Know Not Why: A Novel (6 page)

Boyfriend. Boyfriend? Boyfriend.
Boyfriend.

Of fucking course.

Chapter Four

“Why haven’t you said it yet?” I ask at last,
‘cause I can’t take it anymore.

Amber looks at me. The swing creaks as she digs
her feet into the snowy ground, stilling herself. It’s already
pitch-black out, and cold as hell, but we’re at the park down the
street from our houses. It used to be our hip hangout when we were
kids, our place to run to when homework or, like, having to eat our
vegetables got to be too much stress. Sometimes, on special
super-sucky occasions, we still like to come down here, sit on the
swings, and mope. You know, tradition. She sat here with me for
awhile after my dad died, and it’s not like this can really compare
to that.

But damned if I don’t still feel like shit.

“Huh?” I prompt, because she hasn’t said
anything yet.

“You look so sad,” she replies, giving me a
half-smile that’s equal parts pitying and amused. “I didn’t really
have the heart.”

“Come on, woman,” I order, wrapping my gloved
hand around the chain of her swing, shaking it a little. “I can
take it.”

“If you’re sure,” she says, raising her
eyebrows.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Okay then,” she says, all it’s-your-funeral.
She takes a dramatic pause, then declares, “Told you so.”

“Here we go,” I mutter.

“Hey, you don’t get to get pissy about it,” she
orders, swinging into me. “You forced me to.”

“It was a test. You failed.”

“Howwwie.”

“Now I don’t have to get you a Christmas
present.”

“Howie, come on.” She latches onto my swing this
time. “This was a dumb idea. Admit it. Somewhere in your
sex-starved brain—”

“Yeah, it’s not really my brain that’s the issue
here—”

“—you know it to be true.”

And, well, no matter how You Know I’m Rightly
she looks at me, I’m not going to admit that. It could’ve worked,
damn it. It had
potential.

“You know what a lot of people probably thought
was a dumb idea?” I ask.

“Don’t say the telephone.”

“The
telephone.
”

“Freak.” Amber laughs, the sound dwindling off
into the quiet.

“I work at an arts and crafts store,” I say
after a long silence. Just to get used to the reality, the sparse
ugly truth of it, minus the Kristy-induced haze that camouflaged
the many levels of bad.

“Yeah, you do,” Amber agrees bluntly. Blunt’s
kind of her thing.

“Shit,” I groan.

“I’m so proud to be your friend,” Amber tells
me, cracking up. “I’m gonna come in every day, just to watch you in
action. I’m gonna take up artsing.
And
craftsing. Like a
proper female.”

Oh, wow, that’s really encouraging.

“Captain Scrapbook!” she intones, in her best
Mitch voice.

I point a stern finger at her. “Uncool.”

“Sorry,” she says, sounding very far away from
sorry.

“Maybe I should quit,” I muse. I really dig the
idea of marching on in there and telling Arthur thanks but no
thanks, sorry, it ain’t for me, maybe I’ll try Holly’s instead. And
then Kristy will watch as I walk out, never turning my back, never
stopping to reconsider for a second, and she’ll let out a single
wistful, delicate sigh, realizing in one grand sorry-too-late-baby
epiphany exactly what she’s missing out on …

“Maybe you should,” Amber says, and it
effectively shoots my awesome reverie to hell. “Do you want
to?”

“Yeah,” I say. No point in lying to Amber.
That’s what my mom’s for. “But, I dunno. Might as well stick with
it, right? Since … it’s something.”

Because it’s true. Even though I like – nay,
love
– the idea of making Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts
naught but a distant memory, there’s something in me, some heavy
feeling, that just can’t let me do it. I’m so sick of walking away
from stuff. And besides, at this point, if I did quit, I don’t
think anyone would be surprised. Didn’t go to school in California
even after getting in, getting the financial aid, that whole deal.
Didn’t let go of that whole no-college thing and actually attempt
to do something with his life anyway. Hell, if I stick around the
store for a month, my mom will probably bake another cake. Even if
it’s selling freakin’
ribbons
to people from nine to five
every day while wearing an
apron
, I just want to stick with
something for a little while. Try that out.

“You should stick with it, then,” Amber says.
I’m struck by the overwhelming urge to hug her or something, just
for being able to … to do that thing she does, where she can be
right there
, know exactly what to say or do, and yet it
always seems so effortless.

