Page 25 of Lovebug
“Has anyone actually ever tried to say hello to this man?” I ask.
“Besides you yesterday when he iced you out like a snow cone?”
“He what? I wouldn’t say that he… Nonsense, Dante. He just didn’t hear me.”
“If you say so, gurl.” He shrugs.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You two, get your groups set up with their materials. The counselors have you covered for a few minutes. We’re going to march right over there to Mister…”
“The Wall,” they say in unison.
“We’re going to march over to that… nice gentleman, find out hisrealname so we can all stop calling him The Wall”—I say this with my index finger pointed at them like a harsh schoolmarm —“then we’re going to learn a bit about him and welcome him properly to the arboretum like we should have done yesterday.”
“I’m all about protecting ladies from imminent danger and conducting constant acts of chivalry,” Dante says with a surprising explosion of heightened vocabulary. “But gurl? You’re cray if you think if I’m gonna dialogue with that dude.”
“April?” I ask.
“Hell to the no,” she answers emphatically.
As I expected.
“Not a problem. I’ll go myself. Kindness in action. Watch and learn, friends. Watch and learn.” I pause a moment. “Actually? I don’t really want an audience for this. Go focus on your kids, and I’ll report back on my inevitable success.”
“Go on, gurl!” Dante is nothing if not encouraging.
I check to make sure all kids and counselors are settled safely and the craft is underway, then start a slow walk to where the man is crouched down and working with a wrench.
I have absolutely no idea why I choose this approach, but I whip around the water fountain in a sort of sneak attack, and shout, “HI!”
His body jerks as though I’ve startled him. Because clearly, I have.
I smile and wave. Even though he’s right in front of me.
He turns and looks behind us as if he’s unsure I’m actually speaking to him. I’m noticing this happens a lot when I greet people. Calliope told me once that I approach strangers with “unearned familiarity,” and it freaks them out. Friendliness freaks people out? I’m not sure what to do with that information.
“Yes you, silly!” I say.
His full attention is trained on me, but he doesn’t say a word. I’m starting to think the kids were right, and this guy actually doesn’t speak.
“Hey you,” I breathe.
Was that my voice I just heard? I don’t say “hey you” in that shouty way people do when they’re trying to get your attention outside the grocery store for leaving your cart abandoned in the lot instead of in the assigned cart area—not that I would ever shout at someone or leave a cart abandoned in a lot. No, the “hey you” I give him is that breathy sort. That shy, smiley sort. The kind of “hey you” people say when they know you so deeply and truly that they almost never say your actual name because they don’t need to. Who else could they possibly be speaking to at that moment except… you. You. You. Wonderful, precious, irreplaceableyou.
Not that I’ve ever been the recipient of such a “you.”
“Did you need something?” he asks.
He speaks! Oh wow, he speaks!
His voice is… gruff. That’s the only way to describe it. Is he annoyed? Nah, it’s probably just his voice. I’ve heard of perpetual bitch face. Maybe he has a perpetual bitchvoice? But he’s a guy, so I guess to be accurate, it would be called a perpetualbastardvoice?
“Before we begin, let it be known that I don’t think you’re a bastard. Or a bitch.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was just thinking that yousoundlike a bastard, but I bet that’s just the way your vocal cords operate. They’re probably just prone to a gruff, bastardy tone.”
“No. You had it right the first time. Iama bastard.”
