My Most Excellent Year (32 page)

I knew as soon as I saw him crossing Washington Street that something was definitely wrong. Usually he’s sort of bouncing on the balls of his feet whenever he’s on his way to meet me, but today his shoulders were slumped and his head was down. I didn’t even get his supernova smile when he saw me.

“Hey, Aquaboy.” I grinned nervously.

“Hey,” he replied, without any expression at all. “Let’s hit it.” He brushed right past me as we started down the steps into the station, and by the time we’d bought our tokens I was already on guard—especially after the D train pulled in and we found seats next to each other without our usual argument about who got the window. (Like there was ever anything to look at except each other.) Instead, Andy stared straight ahead at an MBTA map, and we rode all the way to Copley Square in silence. I had it narrowed down to four possibilities:

1. He’s back to the “Be a real guy” crap again—in which case I’m ready to comply by slugging him right in the mouth.
   
2. He figured out that he doesn’t love me after all.
   
3. His father found out about us and hit the ceiling.
   
4. He’s fallen for somebody else.
   

Once we’d come up the stairs into the bright blue sky that covered Copley Square, we still had to walk a couple of blocks to the Pru. And since he was hunched down with his hands in his pockets, I had a chance to take an inventory of his face to see if there were any clues there. But all of the possibilities tested negative, so this was something brand-new―and he had exactly sixty seconds to tell me what it was or I was going to have to force it out of him. I hate being ignored. Especially in heavy traffic by the boy of my dreams.

The clock began running when we crossed the Prudential Center’s glass and marble lobby and stepped into an empty elevator. As we stood wordlessly side by side, the doors slid closed—and I finally began getting a little pissed off.

“Look, Andy,” I said firmly, breaking the twenty-three-minute deadlock. “I don’t know what the hell your”—but that’s as far as I got. Because without any warning at all, he turned suddenly, put his hands on my shoulders, yanked me close, and—eyes wide with terror—kissed me. Right there in the Prudential Center elevator. And he didn’t
stop
kissing me until the “Ping!” told us we were about to have company.

I still can’t imagine what the people on the second floor must have thought when the doors opened again. Sure, by then we were standing a respectable distance apart and staring straight ahead, but neither one of us was anchored to New England terra firma anymore.

“Hey! Kids! Are you getting out or what?” Actually, for the next two hours we reminded me of shock victims who’d just survived a terrible accident and who found themselves wandering through an occasional dim flash of reality—like flipping through a copy of
Grouting Made Easy
at Back Bay Books, browsing coaxial cable assemblies at Radio Shack, or carefully checking out Medeco locks at Sentry Security. Finally we drifted into a place called Copley House and Garden. I bought a flowerpot and Andy bought paint thinner. Neither one of us remembers why.

Somehow we managed to retrace our steps to the Green Line T station without ending up in Vermont instead. We still couldn’t say anything to each other, but at least now it was for the same dazed reason. Our car was packed with late-afternoon shoppers and there weren’t any seats left, so we found ourselves squished together by the rear door as the motorman let her go.
“Clang, clang, clang went the trolley.”

But you know what?
No
body sings after their first kiss. They’re lucky they can still keep lunch down.

Love,

Augie

Dear Jacqueline,

With the utmost respect, please be advised that I can no longer confide in you. This hasn’t been an easy decision to reach, but the facts speak for themselves:

1. You know all of the classics by heart, some of them in two languages.
   
2. You associate only with kings, duchesses, and the top 4 percent of the social register.
   
3. Your two marriages were regal but joyless.
   

You’ve been my role model since I was eight, and these are the results:

1. I’ve been called “cold,” “stuck-up,” “snotty,” and “pre-tentious.”
   
2. I was actually prepared to settle for a loveless career in the diplomatic corps because it was proper and expected.
   
3. I was so busy waiting for my own unfaithful knight, I nearly failed to recognize the prince in the gray T-shirt.
   

I appreciate your past companionship, and I certainly hope that we cross paths again. But not for at least ten years.

With warm regards,

Alejandra Perez

Dear Ms. Poppins,

I’ve never apologized to a fictitious character before, but having seen your biography nearly a dozen times in the past month, I hope you’ll pardon my earlier judgment in 1996. Perhaps I ought to have given you more than a fifteen-minute chance—yet even at the age of seven, I simply couldn’t accept umbrellas as a believable means of air travel. I was wrong. However, I
do
wish that you’d had some tricks in your carpet bag for those of us who already know how to keep our rooms neat and whose mothers aren’t necessarily early-twentieth-century suffragettes. We could use a little help with some of our own problems too.

Anthony and I have already gone out together three times since Plum Island—but since he doesn’t deserve to know that yet, I’ve been careful to keep him from finding out that they were actually
dates. The first one was disguised as a visit to a merry-go-round with Hucky, who wanted to see if this was the day our horses were going to jump onto the grass—poles and all—and race each other to an imaginary finish line. The second one was a trip to Emerson Garden so that Hucky could practice closing his eyes and jumping into chalk pavement pictures (he’s determined to be up to speed when you finally come to live with him). And this afternoon was a safari to the Franklin Park Zoo, where I was positive I could convince Hucky that the animals were talking to us. At least that’s what I told Anthony when I cooked up the plan last night. These days, our conversations function on two levels.

(I should also note that he and Hucky were dressed in identical Red Sox ski jackets, wool Red Sox caps, and blue Red Sox gloves/mittens. They were absolutely irresistible together. I’m surprised Anthony hasn’t discovered what effective props small children make.)

After following a frozen footpath and passing one empty cage after another, we finally encountered a rumpled llama named Molly, who was standing alone in her pen and who appeared to be alarmingly self-medicated. Though I have nothing but praise for all of nature’s generous wonders, llamas aren’t exactly the sharpest tools in the shed—and Molly seemed to be denser than most.

“What’s that?”
asked Hucky as he hid behind Anthony’s legs and tugged on his hair.

“It’s a llama,” I replied, making sure I signed it carefully so he’d know that the two “l’s” were on purpose. “Don’t worry—she won’t hurt you.” Anthony knelt down and put his hands on Hucky’s shoulders.

“Listen, buddy,” he began. “Her name is Molly, and she’s a really good friend of Alé’s. They even
talk
to each other.” Hucky stared in wonder at Anthony, at Molly, at me, and then back at Anthony again. Then he began wiggling his fingers earnestly. I may not be up to speed on ASL yet, but I can most certainly read between the lines.

“Can we go back and watch the tiger puke?”
he insisted.
“But all together this time?”

TRANSLATION: What a load of crap.

It’s funny how kids already know where the magic is, even if it takes the rest of us a little longer to catch up.

Fondly,

Alejandra