Page 102 of What You Wish For

“I used to perform on street corners. That’s how I made money in college.”

“Juggling?”

He shrugged. “Other things, too.”

“Like what?”

He sighed, likeSo many. “I can walk on stilts. I can do magic tricks. I can solve a Rubik’s Cube in under five minutes. I can blow a bubble inside a bubble. I can burp the alphabet. Oh, and I’m a yo-yo champion.”

“You’re a yo-yo champion?”

“Well,” he corrected, kind of aw-shucks, “state champion.”

“That’s a thing?”

He gave me a look. “Trust me. I could mesmerize you.”

I flared my nostrils at him. “I’m not easily mesmerized.”

“You only think that ’cause you’ve never seen me spin a yo-yo.”

We strolled on for a second. Then I said, “How did you learn how to do all that stuff?”

He thought about it for a second. “Do you remember when you were in school and you came home every night and did homework?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I never did that homework.”

I smiled. Of course he didn’t.

“I taught myself mumbley-peg instead. I read comic books. I taught myself Morse code. And knife-throwing. And cracking a whip. I memorized the name of every bomber that flew in World War Two. I built a working radio from scratch. Basically, I was wildly enthusiastic to learn everything theydon’tteach you in school.”

“And now you’re a school principal.”

“They didn’t hire me for my brains.”

Our whole idea was to lure him in gently with easy things, and get him hooked, and then build from there. As the weeks went on, we upshifted slowly: making him read a favoriteGarfieldof Clay’s choosing, making him wear a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops on casual Friday, making him serenade Mrs. Kline in the courtyard on her birthday, making him eat a quarter-pound of fudge at La King’s candy shop, making him play charades, and making him read a psychology book about post-traumatic growth.

Oh—and let’s not forget the therapy. Babette’s guy had confirmed that Duncan had, in fact, started attending sessions twice a week.

It had almost been too easy.

Maybe he’d known he was struggling. Maybe he’d wanted some help.

Maybe, on some level, he was grateful that Babette and I were bossing him around.

Was that possible?

I was, of course, the designated companion slash chaperone on all these outings. Babette always planned her biggest events for Friday nights and then gave him the rest of the weekend off. They weren’t dates, of course, but since we did them together, just the two of us, they definitely resembled dates. Babette sent us to the movies, and to the aquarium, and bowling, and out to dinner.

It was confusing, to say the least.

For me, anyway.

The more time I spent with him, the more time I wanted to spendwith him. And the more I thought about him when he wasn’t around. And the more I looked for him in the hallways.

It wasn’t…notagonizing. I’ll say that.

---