The Moon and More(54)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“It’s worked so far.”

We sat there for a moment, in silence. Finally he said, “Well, that was a short run.”

“Totally,” I agreed. “We make awful platonic friends.”

“It’s a good thing we only have to do it for another eleven minutes.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and studied me. “Maybe it’s just that we don’t know each other all that well yet. Tell me something about yourself.”

“What?” I replied.

“Anything.”

I just looked at him.

“What’s your favorite condiment?”

“Condiment?” I asked. “You have everything in the world to choose from and you ask me that?”

“Look, all I really want to do is kiss you. And I can’t for another—” He glanced at the clock. “Ten minutes. I’m doing my best.”

“Fine. It’s mustard.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Mustard? Really.”

“What’s so surprising about mustard?”

“I don’t know,” he said, with a shrug. “I kind of figured you for a ketchup girl.”

“Why?”

“Not sure. Just a hunch.”

I rolled my eyes. “What’s yours?”

“Soy sauce,” he said, without missing a beat. “I can eat it on anything. Even ice cream.”

“That,” I said, “is disgusting.”

“I disagree, but we’ll move on,” he replied. “Favorite room in the house?”

“Bedroom,” I replied. “I like to sleep. You?”

“I’m into cooking. Kitchen.”

“You can never have enough clocks there,” I said.

There was that grin again. “Novels or poetry?”

“Novels,” I said. “Most poems are too short and cryptic for my taste.”

He pointed at himself. “Totally opposite. Love haikus and free verse, low tolerance for long-winded prose. Salt or pepper?”

“Can’t I like both?”

He made a face.

“Fine. Salt.”

“I’m all about pepper. See, opposites do attract!”

We both looked at the computer clock again. Seven minutes.

“I feel like I’m in school, time is passing so slowly,” I said, leaning my head back and looking at the ceiling. That made me think of something. “Favorite subject.”

“Computer programming, closely followed by commercial design,” he answered easily. “What’s yours?”

“History,” I told him. “And geometry and trig. Love angles and protractors.”

“That,” he said, pointing at me, “is so mustard of you.”

“Favorite SAT word?” I asked him.

He thought for a second. “Pernicious. Because it looks like it would mean something pretty, but instead is all malicious and dangerous. You?”

“Omphaloskepsis,” I said. “The art of studying your belly button. Because that was totally what I would have preferred to do instead of learning to spell that word.”

He laughed, then snorted, which made me laugh.

“You’re a snorter?”

“Hey, you picked mustard,” he reminded me. “Okay, let’s get topical: favorite tomorrow-related quote.”

This I had to think about for a moment. Finally I said, “‘Everything will look better in the morning.’”

“Who said that?”

“My mom. Usually when I was in tears over something school related right before I went to bed. What about you?”

He didn’t have to think. “It’s John Wayne. ‘Tomorrow is the most important thing in life. Comes into us at midnight very clean. It’s perfect when it arrives and puts itself in our hands. It hopes we’ve learned something from yesterday.’”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s great.”

“I know.” He smiled. “I like yours, too.”

We sat there a second, looking at each other. I don’t know you, I thought. And yet I do. It was the weirdest feeling.

“Next question,” he said, and I sat up, ready. “Do you know what time it is?”

I looked at the clock: 12:02. “It’s morning.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed. “How about that.”

And then he leaned forward, carefully, slowly, pulled me onto his lap, and kissed me. No toasters this time, just this dark room, the pool glowing blue in the distance, and Clyde, frozen in front of us. It was really nice, and worth the wait. Until the lights suddenly came on.

“Theo! Hello?” An annoyed sigh. “I need some help here.”

We broke apart, sloppily. I put my hand over my mouth, then turned to see Ivy on the landing, a large box in her arms. She gestured at Theo impatiently, and he eased me off his lap, getting to his feet.

“I thought you were just wrapping things up,” he said, crossing the room. “What’s this?”

She handed him the box without comment, then walked into the kitchen, tossing down her purse and keys with a clank. Despite myself, I thought of the (at least previously) nick-free countertop. Once a realty employee, always a realty employee, even after hours.

“Mr. Conaway suggested,” she was saying now, as she pulled open the fridge and took out an opened bottle of white wine, “that I do some ‘reading up’ before we meet again.”

“Reading up?” Theo repeated, carrying the box over to the table. “On his work? But you’ve already—”

“Not his work,” she cut him off, getting herself a glass. She poured it more than half full, then took a large gulp. “This place.”

Theo opened the lid and took out a few books. I saw what looked like an atlas and some other volume with a visible layer of dust, spotted with fingerprints. “The town?”

“Yes, Theo. The town,” she said, her voice flat. “Apparently, my questions today did not convey an understanding of that particular part of his personal history. I suppose he’d be more comfortable with someone who can name-check the Gualalupes.”

“The who?” Theo asked, confused.

“That Catholic family.” Ivy waved a hand in my direction. “She knows.”

Now they were both looking at me. I said, “The Guadaleris.”

“Exactly.” She took another gulp of her wine, then walked over and picked up the dusty book. “He was kind enough to provide me with some items from his personal library for my perusal.”