Page 43 of Dropping the Ball

I point to the south end. “Stage, big screen, live entertainment.” I indicate the rest of the floor. “Tables. Name cards. Cater waiters.” I point to the rolling bay door. “Grand entrance. Did I cover everything?”

“Yes.”

“What if instead of creating a small space near the stage for anyone who wants to dance, you clear a big space by giving people somewhere else they want to go. Specifically, over there.” I point to the corner across from the entrance. “Build a bar, but make it more than a walk-up where people order and wander away. Make it a lounge space with club chairs and low tables, so it would draw people from the dining tables to come overand stay. Then you can move those out and clear even more of the center for dancing and mingling. My thinking was that a bar would entice people to spend more money, but this crowd doesn’t do cash bars, does it?”

“Generally, no. But we should do an open bar with the intimate lounge feeling you described. It makes the experience feel more luxe, and our generosity prompts more of their generosity.”

“Virtuous giving cycle?”

“A strategic one. Let’s do it.” She stands. “Thanks for lunch and the update. I need to tell the event planner she has to hire a bar staff.”

I get up and gather our trash. “I’ll walk you out.”

At the warehouse door, I drop our garbage in the bin but pause before I hold the door for her. “Here’s a confession: When we had classes together, I never said any of my ideas out loud unless I knew they were good because I wanted you to think I was a genius.”

I push the door open, standing against it to give her room to pass. She stops in front of me, close enough that she has to tilt her head more than usual to meet my eyes.

“Here’s a confession: I started wearing lipstick senior year because I wanted you to think about my lips.”

Then she slips through the door, and she’s gone.

Senior Year

Micah

I look around theart room, not really seeing it. Mr. Lew, the art teacher, lets me spend lunches in here even though I’ve never taken studio art. He seems to get that I need to be in here anyway. Art teachers are like that.

Normally, I like to look for new work on the walls or any pieces that are in process. But I spent lunch in here yesterday, and there’s nothing new.

“You okay, Micah?” Mr. Lew asks, stopping by the table I have to myself.

“Fine. Letting my brain rest.” That’s a lie, but he nods and moves on. My brain is speeding like it always does, currently calculating whether I can get away with hanging out with Kaitlyn in the library. If I do it too often, she’ll avoid me for a few days. If I space it out enough, we’ll pull out our lunches and our work but end up chatting instead of studying.

Three days seems to be the sweet spot where she won’t retreat. I should wait until tomorrow. But we didn’t end up doing partner work in Chinese today, so we haven’t talked since lunch two days ago.

Whatever. This is stupid. Lunch barely started, and I’ll have talked myself into going to the library by the end anyway, so might as well go now.

She’s at her usual table, one that keeps her out of the main flow of traffic but gives her a good view of the door. I know that feeling. Not wanting to be in the mix. Always needing to see what’s coming.

“Hey,” I say as I set down my backpack. I always take the spot across from her but one seat down so we never have to make accidental eye contact. I want to know that every time I feel her eyes on me, it’s because she chose to look my way.

She blinks up at me. “Hey.”

She doesn’t smile. She never does when she says hi. It makes it even better when she does smile because it’s opposite of her eye contact. It’s unintentional, like she’s surprised to find herself doing it. I like when I’m the reason it happens. I’ve learned over the last three years what kinds of things will do it, saving each instance like a crow with a shiny thing, waiting to trot it out and use it again.

If she’s not okay with me being here, in about five minutes she’ll remember somewhere else she has to go. If she’s okay with it, we’ll eat our lunches and end up in a conversation. I never know what it will be about. I never try to think of things because something always comes up, sometimes from her, sometimes me.

She pulls a bento box from her backpack, peels off the lid, and sighs.

“Tuna fish?” I guess. She hates tuna, even the fancy sushi-grade kind their housekeeper uses.

“Worse.” She tilts the box my way to show me the contents.

I squint. “You got a botany project for lunch?”

She takes her chopsticks and picks up different items, naming them and dropping them. “Bean sprouts. Pickled beets.Cabbage. Snap peas. Cauliflower. My mom has decided we’re all eating plant-based diets now. Raw plants.” She wrinkles her nose at the box. “I like meat. And there’s not even any dips. I’d sell my soul for hummus right now. But at least I’ve got these.” She brandishes a baby carrot. “You are my only joy.” Then she chomps it.

My uncle’s tuition check doesn’t cover the fresh meals served in the Hillview dining hall. My mother’s paycheck doesn’t cover a housekeeper. Or even groceries, sometimes. But cutting lawns on the weekends covers a crap-ton of frozen burritos, and I pull one out of my backpack, nuked and double wrapped in foil before I left for school this morning.

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