I do okay in some departments.

“Dennis might bring his girlfriend home for
Christmas,” I say, because I figure she deserves time to prepare. I
don’t really get how she deals with the Dennis thing, and, for all
our BFF-ery, she’s never really set out to tell me. I think she
gets that the whole he’s-my-brother-you’re-my-best-friend situation
is kind of weird.

“Ah,” is all she says.

“Just a forewarning.”

“Right.”

And so we sit there, two tragic specimens of
humanity, swinging slightly back and forth.

+

It warms up outside just enough to rain. Our
winter wonderland turns into an icy death trap. The ten minute
drive to work is enough to give me like six damn heart attacks. I’m
an okay driver; apparently everyone else on the road is a
psychopath.

Everybody’s working today. I’m not looking
forward to seeing Kristy, like, at all. Or Cora, considering she
could have made more of an effort to
tell
me about the whole
Kristy-not-being-single deal. I don’t want to see Arthur either,
but at this point, that’s like saying, ‘I breathe on a regular
basis.’ Intrinsic to existence. Too obvious to mention.

Kristy’s back to looking perfect, and she’s as
bouncy and happy as ever. She greets me cheerfully, and that really
gets under my skin. I guess I liked the idea that we would have
some shared anguish and shame The Day After. But apparently even
that’s too much to ask. She’s all pleasant, all, ‘Morning,
Howieee!’, and I realize that seeing me isn’t making her want to
curl up in a ball and die because she
did
have no idea. She
seriously thought I just wanted to be good buddies. How naïve, how
adorable. It really pisses me off. Didn’t her dad ever give her the
Boys Only Want One Thing speech?

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You seem sad.”

“No,” I reply, but I don’t put much effort into
it. “I’m great.”

“Oh, good,” she says, resting her hand on my
arm. Platonically. “For a minute there I thought you were mad at me
or something!”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say, trying to scoff and
instead just making this pitiful, wheezing sound, because this is
what she’s reduced me to. “Why would I be mad at you?”

Cora sends a knowing smirk my way.

“Anyway, it’s a good thing you’re in a good
mood,” Kristy continues, lowering her voice, “because Arthur
isn’t.”

“He isn’t?” I’m interested, sure, but I don’t
get that happy soaring feeling in my soul.

“He moved out of his apartment last night,”
Kristy explains, blue eyes wide. “He had to come stay with me and
my roommate Nikki, you could tell he was
so
embarrassed. Oh
my gosh, I felt so bad for him. He looked so sad, and even though
we made a bed up for him on the couch and everything, I don’t know
if he slept—”

Captain Tragedy himself comes in, and Kristy’s
quick to go silent. He looks sick, and sick of it all. Underneath
his apron, he’s not wearing a tie, and his shirt is rumpled. This
makes me sad; this makes me question my faith in the world. Maybe a
couple of days ago, Arthur Kraft The Second being so beaten down he
couldn’t even work up the motivation to put on a tie would have
been fandamntastic. Now, though, it just seems like a universal
epidemic, what with the deadened look in his eyes and the way I
feel like a fucking moron every time I look at Kristy and the rain
pounding down hard and steady outside.

“Hi, Arthur,” Kristy coos, like you would to
somebody whose best friend just died.

“I thought you were going to mop the floor
before we open,” Arthur replies, brisk and toneless.

“Yeah, I was just about to—”

“I’ll do it,” I find myself saying. I don’t
really know why. Maybe it’s completely delusional. Maybe it’s just
this residual instinct, this need to convince Little Miss Taken
that I’m worth it, I’m such a nice guy, you’d have to be crazy to
pass up on this one over here. I don’t know; all of a sudden I just
want to mop the goddamn floor more than anything and good luck to
the motherfucker who tries to stop me.

Arthur looks at me. Something stirs on his face,
behind his eyes, and I can tell that he’s pissed. “I asked Kristy
to do it.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but I don’t mind doing it.”

“Neither does she, I’m sure,” he says – lightly,
but firmly. Well, tough, pal.

“I don’t mind,” Kristy agrees. She bops up and
down, enthusiastic. I can tell it’s because she’s uncomfortable. “I
like mopping. Pretty much anything with warm water and
bubbles—”

“Don’t bother,” I interrupt. “I’ll do it.”

