Know Not Why: A Novel (45 page)

“She didn’t like him?” Mitch’s eyes light up
like the living room just turned into Disneyland.

“Nope. He was all hung up on his old girlfriend,
or something.”

“That sucks,” says Mitch giddily.

“She had me bring these for you, bee-tee-dubs,”
I add, busting out the copies of
King Solomon’s Mines
and
The Lost World
that she sent over.

“Oh, hey, sweet,” he says, taking them.

“There’s crazy African juju and dinosaurs and
shit,” I explain, very intellectual. “I think she has you figured
out.”

“Awe
sooooome
.” He grins. “She’s the
best.” Wise man, Mitchell Ballard.

Apparently, the conversation has taken a jolly
enough turn that his appetite is back with a vengeance. He sets the
books aside carefully, then reaches for not one but
two
drumsticks and starts taking alternating bites out of each of them.
The universe attains its symmetry once more.

He’s chomping happily away, throwing occasional
glances at the books from Amber with a fondness that suggests they,
like,
are
Amber, and I kinda feel like, well, if there’s any
time that’s gonna be good, now’s probably it. I clear my throat.
“Hey, you know that stuff I was saying earlier about Bert and Ernie
and … stuff?”

“Yeah,” he says, going to town on that chicken,
“I didn’t get any of that, man, sorry.”

“Not gonna blame you there. Yeah. Uh. That was
actually my weird, pansy-ass way of telling you that …” Here we go.
“Arthur and me, we’re seeing each other. We’re together. Togetherly
seeing each other. In a way where there’s … well, the Brits call it
snogging.”

Mitch’s jaw drops. It offers me a lovely display
of his half-masticated chicken.

“Dude!” Rudy exclaims, thundering out of his
room like the Odyssey Cyclops leaving his sheep cave. The walls
shake. I can’t believe I didn’t realize that he might be listening
with his big weird magical-giant ears. “Dudes. Dudes who dig dudes.
I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation, so sorry, sorry,
sorry, but may I just say:
called it
.”

We both stare at him.

“Huh?” I finally offer.

“You,” Rudy beams, “being all
cock
-a-
dude-
ledoo. Called that.”

“You … did?”

“Yeah,” Rudy says proudly. “Mitch, tell him,
yo.”

“You mean,” Mitch says, “all those times that
I’d bring up Howie, and you’d go, ‘Howie. That dude’s gay,’ you,
like, for real meant—”

“Yeah!” Rudy says. He points at me. “That dude’s
gay
!”

I am not really sure how to feel about this.

“I thought you were just,” Mitch says, “you
know. Saying you thought he was lame. Which,
uncool
, by the
way,” he adds, waving a chastising drumstick at Rudy.

“Oh, no, man,” Rudy says, holding his hands up.
“You kidding me? That’s so derogatory. Me, I don’t hate. I wasn’t
hatin’. Just statin’.”

“Whoa,” I say. I don’t really know what else to
be saying. “And you had this figured out …?”

“Like the first time I met you,” Rudy says with
a shrug. “What can I say? For some reason, my gaydar is
off the
hook
.”

“That’s true,” Mitch acknowledges.

“Sure, man. When I used to watch Doogie Howser
reruns as a kid, I’d be all like, ‘That guy’s gay.’ And I was like
in fifth grade. I dunno, man, I just knew. Hey!” he says, the
lights of epiphany shining grandly upon his visage. “You! Doogie
How
-zer. And it works ‘cause your name is Howie, and it
works ‘cause you’re gay!
Man
. I love it when stuff operates
on two levels like that. Makes my brain all tingly.”

I think we may have a burgeoning great thinker
among us. Beware, Foucault.

“Well,” I say, “too, uh, bad you didn’t let me
know sooner, I guess.”

“Nah,” Rudy says sagely. “That’s the kinda stuff
that you’ve gotta figure out on your own, I think. Soul searching’s
one of those things you do alone.”

Mitch and I sit in impressed silence at this
wise reflection upon the nature of existence.

“Like jerking off,” he finishes, “or taking a
dump.”

Aaand he’s Rudy.

“Wait, whoa, what, you brought
chicken
?
Scorizzle to my stomachizzle! Don’t mind if I do, DooHow. Don’t
mind if I do.”

