Noology (12 page)

I sigh long and hard in reply.

“What’s troubling you?” he questions, planting
himself in the chair to my right. I bend over and lean my forehead against the
cool white tile of the petite kitchen table.

“Everything…. Nothing…”

“Which is it? Everything, or nothing?”

“I just.. I’m a little overwhelmed at the
moment,” I concede. “Midterms always put me in a bind, and even when they are
done, I have difficulty putting them behind me. I just keep going over the
questions in my head and trying hopelessly to remember what answers I put. The
ones that were problematic continue to haunt me, and I always freak out walking
out of the exam hall because everyone is comparing answers. Half the time, I
have no idea what they are even talking about! And I always manage to convince
myself that I made a stupid mistake in a trivial calculation.”

“You can’t worry about exams this much or
you’ll give yourself a heart attack. Whatever happens, you did your best and
that is all I can ever ask of you.”

“But what if I could have done more. I
mean, I always give it my best but I could have studied harder. I took a couple
of breaks to visit the barn and hang out with Tate. What if that is the
difference between success and failure?”

“Avey, honey. It doesn’t matter. You have
to take time off or you will go insane! My dear, I love you and I am going to
be proud of you no matter what. Is that all that is bothering you?”

My mind flashes to Tate and our
conversation. “Yeah, that’s it. Well, and the SMART’s but that is a constant
worry. Nothing new there.” I can’t tell anyone about Tate; it’s not my secret
to disclose.

“Try not to worry so much. It will give
you wrinkles,” he chortles, pressing the depression between my brows. I giggle
and wrap my arms around his neck, landing a firm kiss on his soft cheek.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Avey. Don’t forget,” he
insists. I amble towards the sitting room and am intercepted by a frantic Rian.

“Are you two done with the lovey dovey
stuff?” he asks.

“Yes!” I whine melodramatically. “Do you
need something, Your Highness?”

“Actually, I do. Will you meet me outside
in five minutes? Under the big oak tree?”

“Sure. Do I need to bring anything?”

“Nope. Just yourself. See you in five!”
he shouts over his shoulder, scuttling off into the kitchen.

I take a minute to catch my breath before
heading outside into the brilliant sunshine.

“So I need your help,” Rian pleads, words
tumbling out at a mile a minute. “It’s my two year anniversary with Amy today
and I need to think of something amazing to surprise her with. You’re a girl,
so what should I do? To be all romantic and stuff?”

“Okay. First of all, take a breath! I
can’t make out a word you are saying when you are tripping all over yourself
like that. What did you do last year?”

“Last year… ummm… let’s see… I think I gave
her a card,” he finally recalls, hesitation tainting his answer.

“Seriously, Rian! I thought you wanted to
marry this girl?”

“I do!” he bursts. “I’m just not very
good at the whole sensitive thing.”

“Well, the “whole sensitive thing” is
what is going to get her to say yes, so unless you want to be the bozo that
gets shot down, I suggest you practice tapping into your inner mush-ball. You
should set up an intimate dinner for just the two of you. The food isn’t going
to be anything special on such short notice, but we can scrounge for a nice
tablecloth and candelabra. We should set it up outside under the stars.”

“Okay,” he nods. “What do I wear?”

“What did you bring? Do you have a suit?”
He stares at his shoes sheepishly, uttering a jumbled “no”.

“Well, you can borrow one from dad. It
should fit you alright, even though you have put on some muscle living in the
tier one compound,” I suggest. “What did you get her? Please tell me you at
least have a gift!”

“It’s kind of stupid, but I took this old
baseball cap that I was wearing in class the first day we spoke to one another.
I tried to embroider some text onto the back (tried being the operative word
here).”

“What does it say?” I pry.

“‘To Amy, You Are my Home Run. Love,
Rian.”’

