Today Tonight Tomorrow(33)
At least we agree on a few of the more specific clues. Ice cream fit for Sasquatch is probably the yeti flavor at Molly Moon’s, Seattle’s most popular ice cream shop. And we’re pretty sure a place you can find Chiroptera, the scientific name for a bat, is the Woodland Park Zoo’s nocturnal exhibit.
“Do you have any idea what ‘a tribute to the mysterious Mr. Cooper’ could be?” he says. “It’s so vague. I googled ‘Seattle Cooper’ and only came up with a towing company, a car dealership, and a bunch of doctors. Or this one—‘a place that’s red from floor to ceiling’?”
“The Red Hall in the Seattle Public Library downtown,” I say without missing a beat. My parents have regular story times at the library, and I’ve explored nearly every inch of it. The hall is eerie but fascinating, a quirk in a building full of quirks. The Mr. Cooper clue, though, is as much a mystery as he apparently is. “Now I know why you were so eager to team up,” I say, shoving some of the excess cheese off my pizza. “You don’t know any of the hard ones.”
“Not true.” He points to something local, organic, and sustainable. “The compost system you introduced to Westview.”
Despite myself, I snort-laugh. “Please, I’m eating.”
It’s odd, though, eating pizza with Neil McNair. The window of the pizza place is semi-reflective, letting me almost see what it looks like, the two of us in public together. His red hair is slightly windblown, while my bun left windblown and leaped to natural disaster a couple hours ago.
After a few more minutes of bickering, we’re still stumped on the mysterious Mr. Cooper, but we’ll deal with that later. Our first stop as a team will be nearby Doo Wop Records for Nirvana’s first album.
We drop our plates into the compost bin (naturally) before leaving Upper Crust. Neil pulls out his phone to map the record store. In addition to all the regular social media and messaging icons, there are more than a few dictionary apps on his home screen.
“Merriam-Webster fanboy?” I ask.
“I’m more of an OED guy.” When I give him a blank look, he continues: “Oxford English Dictionary? It’s only the definitive record of the English language.”
“I know what the Oxford English Dictionary is,” I snap. “I just wasn’t familiar with the acronym. How often does that come up in daily life, anyway? When you need to whip out a dictionary… or five?”
He shrugs. “Somewhat often, if you want to become a lexicographer.”
“Oh,” I say, nodding like I know exactly what that is.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You don’t know what that is either, do you?”
“I’m trying really hard to not find you infuriating right now.”
“It’s someone who compiles dictionaries,” he says, and it kind of suits him. “I love words, and that’s what I want to do. There’s no better satisfaction than using precisely the right word in a conversation. I love the challenge of learning a new language, and I love discovering patterns. And I find it fascinating that words in other languages have crept into our vocabulary. ‘Cul-de-sac,’ ‘aficionado,’ ‘tattoo…’?”
As he’s explaining this, his eyes light up, and he gestures with his hands. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him this animated, this clearly enamored with something.
“That’s kind of cool,” I finally concede. Because honestly, it is. “How many languages do you know?”
“Let’s see…” He ticks them off his fingers. “Fives on AP Spanish, French, and Latin. Would have taken Japanese, but they didn’t offer it, so that’ll have to wait until college. The romance languages, those are easy enough to learn once you have a foundation in one of them, so I’ve been teaching myself Italian in my spare time.” His lips curve into a smile. “You can say you’re impressed. It’s okay.”
I refuse to, but it’s hard not to be impressed when my knowledge of my mother’s first language ends at Spanish III.
Since the record store isn’t far, we decide to walk instead of hoping we’ll get lucky twice with Capitol Hill parking. We fall in step, passing a dry cleaner and a shoe store and a sushi place. Because we’re exactly the same height, our shoes smack the pavement in tandem. I bet we’d easily win a three-legged race.
Broadway is Capitol Hill’s main drag, a street where hole-in-the-wall restaurants and boutiques have slowly been replaced by Paneras and cat cafés. A few pieces of Seattle history remain, like the bronze Jimi Hendrix statue on Broadway and Pine, frozen mid–guitar solo, and Dick’s Drive-In. I don’t eat the burgers, but their chocolate milkshakes are perfection in a compostable cup. It’s also the center of queer culture in Seattle, hence the rainbow crosswalks, which we snap photos of and receive our green check marks.
“Can I ask you something?” he suddenly says. He looks uncomfortable, and I panic, worried he’s going to bring up his yearbook again. I’ll sign it right now if he does. I won’t make any sarcastic comments. “Why do you hate me so much?” It comes out so easily, no buildup. He doesn’t stumble over it, but it catches me off guard, makes me pause in the middle of the sidewalk.
“I—” I was ready to fire back a response, but now I’m not sure what it was. “I don’t hate you.”