He didn’t usually seek his big brother’s advice on girls. Not that Nick was ignorant on the subject. Indeed, he seemed to know everything. All Casper needed was a nudge, and maybe a few pointers on finesse. He had already made up his mind that he was going to do it. He was going to speak first. The moment he saw her on Monday, he would stride up to her and ask how her weekend had been. But he wasn’t an idiot. He knew it was more complicated than that.
“Cass, this is pretty basic stuff. Do you honestly need instructions?” He heard Nick reach into a bag of chips. Casper adjusted the laptop on his knees and peered closely at the minuscule players milling about on the football field. The Buffalo Bills were hosting the Chiefs in a game which didn’t carry much significance for the Jorgenson men. After all, Grover was primarily a college ball community, though its loyalties were split between the Iowa Hawkeyes and the Iowa State Cyclones. When each courted him with a full-ride, he received many unsolicited opinions on the matter. But it was an easy decision. GO HAWKS. And the Bills boasted not one, but two Iowa alumni.
“Bills at third and two,” he said. “Looks like a run. And it’s not basic, Nick. Not with Reagan.”
“Who’s Reagan? Oh, there’s a hole! Run! You got it, baby! Run! First down!” Nick crowed at his TV. His brother had always been an animated spectator. More than anything, he nursed an irrational animus toward the Kansas City Chiefs and relished any chance to see them lose.
“Reagan. You know, from work.”
“Wait, I thought you said she was — what was the word you used?”
“Shrewish. That’s Tricia.”
“I thought you only worked with one chick. Mom said it was just a bunch of dudes and what’s-her-face over there.”
“No, I mentioned her when I first started. Mom probably assumed she was a guy.” Nick laughed.
“Well, won’t she be surprised when I tell her—,”
“Nick, no!” Casper’s skin went cold. Nick cackled again. “Come on. You have to promise me you won’t say anything to Mom.”
“Relax, man. It’s me!”
“I know it’s you, Nick. That’s why I’m telling you in no uncertain terms — look, I don’t want a repeat of Sophie Rodrigo.”
“Who’s that? Oh, wait…” Nick chuckled, “wasn’t she the girl who played drums? What was that, tenth grade?”
“Yeah, and you blabbed to Mom and Dad, and they flipped out.” Nick laughed again. “I’m serious, Nick — don’t say anything about Reagan.”
“Cass, I’m pretty sure they’re not going to drive all the way to Wisconsin and confiscate your phone. Anyway, what am I going to tell them? I don’t know anything about this chick except that you’ve tried to keep her a secret. What, does she cook meth on the side?”
“She might. I don’t really know that much about her. That’s why I called. I was hoping — never mind.” He fiddled with a bit of lint on the couch cushion. A beefy truck commercial growled across the screen. He turned down the volume. “I should just talk to her.”
“Yup, you should.” He heard Nick pop a can. “Hey, Mikkie,” he said, his voice suddenly softened. Mikayla babbled pleasantly in the background. “What are you doing up from your nap already?”
“How’s she doing? Walking yet?”
“She’s two years old, Cass. She’s been walking for a year. Don’t you ever see the pictures Rosa posts?” Of course, but they all looked the same to him. “You want to talk to Uncle Cass? Here he is.”
“Hi, Mikayla,” he said stiffly. Casper heard heavy breathing on the other end, and some unintelligible singing. Nick laughed.
“You remember that song? She learned it in nursery.” He heard Nick singing back to his daughter. “My God is so great, so strong and so mighty—,”
There’s nothing my God cannot do. Mikayla answered Nick with a tuneful coo.
“I guess you and Rosa are still at Mount of Mercy with the parentals?”
“Yep. Her folks are still there too, you know. It’s so much easier because they all get to see Mikayla at the same time, so there’s no jealousy.”
“Nice,” he said. His skin went cold as he suddenly realized what he had done. Idiot. You had to bring it up. Eager to change the subject, he looked at the screen again, trying to find something to say about the game. Another commercial for a sports betting app. He stammered, and Nick was fast.