“Aww. Look, the man of stone actually
does have a heart,” I tease. Rian sticks his tongue out in indignation. “That’s
perfect. I am sure she will love it. Now, you need to pick her some flowers. If
you go into the wooded area across the street, there are some untamed rose bushes.
Grab a bunch and try not to stab yourself too many times.

“Okay, dinner…check. Present…check. Suit…hopefully
check. What about entertainment?”

“I don’t know,” he responds, baffled and
confused.

“Can you write her a poem?”

“Uh…I don’t know.”

“Rian, Amy is important to you. Just
listen to your heart and write what comes to mind. That simple.”

“Well, there is something that I wrote
after our first date.”

“Good, use that. Unless it’s something
inappropriate. Like about getting in her pants,” I smirk.

“No, nothing like that,” Rian laughs.
“I’m off to work then, I guess. Thanks Avey.”

“Anytime.” I hug him, proud that he is
actually putting some thought and effort into this exercise. Rian is evolving
before my eyes into an exceptional person that will make someone very happy. I
just hope that I can say the same about Amy.

That night, I help Rian fix the table
outside and set the scene. We drag the small kitchen table through the sliding
glass door and drape a creamy ivory cover across the chipped surface. I light
the ornate candelabra with gold filigree and pearl crescents placed beside the
crimson red roses bulging with perfume. Rian arranges our finest china plates
(unfortunately from two different sets) along with a hodgepodge of silver
cutlery. After the meal is set, I turn to look over my brother one last time
before Amy arrives. His palms are caked with sweat and he is continuously
pacing across the lawn.

“Stand still for a second,” I scold. I
adjust his suit with care. The fabric is a little gray and the coat stretches
slightly across his shoulders, but he looks handsome. Finally satisfied with my
handiwork, I peck him on the cheek and walk back towards the house.

“Wait!” he cries. “Thanks, Avey. It means
a lot.”

“You’re welcome, Rian. I love you.”

Just then, Amy emerges from the depths of
the house and I squeeze by her as Rian compliments her on her flowing silk
dress.

As I step back inside, I almost barrel
into Tate. He grabs my arms and steadies me before letting go.

“Alright there?” Tate questions.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little nervous
for Rian is all.” The two of us migrate to the dining room and peer through the
window to watch the happy couple. Shrouded in darkness, we are silent
observers.

The evening begins well with both Rian
and Amy casually conversing and eating their carefully crafted dinner. During a
lapse in the dialogue, Rian produces the poem from his jacket pocket and reads
it with obvious sincerity. Amy is still through the entire performance and
doesn’t flinch, even when he finishes and resumes eating. A little while later,
I see Rian reaching for the baseball cap tucked under his seat. I decide that I
have intruded for long enough, and leave the two to their romantic evening.

Tate follows me upstairs and we both drop
into bed, surrendering once again to the tantalizing reassurance of sleep.
 
 

I am buzzing with questions the next
morning when I see Rian sitting alone at the kitchen table, staring out across
the shrubbery and extensive woodlands that border our humble abode.

“So, how was everything?” I practically
shout.

“It was good. The setting was perfect and
she loved the flowers.”

“What about the poem? And the hat?”

“It’s funny. I expected a little bit of a
different reaction. She didn’t remember the hat, but once I told her about my
memories of it, she loved it. I tried to convince her to wear it, but she
didn’t want to muss her hair. She promised she would wear it sometime this
week.”

“And the poem?” I persist.

“It’s funny. She didn’t understand it. I
mean, she understood the words and the meaning, but she didn’t understand why I
wrote it. She basically said that she has never been interested in poetry since
it’s part of the humanities. It all makes perfect sense, and I should have
realized before. I honestly don’t know why I even wrote it in the first place.”

He puts on a brave face through this
delivery, but I can tell he is a little heartbroken. Rian doesn’t put always
put himself out there, and this rejection has struck a nerve. I just hope that
he bounces back quickly to his former self.

“Well, that’s too bad. I hope you still
had a good time.”

