Page 72 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
“No,” I say, and he smiles.
“It’s like Violet says inThe Ersatz Elevator:If we wait until we’re ready, we’ll be waiting for the rest of our lives.”
“Like who says in what?” Maren asks, and I manage, somehow, to laugh. I have no idea what he’s talking about either, but I’d listen to him forever anyway. I lean across the console and kiss the side of his face.
“Remember when you guys hated each other?” Maren says, and Miller glances back at her.
Then he answers—truthfully, I know now. “No.”
We set up in Owen’s living room, which is framed with toys from his twin little sisters—Daisy and Agatha. Maren wants to shoot him with the piano in the background. It’s an old, faded thing: chipped paint at the edges, crackled silver lettering above the keys. But it’s beautiful still, in the way things are when they’re loved.
Owen’s mom, in a pilled pink robe and slippers, makes the girls toaster waffles in the kitchen while we set up the camera. Owen is skinny and disproportioned, like his feet and his hands and all his joints are too big for his body.How Miller used to look, I think,before he shot up.How every guy looked, pretty much, when we were freshmen.
“I’m not great at public speaking,” he tells us, picking at a scab on his elbow. He’s wearing a red-striped polo shirt and huge, square glasses.
“That’s all right,” I say, and offer what I hope is a reassuringsmile. “It’s not public, it’s just us.”
“Right,” he says, swallowing. But he’s twitchy and uncomfortable, and I’m starting to feel like we’re just making things worse for him. Like maybe coming here wasn’t such a great idea after all.
“Owen,” Miller says, and we both look over at him. He’s on the couch, where there’s barely room for his bulky cast amid a thick pile of stuffed animals and crumpled Christmas wrapping paper. “Would you play something for us?”
Owen glances at the piano, and I watch him hedge. His fingers twitch in his lap. “Um,” he says. But we just wait, and finally he gives a jerky little nod and turns on the bench seat to face the keys. He takes a big breath that expands his ribs through the back of his shirt. Then he begins.
Everything about him changes when he plays: His shoulders square off, his spine goes straight and strong. The music fills the entire room, the entire house, the entire town, maybe—floating over the plains and the highway dusted with snow. His sisters wander in, five years old and identical. One of them holds a waffle, and the other has two fingers in her mouth. They share a secret smile, then giggle a little.
It’s magic, I think. It’s what he’s meant to be doing, no matter what the science says. I turn to Maren, who’s ducked behind the camera, and mouth,Are you getting this?She nods, giving me a thumbs-up.
When I look at Miller, he’s already smiling at me.
40
Our second trip is the closest to home. As soon as we decided to search for stories I thought of Taj Singh, the way he’d pulled me aside in calculus all the way back in October. The open fear in his eyes when he asked,Can MASH get it wrong?
At the time I’d thought the divide between his dream career, doctor, and his MASH prediction, dentist, was small enough to pass for insignificant.It’s still medicine, I’d told him. Now I wish I could shake that version of myself, tell her to swallow her words. Who was I, with my perfect MASH-predicted future, to tell anyone that their devastating prediction wasstillanything?
When I called Taj to ask if we could interview him on-camera, he hesitated so long I thought the call might’ve dropped.
“Taj?” I’d finally prompted. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It’s just, ah—I mean, my parents don’t know. I haven’t told them.”
“About the dentist thing?”
“Right.”
I hesitated. “Will they be mad if they find out?”
“Not exactly.” He drew a breath, and it rattled into the receiver. “Look, why don’t you just come over on Friday? I’ll show you.”
We don’t know what to expect when we pull up to Taj’s house, a soil-colored cabin a few blocks from the lake. There’s a Subaru parked in the driveway and a white terrier peering at us through the front window. A lawn sign spiked between pine roots in the front yard tells us thatA SRHS Mountain Lion Lives Here. The sign’s shaped like a soccer ball.
Taj smiles when he opens the door, which makes me relax just a little.
“Hey,” he says, taking a backward step to let us inside. “Come on in.”
It’s quiet save for his dog, who jumps at our ankles and snuffles our socked feet once our shoes are off.
“Thanks so much for meeting us,” I say. “We can film wherever you want.”
