‘Delivering papers?’
‘Sure.’ He stopped the car, gesturing for me to open the passenger door. When I did, he said, ‘It’s a rite of passage. My first job was delivering the Colby Coupon Clipper on my bike.’
‘I’ve had jobs,’ I told him.
‘Yeah? What were they?’
‘I worked for a professor in the English department one summer, helping with a bibliography for his book,’ I said, as I slid inside. ‘Then I worked for my mom’s accountant as an office assistant. And all last year I did test prep at Huntsinger.’
Personally, I’d always thought this was a pretty impressive résumé. Eli, however, just gave me a flat look. ‘You,’ he said, hitting the gas, ‘definitely need a paper route. At least for one night.’
And so it was that, after hitting the Washroom, and Park Mart for a few incidentals, we pulled into a neighborhood just past the pier, driving slowly with a stack of papers between us, and a list of subscriber addresses in his hand. It was just after two A.M.
‘Eleven hundred,’ Eli said, nodding at a split-level off to the right. ‘That’s all you.’
I picked up a paper, getting a good grip, then tossed it toward the driveway. It hit the curb, then bounced into a pile of lawn clippings, disappearing entirely. ‘Whoops,’ I said. He pulled to a stop and I jumped out, retrieving it and throwing it again, this time doing a bit better, hitting the far right of the driveway. ‘It’s harder than it looks,’ I told him when I finally got back in the car.
‘Most things are,’ Eli said. Then, of course, he grabbed a paper, launching it at a house across the street in a perfect arc. It landed right on the front stoop, the delivery version of a perfect ten. When I just looked at him, speechless, he shrugged. ‘Colby Coupon Clipper, I told you. Two years.’
‘Still,’ I said. My next shot was a bit better, but too wide. It hit the lawn, and again I had to get out to move it to a safer, less wet spot. ‘God, I suck at this.’
‘It’s your second one,’ he said before launching another perfect shot at a bungalow with a plastic flamingo in the front yard.
‘Still,’ I said again.
I could feel him watching me as I threw another one, concentrating hard. It hit the steps (good) but then banked into the nearby bushes (not so good). When I came back from retrieving it, some brambles in my hair, my frustration must have been obvious.
‘You know,’ Eli said, tossing another paper and hitting another front stoop – thwack! – ‘it’s okay not to be good at everything.’
‘This is delivering papers.’
‘So?’
‘So,’ I said as he did another perfect throw, Jesus, ‘I’m all right if I suck at, say, quantum physics. Or Mandarin Chinese. Because those things are hard, and take work.’
He watched, silent, as I missed yet another driveway. By about a mile. When I returned he said, ‘And clearly, this doesn’t.’
‘It’s different,’ I told him. ‘Look, achievement is my thing, okay? It’s what I do. It’s all I’ve ever been good at.’
‘You’re good at doing well,’ he said, clarifying.
‘I’m good,’ I said, throwing another paper and doing marginally better, ‘at learning. Because I never had to involve anyone else in that. It was just me, and the subject matter.’
‘Indoors, working away,’ he added.
I shot him a look, but, as usual, he did not seem deterred. Or bothered in the least. He just handed me another paper, which I launched at the next house. It hit the driveway, a bit too much to the left, but he drove on anyway.
‘Life is full of screwups,’ he said, chucking another paper at a split-level before taking the corner. ‘You’re supposed to fail sometimes. It’s a required part of the human existence.’
‘I’ve failed,’ I told him.
‘Yeah? At what?’
I blanked for a moment, not exactly good for my argument. ‘I told you,’ I said, ‘I was a social failure.’
He took another turn, tossing a couple more papers as we cruised down a dark street. ‘You didn’t try to be homecoming queen and lose, though.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I never wanted to be homecoming queen. Or any of that stuff.’
‘Then you didn’t fail. You just opted out. There’s a difference.’
I considered this as we cruised down another street. He wasn’t even handing me papers anymore, just throwing them all himself. ‘What about you, then?’ I asked. ‘What did you fail at?’
‘The better question,’ he said, slowing for a stop sign, ‘is what didn’t I fail at.’
‘Really.’
He nodded, then held up a hand and began to count off, finger by finger. ‘Algebra. Football. Lacey McIntyre. Skate-boarding on a half-pipe…’
‘Lacey McIntyre?’
‘Eighth grade. Spent months working up to asking her to a dance, and she shot me down cold. In full view of the entire lunchroom.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Tell me about it.’ He turned again, going down a narrow street with only a few houses on it. Thwack. Thwack. ‘Winning over Belissa’s dad, who still hates me. Convincing my little brother not to be such a chump. Learning to fix my own car.’