But overall, I’m not really a nature lady.”
“Yet you’re telling me you want to go.”
“Yeah.”
She went silent again, and I changed the subject. We talked about how annoying my mother was for the rest of the session.
In Am Lit on Wednesday, Mr. Wallace stopped our discussion ten minutes before the end of class to talk about November Week. “I’m doing something new this year,” he announced. “Running my own show. As some of you know,” he said, nodding at Cricket and Nora and a few others, “I assisted on the rafting expeditions the past two years. But this year, Mrs. Glass and I are doing a course called Canoe Island, and I hope you will all come join us.”
I had seen Canoe Island listed in the catalog. All it said was “Expand your mind. Nourish your soul. $375.”
I hadn’t given it any thought.
Mr. Wallace went on to explain that the project involved going to a retreat on a tiny island in the San Juans, off the Seattle coast, where we’d read and discuss meaningful philosophical stuff in the mornings; then, in the afternoon, we’d swim in the pool, hike around the island and take turns making dinner. Evenings, we’d watch important movies from the history of cinema that would continue to spur our thought processes about the philosophical issues in the readings.
Movies. And swimming.
It was Exploring the Shallow Life, only deep.
So I told Wallace after class that I wanted to do it. Before I could chicken out.
He looked relieved and said I was the first person to sign up.
“Your catalog copy is too mysterious,” I told him. “You have a PR problem.”
Wallace laughed. “You can work on your flip turns while you’re there if you want. It looks like Imari from the boys’ team might come, so I’ll coach in the afternoons.”
That evening, I got my parents to write the check, and promised to pay them back three hundred dollars of it.
“I hope you have a real bonding experience with your peer group,” said my father, squeezing me around the shoulders.
“I’m just relieved we don’t have to buy her a backpack,” said my mother.
Angelo Martinez called me that night, and our conversation went like this:
Him: Hey, Roo. It’s Angelo.
Me: What’s up?
Him: Not a lot. Just got in from playing basketball.
Me: Cool.
Him: Um. Listen.
Me: Yeah?
Him: I, ah, I wanted to say I had a good time the other day. The other night. It was nice.
Me: Oh, yeah. Sorry about squashing your dog.
Him: De nada. He can take it.
Me: At least it wasn’t little Skipperdee.
Him: No. If you squashed her, she’d have bit you.
Me: Oh.
Him: I’m serious.
Me: Actually, I meant if I squashed her I might have killed her. She’s so small.
Him: You don’t know her like I do. She can take care of herself. Once I sat on this Yorkie we used to have called Stinky, and I broke her foot. I felt so bad.
Me: So. Hey.
Him: Hey.
Me: Nice of you to call.
Him: Yeah. Well. I didn’t want to be, like, not calling after what happened.
Me: Oh, you didn’t have to.
Him: But I did.
Me: Don’t angst. You’re quite the gentleman.
Him: Not if you ask my mom.
Me: I’m hardly your mom.
Him: No. (laughs under his breath) You are hardly my mom. (Silence. For too long.)
Me: Do you want to go for a drive?
Him: What, now?
Me: My parents are in all night. I can take the Honda for an hour or so, but I have to be back by ten.
Him: You mean go on a drive, and park?
Me: Exactly.
Him: I’m going out to the porch right now, with the portable.
Me: You’re what?
Him: I’m on the porch now. Waiting.
And he clicked off.
I told my parents I was meeting Meghan at the B&O and drove to Angelo’s. He got in the car.
We drove two blocks down to a parking lot next to a playground and made out for an hour, listening to stupid songs on the radio oldies station.
It was great.
Then I drove Angelo home. He kissed me goodbye.
“Don’t say you’ll call me,” I said. “I don’t
“Yet you’re telling me you want to go.”
“Yeah.”
She went silent again, and I changed the subject. We talked about how annoying my mother was for the rest of the session.
In Am Lit on Wednesday, Mr. Wallace stopped our discussion ten minutes before the end of class to talk about November Week. “I’m doing something new this year,” he announced. “Running my own show. As some of you know,” he said, nodding at Cricket and Nora and a few others, “I assisted on the rafting expeditions the past two years. But this year, Mrs. Glass and I are doing a course called Canoe Island, and I hope you will all come join us.”
I had seen Canoe Island listed in the catalog. All it said was “Expand your mind. Nourish your soul. $375.”
I hadn’t given it any thought.
Mr. Wallace went on to explain that the project involved going to a retreat on a tiny island in the San Juans, off the Seattle coast, where we’d read and discuss meaningful philosophical stuff in the mornings; then, in the afternoon, we’d swim in the pool, hike around the island and take turns making dinner. Evenings, we’d watch important movies from the history of cinema that would continue to spur our thought processes about the philosophical issues in the readings.
Movies. And swimming.
It was Exploring the Shallow Life, only deep.
So I told Wallace after class that I wanted to do it. Before I could chicken out.
He looked relieved and said I was the first person to sign up.
“Your catalog copy is too mysterious,” I told him. “You have a PR problem.”
Wallace laughed. “You can work on your flip turns while you’re there if you want. It looks like Imari from the boys’ team might come, so I’ll coach in the afternoons.”
That evening, I got my parents to write the check, and promised to pay them back three hundred dollars of it.
“I hope you have a real bonding experience with your peer group,” said my father, squeezing me around the shoulders.
“I’m just relieved we don’t have to buy her a backpack,” said my mother.
Angelo Martinez called me that night, and our conversation went like this:
Him: Hey, Roo. It’s Angelo.
Me: What’s up?
Him: Not a lot. Just got in from playing basketball.
Me: Cool.
Him: Um. Listen.
Me: Yeah?
Him: I, ah, I wanted to say I had a good time the other day. The other night. It was nice.
Me: Oh, yeah. Sorry about squashing your dog.
Him: De nada. He can take it.
Me: At least it wasn’t little Skipperdee.
Him: No. If you squashed her, she’d have bit you.
Me: Oh.
Him: I’m serious.
Me: Actually, I meant if I squashed her I might have killed her. She’s so small.
Him: You don’t know her like I do. She can take care of herself. Once I sat on this Yorkie we used to have called Stinky, and I broke her foot. I felt so bad.
Me: So. Hey.
Him: Hey.
Me: Nice of you to call.
Him: Yeah. Well. I didn’t want to be, like, not calling after what happened.
Me: Oh, you didn’t have to.
Him: But I did.
Me: Don’t angst. You’re quite the gentleman.
Him: Not if you ask my mom.
Me: I’m hardly your mom.
Him: No. (laughs under his breath) You are hardly my mom. (Silence. For too long.)
Me: Do you want to go for a drive?
Him: What, now?
Me: My parents are in all night. I can take the Honda for an hour or so, but I have to be back by ten.
Him: You mean go on a drive, and park?
Me: Exactly.
Him: I’m going out to the porch right now, with the portable.
Me: You’re what?
Him: I’m on the porch now. Waiting.
And he clicked off.
I told my parents I was meeting Meghan at the B&O and drove to Angelo’s. He got in the car.
We drove two blocks down to a parking lot next to a playground and made out for an hour, listening to stupid songs on the radio oldies station.
It was great.
Then I drove Angelo home. He kissed me goodbye.
“Don’t say you’ll call me,” I said. “I don’t
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