“Speaking of which, have you found a church out there yet? All alone in the big city, we can’t have you turning into a heathen.” Casper laughed, but weakly. He was cornered. He had no excuses. Mom had sent him the list back in May, when he first moved. It was a list of churches she had found by typing in his apartment address and searching for places of worship within a ten-mile radius. There were at least twenty options, leering at him from the dusty folder in his email marked “from Mom.” He had been able to put it off when the internship was going, but Mom had still been on his case about it. Sometimes, if only to appease her for a little while, he considered picking one at random and attending a service. It might be less painful than continually dodging her.
“I’m planning on it,” he lied. “Maybe next week.”
“Any of them like Mercy?” Nick probed. Casper shifted on the couch and tried to study the game. It was ironic that Nick had become the hall monitor. That used to be his post. Spending hours in the backseat chaperoning Nick and his fling of the month to youth group and then to the mini-mall, tattling when he found the swimsuit issue under the bunkbed, and reporting every idle curse word he overheard when they were playing video games in the basement.
But when the Reyes family visited the church on furlough from their missions work in Honduras, Nick noticed that their first-born wallflower of a daughter had blossomed into a poised, dark-eyed beauty. His overnight conversion into a moralistic, Bible-toting, tie-sporting proselyte was textbook. But it took. He married Rosa three weeks after they graduated high school, and they had been leading Wednesday night youth group together ever since.
Everyone — Mom and Dad, Nick and Rosa, the congregation at Mount of Mercy — was in denial that Casper had turned out to be a prodigal. That was the word they used. He had seen the book on the coffee table when he was home for a visit. Praying Your Prodigal Back Home.
He instantly realized: Nick had been appointed emissary, to make sure he was still wandering along the straight and narrow. He would attempt to conduct subtle interrogation to determine Casper’s precise level of commitment to the family creed. He knew, because it used to be his job.
“Honestly, Nick — I haven’t really given church a lot of thought. Been a little preoccupied with work and everything.” He didn’t mention that the last thing he wanted was to be welcomed by some well-meaning strangers and talked into attending a potluck.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” Nick offered. “But I mean, you’re still, you know— a Christian, right?” So much for subtle interrogation. Casper watched the color commentators discussing the play under review. Was it a fumble or an incomplete pass?
“Sure,” he shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve converted to Buddhism. I’ve sort of,” he searched for a word that would placate his brother and end the examination. “It’s slipped my mind. That’s all.” Nick was quiet for a moment. “What, isn’t that good enough?” He was surprised at the edge in his own voice.
“I guess it has to be good enough,” Nick replied. “There’s not much I can do about it.” Casper’s eyes dropped as he tried to think of an escape.
“Look, Nick. I don’t want to get into any of that. I only wanted to get a bit of advice.” Nick scoffed, but without any mockery.
“Just talk to her, Cass. If Roosevelt has any brains, she’s probably half in love with you already.”
—
She walks in beauty, like the night. It was line from a poem they had studied in AP English. As a junior in high school, he had pictured one of the flawless elves from Lord of the Rings: tumbling hair, luminous eyes, skin like velvet.
He stood in the hallway and watched as she whisked into the office, her hair secured with an elegant gold pin. A single, soft, red wave tumbled down over her ear. She greeted Pavel and Jin as she set down her things, and then smiled politely at Tricia and Eric as they walked past to their desks. He tried to take a deep breath, but it shuddered in his chest. His hands were starting to get clammy. He pressed his palms against his pant leg, then popped his knuckles.
Game time.
He didn’t hear Pavel and Jin say good morning, and he didn’t look at Tricia or Eric. She was leaning forward at her desk, softly clasping her small gold pendant between her finger and thumb. He could see it was a dragonfly.
“Hey, Reagan,” he managed to say. He forced himself to stop there, to give her a moment to look up. She wouldn’t understand him if he spoke too quickly, then he would be compelled to repeat himself, an agony he refused to suffer. She glanced up and smiled politely.
“Hey, Casper.” She turned toward her screen. “How was your weekend?” she asked without looking at him. His jaw dropped. That’s what he had been planning to say. He was going to open the conversation. He had no other lines prepared. He tried to collect himself. Mayday, mayday.
