when – “Did you really have corndogs for
breakfast?”

“Arthur,” I say, “you’re smothering me.”

“Listen. There’s a grapefruit in the fridge. I
brought it for you. And I think you should eat it.”

Oh,
snap
. This guy. “You brought me a
grapefruit.”

“It can’t
undo
the fact that you had a
corndog for breakfast,” he says, with an actual honest-to-God
shudder. “But I expect it can at least balance it out a
little.”

I let out a gleeful laugh. I can’t help it. His
pain is so delightful. “Youuu are such an old man.”

“No, but I’ll probably live to be one, which
certainly isn’t something that everyone in this room can boast at
this rate.”

“A grapefruit. One lone grapefruit, burdened
with the solemn mission to save me from my vile eating habits—”

“Go on, mock, mock. I’m not yielding.”

I kiss him. “Thanks, weirdo.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, “and
disgusting.”

“Yeah, yeah, you know you dig it.” I watch as he
sets to work taping said mystery paper on the window. “What’s
that?”

“A flyer for the annual middle school choir
holiday concert. Very important affair. They asked me to put one
up. I meant to do it yesterday, but the little interlude with Cora
caused it to slip my mind.”