Page 19 of The Summer Show
I wanted to finish my postcards. And someone had just snatched my pen without so much as a please. Kindergarteners knew better. Most of the time. And they were just babies who were learning how to be bigger people.
An adult had no excuse.
I gathered up my things and stormed over to the other table. For a time there I felt like Cinderella’s Prince Philip, hacking and slashing my way through the crowd. He had a sword. I had manners and elbows.
For the record, my polite requests went ignored. My elbows were more effective, especially when I planted them in a soft, squishy bit. When they yelped and moved aside, I apologized. I’m not a complete savage.
Finally, after I’d battled my way through the throng and had the scrapes and future bruises to prove it, I reached the table. Before I could reclaim my pen, Effie grabbed my arm and scribbled her signature up my forearm in big, black letters. She dropped my limb like it was dog poop and moved on to the next one.
“Thanks?”
Conversation over. I’d been dismissed.
“You,” someone said.
I moved clockwise around the table, revealing the rest of the group. Sitting there, arms folded like he was auditioning for the role of Hot Grumpy in a live action remake of Snow White, was Nick Merrick.
One of these things was not like the glittery celebrities. That one thing was Nick.
“Yes, I remember when I was born and my parents debated for weeks over what to call me, and finally they settled on You.”
He stared at me like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.
I performed a rolling motion with my hand. “It starts with a K, ends with an N. You can even shorten it if you like. People usually do, unless I’m in trouble.”
Now he was definitely looking at me like I was a Rubik’s Cube. “With the law?”
“With parents who insist their kids have returned library books when I know they haven’t.” I glanced around the table. “What are you doing here?”
“Kathleen,” he said.
“That’s me, but it still doesn’t answer my question.”
The acreage that was his chest and shoulders shrugged. I was hypnotized watching his muscles shift and settle. “Needed a place to stay.”
“So you’re sleeping at this table?”
Again with the discerning yet unfathomable gaze. As far as I could tell, Nick Merrick was an old spell book with an impenetrable lock. Reading him was impossible without the key, and I was pretty sure the man didn’t hand out keys to just anyone—or anyone at all.
“Pen woman,” Effie said, reminding me of why I was here in the first place. “Go away so others can get autograph.”
“I didn’t come here for an autograph, although” —I raised my signed arm— “thanks. I’d like to say I’ll never wash it, but I intend to scrub it clean later. After I’ve taken a picture, of course.”
Everyone had fallen quiet and suddenly I was the center of attention. Not wanting to be left out of my general discomfort, my anxiety rolled up to the party, stuck its hands in its pockets, and said, Well, well, well, what do we have here? Say something awkward. That should help.
Experience told me that would not help at all; and yet my voice wasn’t listening to the calm, cool, sensible part of my brain. It was gazing adoringly at my anxiety and tossing a word salad with crazy dressing.
“I don’t really watch TV, so …”
Phew. That wasn’t so bad.
My mouth went ahead and improvised.
“… Anyway, what’s everyone’s favorite dinosaur? I’m really into the T. rex, which is surprising, right? Everyone, and by everyone I mean the kids at my school, assumes it’s something herbivorous like the Stegosaurus or the Diplodocus. But it’s actually the T. rex. I think it’s the little arms. They amuse me. Imagine if they had to shave or make a bed.”
And then I did it—I did little T. rex arms. I waggled my fingers and tucked my elbows in tight.
My anxiety sat back and wiped its hands together, satisfied at another awkward situation done well.