“Good. It was good. Football. I watched a lot of football.” She chuckled. Politely. “How was your weekend?” he asked. She clasped her hands in her lap.
“Let’s see…” What if she had a boyfriend? He hadn’t thought of that. Of course she did. Look at her. What did he think he was doing? Daring to approach her with any hope that she would reciprocate his interest? He felt his shoulders sinking, his chest sinking, his dreams sinking. She was probably dating a doctor, or a senator, or an astronaut. His name was something cool, like Jake. At the very least, he could probably string together coherent thoughts.
“Saturday, we drove out to Bromley’s to pick apples — have you been there yet?” He shook his head blankly. He imagined her sitting on a flannel blanket with Jake, who played guitar and wore an expensive watch. Of course he played guitar. “And on Sunday my dad worked on my car while I took Charlotte to a friend’s party. Then we went home and had pie for dinner. So, it was nice.” She sat forward again and looked at the screen. She was finished talking, but he couldn’t be done. Not yet.
“Is Charlotte your sister?” he asked. She turned suddenly and looked at him, her head tilted in confusion.
“My daughter.”
“Right, yeah!” he chirped. “Of course she is. I’m an idiot. I guess I didn’t realize.” His voice trailed off as he inched away. He noticed she was blushing. He turned around and saw the four others staring at him. The guys each had the same uncomfortable, pained look on their faces, while Tricia’s eyes were wide with shock and delight.
As soon as he could, he escaped to the hallway and paced. He pulled out his phone and began to text Nick.
>> She has a kid.
He erased it. A kid? It was impossible. She looked barely 25. A kid. He shook his head. He had never seen a ring on her finger. If her dad was fixing her car, there probably wasn’t a guy in the picture. A kid. He felt like he’d gotten punched in the throat, like the time Brent Grosse clotheslined him in gym class. He hadn’t been able to breathe for almost a minute.
He forced himself to exhale. A kid.
“Everyone clocked that, you know.” Tricia was standing next to him, a look of smug sympathy on her face. “You really didn’t know, did you?” He ignored her. Get lost. “Why else do you think none of these guys have ever made a move?” Tricia sighed and lowered her voice. “I had already been here for three years when she started. She was barely here for one when she had the baby and she got three months of paid leave. Three! Unbelievable. And they never make her use up PTO when her kid gets sick, even though she’s like four years old and picks up a new disease every week.” Casper took a deep breath, then pressed his lips and began to walk away. “But I’d get pretty nice perks too if I picked the VP’s son for my baby daddy.”
He stopped. She was watching him, twitching the tip of her braid away from her shoulder.
“How do you know that?”
“Everybody knows that. Ike Bancroft’s son, Foster?” She dangled the name in front of him. He shrugged. “As in, the Olympic diver, Foster Bancroft?”
“Never heard of him. When was this?”
“I don’t remember which year. I think it was when they held the games in China.”
“No, I mean with Reagan. Are they still together?”
“Are you insane? That was four years ago. Now he’s engaged to—,”
“I don’t care.” He turned to leave.
“But he still pays for everything,” she said, following him. “Her kid goes to the most exclusive preschool in the city and Reagan drives a Lexus. You think her salary is covering that? Talk about hush money.” He stopped.
“Tricia,” he said. Her eyes gleamed expectantly. Four-lettered dismissals danced enticingly on his tongue. “Thanks for nothing.”
From behind his computer, he googled the name and promptly sighed. Tricia’s intel was accurate. He glanced across the room at Reagan. She was huddled over her computer, her delicate fingers absently twirling a lock of hair and releasing it. He watched as it unfurled and fell to her shoulder like a plume of silk. He looked down again at the gratuitously handsome face grinning back at him from the screen. It made perfect sense.
Of course she scarcely deigned to speak to anyone. Why should she, when nobody else could come close to the sort of company she was accustomed to keeping? How many other broken-hearted luminaries lay in her wake?
He blushed, suddenly feeling very foolish. He had happened to notice Reagan, as if anyone could help it. He may as well have claimed to be the first person to point out that burning yellowish orb in the sky.