“Kristy’s mopping the floor, Howard,” Arthur
says, all and-that’s-final, like I’m going to listen to him.

“What, you want her to do the dishes and make
dinner next?” I snap. “And I
told
you, it’s
Howie
—”

“It’s part of her job to help keep this place
clean.” Arthur’s starting to raise his voice now. “And it’s not
your place to comment on—”

“Yeah, well, guess what, I’m
commenting
,
I’ll do it—”

“I didn’t
ask
you to do it—”

“Too bad, I’m doing it—”

“No, you’re not—”

“ENOUGH, crazy-asses,” Cora interrupts, looking
at both of us like we just started flinging shit at each other.
“I’ll do it.”

And she does.

Stuff dies down after that – Arthur and I don’t
get into any more shouting matches – but there’s still something
simmering in the air, like it wouldn’t take much to set it all off
again. I’m in this weird mood, where on one hand I just want to
kick back, close my eyes, never think about anything or do anything
again, like I’ve been awake for a thousand years and could really
use a nap. And then, at the same time, there’s this weird jolt,
this angry unceasing feeling like bugs scuttling around underneath
my skin trying to force their way out. It leaves me a little on
edge, needless to say. I wouldn’t hate punching somebody in the
face right now, needless to say.

At around noon, the bells jingle and a group of
high school kids comes in. They’re loud and laughing; one of the
guys is toting a video camera. Cora and Kristy are both taking
their lunch break, so I guess this one’s on me. The kids ignore me
and stomp on by, trailing footprints across the clean floor. I
watch them as they head to the fake flower aisle, overhearing
snatches of conversation like “Do you remember what kind we’re
supposed to get?” and a lot of “I don’t know”s. I hear a few things
about “crazy,” and I pick up on the fact that they’re talking about
Ophelia, that it has to be something to do with Hamlet.

Now, I’ve had to read Hamlet for like every
English class I’ve taken since high school, and I know my
motherfucking (or motherwantingto – if you subscribe to that
interpretation) Hamlet. And so I head over there, and there’s a
weird feeling in me as I do it. After a few steps I realize, well,
by golly, this just might be what it’s like to feel
qualified
.

“Hey,” I say, “you guys need any help?”

“We need some flowers for a school project,” one
of the girls says.

“Hamlet?” I ask nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” the girl replies. “We have to make a
movie of act four, scene five for our English class.”

“That’s cool.”

“Not really,” one of the guys says. “It’s due
sixth period.”

Ah. Ergo video camera.

“We need some flowers,” another girl says, “for
when Ophelia goes nuts.”

“Rosemary,” I say knowingly. “Pansies. Rue. No
violets.”

And I don’t expect anybody to, like, faint with
awe, but I get
nothing
. Or, well, not quite. I get:

“Yeah, sure. So, which ones are those?”

… fuck, I have no idea. I’m not a flower
expert
.

“How ‘bout you guys just pick out whatever looks
good,” I suggest. My inescapable lameassery strikes again. “And
then I’ll ring you up.”

I go back to hang out behind the counter. I hope
they fail. Who leaves a
movie
until the lunch period before
it’s due? It’s not like I was ever spectacularly brilliant in
school or anything, but that just seems ridiculous.

After a couple of minutes, Arthur comes in. His
eyes immediately fly to the kids, suspicious. Artie probably
doesn’t approve of people under the age of eighteen even existing.
Hoodlums, hoodlums all.

“What are they doing?” he asks me.

“Getting stuff for a school project,” I reply,
shrugging. Suddenly, the kids don’t seem so annoying. In fact, I’m
pretty sure I’m Team Them, all the way. What sick bastard doesn’t
support young minds being enriched by the Bard?

“Hmm,” Arthur says. He keeps an eye trained on
the youngins.

Ye Olde Noble Hamlet Filmmakers come up to pay
five minutes later, all of them toting big bunches of flowers. I
wait to see if Arthur wants to ring them up, but he just stands
there, hovery and annoying and useless. Maybe I should take some
pity on the guy, considering his girlfriend tossed him out on his
ass, but it’d be a whole lot easier if he didn’t suck so bad.

I ring the flowers up. “That’ll be $48.22.”

Their jaws drop in unison. “Fifty bucks?”