yoga mats.
This time he does make her laugh again. “Because if it was a rifle my dad would’ve shot you out of that tree.”
Here’s a valuable piece of information that could come in very handy in future encounters with the General. Don’t do anything to provoke him.
“So what’s wrong with the yoga mat?”
“Nothing. Not really. I think it’s cool you do yoga. Totally. You’re the only guy I’ve ever known who does it.” Obviously, she’s never met Sting, rock legend and yogini. “Only, you know … my dad doesn’t think it’s very masculine. Not like qi gong or kung fu. He can tell you’re not military material.”
A man as perceptive as he is opinionated and large.
“You mean you’re only allowed to talk to trained killers? Isn’t that a little limiting?”
She tugs on her hair. “Oh, you know what I mean. The General thinks boys should be clean cut and play football and stuff like that. You’re a little—”
“Short?” guesses Josh. “Bent-nosed? Pointy-eared? Near-sighted?”
“Oh God…” Suddenly her laugh sounds like an itch. “I wasn’t being critical. I wish I’d never said anything.”
She isn’t the only one. If they keep this up the General isn’t going to be alone in thinking that Josh is substandard. Before he completely loses every drop of confidence he has, Josh volunteers to get their drinks. She wants a cappuccino and a banana-split brownie with two forks – they’re so good he just has to try it. He decides not to mention his lack of enthusiasm for both bananas and chocolate.
She stares at the tray as he sets it on the table. Curiously. As if she was expecting something else. “What’s that in your cup?”
“Tea. It’s the ancient drink of the Chinese, believed to have medicinal properties.”
“Wow.” He can’t tell if she’s impressed or simply astonished. “I didn’t even know they had tea here.” She peers into his cup as if it might be filled with grubs. She sniffs. “What kind of tea is that? It smells funny.”
“It’s green tea.” He hands Jena her cappuccino. “With jasmine.”
“Green tea? Really?” She couldn’t sound more astounded if he’d told her it was yak milk. “You don’t drink coffee?”
“It’s against my religion.”
“Really?”
“No. I just don’t like it.”
“See, that’s another thing the General would think is weird.”
Tea, yoga and enough hair to wrap an elastic band around. It’s amazing Josh’s mother lets him go out by himself.
“That I don’t drink coffee?” The General’s spectrum for normal behaviour is clearly a small one. “Is that what he thinks I am? Weird?”
She answers the question he didn’t ask. “But I don’t. I don’t know anybody like you.”
He thinks she means this in a good way. Hopes; hopes she means it in a good way. “That’s not the same as weird?”
“Of course not! It just means you’re different. You know, to the people I’m used to.” If her smile were an ocean he would definitely drown. He would probably drown if it were a puddle. “My dad has all these rules. Rules for every occasion. It’s like everything has to fit in a box. And I get it. I understand why.”
He doesn’t say,
Really? You do? Could you explain it to me?
He nods as if he gets it, too.
“But I think you’re kind of cool.”
“Only kind of?”
“Cool and funky.”
Funky is absolutely good. Bluesmen are supposed to be funky. And cool. Eat your heart out, General Capistrano. Go put that in a box.
He sits across from her, sipping his tea and wielding his fork, not worrying about what chocolate does to his skin or whether or not the eggs were free-range or came from chickens who lived short, miserable lives in tiny cages – which he would be if Carver were here. So this must be what it’s like to be an average teenager, hanging out in the trendy coffee bar eating cake sweet enough to make your teeth scream. Another song he doesn’t like and didn’t know he knew pops
This time he does make her laugh again. “Because if it was a rifle my dad would’ve shot you out of that tree.”
Here’s a valuable piece of information that could come in very handy in future encounters with the General. Don’t do anything to provoke him.
“So what’s wrong with the yoga mat?”
“Nothing. Not really. I think it’s cool you do yoga. Totally. You’re the only guy I’ve ever known who does it.” Obviously, she’s never met Sting, rock legend and yogini. “Only, you know … my dad doesn’t think it’s very masculine. Not like qi gong or kung fu. He can tell you’re not military material.”
A man as perceptive as he is opinionated and large.
“You mean you’re only allowed to talk to trained killers? Isn’t that a little limiting?”
She tugs on her hair. “Oh, you know what I mean. The General thinks boys should be clean cut and play football and stuff like that. You’re a little—”
“Short?” guesses Josh. “Bent-nosed? Pointy-eared? Near-sighted?”
“Oh God…” Suddenly her laugh sounds like an itch. “I wasn’t being critical. I wish I’d never said anything.”
She isn’t the only one. If they keep this up the General isn’t going to be alone in thinking that Josh is substandard. Before he completely loses every drop of confidence he has, Josh volunteers to get their drinks. She wants a cappuccino and a banana-split brownie with two forks – they’re so good he just has to try it. He decides not to mention his lack of enthusiasm for both bananas and chocolate.
She stares at the tray as he sets it on the table. Curiously. As if she was expecting something else. “What’s that in your cup?”
“Tea. It’s the ancient drink of the Chinese, believed to have medicinal properties.”
“Wow.” He can’t tell if she’s impressed or simply astonished. “I didn’t even know they had tea here.” She peers into his cup as if it might be filled with grubs. She sniffs. “What kind of tea is that? It smells funny.”
“It’s green tea.” He hands Jena her cappuccino. “With jasmine.”
“Green tea? Really?” She couldn’t sound more astounded if he’d told her it was yak milk. “You don’t drink coffee?”
“It’s against my religion.”
“Really?”
“No. I just don’t like it.”
“See, that’s another thing the General would think is weird.”
Tea, yoga and enough hair to wrap an elastic band around. It’s amazing Josh’s mother lets him go out by himself.
“That I don’t drink coffee?” The General’s spectrum for normal behaviour is clearly a small one. “Is that what he thinks I am? Weird?”
She answers the question he didn’t ask. “But I don’t. I don’t know anybody like you.”
He thinks she means this in a good way. Hopes; hopes she means it in a good way. “That’s not the same as weird?”
“Of course not! It just means you’re different. You know, to the people I’m used to.” If her smile were an ocean he would definitely drown. He would probably drown if it were a puddle. “My dad has all these rules. Rules for every occasion. It’s like everything has to fit in a box. And I get it. I understand why.”
He doesn’t say,
Really? You do? Could you explain it to me?
He nods as if he gets it, too.
“But I think you’re kind of cool.”
“Only kind of?”
“Cool and funky.”
Funky is absolutely good. Bluesmen are supposed to be funky. And cool. Eat your heart out, General Capistrano. Go put that in a box.
He sits across from her, sipping his tea and wielding his fork, not worrying about what chocolate does to his skin or whether or not the eggs were free-range or came from chickens who lived short, miserable lives in tiny cages – which he would be if Carver were here. So this must be what it’s like to be an average teenager, hanging out in the trendy coffee bar eating cake sweet enough to make your teeth scream. Another song he doesn’t like and didn’t know he knew pops
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