—
He furiously tore the bungee cords from his bike. One of the cords sprang back and nipped his hand. He winced and cursed under his breath as he jammed the cords into his backpack and yanked on the handlebars. The clumsy front wheel was wedged into the rack, and the frame was clamped tightly between two gorgeous models, a yellow Nordic Strider and a black Denizen Trailrunner. There was no way to remove his scuffed red Huffy without scratching the other two. He cursed again and kicked the rear tire.
He shouldered his backpack, thrust his hands in his pockets, and began the three mile walk back to his apartment. The pleasant evening mocked him with its sweet lake breeze and comely sky, wistful deep blue streaked with amber. His stomach growled, but he didn’t feel hungry.
All those stories, wherein the hero won the girl through cleverness, grace, and chivalry — they were all trash. And he had nobody to blame but himself. He couldn’t have contented himself with some normal, attainable girl, like Amy Rice, or whatever her name was.
He should have known from the first day he saw her. But instead of instantly categorizing her as impossible, as he should have done, he had given himself the credit of possessing some rare quality that would attract her. He believed he could impress her with his intelligence. Or maybe his considerable height.
He tried not to think about the pictures he’d seen that day. The gold medals, the all-American smile, the Breitling on the left wrist.
He kicked his toe into the sidewalk. Whatever. Forget it.
He dropped his backpack and collapsed on the couch with a box of shredded wheat, eating it by the handful as he scrolled through options on Meet-Qt. He had downloaded the app in college, and it had come through a few times, though he’d never met anyone he wanted to date any longer than a few weeks. They were uniformly cute, brainy, and slightly zany, and he didn’t know why he found them boring.
He checked his profile. Maybe his picture was the problem. It was three years old, cropped out of a group photo from a hiking trip. He looked skinny, and was wearing a t-shirt bearing a screen-printed map from The Hobbit. He opened his photos and searched for a recent selfie. He found one he had sent to the family thread over the summer, when he discovered a perfect bike trail that wound around Lake Monona. He still looked skinny, but he also looked happy, his eyes brightened from the exertion. And he was wearing his Hawkeyes shirt. To the right girl, that would go a long way.
He updated the picture, and moved on to scrutinize his bio. Maybe he should update his religion from “none” to “Christian.” He had toggled it back and forth since college whenever he felt the algorithm’s suggestions were getting a bit stale. In his experience, religion rarely came up, and he wasn’t demanding wife material. He was still only 22, after all.
Reagan must have been close to his age when she got pregnant. He briefly tried to imagine it, superimposing a screaming toddler into his apartment, complete with loud plastic toys scattered everywhere, and a pervasive diaper smell. He shuddered.
She could have chosen not to go through with it. Lots of girls would have. Mom would box his ears if she knew how his views had evolved since he left home. Yet, he couldn’t deny there was something intriguing about a freshly minted college graduate, doubtless steeped in progressive ideals, who chose to act in such a contrary, backward way. It signified boldness, reckless individualism, and fierce confidence in herself.
He closed the app and sighed.
Whatever. Forget it.
—
He woke up an hour earlier than usual so he could walk to work. There was a bus stop near his apartment, but the whole concept of mass transit was so foreign to his experience living in Grover, he would rather walk three miles than try to figure it out.
When he reached Carver & Carver he glanced absently at the rack, already crammed with bikes, and was surprised that he didn’t see his. It ordinarily stuck out like a sore thumb among the more expensive models.
He approached the rack and looked closer, scratching his head as he wondered why he couldn’t see his bike.
He couldn’t help laughing as it dawned on him. His bike was gone, and the bungee cords were crudely cut and snaked in a sad pile at the bottom, instead of valiantly deterring homeless guys. He assumed the thief was homeless, because nobody else would consider that Huffy valuable.
“Why didn’t you put a lock on it?” Eric asked.
“I guess I forgot,” he replied, resisting the urge to see if Reagan was listening from across the room.
