You and Me and Him (10 page)

“Good call.” He grins. “Save the best for last.”

“The best being . . . ?” I can’t decide if I’m hoping he will or won’t say elephants.

“Giraffes, duh! With those necks and those crazy black prehensile tongues? What other animal has that kind of insane morphology?”

“Did you really use ‘morphology’ in casual conversation?” I ask. “Besides, the elephants are the best, and we will be saving them for last.”

“First of all, we are both AP bio students, so I hardly think my use of ‘morphology’ was obscure. Second of all: Did you hear me? Necks? Prehensile tongues?”

“Tusks? Trunks? Largest land mammal?” I fire back.

He shakes his head but he’s smiling. “We shall see, Margaret no-middle-name Bower. We shall see.”

“Hungry?” Tom says as we walk through the exit turnstile at the zoo. “I’m starving.”

“You good with Asian?” A no-brainer in Seattle.

“Always,” Tom says.

We get back on the freeway and drive south to the International District. There’s an Asian grocery store there called Uwajimaya. It’s good. It’s cheap. There’s parking. And I know where it is.

I lead Tom into an area that wouldn’t fill the inside of most McDonald’s.

“Wow, a food court.” Tom looks around. “Not what I was expecting.”

“I know. It sounds heinous, but you have to trust me on this,” I say. “Besides, you said you liked Asian; they have Hawaiian, Korean, Thai, Vietnamese, Japanese, Chinese, bubble tea . . . and it all kicks ass.” Tom still looks skeptical. “Trust me. I’ll meet you at this table in ten minutes.”

Tom picks the Korean place, and I get us both bubble tea plus a steaming bowl of pho for me. We sit down and open our chopsticks. On each of our trays is a place mat covered with the animals in the Chinese horoscope.

“Which one are you?” I ask Tom, pointing at the place mat.

“Do they have a giraffe?”

I shake my head, laughing.

“Bummer. Then . . .” He looks over the dates. “I guess I’m an Ox,” he says. “Which sign are you? I don’t see an elephant.”

“Guess.”

Tom starts reading the descriptions, muttering to himself. “Not a Sheep or a Rat. Not a Tiger, either. Too old to be a Dragon. Hmmm.” He taps his chopsticks against the side of his plastic bowl, contemplating the choices. “I’m going to say Rabbit. No, Ox! You’re an Ox, like me.”

He’s right. But I don’t tell him he’s right. Not yet. “Why?” I ask. I hope he doesn’t think I just seem ox-ish.

“Well, there’s the dependable, hard-working thing,” he says, looking over the Ox description. “But there’s also the part about being picky about relationships.” I must look a little confused, because he tries to explain. “I can see that lots of people like you: Nash, of course, but also Kayla, and Cece, and teachers.”

“Not Ms. Perry,” I say.

“No, not Ms. Perry,” Tom agrees. “Anyway, it seems like you’ve been pretty selective about who gets to know Maggie, who gets close. That’s all I mean. I’m the same way, really. I just don’t see the point of getting all wrapped up when I know I’m probably leaving. I’ve moved too many times to relive the same bullshit with people over and over.”

I nod. “But what about all that first impressions, Mr. Charming McFlirty-pants stuff you were rocking the first few days you were here? Isn’t that a form of that same old bullshit?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true, but I’m trying to move past that now. At least with you.” He raises his bubble tea, and we tap the plastic glasses together in a toast. “To Oxes! Oxen? Whatever!”

“To Oxen!” I say, and we slurp the first tapioca pearls into our oversize straws.

“What’s Nash?” Tom says.

“Nash is pure Tiger.”

“‘Fierce, unpredictable, fearless in a fight,’” Tom reads from the place mat. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“And loyal as hell. My best friend is a moody man. His pendulum swings far and wide: big blow-ups, wonderful reunions. But when I need someone for the tough stuff, Nash is my guy.”

“He sounds like a great friend to have,” Tom says.

“I don’t expect to ever find a better one.”

“Lucky you. Lucky Nash. I hope I have that some day.”

“You’ve never had a bestie?”

“Not really. I always know I’m leaving so . . .”

“So you never commit.”

“You make it sound like it’s my fault.” Tom fiddles with his chopsticks, not meeting my eyes.

