I’m rendered speechless. Manual labor is a step down from Filet o’ Billie. This actually makes sense.
“What about those of us who weren’t in the youth room when the fire started?” asks a freshman. The dude’s best friend parrots, “Yeah. What about us?”
Fifty digs into the couch cushions, finds a yellow crayon, and hurls it at them. “Then you missed out.”
“Seriously?” the boy asks. “Why should the rest of us do nice things for old people?”
“Rewind that question and ask it again in slow motion,” I say.
Dad can’t decide whether he’s proud of me or aggravated. In the end, he skips my comment and says, “You’re a group. That’s how we’re doing this.”
God’s servant has spoken, and I agree with the commandment. I never meant to hurt the church in the first place. Bring on the gerontological penance. Brother Scott tells us we’ll receive our assignments in the mail after he has consulted the elderly.
With that handled, we have a typical Sunday night. Bible is studied. Games are played. Ice cream is consumed straight from the carton.
Dad can be tough, but he really does love us enough to buy mint chocolate chip.
7
We’re still lingering in the youth room doing what we normally do after meeting: talk shit, play Ping-Pong, avoid weekend homework. Dad’s in his office doing whatever Dad does in his office. Perhaps he’s writing next week’s sermon. Or assigning us old people. Or praying he gets those mumbling deacons to extend some grace after we aerate their lawns and re-roof their sheds.
Woods is over the moon about this punishment. He’s already twirled me in circles and given me three bullet reasons we win the world. 1) Our ass isn’t grass. 2) Old people are awesome. 3) Old people are awesome.
“You know you repeated yourself, right?” I ask, as soon as my equilibrium stops spinning.
“That was for effect,” he argues.
Fifty pets his beard into submission and gets an idea. “I dare you to write those three bullets, verbatim, ass and all, on Einstein,” and Woods and I both cut eyes at Dad’s office and say, “And then we stop winning the world.”
“When you two get married, I’m not coming,” Fifty says.
Thinking only of Fifty bucking plans, not the actual plan he listed, I say, “Yes, you will.” Woods chooses to echo my exact words again, and we realize what we’ve said at the same moment.
Two faces go red. Awkward descends. We stop touching and drift to opposite sides of the room. I check to see if Janie Lee heard us. No, she’s playing Jenga with Mash and Davey. This can’t be the first time someone has joked about us being together. But it’s the first time since Janie Lee has declared her intentions.
I drift over to Einstein and try to concentrate on my plan to save the Harvest Festival. Unsuccessfully. I am not a bad friend. I can contain my feelings for Woods. I will not lose the Hexagon with a selfish misstep.
Around me are voices: Billie, who’s going to get paired up? Billie, what happens if he asks me to work during band practice? Billie, Billie, Billie . . . No one will let me stay inside my head. Janie Lee nudges my legs to the floor and takes up residency in my lap, bringing her blanket along. She was a cat in her former life.
“Yes?” I say, my attention now fully gathered.
I’ve never really understood the appeal of playing with someone’s hair, but Janie Lee can hardly keep from it. She twirls a lock of my hair around her finger. “You protected me from Brother Scott after all.”
Not true. He decided to go light on his own. But I say, “I tranq-ed him last night. Dart gun to the head. Pow. Then two hours of waterboarding and . . . voilà.”
“You two should kiss and get it over with,” Fifty says. “Or maybe you don’t want to steal the show from Davey and Thomas.”
Clearly, everything is sexual to Fifty. If I got turned on every time Janie Lee crawled in my lap or Woods turned me in a circle, I’d be in trouble.
“Maybe we will, asshole,” Janie Lee says playfully. “Maybe we will.” She nods at me, urging me to affirm this declaration. Unsure of what to do, I look at Woods, who looks at Mash, who looks back to Davey.
Chain reaction. Davey reacts so I don’t have to. He collects his cell from the basket and shakes his jeans to proper hip placement. Nothing he owns fits him. I presume he means to leave, but I want him here to put my Corn Dolly plan in motion. We’re finally down to just the Hexagon in the room. Wordlessly, I beg Woods to compel everyone to stay. He pauses Ping-Pong, quick-walks to the door, closes it, gives everyone a cocky lip curl like he has a secret he won’t tell us unless we’re on the couch. Davey stays put near the door.
Woods makes a show of leaning toward Dad’s office and checking the hallway. He crosses the room and peers out the windows to the parking lot. Total déjà vu.
“Coast is clear,” he announces. “Billie, the floor is yours.”
I stand, carefully dumping Janie Lee to the carpet. “May I?” I ask, before picking up the dry-erase marker.
Woods grants permission. “You may indeed.”
We bow at each other and take positions on either side of Einstein. I circle the entirety of the bottom picture. “Do you know why this is still here?” I ask the group.
When no one says anything, Woods says, “Come on, Hexagon. Out with your answers. One of your own has spoken.”
“Because your dad didn’t erase it?”
“Because Fifty drew it in Sharpie?”
“Because the fire seared it into the board?”
“Because Mash puked on it?”
I need Woods to be the one to say this to everyone. “Because it’s still important,” he announces on cue.
One finger to my nose, one finger aiming at Woods, I say, “Exactly. You guys, this little drawing is a miracle. We have to treat this”—I tap Harvest Festival Forever—“like an epiphany.”
Fifty’s mouth is cockeyed with objections. He works his toothpick from side to side, states a fact. “Billie, that drawing was me dicking around. Teenagers like . . .” He means to say me, but he course-corrects, “Yo, teenagers can’t win the Corn Dolly. Lost cause.”
“Hold up,” I say. “This isn’t about me winning the Corn Dolly. Woods, tell them what you heard.”
So he does. He explains how he was having breakfast with his geezer crew at the Fork and Spoon, and Wilma Frist said the Harvest Festival is caput and defunct without Tyson Vilmer’s financial support. Old men passed the old women their handkerchiefs. Everyone had moist eyes, a moment of nostalgia. Then people salted their eggs and sipped their black coffee. Everyone in that crew already has a Corn Dolly or is married to a recipient. They’ve checked that box. End accepted.
Not me.