“You gonna buy a new one?” Casper shrugged. “Man, you’re not going to want to walk in the middle of winter. Cycling stinks that time of year, too. The wind is brutal off the lake. Just get a car.”
Sure, just get a car with the twenty grand he had stashed under his mattress.
—
He saw her alone in the cafeteria. She was sitting over her phone, scrolling with her left forefinger and taking notes with her right hand. Probably something for work. Or maybe she was reading a novel and capturing her thoughts. Perhaps it was a think piece on the drawbacks of artificial intelligence, or the prevalence of scams in the cryptocurrency sector. Her hair was pinned back, the masses of satin amber waves mysteriously secured with that golden pin. Her face was serious, meditative, her light brown eyelashes softly fluttering as she studied the screen.
“Hey,” he heard himself say, and watched her start so violently that she dropped her pen. She glanced up, her face red, and picked up the pen.
“Oh, hi. Sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“Don’t apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he insisted. She said it was okay, then looked back down at her phone. “Is anyone else sitting here? I thought Tricia was taking her lunch too.”
“She’s over there.” Reagan indicated a group of women clustered around a table at the far end of the cafeteria, all scrolling and looking bored.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked. “I won’t bother you, I promise.”
“No, it’s okay,” she conceded. “I’m not doing anything important.”
“You looked deep in thought,” he said, pulling out a chair. She smiled. It was a brief shimmer of light on her face before it vanished. “Was it for work?”
“No,” she said, with a faint shade of guilt. She showed him the Carver & Carver notepad. Her writing was hurried and spidery, each word rushing into the next. Chicken thighs, scallions, bean sprouts.
“Is that a grocery list?” he asked, trying to conceal his disappointment. “Nice.”
“Yeah, well,” she shrugged, “I told you it was dumb.”
“It’s not,” he said, trying to recover. “What are you making?”
“I thought I might attempt pad thai. Ever had it?”
“Would you be impressed if I said yes?”
“You have?” Her eyes grew wide suddenly and she lowered her pen.
“No,” he sighed. “It sounds great, though.” He thought he detected a slight glimmer in her eyes, like a spark of good-natured mischief. He swallowed.
“I don’t think you know what pad thai is,” she said.
“It sounds like it might be from Thailand.”
“Good guess.”
“I wasn’t valedictorian for nothing.”
“Well, that actually is impressive.”
“Not really. There were only sixty kids in my class.”
“Still,” she insisted kindly.
“So, this pad thai you speak of — what is it?” She told him, expounding in great detail, and he nodded, hanging upon every word, every ingredient. Lemongrass, lime, fish sauce, peanut butter. “Wait, stop. Your daughter will eat that?” Reagan shook her head.
“She’ll have a sandwich or something.”
“Do you cook every night?” She nodded. “That’s a lot of work, isn’t it?”
“I’ve been doing it since I was nine,” she shrugged. “I like it.”
“Your mom let you cook that young?”
“I watched a lot of cooking shows after school. I had a huge crush on Bobby Flay. He made a roast chicken look extra delicious,” she said, with a shy, wistful smile. Casper smiled. “And Dad wasn’t much of a cook. After all those years of cold cuts and scrambled eggs, I figured I’d give it a try.”
“So you’re probably pretty good at it by now,” he said. She acknowledged the fact with a sweet, unaffected shrug. “Are those leftovers from last night?” he asked, gesturing to the plastic container in front of her, steaming and fragrant.
“Eggplant parmesan.” She glanced pitifully at his meager lunch, the burrito sitting shriveled and shrunken on its plastic wrapper. “I see you brought leftovers too?”
“That’s mean. This happens to be freshly nuked.”
“Maybe I should—,” she began with a smile, but stopped as someone approached. The smile instantly faded.
“Have a nice lunch,” Tricia drawled as she passed, her tone dripping with irony.
“Is she kidding? What is her problem?” he muttered. But Reagan was already putting the lid on her container and stuffing it into her lunch bag. It was dark green, speckled with ladybugs.
“I should probably go,” she said quietly, all the brightness in her face instantly smothered.
“You barely ate anything.” He held up his watch. “We still have fifteen minutes.”