“No. Not fault. But you don’t earn a friendship like I have with Nash by playing it safe. You have to be willing to put yourself out there. It’s a risk.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Believe me, I know.” We’re silent for a bit, letting our words settle and come to rest between us gently. It’s not an argument, but I leave it there so it doesn’t become one.

“Okay, let’s eat! I’m starved.” Tom digs in and closes his eyes for a minute as he chews. “Sooooooo good.” Tom moans after a couple bites of his bibimbap. I sip some of the pho broth and nod.

“I see you had them hold the meat?” I say.

He nods, still chewing.

“So you’re anti-carnivore?”

“Not at all,” Tom says. “I love carnivores. But I decided I didn’t want to be one myself.” He takes a bite of carrot.

“How long have you vegged-out?”

“I flirted with it throughout middle school, but it was a ninth grade research paper on endangered species that tipped me into a full-time herbivore.” He takes a long draw on his bubble tea and continues. “My paper was on gorillas. Clearly an intelligent animal, but when I read about the poachers killing the gorillas for bush meat, I got really grossed out. After that I really just couldn’t eat meat anymore.”

I let a strip of beef fall from my chopsticks and push my bowl away.

“Sorry,” he says. “I should know better than to tell that story while people are eating.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I sip my bubble tea. The tapioca jams in the straw, and I have to suck hard to dislodge it. “I may never get the image of gorilla meat out of my head completely, but I asked.” I drink my tea as Tom finishes his lunch. “You want to look around?”

He nods so we dump our trays and roam the bookstore for a while. Tom buys a couple of Japanese graphic novels I’ve never heard of, further cementing his geek status, and we move on to the grocery store to look at the bizarre fruits and veggies.

“Can your delicate plant-eating self bear to look at the seafood section?” I ask.

Tom rolls his eyes. “Is that how it’s going to be, Maggie? I share my heartfelt vegetarian conversion story with you, and you mock me? I expected more.”

“You’ll learn not to.” We make our way to the lobster tanks, pausing to look at the googly-eyed spiny fish in the large tank, but I save the best for last. “Ever seen a geoduck?”

“A what-a-what?” Tom asks. “Do I want to?”

I smile and lead him to the last tank. It’s filled with large clamshells stuffed with foot-long, yellow-brown clams that extend obscenely from their protective covering.

Tom stops, mouth hanging open. “That’s just . . . wrong,” he says finally, and his face flushes red. “What . . . what are these things called?”

“Geoducks,” I say. I can’t stop from giggling a little. It’s nice to not be the one blushing for once.

“Gooey-ducks.” He’s still staring at the clams.

I nod.

“Thanks, Maggie. Payback. Now you’ve given me an image I won’t be able to get out of my head.” He stares a minute more. “Okay.” He claps his hands together, prying his eyes away from the tank. “Where to now?”

“We have to buy some fortune cookies to take back to Nash,” I say. “A consolation prize.”

“The Tiger likes cookies, huh?”

“Actually he hates the cookies, but he loves to read the fortunes,” I say. “He saves them and tapes the ones he likes around the mirror in his bedroom. He even saves mine when he likes them, although he says technically they’re not transferable.”

We make our way back to the car, and I sit for a minute trying to think of what else to show Tom.

“Troll or gum wall?” I ask, suddenly inspired.

Tom’s face splits into a wide grin. “Both!” He bounces up and down like a giddy ten-year-old.

I shake my head and wonder if Nash has seen this side of Tom. Nash doesn’t fit into the American high school male ideal, but he does his not-fitting-in with a definite sense of style. I have never known him to be particularly attracted to any member of the nerd herd. Tom, in spite of having shoulders like a battleship and eyes that could melt chocolate, is, if not a part of the herd himself, deep in nerd territory.

By some miracle we find parking in the lots below Pike Place Market and climb to the top level. We pass tables full of silver jewelry, organic honey, smoked meats, leather bags, and Nepalese sweaters knitted by refugees who, the sign assures us, will receive most of the proceeds directly from the man selling the sweaters. I lead Tom through the crowded market to the south end.

“Watch out.” I pull Tom out of the way as a guy in waders catches a large salmon thrown from behind the fish counter. The crowd cheers, and the guy tosses the fish to another guy standing by the Dungeness crabs.

“We are not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” Tom says, but I can see he’s enjoying it.

I’m sad Nash is missing this, but I’m glad to be the one showing Tom a different side of the city. We wind through the crowd and around a few corners.

“Close your eyes,” I say.

