Not Today, But Someday(14)

Fifteen minutes later, two streets from where I parked, I see her distinctive hair as she sits with her back to the window. She’s alone in an ice cream shop. Literally, there are no other customers.

A tiny bell notifies the staff of my presence. Two women greet me, one likely in her twenties, the other closer to my age. “What can we get you tonight?” The older woman glances at the warm beverage in my hand. “You can’t bring that in here, sir.”

I nod once as I continue toward the counter, and tell them I’d like a chai latte.

“We don’t have those here,” she says.

“Fine,” I tell her. “How about a triple dip sundae in whatever flavors you want,” I suggest softly, slipping a ten on the counter, “and then you two can enjoy it and ignore me while I drink my chai latte with my friend over there.” I smile, my eyes pleading with them. “I don’t think my coffee will drive away your customer, okay?”

“Okay,” the younger woman says with a quiet giggle. She starts to take the money, but the older woman stops her, picking up the bill and handing it back to me.

“Just this once,” she says.

“Thank you.” When I turn around, I have to do a double take. Is it her? With her red lips and colored eyelids and rosy cheeks, I barely recognize her. When she finally looks up at me, I recognize her eyes. I know them immediately, and feel instantly connected to them. She squints them at me, then smiles.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hi,” I tell her, acting surprised to see her there. “Ice cream? Tonight?” I ask her.

She nods her head. “I can’t get much colder.” She wraps her puffy coat tighter around her. I pull my cap off my head, letting my hair fall messily and swiping it out of my eyes. “What brings you here, if not for the ice cream?”

“I, uh,” I start, unprepared. “I was just taking a walk.”

“A walk,” she confirms, as if she mis-heard me.

“I needed some fresh air.”

“Oh,” she says. She takes a spoonful of ice cream from the pint container and puts it in her mouth, letting it melt on her tongue. I glance down at her book.

“You have Miss Spindler?”

“Huh?”

“English Lit? Miss Spindler?” I pull out the chair across from her tentatively, and wait to see if she has any objections. I hadn’t noticed her purse in the chair, but she moves it for me, setting it on the floor. I take that as an invitation and sit down.

“I think that’s her name, yeah.”

“Me, too,” I tell her. “What period?”

“Second. You?”

“None of her classes fit with my schedule, so I have a period of independent study that I use for her classwork.”

“That’s odd.”

“Well, I’m a year ahead in reading,” I tell her.

“What grade are you in?” she asks me. I’d assumed we were in the same grade, but now I realize she’s a year ahead of me.

“I’m a sophomore.”

“You don’t act like a sophomore,” she says. “I don’t know where you get your confidence, but it makes you seem much older. And your eyes look... older, too. You don’t have that puppy-dog, pitiful sophomore look.”

“Did you think I was a senior?”

“You could pass for one,” she admits. “You’re definitely tall enough. Do you play basketball?”

“Hell, no,” I laugh. “I don’t like sports.”

“Just art?”

I can feel my cheeks blush a little, as if I’m suddenly embarrassed by what I do. Maybe she likes jocks. Maybe she’ll be disappointed to find out that there’s nothing more to me than my paintings. “Pretty much,” I say softly, looking down.

“Whoa, there went your confidence,” she laughs. “What just happened there?”

“Nothing, that’s just my thing. I paint. And draw. And sometimes I write poetry.”

“And you’re ahead in reading. You’re starting to sound like a Renaissance man or something. Nate Wilson, the guy who can do anything.”

“Except play basketball,” I correct her.

“Screw basketball,” she laughs. “It sounds like you do all the important things.” I can’t help but smile. She smiles, too, showing her teeth as they begin to chatter. Should I offer her my coat? Is it too forward? Too obvious? “So what character do you have to profile?”

“The Squire,” I tell her. “Have you read that part yet?”

“Just the description at the beginning. You’re my son.”

“Wait, you’re the Knight?” She nods her head. “That’s odd. But I guess there aren’t that many women in the book to go around.”

“Why is it odd?”

“You have to present the character to the class, as the character, you know?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” She sounds annoyed.

“Yeah, she normally tries to assign characters that aren’t too much of a stretch to perform. I wondered who got the Knight. I didn’t think there were any guys in that class good enough to play him.”

“Not even you?”

“Especially not me,” I tell her.