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Authors: Rajdeep Paulus
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I
want to say. “He’s a lawyer. Immigration Law.”
“Close enough. Maybe it’s the whole overprotective dad
thing?” Lagan’s voice strains as if he’s reaching for the sugar on the top
shelf. Problem is, poisonous pellets fill the sugar tin. And he has no clue.
“Something like that.” Actually, I don’t know that I have
ever thought it through. It is all I know. I learned at an early age not to
question Dad. I don’t know if I have ever asked myself why Dad does what he
does. Does he take home all his pent up frustrations from work, perhaps from
representing overseas clients who are never awake during Central Standard Time?
Mom told us once that she met Dad at work, but the story ended there. Maybe Dad
missed Mom and took it out on us? My eyebrows must have burrowed into each
other, showing my dislike of the question.
“Sorry for asking.” Lagan looks genuinely sorry, his averted
eyes accompanying his lowered voice.
“No. It’s just. I don’t have a good explanation. It’s just
my life, I guess.”
***
These
are better days—we have graduated from nodding to cafeteria trays. I
still discern where and when I’ll risk real conversations. Unforeseen
opportunities arise in English Lit circles, Science Lab, during assemblies, and
occasionally in study hall in the school library, if we secure two side-by-side
cubicles.
I love how Lagan creatively tells me about himself while
asking me about me. During a team math competition, he quickly moves his chair
next to mine. He has no intention of winning. He has every intention of digging
deeper.
After knocking a geometry proof out, he scrawls, Chocolate
or Vanilla? on the scratch
paper.
I circle Vanilla and write the words of course underneath.
He puts a question mark after my words.
I scribble back, Everyone loves chocolate . Vanilla seems lonely. I prefer to
represent the underdog. I shrug to let him know it might not make sense, but it
makes sense to me. He changes my period to an explanation point. He either
approves or he’s excited. Doesn’t take much, apparently.
After the second question, Comedy or
Suspense? appears from
beneath his writing hand, I have to think back to the last time I saw a movie.
It was with Mom. The Fisher King. A nineties flick starring a comedian Mom
used to love.
I cross out suspense and write romantic in front of comedy .
He smirks and writes, CIA Suspense like the Bourne Trilogy,
but I like those too. Shhh . don’t tell anyone. Have a
rep to uphold. Don’t want the guys to know I’m into chick flicks , and then proceeds to black out the
words chick flicks as he surveys the room suspiciously.
By the time I answer ten questions, all the teams have
handed in their contest sheets. We’re last, but I don’t care. We have a few fun
facts to walk away with.
I prefer spring. He likes autumn.
He plays basketball. I can run. Pretty fast if I need to.
He plays the guitar. Writes his own music, apparently. I
play a mean vacuum.
I can bake from scratch. He has mastered mac and cheese from
the box.
He chooses bacon over sausage any day. I prefer bacon, too.
But turkey. He’s all for the pig’s contribution to the best scents to radiate
from a kitchen.
He loves music: to sing it, dance to it, or
just listen to it all day long. So would I if I had time. Not sure about the
dancing thing, though.
He owns an iPod. I listen to the radio of my
alarm clock.
I read fiction. He doesn’t like to read. Well, there’s one
book he reads every day. A little weird, but okay.
I investigate further that day during lunch. “What’s it
called?”
“What’s what called?” Lagan needs to work on his short-term
memory is what I’m thinking.
“The one book you read?” Duh!
“Oh that. It’s nothing. Just a little book on life and war.
You probably wouldn’t get into it.”
“Try me. I don’t mind a story on war. Who’s the hero?” Heck,
any war story that isn’t my own would be a nice diversion.
want to say. “He’s a lawyer. Immigration Law.”
“Close enough. Maybe it’s the whole overprotective dad
thing?” Lagan’s voice strains as if he’s reaching for the sugar on the top
shelf. Problem is, poisonous pellets fill the sugar tin. And he has no clue.
“Something like that.” Actually, I don’t know that I have
ever thought it through. It is all I know. I learned at an early age not to
question Dad. I don’t know if I have ever asked myself why Dad does what he
does. Does he take home all his pent up frustrations from work, perhaps from
representing overseas clients who are never awake during Central Standard Time?
Mom told us once that she met Dad at work, but the story ended there. Maybe Dad
missed Mom and took it out on us? My eyebrows must have burrowed into each
other, showing my dislike of the question.
“Sorry for asking.” Lagan looks genuinely sorry, his averted
eyes accompanying his lowered voice.
“No. It’s just. I don’t have a good explanation. It’s just
my life, I guess.”
***
These
are better days—we have graduated from nodding to cafeteria trays. I
still discern where and when I’ll risk real conversations. Unforeseen
opportunities arise in English Lit circles, Science Lab, during assemblies, and
occasionally in study hall in the school library, if we secure two side-by-side
cubicles.
I love how Lagan creatively tells me about himself while
asking me about me. During a team math competition, he quickly moves his chair
next to mine. He has no intention of winning. He has every intention of digging
deeper.
After knocking a geometry proof out, he scrawls, Chocolate
or Vanilla? on the scratch
paper.
I circle Vanilla and write the words of course underneath.
He puts a question mark after my words.
I scribble back, Everyone loves chocolate . Vanilla seems lonely. I prefer to
represent the underdog. I shrug to let him know it might not make sense, but it
makes sense to me. He changes my period to an explanation point. He either
approves or he’s excited. Doesn’t take much, apparently.
After the second question, Comedy or
Suspense? appears from
beneath his writing hand, I have to think back to the last time I saw a movie.
It was with Mom. The Fisher King. A nineties flick starring a comedian Mom
used to love.
I cross out suspense and write romantic in front of comedy .
He smirks and writes, CIA Suspense like the Bourne Trilogy,
but I like those too. Shhh . don’t tell anyone. Have a
rep to uphold. Don’t want the guys to know I’m into chick flicks , and then proceeds to black out the
words chick flicks as he surveys the room suspiciously.
By the time I answer ten questions, all the teams have
handed in their contest sheets. We’re last, but I don’t care. We have a few fun
facts to walk away with.
I prefer spring. He likes autumn.
He plays basketball. I can run. Pretty fast if I need to.
He plays the guitar. Writes his own music, apparently. I
play a mean vacuum.
I can bake from scratch. He has mastered mac and cheese from
the box.
He chooses bacon over sausage any day. I prefer bacon, too.
But turkey. He’s all for the pig’s contribution to the best scents to radiate
from a kitchen.
He loves music: to sing it, dance to it, or
just listen to it all day long. So would I if I had time. Not sure about the
dancing thing, though.
He owns an iPod. I listen to the radio of my
alarm clock.
I read fiction. He doesn’t like to read. Well, there’s one
book he reads every day. A little weird, but okay.
I investigate further that day during lunch. “What’s it
called?”
“What’s what called?” Lagan needs to work on his short-term
memory is what I’m thinking.
“The one book you read?” Duh!
“Oh that. It’s nothing. Just a little book on life and war.
You probably wouldn’t get into it.”
“Try me. I don’t mind a story on war. Who’s the hero?” Heck,
any war story that isn’t my own would be a nice diversion.
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