“Oh, it was perfect. Avey you really
helped me out of a bind. I owe you one.”

“I’ll be sure to cash in at the most
inconvenient time,” I remark. Rian beams, and punches me in the arm. I snatch
the uneaten green apple from his plate and savor the sharp bite as it dances
across my palate. He tries in vain to wrestle the fruit from my grasp, but
underestimates my early morning hunger. Eventually, he is forced to surrender
and settles for a scrawny celery twig. We crunch our snacks in silence,
focusing entirely on the comforting monotony of chewing and swallowing the
precious morsels.

I love my brother more than anything, and
I hope Amy appreciates the thoughtful and sensitive soul crouching behind the
humorous and brilliant Rian society readily accepts.
 

An aching hunger begins gnawing at my
hollow gut, resonating through my weary body. Meanwhile, a fierce bout of
nausea sweeps over me, leaching the desire to eat from my quaking bones. It is
unfortunately a familiar but nonetheless distressing state: to be receiving
such conflicting signals from one’s own body, unable to cater to any of the
demands. Despite the pitiful howling rising from my stomach, I know better than
to attempt to choke down solid food.

Kneeling patiently beside the tangled
flowerbeds, I focus entirely on the flawless petals of a lush marigold blossom.
Burnt orange and citrusy yellows blend across this delicately folded canvas,
inspiring awe that attracts frantic bees to suckle viscous nectar from its
ample teat. I inhale sharply as my abdomen clenches and cramps in a futile
attempt to process the diseased rations it is forced to subsist on. Unable to
pinpoint the precise source of this discomfort (was it the blueberries? the
often tarnished rolls?), I pitch forward as a wave of nausea crescendos and
breaks, triggering brutal vomiting. A whimper escapes through my taut lips, but
before I am contorted once again by the ferocious protests of my digestive
system, a clumsy hand rests upon my shoulder.

I instantaneously cringe in
embarrassment. I cannot bear to have witnesses in the wake of my suffering, but
the strong grip remains. Turning to face my protector, I am arrested by Tate’s
piercing gaze. My eyes begin to water in this vulnerable state, and I mumble
scattered apologies.

“For what? Being a victim of our time?”
Tate inquires. “Avelyn, this happens to everyone. Don’t you remember the
lessons they taught us in school? ‘There is no reason to be embarrassed by
bodily sickness. Intestinal parasites and vomiting are a normal part of
everyday life.’ In fact, I just got over a nasty round of pinworms myself. I am
not here to judge you. I’m your friend, and I want to hold your hand and help
you through this.”

For the next hour, I am viciously ill,
but eventually the crippling nausea passes. Tate remains by my side the entire
time, patiently awaiting my return to health.

I hesitantly examine the bundle of greens
I swiped from the pantry. After this morning’s debacle, I am not keen to
consume more potentially poisoned goods but I have no choice. My starving body
refuses to relent in its fickle insistence on receiving nourishment
immediately. Finally, I chomp down on the flaccid spinach leaves and resume my
conversation with Tate.

“What did you think of Rian’s romantic
gesture last night?” I ask.

“The table was beautiful. The weather was
sublime, and the candelabra looked magnificent in the moonlight. How did he
feel about it?”

“Good. I think Amy really appreciated the
effort. She didn’t understand his gift, though. Or his poem.”

“That’s a shame.” Tate glances across the
expansive void of overgrown grasses and woven shrubbery. I recline in the
wrought iron bench against the back of the house. Lumpy stucco irritates my
neck, and I am forced to sit up.

“He really likes her,” I reveal. “I just
worry. Sometimes I feel like she doesn’t fully appreciate him. Rian is special.
He means so much to me, and I don’t want to see him get hurt. Amy is just so
arrogant sometimes, and I think she believes he doesn’t deserve her. It’s like
he is her personal charity case, and he should consider himself lucky to be
with a tier one like her.