Page 24 of Taking It To Overtime
“You’re too good to me,” he says, taking the small bag she hands over the desk. “She’s too good to me,” he repeats in my direction, and I nod.
“If you give me a moment to check her out, I can carry everything out for you.” Birdie reaches for my first book.
Mr. Porter shakes his head. “I can’t trouble you, dear. I made it this far. I’ll make it home. Evan’s waiting in the parking lot for me.”
“His grandson,” Birdie brings me into the conversation. “It’s really no trouble.” Mr. Porter does not back down.
“I have an idea,” I say as my old classmate scans my pile. “Maybe you can do me a favor and walkmeout. It’s been ages since I’ve been here and I’m worried I’ll get all turned around.”
Mr. Porter’s smile says he knows exactly what I’m up to, especially when he winks at me. The movement scrunches up one of his cheeks, his lips pursing like a kiss.
“I think I can help with that Miss…” he trails off, waiting for me to fill in my name and I smile even wider. It’s been a long time since I had to introduce myself.
“Oh Mr. Porter, surely you remember Vera Novak,” Birdie says, and I take his offered hand and shake.
“Ah, Arthur’s girl.” He points to his own face. “I’d recognize the freckles anywhere.”
The freckles are my calling card. Thethingthat makes me standout. Anyone can dye their hair, wear color contacts, but noteveryone can have the freckles. I used to hate them. Growing up with red hair and freckles was like painting a giant target on my back for bullies. I wonder if becoming an adult means learning to love the parts of myself I was once taught to hate. The insults always made it easy to forget I got my freckles from my dad. It’s refreshing to have this man recognize them, not because he’s seen them printed on the glossy pages of a magazine, but because he knows my father.
It’s always going to be nice to hear little kids stop me and tell me they love the spots that cover me head to toe, but it’s also really nice to have them not be anything more than a sign of who my family is. I forgot how peaceful that could be. I forgot there was a life when I was just Vera: daughter of the Kimmelwick High varsity football coach, girlfriend to one of the local hockey hot shots, straight-A student, and ballerina. A girl with big dreams of getting out of Small Town, USA and into the Big City.
“How’s your mother, Cece?” Mr. Porter asks as I hand mom’s library card to Birdie. She smiles at the signature but says nothing. I still had mine right until my parents moved into the apartment. I don’t know if they ever actually expire, but it made sense to borrow my mother’s for my stay here—something she readily agreed to. Now, as I tuck the card back into my wallet, I can see myself getting a new card. Spending a little more time here. Being just plain Vera again.
“She’s good,” I say, “Definitely surprised to see me. I didn’t tell them I was coming.”
Mr. Porter pats the back of my hand. “That would be hard for her, but I’m sure she’s glad you’re home. She’s such a sweet soul. So kind to my Martha every time we see her.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her Martha and…”
“John.”
“John, say hello.”
Mr. Porter smiles, and I loop his arm through mine. Behind us, the large wooden door swings open and a tanned teen with a riot of curls lets it slam behind him.
“Sorry Pops,” the kid says, “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.” Apparently, Evan is no longer in the car. “Let’s let the ladies stay in the nice, cool AC.”
Birdie goes back to typing on her keyboard and I watch Evan lead his grandfather down the small ramp and out the front door. It’s a sweet picture. One that makes my heart pinch but also tugs at the hollows of my cheeks. That undeniable bond. That sense of belonging.
Sometimes I feel loneliest in the very rooms where everyone knows my name. Maybe this could be my shot at making things different.
“How’s your brother?” I ask Birdie.
I only remember James because he worked part time at the rink driving the Zamboni. He’d always slip me free hand warming packets when I’d stop by to watch Robbie play. And if he made off-color comments, or smiled a little too much, well, I had three boys on the ice willing to fight for me. Not that James ever toed the line with me. I heard stories about his hijinks, but I mostly remember him as a quiet guy. A lot like his sister.
“James is fine,” Birdie’s face falls, not the reaction I was going for. “He’s doing time at Auburn Correctional.”
“I’m so sorry.” I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Slurp me down like a damn milkshake. I hitch my tote bag higher up my shoulder. What now? Do I ask how long? His charges? What is the etiquette around incarcerated relatives? My only experience with the federal prison system involves streamingOrange is the New Blackwith Tandy while sharing a carton of rocky road ice cream.
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” She shrugs, her cardigan slipping down one arm. “Everyone around here kind of avoidstalking about him. It’s nice to see someone who doesn’t tiptoe around what happened. And he has the sweetest boy, Jameson. He’s almost ten.”
Kids.
Dear god.
James is a few years older than us, but a lot of people our age have kids.
Funny how some things change.
