“I guess you’ll need that large cup of coffee this morning?”
My arms hug back around me again as a shiver pulses through me. “Yes, please.”
He nods to the arm cocoon I’ve forged. “Cold?”
I’m kind of bouncing in place trying to warm myself at this point. “It’s freezing out there.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Katie, it’s probably fifty degrees out there. You think this is cold? It’s balmy. Wait until this winter when it’s fifty below.”
I cover my ears. “Stop right there. I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
He points to the ear buds dangling out of the top of my sweatshirt. “What are you listening to?”
I lower my hands. “Mozart.”
“Classical? Really? Classical’s boring.” He tries to frown but only one side of his mouth turns down. He’s mocking me, but it’s not unkind.
“Boring, huh?” I’m not offended. Most people my age seem to have the same opinion. Sometimes I feel like a classical ambassador.
“It all sounds the same.”
Here we go, an early morning music debate. Well, I’m in. “That’s such a poor generalization. That’s like saying classic rock sucks because you don’t like Led Zeppelin, or that ‘80s new wave is phenomenal because you love The Cure, even if you’ve never heard anything else from either genre.”
He hands me my coffee, which I gratefully take with both hands.
Resting his elbows on the counter, interlacing his long, slim fingers, he fires back. “First off, no one would say Zeppelin sucks.”
I nod in concession. “I agree. That was a bad example.” I set my two dollars on the counter.
“And The Cure was mediocre,” he continues.
I can’t even pretend to contain myself. “Dude?! I’m calling bullshit on you. That’s outright and blatant blasphemy. The Cure is epic, timeless, one of the greatest bands. Ever. Period.”
He shakes his head. “No way.” He smiles. “The Smiths were better.”
I allow myself a smile. “Kudos to Morrissey, but Robert Smith is a … he’s a God!” It’s a declaration.
He holds his hands up in defeat, but he’s smiling. He puts my bills in the register and hands me my change.
I put the change in the tip jar. “I guess all I’m saying is that you should give classical a chance. It has a bad reputation. Sure, some of it can be boring, but it can also be beautiful and sexy. Check out Debussy.”
“Sexy, huh?” His crooked smile emerges. I picture him practicing it in front of a mirror, fully aware of its effect on the opposite sex.
I wink. “You might be surprised.” I raise my coffee in salute. “Thanks for the early morning conversation. Have a stellar day, Keller.”
He salutes back. “See you around, Katie. And thanks for the tip on the ground beef at Sam’s.”
“Don’t forget the meatloaf dinner at Our Lady of Everlasting Glory.” I call back without turning around. Sometimes I test people, just to see if they really listen to me.
“That’s Eternal Light.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “And it’s spaghetti,” he adds just before the door shuts behind me.
I smile too, because he totally passed.
Thursday, September 8
(Kate)
It’s 3:30pm and I’m on my way to Minneapolis. I don’t have to be there until 4:00, but due to the fact that the last time I drove this stretch I had Clay and Shelly praying for their lives, I’ve decided to leave a little early and drop my speed to a respectable seventy-five. I feel geriatric.
The elementary school I’m looking for is supposed to be only a few blocks from Maddie’s apartment building. Sure enough, it doesn’t take me long to find it.
Sometime last week, I realized that I had this need that wasn’t being met. So I talked to my guidance counselor about volunteer opportunities. I didn’t tell him the specifics because I don’t need psychoanalysis. Besides, I don’t need anyone to tell me what’s wrong. I already know. It’s simple. I miss Grace.
Anyway, Mr. Guidance Counselor put me in contact with this elementary school in Minneapolis that works closely with Grant. Turns out that there’s a fifth grader, Gabriel, whose regular Grant tutor isn’t available for two weeks due to surgery. That’s where I fit in. I’m so excited, because to be honest, I have way too much free time on my hands. I’m having no problem keeping up with my classes and work, and I need something more. Something more makes me feel good. Something more is helping someone else. But I’m also a little selfish, because something more has the potential to help me in ways they’ll never know or understand.
I check in at the school office and because I already emailed them all my paperwork a few days ago, they take me straight to the cafeteria where the after-school program meets. The woman from the office introduces me to the director of the after-school program. Her name is Helen and she’s nice, but she keeps her eyes glued to me while we talk, like a mama bear protecting her cubs. “Gabriel has Down syndrome. He’s a sweet, sweet boy ... ninety-nine percent of the time. Now and again he can act out.”
“Sounds like most kids. I’m familiar.”
“Familiar with children with Down syndrome?” she asks, looking doubtful.
“Yes ma’am, my sister,” I say. More familiar than you’ll ever know, I think.