“April’s here?” he says. “Okay, let’s nip this in the bud.”
April catches my eye. She waves in a goofy, fake-surprised way and comes towards us.
“Wow. What a coincidence,” she says. “What are you guys doing here?”
O. sits there silently with his arms crossed.
“Studying,” I say.
“That’s cool,” she says. She looks down at the table. “Huckleberry Finn. One of my faves.”
“Yeah, it’s a good one,” I say.
“It’s lovely to live on a raft,” April says.
A quote from the book. Pretty impressive.
O. motions towards me. “My boy is taking me through it,” he says. “He’s a genius, this guy.”
“I know it,” April says.
Silence.
“Well, I don’t want to interrupt you guys,” April says.
“You want to join us?” I say.
O. shakes his head like I’m nuts.
“Sure!” April says. “But just for a second. I mean, I’m picking up something to go.”
I have to give April props. She’s an amazing liar.
She sits down between O. and me and adjusts her genius glasses. She’s wearing a tight blouse that shows off her cleavage. I’ve never seen her wear anything like that before. I notice O. glances down.
“Lisa tells me you’ve been helping her out,” O. says.
April says, “Yeah. We’re doing Chem together. A lot of people have trouble with it, but it’s a cinch for me. I have a science background because of my dad.”
“Lisa’s not really a science-and-math type,” O. says. “But she’s good at other things.”
He grins like he might have just said something crude.
“Everyone’s good at different things,” April says. “And if you’re not good, you can always learn.”
“You just need the right teacher,” O. says.
He reaches up and arranges his hair. Which means he’s nervous. Which means I’m in deep shit unless I do something.
Now.
I start talking really fast. “That’s what it’s like for me on varsity,” I say. “At first I didn’t think I could do it because of—you know—the immense physical challenges. But the guys rallied around me, and when people believe in you, well, anything is possible. It’s like you suspend disbelief and there’s a shift in the universe. Something like that.”
April and O. stare at me.
“What the hell are you talking about?” O. says.
There’s a long, uncomfortable pause at the table. It reminds me of sitting with Dad.
April finally breaks the tension. She says, “Can I have a sip of your DC, Andy?”
She doesn’t even wait for an answer, just takes my Diet Coke and drinks from my straw. She looks at O. the whole time.
“Lisa said you guys were having some trouble with Calc.”
O. grabs his stomach. “Don’t mention Calc. I’ll heave up a loaf of French bread.” He makes a face like a little kid. “The pain… dear God, the pain…”
April laughs, and as hard as I try to keep a straight face, I end up laughing, too.
Damn it. I don’t want to like O. right now. But when he turns on the charm, it’s hard not to.
April says, “Seriously, though. If you have any math questions, I’m happy to help.”
O. looks at me. “How are you with Calc?”
“I haven’t done it yet,” I say.
I didn’t know April was two years ahead in math. Great.
“I’ll give you my number. Just in case,” April says.
She whips out a pen and snags a napkin from my side of the table. She passes her number to O.
“That’s really decent of you,” O. says, and he puts it in his pocket. “Hey, listen. I gotta take a squirt. You kids be good while I’m gone, huh?”
He winks at me, then he gets up slowly and swaggers off towards the bathroom.
As soon as he’s gone, April bursts into an excited laugh.
“Oh my God! You really are a genius!” she says.
This time she does kiss me. She reaches all the way across the table, takes my face in both hands, and plants one hard on my lips.
“I love you, I love you, I love you!” she says.
She jumps up from her seat.
“I have to go before he gets back. I didn’t even order anything, and he’ll totally know I lied. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. Then I realize she doesn’t have my number. She never asked for it.
She kisses me again, on the cheek this time, and rushes out the door.
I’m stunned. I reach for a slice of pizza, but I can’t even take a bite. I want to smash my fist into it.
O. comes back from the bathroom and sits down.
“Well. That was new and interesting,” he says.
“What the hell happened?” I say.
“With what?”
I wave my arms in the air like a magician. “With the friggin’ abracadabra? Remember?”
“No worries,” O. says. “I’ll get some help with math, and I’ll put in a word for you at the same time. It’s perfect.”
“It doesn’t feel perfect.”
“Trust me,” O. says.
He takes a final bite of pizza and tosses the crust back in the box.
“I have to admit, dude. You have good taste. She’s actually a cool girl,” O. says.
37. circus material.
When I walk into the house, Jessica is watching America’s Next Top Model.
“How did it go with the girl?” she asks.
I walk right by her and go into the kitchen.
“That nice/mean/nice thing doesn’t work with me,” she shouts. Then she turns up the volume.
I hear models giggling. I want to run into the living room and kick the screen, but I can barely move. I’ve gained a thousand pounds since I left Papa Gino’s an hour ago. I can hardly lift my legs when I walk. I’m a circus elephant.
I stamp my way into the kitchen, pretending there are little people under me, and every step takes out five or six of them. People scream as they try to avoid my giant hooves. I tear the door off the refrigerator with my trunk. I am hungry. Elephant is hungry.
Mom is on her weekly shopping excursion. The kitchen is empty. Good news for me. Bad news for the kitchen.
Elephant examines the refrigerator. There is nothing special. Elephant is displeased.
He turns around and looks on the counter.
Bingo. Mom’s been experimenting with pie.
According to Mom, Jews don’t eat a lot of pie. We eat more cake, but she’s out to change that. That’s why there are three dozen mini pies cooling in front of me on the counter. They’re not really tiny, more like one-third size. Scale models of actual pie. I can guess their flavors from the colored bubbles that have percolated up through the vent holes. I reach for the first one and pull off a small piece of crust.
“Are you angry at me?” Jessica says from the doorway. She says it really sweetly, which only makes me angrier. The nice/mean/nice thing does work. Even on her.
“Get away from me!” I say. And she retreats.
Elephant Andy wants his pie, and I will not be interfered with.
I choose blue.
Blueberry. Still warm. I take a bite.
I choose orange.
I hate oranges, but when I bite down, the flavor is not like oranges. It’s more like honey-walnut with an orange essence. Hamantachen pie. Mom has hit one out of the park.
Dark red is apple-rhubarb.
Purple is grape.
Bright red is cherry.
I’m eating too many. The evidence is mounting in front of me, but I can’t stop myself. Whole pies are missing from the tray, and still others have circles punched out of the center where I stuck my massive hoof and licked the results.
Bad Elephant. Hide the evidence. Eat from the back of the cabinet like you usually do. Don’t eat where everyone can see it. Be smart.