For a split second I considered claiming the work as my own. I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
“Let me guess,” said Rose. “You’re bound to secrecy under the National Brownie Security Act.”
“You’re very good at guessing.”
“And your mom was very sweet to do this.”
“She was,” I agreed. “She even left sticky notes all over the place with instructions.”
“So where are they?”
“I threw them away. I didn’t want you to see them.”
Rose let out a laugh, sat at the table, crossed one leg over the other, and folded her hands upon her knee. “Okay then,” she said with a big smile. “This is going to be interesting. What are we having?”
“Pasta with a-pesto and a-garlic bread,” I said in an accent that I meant to sound Italian but more closely resembled a cartoon character.
“Mmm, sounds amazing! Is that your specialty?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
“You’ve never cooked it before?”
I hesitated before answering. “Not specifically.”
“So, unspecifically?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
“Well, I have to say I’m intrigued and confused.”
“I have to remain a little mysterious.”
“Okay, Mr. Mysterious. Let’s see what you got.”
And for the next hour, I bumbled my way through a series of mistakes. If not for Rose’s intervention, we’d have been crunching on raw pasta dipped in ketchup by midnight. Early on, she realized I had absolutely no idea what I was doing and joined in, helping with the process. She demonstrated how a head of garlic was different from a clove, for instance, and the importance of putting a lid on the blender before turning it on.
Despite our combined efforts, the pesto sauce and garlic bread were slight disasters, the former being incredibly pine nut heavy, the latter, blackened bricks. I don’t think either of us cared though; we laughed throughout the entire operation, bonding over our attempts to produce something edible.
By the time we sat to eat, the candle had become a stub, more wick than wax.
“That was the best meal I’ve had all night,” said Rose.
“I’m sorry. Next time I’ll keep the sticky notes.”
“No worries. I enjoy picking pine nuts out of my teeth. And I like my garlic bread properly blackened. God knows what diseases we’d catch from undercooked bread.”
The girl was awesome.
“In fact, I’m not sure how you’ll ever top this evening, Mr. Gunderson,” she continued, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.
“Oh, I’m just getting started, Miss Santos,” I said, leaning back and crossing my own arms.
“Good, because I happen to be free on Sunday.”
“This Sunday?”
“This Sunday.”
“As in, the day after tomorrow?”
“The very one.”
Hold up, hold up. Did Rose just say she wants to see me two days from now? I mean, the hike was a fluke, tonight was pure luck, but a third date? That means we’re, like, a thing, right? As in dating. As in, she may be my girlfriend soon, if I play my cards right?
I remembered what Dylan had told me about confidence. About how girls like it. So I cleared my throat. “This Sunday it is, Miss Santos. Be prepared for an amazing surprise,” I said, opening both hands in front of me, like a magician showing the crowd he’s not holding any cards.
Which was true. I had no cards to play.
But I did have two days to find some.
FIFTEEN
“WHO STOLE THE KISHKA?” SANG THE ACCORDIONIST. “WHO STOLE THE kishka? Someone call the cops!”
A large balding man wearing tall black boots, blue pants, a fluffy white shirt, and a thick sheen of sweat dominated the dance floor with his wife. By dance floor, I mean cracked asphalt shaded by a rent-a-tent, whose perimeter had been decorated with beer-branded pennant flags and a large banner that read Taube County Polka Festival.
“Look at them go,” said Rose, licking the mustard off her fingers after taking a bite of the sausage we’d split.
“I have to say, I’m impressed,” I replied. “This must be the highlight of their year.”
Rose looked at me incredulously. “Their year? This is the highlight of my life!” We both laughed.
We’d only been at the polka festival for thirty minutes, but it sounded like they’d been playing the same song the entire time. A simple drum kit, a clarinet, a tuba, two trombones, and an accordion were manned by six men in lederhosen, who gently bounced to the rhythm upon a flatbed trailer. The makeshift stage leaned precariously toward the back right corner, making me question the drummer’s safety.
“I gotta hand it to you, Zeus,” said Rose, tossing a disk-shaped pickle in her mouth. “I didn’t see this coming.”
“I said you should wear polka dots, but you didn’t listen.”
“I’ll never doubt you again.” She handed the boat-shaped cardboard container back to me. “I can now scratch polka festival off my bucket list.”
I tossed a pickle in my own mouth and grinned, happy that Rose was happy. Honestly, I’d been a bit worried about my idea at first, but Dylan had been right. You had to be creative around here to find things to do, especially on a budget. So I’d spent the better part of the weekend scrambling to come up with something.
Friday night, after our dinner at the café, Rose and I had walked to the park in the center of town. We sat together on a bench, watching the fountain spurt and bubble around a statue of Abraham Lincoln. We threw in a few pennies and made silent wishes to ourselves. It sounds simple, and it was, but it felt really great. Neither of us wanted the night to end. Instead it went too quickly, as the best ones always do.
Saturday morning, I woke feeling all warm inside. For a moment anyway, until I jumped straight up in bed, realizing the task I’d created for myself. I drank half a pot of coffee—more than twice my normal dosage—which ultimately was more of a hindrance than a help.
After ricocheting around our apartment like a meth-addicted squirrel for hours, I ended up at the café, head in hands, rubbing my temples from the caffeine crash. Mom was too busy to offer any advice, which was okay, since she’d basically orchestrated the entire dinner herself the night before. (Hearing about the evening’s success had pleased her to no end.) As I leaned on the counter, something caught my eye. A newspaper lay open to a full-page ad.
Taube County Fiftieth Annual Polka Festival Extravaganza! Food, Music, Beer, Fun! Sunday, June 18, 2:00 p.m.–8:00 p.m. Bring your dancing shoes! Live music by Kyle and the Kielbasas. Free admission!
Bingo!
I tore off the page, and twenty-four hours later, there we sat, sharing a Polish sausage.
“I told you,” I said, finishing the last bite. “I’m full of surprises.” I wagged my eyebrows at her.
She pointed to her mouth.
I stopped chewing and gaped back at her. What the hell did that mean? Kiss me? Feed me?
She tapped her mouth again.
I stared at her blankly and shrugged my shoulders.