The Memory Book(31)

I shoved the phone in my pocket. We ate in silence for a while. I thought they had forgotten until Harrison yelled from the other room.

“Who’s Stuart?”


Stuart: How about you come to the Canoe Club while I work tomorrow night? It’s a Tuesday so it’ll be slow. You could sit at the bar and do your hw. Keep me company.

Me: Yeah!



Later, I ask Mom and Dad while they’re reading in the living room, Mom’s feet propped on Dad’s lap.

“Can I go to the Canoe Club tomorrow night?”

Mom turns her head to look at me. “Will there be a trained first responder in the building?”

I consider this. Technically, most people who work at restaurants are, like, legally required to be first responders.

“Yes,” I said.

“Who?”

I’m terrible at lying. God, I’m awful. Whenever I try to lie, my tongue dries up. I’m like a messed-up version of Pinocchio. I hope you get over this, Future Sam. I am not unaware that lying is part of the legal profession. I just always hoped that it never had to come to that.

“Whoever the manager of the Canoe Club is,” I say.

“Who is that?” Dad counters.

“I don’t know, but whoever it is, that person is legally required to be a first responder.” Then I add, “I think,” very quietly, because my tongue was starting to get dry again.

“I don’t think so,” Dad says, looking back at his Stan Grumman novel.

“What, you think I’m going to have a seizure in the middle of the Canoe Club? Come on.”

“Yes,” Dad says without glancing up from his book. “That’s the risk.”

Not my best, I’ll admit it. I regain composure.

“Sammie…” Mom sighs. “Don’t you want to concentrate on school?”

“Yes, but I also don’t want to be a robot who has one week of high school left and will graduate having never gone on one date.”

This time, both parents turn their heads. Mom is smiling. Dad is not.

Everything else out of my mouth sounds like I’m trying to sell a curling iron on late-night TV. “I’m just doing homework while my friend works! He said it’s slow on a Tuesday! I was going to walk over there after school! You can pick me up right after!”

“Okay,” Mom says, and starts nudging Dad with her elbow.

“Really?”

“Yeah!”

“Gia…” Dad says to my mom quietly.

I clear my throat. Of course, I had saved a little tidbit as the clincher. “In the event of an emergency, the medical center is closer to the Canoe Club than it is to this house.”

“True!” Mom says, elbowing Dad again.

“Ow!” Dad looks at me. “Fine.”





COME ON


On the drive to school today I passed three fishermen walking next to 89 through the scrub in their Carhartt overalls, carrying their red bait coolers, waders slung over their shoulders. They were on their way to the Connecticut, probably, and when I crossed over the bridge outside of Hanover, I had an urge to pull over and take off my shoes. I didn’t, because I had to finish some calc, but I realized I hadn’t waded in the creek by our house since the summer when I was eight or nine.

Anyway, I was sort of floaty through the halls at school, wondering about life and Stuart and how fishing actually works when I noticed Maddie sitting on the floor next to her locker with a few people and the same sort of easy feeling came over me, so I walked up to her and said hello, as if I had done it every day, or as if we hadn’t fought the last time we saw each other.

They were in the middle of laughing, and Maddie nodded, smiling.

“Hey,” she said back, friendly enough.

Super casual. Re-l-a-a-a-x.

“Guess wha-a-a-at?” I said, holding my hands out.

“What?” she asked, glancing at the people around her.

“Stuart and I are going on a date!”

“Cool,” she said in a monotone, and smiled with her lips closed.

I don’t know what I expected, I guess some form of recognition, maybe something that sounded like it included an exclamation mark, considering she was there and mostly responsible for the first time Stuart and I actually spoke.

“Yeah…” I said. “It is!”

Maddie pulled out her phone, which, as we know, means this conversation is over. But I wasn’t ready for it to be over. Things were finally looking up for me. I wanted her to be there to see that. I wanted to share it with her.

I bent nearer. “So, like, can we talk?”

Maddie was still scrolling through pictures.

“I feel like your mom was right,” I started. My mouth was feeling Zavesca dry. “That we needed some space, and I just wanted to apologize.”

No response. Her thumb moved faster. Maybe I wasn’t getting my point across.

“I’m trying to say I’m sorry for not telling you about…” I looked at her friends, who were also scrolling. “You know.”

“Damn, girl,” Maddie said suddenly, putting her arms to her knees. “Can you not read social cues?”

I stood straight. I remember making a noise that I hated, like a child who is told they can’t have dessert. “I can…” I started, then stopped, and kind of just stood there, staring.