+

“Do you think we’re too old for this?” I ask the
next afternoon, casting a glance at a couple of kids who are
looking at Amber and me with suspicion from the merry-go-round.
“Have we reached a point where our enthusiasm for playgrounds is
creepy?”

“Not as creepy as the fact that that little boy
just ate something out of his friend’s nose,” Amber replies,
claiming one of the swings with great regality. “Besides, we’ve
been hanging out here since before their parents started dating.
We’ve got dibs.”

“Nice,” I say. I am fiercely down with dibs.

“Now push me, slave.”

Being naught but her humble minion, I press my
hands against her back. She goes swinging forward, and doesn’t make
any attempt to help me out. No leg pumping action at all.
Typical.

“Yeah,” I say, “you’re not gettin’ anywhere if
you’re just gonna sit there and let your feet drag in the dirt,
lazy-ass.” I don’t realize that maybe even the PG-rated talk should
be off-limits, considering the present company, until the words
leave my mouth. Backtrack time! “Lazy-butt. Lazy-bum. Lazy-rump.
Lazy-derriere – that’s just me, nonchalantly projecting my
knowledge of foreign tongues out into the universe. Take a second
language, kids! Stay in school!”

“Knock it off, you’re harassing the youth,”
Amber orders. I catch the chains of her swing and hold her hostage
in retaliation.

“Free me, Jenkins!” She makes a few futile
attempts to kick her feet back at me. Utterly pointless. I am
unconquerable.

“Uh, yeah, maybe I will if you quit this verbal
abuse attack.”

“
Never.
You can take my freedom, but
never my scathing remarks.”

“Okay. I will settle, at this point in time, for
your freedom.” In one totally bad-derriere ninja move, I let go of
the chains and wrap my arms around her from behind. She is
paralyzed in my unearthly grip of steely man strength.

“Unhand me, blackguard!”

“What the hel—…ck’s a—”

“It means, like, scoundrel,” Amber informs me
impatiently. She keeps flailing her arms around. “Which you
are.
When I get out of this – and mark my words, I will –
you’re gonna be at my mercy. You’re gonna owe me lots of pushing.
And an underdog!”

“That, madwoman, is a price I’ll never pay.”

Unfortunately (and, if we’re being real,
unsurprisingly), Amber too is inclined toward bad-derriere ninja
skills. She manages to wiggle her way out of my steely manbrace and
swing free. Then, just to salt the wounds, she twists her swing
around as she’s flying back my way and kicks me. There might be
some very manly, dignified falling over on my part.

The kids seem happy to laugh their tiny heads
off at this for a little while, but eventually, I think they find
themselves intimidated by the epic battle being waged between
us.

Either that or they’re just, ya know, weirded
out. In any case, they take off.

“Ha ha, suckers!” I call after them. I can’t
help it. I’m prone to random terrible lapses in maturity. This
time, it results in me getting called a, quote, ‘tall butt-face.’
Worth it.

“Hey,” I say as I sit down on the swing next to
Amber’s, “he called me tall. Deal with
that
, Artie 6’2”
Kraft.”

Amber doesn’t seem to be basking in the full
height of this victory. Instead, she’s looking forward at nothing
in particular, and – uh oh – I’m pretty sure she’s got Nostalgic
Face. “You remember that time you dared Dennis to throw himself off
the swing when he was up there really high, and he did it?”

“Yeah,” I say. The gravel’s covered in snow now,
but looking down at the spot in question, I still remember him
face-planting onto it. My parents were picking gravel bits out of
his skin for hours. They grounded me for three days for
facilitating
that
evil plan. Turns out ‘I never thought he’d
be dumb enough to do it’ doesn’t hold up very well in Mommy and
Daddy Court.

“I always thought that was so weird, that he did
it,” Amber says.

“Me too.”

She’s quiet for a long time. “Do you think he
knows? About me always liking him?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I don’t add the part
where I feel inclined to fall on the ‘probably’ side of the ‘I
don’t know’ spectrum.

“I think he might know,” she replies. I watch as
she pushes the snow aside with her boot, going at it until gravel’s
exposed from underneath. “The way he was acting about me and the
whole John thing. It just had such a vibe of, ‘Yes, yes, you go for
him and leave me alone.’ That was so the subtext.” She lets out a
short laugh. “Although, ya know, to be fair, I think the me-subtext
in even bringing it up in the first place was to make him jealous.
Or some crazy person equivalent thereof, considering there’s no way
that he ever … would be. Technically, I know these things.”

