Page 8 of The Two of Us

3

THEN (AGE 10)

The boy stares back at us in silence, making it clear he won’t speak first. I shift from one foot to the other, taking him in. He’s taller than me, but the baby fat around his cheeks makes me think he’s my age or very close to it. Midnight hair falls in a mop of disarray on his head and I wonder if he’s ever heard of a brush. He’s average and unassuming until you catch hold of his eyes. Sandwiched between thick black lashes, their moss color pops against the rest of his appearance. They’re sharp and intimidating, but I can’t look away. Those eyes land on me with curiosity and my back stiffens under the attention. My father clears his throat.

“Hey there. My name is Solomon Makinen, and this is my daughter, Mara. We live across the street,” he says, jutting his thumb out behind him. “We saw your family move in and wanted to introduce ourselves. I think you and Mara might be in the same grade. I’m sure you both have a lot in common.” His smile is strained, and it’s obvious he’s trying to pitch me to this kid in hopes that he’ll be my friend. I blanch at his desperation.

The boy’s silence makes me itchy but then he tilts his head at me. “Do you like animals?”

I shrug, dipping my chin at the cat in my arms. “I like cats. This is Cheddar.”

His brows furrow. “Cheddar? Why would you name a cat Cheddar?”

“Because my cousin’s name is Brie, so that was already taken.”

His lack of a reaction means he either didn’t understand my joke, or he just doesn’t find it funny. My money is on the latter and my dad clears his throat for the second time in three minutes. This is going great.

“Are your parents home, son?”

“Sure, just a second. Mom!” he calls into the house.

After a minute, a petite woman takes up the space in the doorway. The smile plastered on her face immediately puts me at ease. The hijab she wears is a myriad of blues, making her face look like it’s being held by the ocean. She’s beautiful. Her son takes after her with his warm skin, but where his eyes are striking and intense, the brown in hers is warm and inviting.

As my dad repeats the introductions and talks about things adults talk about, I steal a glance at the boy again, only to find he’s already studying me. Rather than look away, I hold his gaze, waiting to see who will break eye contact first. It’s as if he senses the gauntlet I’ve thrown down because he turns his body just slightly to line up more directly with mine, his eyes narrowing a fraction. We stay like that, unblinking, until his mom directs her next words at me.

“Mara, I’m taking Ambrose and his little sister to the zoo in half an hour. Would you and your father like to join us? We’d love to have you.”

I begrudgingly accept defeat and look at the kind woman in front of me. If her offer stems from pity, I can’t tell. Her smile makes me believe she really does want us to join, and that’s how me and my dad find ourselves in our old hatchback on our way to the zoo, trailing behind the King family.

We drive with the windows down and I bury my face in the crook of my elbow, taking in the familiar town I’ve known all my life. Speck Lake—a town so small it resembles nothing more than a speck on a map. If you blink fast enough, you can drive through it without even noticing. When I asked my dad why there were so few children around while growing up, he said it’s because Speck Lake is a retirement community.

My parents moved here in the ’90s because there were a lot of new job opportunities at the time. My dad led a construction team to renovate facilities to accommodate the elderly and my mom’s art background put her in high demand at the recreational center. They fell in love with the familial atmosphere and the tight-knit community and decided to put down roots. But when the town’s extensive renovations recently came to an end, there was nothing left for my dad’s construction company to work on, and not long after, the rec center’s interests shifted away from art classes. My mom moved to Paris a month later.

I know everything about this town and the ten kids I’ve shared a classroom with since kindergarten. Nothing ever changes in Speck Lake and it’s confusing why our new neighbors would want to live here. Besides the actual lakes, everything loses its excitement after one visit. Our only movie theater plays the same five classics every Sunday, and the local library feels less like a library and more like a living room full of hand-me-down books from the next town over. Even the zoo, which is considered the largest establishment in town, is small enough to explore in under two hours.

To be fair, Speck Lake has some special qualities as well. Fewer children mean that the ones who do live here get doted on by every old person in town. The community event calendar is always bustling and you can hardly go a week without being invited to someone’s Bake-Off or block party. Everyone in town has each other’s backs, and that became even more evident when my mom left for Paris. Our fridge overflowed with casseroles and other food-train concoctions. You would have thought someone had died, but really everyone just wanted to make sure my dad had what he needed to take care of a ten-year-old girl.

“Mrs. King seems nice, doesn’t she?”

“I guess so.”

I overheard Mrs. King telling my dad that her husband would be home later tonight, but I still have a tingling sense of anxiety at my dad even mentioning the existence of another woman. Even if she is kind.

“She was telling me her husband, Robby, plans on starting the very first soccer program at your school. I’m surprised they have enough interest to get one going, but I think it’s great. We’ve never had anything for you kids to be active in. Maybe we should have you try out.”

I know what he’s doing. It’s the same thing he’s been doing since my mom stepped on that plane and chose croissants over her only daughter. He’s trying to get me involved in anything that will pull me out of my slump. And he must be running out of ideas because we both know how uncoordinated I am.

I should make more of an effort to assuage his fears. His white hairs are starting to make him look like the retired folks he used to work for.

I lean forward in my seat. “Yeah, I guess I could give tryouts a chance. Too bad he isn’t starting a rugby team, or else you could train me yourself.”

“That’s the French, princessa.” He chuckles, using the sentimental nickname—the only term of endearment he’d learned in Spanish. We have this running joke where I mention traditions of other countries and incorrectly attribute it to his Finnish heritage. I see his shoulders visibly relax. As we turn onto the gravel parking lot I’ve seen a million times, something infiltrates my thoughts.

What does Ambrose think about soccer?

***

The zoo’s packed for a Saturday. And by packed, I mean there are more than five families here. The colosseum-shaped building is newly renovated and inviting, and pride fills me knowing my dad had a hand in its construction. Mrs. King, who insists I call her Alima, moves ahead of us to grab the tickets. When she returns, she throws an arm around my shoulder and squeezes me affectionately, as if she’s known me longer than half an hour, and suddenly the trip doesn’t seem so bad. We make our way through the exhibits and my initial hesitation surrounding the King family dissipates.

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