“You stay, I’m not that hungry. I finished my shopping list anyway,” she chirped, clutching the notepad and standing up.
“Reagan, is everything okay?” She nodded as she pushed in her chair. Then she seemed to briefly search the room, as if to spot anyone who might be observing them.
“It’s fine. See you upstairs.”
He watched her go, then sat staring at his burrito. He understood. In her natural kindness, she had forgotten that he was not worthy of her notice, and Tricia had astutely reminded her. Why else would she seemed so embarrassed to be seen with him?
He didn’t feel hungry anymore either. He sat at the table for the rest of his break, scrolling, then tossed the burrito in the trash on his way back upstairs.
Whatever. Forget it.
—
All he wanted was to slip off unnoticed after work, take his bike, and go for a long ride along the lake, salving his injured pride and basking in some well-earned self-pity.
But his bike had been stolen. He stared dumbly at the bike rack, then sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for an hour-long walk, and he was starving after stupidly throwing out his lunch. He cursed under this breath and trudged down the steps.
Mom would tell him to buy a nice bus pass and forget the whole thing. Dad would tell him to buckle down and get a nice used car. Both options were impossible. The bus pass was sad, a white flag, a smashing blow to his independence. And as for the car — he wasn’t an idiot. A car would make it far easier to drive home for a holiday, or a long weekend.
Even before the Huffy was stolen, he had spent considerable time online, researching the perfect model. He could easily afford some cheap clunker from Walmart; but he had been pining for the Rimshot Madrid — a sleek, four thousand-dollar commuter he’d seen online, with the impeccable matte black finish, glassy smooth belt drive, lightweight aluminum frame, and hydraulic brakes.
He stepped into the store and instantly inhaled the warm scent of fresh tires, then gazed at the beautiful, sterling bicycles fixed to the floor. The walls were lined formidably with racks of expensive black spandex and neon polyester. If he skipped eating for week, he might be able to afford one half of a sunglasses case.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked. She looked fit, with a long, glossy ponytail and an attractive, sun-ripened face. She was decked out in the store’s apparel, a doubtful smile pasted on her face.
“Um, I’m — only looking,” he stammered.
“We close in twenty-five minutes,” she said, looking askance at his shoes as she walked away. Casper looked down at his scuffed, brown Oxfords. He had thought thirty dollars was an appropriate amount to spend on a pair of shoes. So what if the tips of his soles were peeling away? He could glue it. Maybe he shouldn’t have worn them when he was biking. He blushed and walked down the aisles of bikes, sheepishly peering at the price tags, then immediately flinching away. The clerk stationed herself behind the cash bar and bowed over her phone, occasionally flicking her ponytail and sighing. At ten minutes till six, she turned off the lights behind the displays and took out a dust mop. He looked out at the evening traffic crawling by. His stomach growled. He could still leave and catch a bus.
Then he saw it. The impeccable matte black finish. The glassy smooth belt drive. The lightweight aluminum body. The hydraulic brakes. He stared at the gorgeous thing. He ran his hands along the frame. It was cold and smooth as skin. What was four thousand dollars? So what if he’d only have $700 left to his name? He’d get paid on the 30th, and would be able to cover rent just fine.
Forget Breitlings and Lexuses.
“I’ll take it,” he murmured. The hiss of the dust mop continued along the floor. He cleared his throat and repeated himself.
“Take what,” the clerk blinked.
“This. I’ll take this one,” he stammered, cautiously touching the handlebars with his fingertips. She considered him briefly, lifted her eyebrows, then nodded and motioned for him to follow her.
As he glided home, he tilted his head back and felt the clear September breeze rush through his hair. He had never liked to wear a helmet, and Dad wasn’t there to retell the story of the time Uncle Glenn crashed his bike and had to get stitches. Before he moved out, he had left his helmet on the garage shelf and lied to Mom when she asked if he had packed it. But when he was unpacking in his apartment, he opened the cardboard box marked “kitchen.” The helmet was arranged reproachfully on top of a stack of oven mitts and dish towels. He buried it in back of his closet.