“What are you gonna do about him?” I ask,
swinging to the side to knock my foot against hers.

“Jeez, I don’t know.” She swings into me,
bumping my shoulder. “Forget about him, I guess. Get over it. Blind
dates or no blind dates.”

“Really?”

“I’ve always had reasons for liking him so much.
He’s funny and smart and we’ve just got this … I don’t know,
rapport that I like. It’s not like I was being totally deluded and
pathetic for ten years.”

“I know,” I say.

“But at the same time, I think I was clinging to
the idea of him. It’s like, I had him, and he was my excuse, and
that way, there wasn’t that huge sense of … of there being someone
out there somewhere for me and me having to go through the horrible
process of trying to find them. You know?”

“Sure.”

“Instead it was like, ‘Nope, I found mine. Found
my one. He just doesn’t like me, isn’t that rotten luck.’
Destination spinsterhood. Which was really easy, in a strange way.
And I’m still in this place where … he walks into the room and the
whole world gets like twenty times better. He can say anything to
me and I’ll remember it for months, and … and love it because he
said it and he said it to me.” I feel bad for her, really bad, and
a little bit angry too. It’s a funky, directionless anger: I’m not
really sure what the target’s supposed to be. But what she’s
saying, it’s a concept that I newly know, it’s something that I’ve
only ever felt around Arthur, and it just seems so fucking unfair
that it’s not guaranteed to go both ways. “But at the same time,”
she adds, “it’s like, now there’s this whole new sense of
screw
him
.”

“I like this sense,” I say. It’s easiest to
blame Dennis. Maybe it’s lousy to do, but it’s a little satisfying,
too.

“He’s with Emily, and they seem happy, and I
like her. And I shouldn’t let myself dwell on the fact that she’s
this weird, like, uber-Amber. I shouldn’t be bitter about that.
There should be no shaking my fists at the heavens like Lear over
it.”

“No dwelling,” I say. “No Learing. That way lies
badness.”

She laughs. “I think I officially give up,” she
declares, meeting my eyes. “He’s got his life, and I’m not really
in it, and that’s fine, and screw him, and may he be happy in the
Amberless existence he’s chosen. I think I might be done.”

I feel a flash of pride toward her. That’s my
Amber. “You should be done.”

“I should?” she asks, with a sharp inhale that
she doesn’t quite allow to become a sniffle.

“Hell to the yeah times infinity,” I say firmly.
“You’ve always been better than this.”

She gives me a wistful smile. “You’re my
favorite twin, anyway.”

“Yeah,
now
.”

“Always,” she corrects.

That one earns her two underdogs.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Arthur takes me to his apartment. Douchey
Patrick’s at work. Arthur reasons that it’s not breaking in when
he’s going to be living here again soon enough anyway, and half of
the stuff is his.

“You say that now,” I tell him as he unlocks the
front door. “But what if we walk in on something not meant to be
witnessed by our unsuspecting eyes? What if he’s got some nubile
young man-wench covered in marmalade and tied to the bedposts,
awaiting his return?”

“Marmalade?”

“Mitch found some in our fridge awhile ago, and
ever since, it’s seemed so rife with comedic value.”

He doesn’t seem to find the dangers of intruding
on a marmalade-slathered man-wench very high, because he steps
right inside. I follow him.

It’s nice. Mitch’s apartment, this is not. The
floors are glossy wood, with the occasional rug to mix things up.
I’m pretty sure all the furniture matches, and I spot something
that looks distinctly footstoolish. Hello, antique ottoman. We meet
at last. The walls are covered in framed art, and painted really
pale yellow. A piano’s hanging out in the corner. There’s a tall
bookshelf that is, impressively, neat whilst being completely
packed. The whole place has an atmosphere that’s really
light
, especially considering we’re in the dead of
winter.

I realize after a couple of seconds that there’s
not a TV.

“Man,” I say, awed, “you’re like, cultured and
shit.”

“I don’t know,” Arthur replies, smirking. “It
seems a little lackluster, sans angel-kittens poster.”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

“Isabelle?” he calls, setting his keys onto the
coffee table. It’s fascinating – perhaps irrationally fascinating –
to watch him here. Arthur in his native environment, at long
last.

A slim grey cat slinks in from down the hallway.
Its eyes flash in a way that seems somehow unnatural. Or at least
mighty evil.