Page 143 of Goalkeeper
“Yep. We were all at our grandparents’ in the Hamptons for Easter. And my dad’s brother has three kids, and they’re all younger than I am. Let’s see. If I was ten, Gemma was in diapers, Charlotte was three, and Vivian would have been about five.”
She dips the stick in again, then pulls it out like she’s testing the pliancy of the wax. And the wax is not measuring up. “So,” she continues, “my gran got us all Easter baskets, of course. They were these fancy-ass baskets she probably got at a specialty shop and I don’t even want to think about what they cost. Anyway, they had chocolates and jellybeans and little plastic eggs and stuff. And, inside the eggs, there were savings bonds. I’m not kidding when I tell you Nate and Sophie were thrilled. That’s what we always got from my dad’s parents because it was a sensible gift. So, whether it was stuffed in a stocking, or tucked inside a plastic pumpkin, or hidden in a heart-shaped box, we could always count on getting savings bonds for any holiday.
“But my little cousins opened their baskets and they had all this cool stuff—bracelets and tiaras and these little stuffed bunnies.” She holds up Mr. Cottontail as evidence. “And I heard my gran tell my aunt Bridget that she wanted to get fun stuff for the little girls and that the big kids got the boring, grown-up gifts. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt such rage, no joke. I was pissed. I wanted to snap off the ear of a chocolate bunny and whip it across the room. I wanted to scream that Gran and Pop-pop never gave us cool gifts. I felt cheated and invisible and I know that sounds stupid and childish and that my Easter dress probably cost enough to feed a family of four a lovely brunch, and that I should be grateful for all of those savings bonds, but…”
“But you wanted the bunny. You were still a kid and you wanted the toy,” I acknowledge, understanding dawning. “You wanted the people who love you to instinctively know that you would have loved a soft, fluffy bunny in a little satin bow-tie. I mean, Jesus, Paige. He’s pink and his bow is still shedding glitter ten years later. This guy was made for you.”
“Right?” she says, and I swear her eyes are heavy with unshed tears. “Anyway, before I could throw a tantrum of epic proportions, Jake—sweet, charming, gets-away-with-everything Jake lifts Mr. Cottontail from Gemma’s basket. No one saw. I didn’t even know about it until he pulled me into the sitting room under the guise of trading candy. He told me I’d be doing Gem a favor, that the toy was clearly a choking hazard with its beaded eyes and brass-plated buttons. He buried Mr. Cottontail at the bottom of my basket, and no one was any the wiser. My gran had filled Gem’s basket with teething rings and baby headbands and binkies, so I doubt anyone realized a bunny was missing. So…” she tests the wax one more time and this time it must be the right consistency because she smiles, “this will sting a little. And you can hold Mr. Cottontail, if you want.”
“I’d be honored to.” I reach my hand out to take the bunny and I scold myself for thinking it was the most important man in her life. That’s nonsense. Jake was that guy, because he saw her. He got it. And, now? Now I’m that guy. I’m the one who gets it. I’m the one who’s lucky enough to see her. And it’s not a chore; it’s a fucking privilege.
“The wax is ready, Spence. Are you? Because I’m going to start filming, and you know I hate retakes.”
“I’m ready,” I tell her, and I hope to hell that I am.
20
Spencer
I hear the guys greet Paige before I see her. She’s here so we can work on our final project for Speech. I honestly doubted I’d make it this far in class, and I’m fully aware that she’s the reason I have.
Dr. Winslow tasked us with identifying a societal problem, informing our audience about it, and proposing a solution. Our topic submissions are due later tonight, and we still haven’t decided.
“Hey, you.” I turn to see her in the doorway, and my first instinct is to ditch the dinner I’m making, wrap her legs around my waist, and head up to my room. This could be why we’ve waited until the last minute to pick the topic, now that I think about it.
“The guys said you were making Tofu Surprise.”
“I am, I guess. It’s tofu, and the surprise is that it’s pretty good. You want some?”
“I just ate with Emma, but thanks.” She politely declines, and takes a seat at the counter.
“All right, Spence. We need to get this done. Do you have the results from your Field Bio class?”
“Shit.” I turn off the burner and face her. “I completely forgot. I am so sorry.”
She levels me with a glare. “Ugh. You had one job, Spence…”
She’s right. Part of Winslow’s condition is that we conduct a survey to determine how the problem affects students here on campus. We need to do that part first, before he can approve our topic. And since my Field Bio class is small and I know everyone in it, I said I’d email out our survey and we’d conduct our research that way. But, it totally slipped my mind, and that’s not like me.
“Fuck. I’m sorry… We could ask the team, but Jonesy and Herrera already did that.” This project is worth 40% of our grade, and I’m already fucking it up.
“Hold up. I think this will work.” She slides her phone in my direction and I see a poll she created on social. She posted five of the topics we brainstormed and people all over campus are chiming in.
Have I mentioned my girlfriend’s the shit?
Well, it bears repeating.
“You are the best. Seriously. I’m sorry I flaked out. I—”
“Spence, it’s fine. Everybody’s allowed to flake out now and then,” she says, as though it’s true. And for most people, yes. But that’s not the way my dad raised me, so I feel like total shit for letting her down.
She taps a few buttons on her phone screen. “Ok, the poll closes in an hour. That’ll give us plenty of time to collect the results and submit our proposal. Problem solved. But now we have a new problem.”
“What’s that?”
“What are we going to do for the next hour?” she asks.
“Hey guys,” I holler into the living room. “Tofu Surprise is all yours!” With a laugh, we head for the stairs.