When he reached the stairwell which climbed up to his apartment, he easily lifted the bike to his shoulder with one hand and jogged up the steps.
He had to tell someone. He unlocked his door and gingerly wheeled the bike into the poky space where he left his shoes and hung his jacket. He took a photo and sent it to Nick.
>> Someone stole my bike, so I guess this will make do.
>> you’re kidding, right
…
>> how much did you drop on that thing
>> You have to promise not to tell the folks…
>> lol that bad?
…
>> how did it go with ben franklin? if she shut you down, she’s a
moron. i don’t care how cute she is.
>> It cost me four grand. Tell Mom I tried to buy a bus pass, but they
were out.
>> hahaha
He grinned and put his phone down. He sat down on the floor and inspected the frame again, rotated the pedals, gripped the tires to check the pressure, and admired the flawless belt drive. When his phone rang, he knew it was Mom.
“Hey, Mom.”
“It’s Dad, bud.” He straightened. “What’s this I hear from Nick about you getting mugged?” Casper chuckled.
“Not mugged, actually. Robbed is more like it, but it’s my own fault. I forgot to lock up the bike.” Dad sighed. “It’s okay, Dad. It needed to be replaced anyway.”
“You spent how much on it?” Casper shifted. He could feel it immediately. As if someone set his blood to simmer. His head throbbed with an instant headache. He forced himself to breathe out, then sucked his teeth before answering.
“It was four grand.” Dad sighed again, and Casper felt his pulse immediately quicken. “Plus a hundred for a good bike lock, obviously. This is a dangerous city, you know. I also got some solid gold pedals and platinum handlebars.”
“And you have the money for that,” Dad said dubiously. Casper didn’t answer. “Don’t tell me you put it on a credit card. How many times have we—,” Casper breathed out and swore. Dad stopped. “What did you just say?”
“As a matter of fact, I paid for it all up front. No need to worry.”
“Casper — you just took the Lord’s name in vain.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“It just slipped out, Dad.”
“Aren’t you going to church? I thought you told your mother—,”
“Sorry, Dad, I’ve gotta go. Talk to you later.”
Dad didn’t try to keep him on the line. They said goodbye.
He pocketed the phone sat for a moment, listening to the cool murmur of traffic outside, then turned and faced out the window. It was plain, unadorned, and revealed a small square of the evening sky. He remembered how hungry he was. He poured himself a bowl of shredded wheat as he stood next to the fridge, surveying his life.
One room, containing no table or chairs, no lamps. Nothing but a bed and a swaybacked couch shoved against opposite walls, framing the single window, lit overhead by a single, bluish light. The walls were bare apart from his drawings, which he tore from his sketchpad and hastily taped up, arranging them in a haphazard gallery. Most were sketches of vistas from books he’d read, albeit translated through his cheap mechanical pencil, but still with enough integrity that they faintly echoed the source material — towering waterfalls, glorious hidden cities, and ruined kingdoms. The few other drawings were his favorite characters as he imagined them, though stripped of all ethereal heroic quality, and humbled by his poor rendering. He had never been good at drawing people but he attempted it anyway, mostly because it caused those otherworldly virtues, gallantry and honor, to seem less distant somehow. But from where he stood now, they were only gray strokes on smudged paper.
And under his bed was the box. A solitary plastic tote crammed with memories he was supposed to cherish, grand promises he had made, and godly schemes he had abandoned. He had tried to leave it behind, but Mom’s subtle devices had prevailed. He had been meaning to haul it downstairs to the dumpster in the back, but he never got around to it. Anyway, he was content to leave it lying down there, growing more brittle and dusty by the day.
His beautiful new Rimshot Madrid was leaned against the wall, silent and gleaming, contrasting drastically with its listless surroundings.
He opened the fridge to get the milk, realizing with a sigh that he was out. He could go to the shop on the corner, but he suddenly felt very tired. He plopped down on the couch and began to eat the dry cereal with his fingers as he scrolled through his phone. He thought of Reagan.
He put down his sad bowl of desiccated wheat, plugged in his phone to charge, and crawled into bed.
Whatever. Forget it.
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Katie Bertola 