Tom looks at me. “Why are you always making me close my eyes before you show me stuff? How do I know this isn’t some sort of unpleasant Seattle hazing ritual?”

“Close them, or I won’t show you!”

“No tricks?”

I shake my head.

Tom sighs, holds out his hand, and closes his eyes.

I grab his hand; it’s rough, and his fingers are longer than I expect. I lead him around the last corner, and I’m glad to see there’s nobody else in the alley. I position Tom in front of the wall, with his nose about six inches away.

“Ready?” I say. “Open!”

Tom squints at the wall, trying to get his bearings. He takes a step back, and another, and then spreads his arms wide as he backs all the way to the other side of the alley so he can take in the whole wall. The brick on the east side of the alley is a huge textured Pollock painting of chewed, discarded pieces of gum. The colors range from the grayish white of Doublemint to the fluorescent greens and purples of Bubblicious.

“Stellar,” Tom says, with what I consider to be an appropriate amount of reverence.

I dig in my purse and fish out some Bazooka bubble gum.

“Can we?” he asks.

I nod.

“Well then, at the risk of offending, I have my own.” He pulls a pack of clove gum out of his pocket. He offers me some, but I hold up my Bazooka and shake my head.

We unwrap and start to chew. Over the sugary bubble gum smell of Bazooka, I catch whiffs of clove. We work our respective gums in silence until they are soft enough to stick.

“Ready?” I ask.

Tom nods. Stepping to the wall, we pick our spots. I take my gum out and hold it up. Tom does the same.

“One, two, three!” I press my pink wad of gum into the wall between two green ones. Tom’s gum lands in the middle of a patch of white globs.

“Awesome,” he says, giving me a smile. “And can I just say, Maggie no-middle-name Bower, it’s not every girl who would show a guy her disgusting, chewed-up bubble gum on a first date.”

I stare at Tom, processing the word “date.” This can’t be a date. There’s the Nash factor, of course. And obviously there’s the reality that I’m, well, I’m me. I look at Tom to see if it was a joke, but he’s fiddling with his phone.

“Time to document the moment.” Tom poses us in front of our additions to the wall, leaning his cheek in so it touches mine. The camera clicks, and Tom checks to make sure the photo worked. “Perfect,” he says.

I lead Tom out onto First Avenue. First is where the seedy side of downtown sort of butts up against the scenic side of downtown, where the homeless and the tourists overlap. As soon as we hit the sidewalk, I can feel Tom tense up.

“Maggie, maybe we should go back the other way.”

“No, it’s all right. I always come here when I’m in town.”

“Hey. It’s the cookie lady!” I hear after a few steps up First. A guy approaches, and Tom hesitates. The guy has clearly been on the street awhile, but I pull out a couple of wrapped cookies and hand them over. “What kind?” he asks.

“Peanut butter chocolate chip,” I say.

“Ooh, girl, I think I’m in love!”

I smile and we move on. I hand out cookies all along the block. Word spreads fast, and by the time we’re back at the market, I’m out of baked goods.

Tom hasn’t said a word the whole time, and I wonder just how much I freaked him out. We start down the stairs to the car before he speaks.

“You realize you’ve sent me right back to pondering the riddle-mystery-enigma thing?” he says.

I smile like an enigma should: mysteriously, without saying a word.

“How long have you been Saint Maggie of the Cookies?”

“I like to bake.”

“Maggie, it’s one thing to give your stuff away to suburban high school kids. But this . . . You really made some people happy today. And one of them is me.” He stops and turns to face me. He’s on a lower step, so our heads are almost level and I am looking right into those grassy eyes. “Thank you, Saint Maggie.”

I hold his gaze as long as I can, but it’s too much. I dig for my keys. “We’re going to get a ticket,” I say. “And the Troll is waiting.”

We walk through Fremont, making our way to the Troll, a huge cement sculpture emerging from underneath a bridge. Tom climbs all over it, scaling the head, resting between the giant troll hands. He makes me take a ridiculous number of pictures of him in various poses.

I text one of them to Nash. He doesn’t respond.

By the time we get back on the freeway heading north, we are both exhausted but happy. The traffic lightens up a couple miles out of the city.

“Favorite part of the day?” I ask.

Tom rubs his chin, then starts ticking off things on his fingers. “The zoo, lunch, geoducks, gum wall, cookies, and the Troll.”

“In that order?”

“No, those are my favorites.”