Marigold let go. She pretended to look put out.
“Sorry,” he said, after a moment. He actually did look sorry. “But it’ll go faster without you dragging it down.”
Marigold kept her hands surrendered in the air. “If you say so.”
“I’m a lot taller than you. The balance, it’d be uneven,” he explained. She shrugged as he called out to his mother, “I’ll be back in fifteen!”
His mother’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You’re taking your break?”
“I’m helping a customer.”
“You’re taking your break?” she asked again.
He sighed. “Yeah, Mom.”
Marigold trotted behind him as he struggled out of the lot. She felt like an idiot. She also felt a strong surge of guilt. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t.”
There was a gust of freezing wind, and Marigold pushed up her knitted scarf with one hand and held down her woolen skirt with the other. She was glad she was wearing her thickest tights. “Thank you,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”
The boy grunted.
But it was a nice enough grunt, so she asked, “What’s your name?”
“North.”
“Huh.” This was surprising. “So … your mom’s a hippie, too. I wouldn’t have guessed it.”
“Why?” He stopped to look at her, and needles showered to the pavement. “What’s your name?”
“Marigold. Marigold Moon.”
North smiled. “That’s very Asheville.”
“Born and raised.”
“My parents aren’t hippies,” he said, resuming walking. “I’m North as in the North Pole. Unfortunately. My brother is Nicholas, and my sister is Noelle.”
“Wow. God. That’s…”
“About a hundred times worse than your name.”
“I was going to say devoted. Festively devoted.”
He laugh-snorted.
Marigold smiled, pleased to have earned a laugh. “So where’s the family farm?”
“Sugar Cove.” He glanced back at her, and she shrugged. “Near Spruce Pine?”
“Ah, okay,” she said. “Got it.” That made sense. There were tons of tree farms up there, just north of the city.
“You know how small Spruce Pine is?” he asked.
“It’s barely recognized by GPS.”
“Well, it’s Shanghai compared to Sugar Cove.”
Once again, Marigold was startled out of their conversation by his word choice. Her mother’s parents were immigrants from Shanghai. He couldn’t know that, but was this his way of saying that he guessed she was Chinese? Most non-Asian-Americans were terrible guessers. They’d say Japanese, Korean, or Vietnamese before Chinese. As if they were afraid “Chinese” was a stereotype, and they’d get in trouble for suggesting it. As if China weren’t the most populous country in the world.
But Marigold didn’t have time to dwell. He’d finally given her an entrance. “You don’t talk like you’re from the boonies,” she said.
“You mean I don’t talk like my mother.”
She flinched. She’d walked right into that one. “I’m sorry.”
His voice flattened. “I used to. It took a concentrated effort to stop.”
They crossed into her apartment complex, and she re-pointed out her building. North groaned. “Right,” he said. “Of course it’s the one in the back.”
“So why’d you stop?” she asked, nudging a return to topic.
“Because city folk keep a-callin’ it ‘the boonies’ and makin’ assumptions about mah intelligence.”
This was not going well.
North thunked down the tree at the bottom of her stairs. He let out a singular, exhausted breath. “You. Help.” He leaned the tree on its side. “Take that end.”
She lunged forward to grab ahold of its top half. With their significant differences in height and strength, it took several uncomfortable steps to get their rhythm down. “Of course you live in the back building,” he said. “Of course you live on the top floor.”
“Of course you’re going to make me”—Marigold grunted—“regret your help forever.”
They navigated awkwardly around the small U-shaped landing between the first and second floors. “Can’t you move a little faster?” he asked.
“Can’t you be a little nicer?”
He laughed. “Seriously, you’re like a sea cucumber. Which I assume are slow, because they’re named after a vegetable. Which don’t move at all.”
They reached the second floor, and Marigold almost dropped her end. North kept moving. “Sorry,” she said, scuttling to keep up. “It’s hard to get a good grip.”
“It’s a tree. Trees have great grip. Their whole body is made for gripping.”
“Well, maybe I could get a decent grip if you weren’t pulling so hard.”
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to pull so hard if you could carry your fair share of the weight.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” Marigold slammed her elbow against the railing on the next stairway landing. “Ow.”
North shot forward, wrenching the tree completely from her hands. “AHHHHH!” He yelled like a gladiator as he ran full throttle up the last flight of stairs. He dropped the tree on the third floor, and it skidded forward several feet.
“What the hell was that?” Marigold shouted.
North grinned. “Went a lot faster, didn’t it?”
“You nearly took off my fingers.”
“Looks like I didn’t need your help after all. Because you weren’t any. Help, that is. You weren’t any help.”
“I didn’t even want a tree.” Marigold glared at him. Forget it, enough. The voice work was out. “You talked me into this. This is your fault.”
“Then next time, pick someplace else to loiter.”
She heaved the tree into a standing position and shuffled it toward her door. “I wasn’t loitering.”
“What’s going on out here?” a sandpapery voice called from below.
Marigold cringed. “Sorry, Ms. Agrippa!”
“I knew it was you! I knew you were up to something!”
North raised one eyebrow.