of bothering with girls from school. It would be iconoclastic. An older woman, maybe with a neglectful husband. It would be theatrical. No one else has wanted to kiss me since I got here. On the head or anywhere else.
Overripe
. How does Jim mean it? Like a banana? An overripe banana isn’t bad. I look over and see Brenda L. balancing an entire tray of food on her hip.
I take out my notebook and am writing
overripe can mean sweet
when Sherrie sits down.
“Hi,” she says.
“Heyyy,” I say.
“What are you so happy about?”
I smile. Sherrie flaps her enormous eyelashes. Tweety Bird, that’s who she reminds me of.
“Maybe I’m just a happy kind of guy.”
Sherrie smirks elaborately at this. Do I not seem a happy kind of guy? Then Brenda L.’s heavy, overripe presence is hanging above us. She stands with her order pad poised as Sherrie looks down at the placemat where the tearoom menu is writ.
“Tea,” says Sherrie. I am concerned that Brenda will think Sherrie is my girlfriend.
“That it?” says Brenda. “No fries?”
“No, thanks,” says Sherrie.
Look at me, Brenda L.
, I am thinking. And she does.
“Yours is coming,” she tells me. I nod.
Sherrie starts laughing once Brenda goes away. She puts a pompous look on her face and bobs her head a few times.
“What?” I say.
“You!” she says. “You’re Mr. Cool today.”
My neck begins to burn when I realize all Sherrie’s bobbing was supposed to represent my nod at Brenda. I rub at it and hunch my shoulders.
What’s
your
deal anyway, Tweety?
Iwant to say to Sherrie.
Girl poets don’t look like you. They’re gaunt and sucked-in and wear hippie clothes. They’re ethereal, sexless. The only thing you’ve got down is the frizzy hair
.
“I’m just kidding,” says Sherrie, ducking her head to catch my eye. “You just seem like you’re in a good mood.”
I remember my good mood and sit up. “I saw Jim.”
“Oh! How is he?”
I can’t remember the Latin thing Jim said in Dekker’s office, so I try to come up with something equally sombre and elegant. “He is bowed … but unbroken.”
“What?” says Sherrie.
“He’s good,” I say fast.
“Really?”
“Well,” I say, “he says he’s coming back to work. And I think he was really, really touched to hear about what we’re doing.”
“Oh, you told him what we’re doing?”
“Yeah. Dekker did.”
Sherrie smiles, nestling back into her seat. A pink smudge appears on each cheek. Pink and white—her face is like a valentine. “Oh, good,” she says. “Oh, good.”
Brenda sets two aluminum pots of tea down in front of us, and then two identical cups and saucers. “Fries’re on their way,” she says.
“Thank you, Brenda L.!” I call. And she bestows her nurturing, head-kissing look before going away. It fortifies me.
“What did he say?” says Sherrie.
“About what?”
“About us.”
All I really remember is a wall of eyebrow coming at me, a faceful of wool and sawdust.
“He just said thank you,” I answer, floating on the memory.
“Thank you?”
“Yeah—‘thank you, thank you so much.’ He was a little choked up.”
“Was Todd there?”
“What? No—Todd dropped the letter off, remember?”
“So it was just you?”
“No, it was me and Dekker—” I stop and peer at Sherrie. Vast and blue as her eyes might be, they don’t give much away. Still, I get it. I get it because I know what I’d be thinking if I was her.
“Oh,” I say. “But—you know—he knows it’s not just me, Sherrie.”
Sherrie pretends to look around for Brenda, concerned about my french fries.
“No, no,” she says, flipping a hand as if to say fiddle-de-dee. “It’s fine.”
“I mean, he knows I couldn’t do this alone.”
“You told him …?”
“Dekker told him it was a bunch of us.”
I can see Sherrie trying to figure out a way of asking if she was mentioned to Jim by name without sounding like she cares. Trying to shrug herself into a
Overripe
. How does Jim mean it? Like a banana? An overripe banana isn’t bad. I look over and see Brenda L. balancing an entire tray of food on her hip.
I take out my notebook and am writing
overripe can mean sweet
when Sherrie sits down.
“Hi,” she says.
“Heyyy,” I say.
“What are you so happy about?”
I smile. Sherrie flaps her enormous eyelashes. Tweety Bird, that’s who she reminds me of.
“Maybe I’m just a happy kind of guy.”
Sherrie smirks elaborately at this. Do I not seem a happy kind of guy? Then Brenda L.’s heavy, overripe presence is hanging above us. She stands with her order pad poised as Sherrie looks down at the placemat where the tearoom menu is writ.
“Tea,” says Sherrie. I am concerned that Brenda will think Sherrie is my girlfriend.
“That it?” says Brenda. “No fries?”
“No, thanks,” says Sherrie.
Look at me, Brenda L.
, I am thinking. And she does.
“Yours is coming,” she tells me. I nod.
Sherrie starts laughing once Brenda goes away. She puts a pompous look on her face and bobs her head a few times.
“What?” I say.
“You!” she says. “You’re Mr. Cool today.”
My neck begins to burn when I realize all Sherrie’s bobbing was supposed to represent my nod at Brenda. I rub at it and hunch my shoulders.
What’s
your
deal anyway, Tweety?
Iwant to say to Sherrie.
Girl poets don’t look like you. They’re gaunt and sucked-in and wear hippie clothes. They’re ethereal, sexless. The only thing you’ve got down is the frizzy hair
.
“I’m just kidding,” says Sherrie, ducking her head to catch my eye. “You just seem like you’re in a good mood.”
I remember my good mood and sit up. “I saw Jim.”
“Oh! How is he?”
I can’t remember the Latin thing Jim said in Dekker’s office, so I try to come up with something equally sombre and elegant. “He is bowed … but unbroken.”
“What?” says Sherrie.
“He’s good,” I say fast.
“Really?”
“Well,” I say, “he says he’s coming back to work. And I think he was really, really touched to hear about what we’re doing.”
“Oh, you told him what we’re doing?”
“Yeah. Dekker did.”
Sherrie smiles, nestling back into her seat. A pink smudge appears on each cheek. Pink and white—her face is like a valentine. “Oh, good,” she says. “Oh, good.”
Brenda sets two aluminum pots of tea down in front of us, and then two identical cups and saucers. “Fries’re on their way,” she says.
“Thank you, Brenda L.!” I call. And she bestows her nurturing, head-kissing look before going away. It fortifies me.
“What did he say?” says Sherrie.
“About what?”
“About us.”
All I really remember is a wall of eyebrow coming at me, a faceful of wool and sawdust.
“He just said thank you,” I answer, floating on the memory.
“Thank you?”
“Yeah—‘thank you, thank you so much.’ He was a little choked up.”
“Was Todd there?”
“What? No—Todd dropped the letter off, remember?”
“So it was just you?”
“No, it was me and Dekker—” I stop and peer at Sherrie. Vast and blue as her eyes might be, they don’t give much away. Still, I get it. I get it because I know what I’d be thinking if I was her.
“Oh,” I say. “But—you know—he knows it’s not just me, Sherrie.”
Sherrie pretends to look around for Brenda, concerned about my french fries.
“No, no,” she says, flipping a hand as if to say fiddle-de-dee. “It’s fine.”
“I mean, he knows I couldn’t do this alone.”
“You told him …?”
“Dekker told him it was a bunch of us.”
I can see Sherrie trying to figure out a way of asking if she was mentioned to Jim by name without sounding like she cares. Trying to shrug herself into a
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