“Especially in a town like this.”
“Oh, don’t be so judgmental. Otters Holt inspires imagination that big cities don’t.”
“I wasn’t being judgmental,” he says.
“You were, but I’ll give you a pass for now.”
I opt to join him on the freezer, thinking I’ll add another layer to the Daily Sit tomorrow after church. “Some of us have to make our own fun.”
“I make my own fun.”
There’s something sly and opaque behind his expression that tells me we are not opposites, which had been my theory until Big T died. Until then, I assumed he was in Otters Holt because he had to be and in the Hexagon because of Mash. He didn’t seem lonely; he seemed both cultivated and uncertain, always hesitating. The way I was as a kid.
I dip my shoulder into his and tease him out. “I’m not sure you even know how to spell the word fun.”
His chin lodges against his breastbone. His feet stop swinging. “I didn’t know you were keeping up with me.”
I tell him the truth. “I keep up with everything.”
Davey’s got potential—the movement, the thrill, is all there. It’s hidden, but when Davey smiles, really smiles, the dictionary doesn’t have an adequate word for the effect. It’s fully charged, alive. I want to give him a reason to do it again.
Quite unexpectedly, he asks, “How would you like to keep up with me this evening?”
I make a show of dusting my hands as if the work in the garage is all done forever. “Sure. What’s the occasion?”
“Change of scenery. Costume party in Nashville?”
Well, damn. No rigidity to that. I’m overjoyed to hear that his grief is moving nicely along the normal healing continuum. I’ve noticed Mash has been able to reference his granddad without burrowing inside his T-shirt this past week. And over the past few days, Davey was able to say “died” and “Big T” without stuttering. The rest of us stopped trading shifts at their houses. Which is good; I’ve had about all the barbecue sandwiches and red velvet cake I can manage. Another thing I can’t manage: Janie Lee scooting close to Woods on the hardwood floor of Mash’s bedroom. So Davey’s suggestion, a change of scenery, feels downright hopeful.
“Will Audi Thomas be at this costume party?”
He grins. “Indeed.”
“Indeed,” I repeat.
I need to clean up and get permission. Before Davey knows it, he agrees to add another layer of newsprint to the Daily Sit while he waits. I instruct him to make that ornery flap his obedient servant.
Inside, I address the parents. “Davey’s here. We’re gonna run around if it’s okay with you?” I focus on Mom instead of Dad, and of course, get opposing answers.
“Yes,” says Mom. “No,” says Dad.
In a heartbeat, this is their argument, not mine. “Honey, united front,” Dad demands.
“Oh, unite your own front,” she says without any malice. “He just lost his granddad.”
Other than funeral friend watch, I’ve barely ventured from the garage, assuming “out of sight, out of mind” is a good strategy. Although all this time in my workshop gave me plenty of time to stew over the possibility of Woods and Janie Lee coupling up, which only turned into me making terrible paintings of two-headed unicorns and having awful dreams where everyone I know and love claims they hate me. I don’t know which part irks me worst: her liking him or him possibly liking her back. I probably need this trip as badly as Davey does.
“Please,” I say to my parents, greasing the wheel. “I’d really like to go.”
Whether Dad remembers that I’m not evil or that Davey is probably in need of company, the pushback ends. I skate triumphantly from the room and shower off nearly eighty percent of the glue. Win-win. I settle on a costume, make the necessary transformation, and toss a change of regular clothes in a duffel.
When I sneak my costume past the parents—they would not approve of cross-dressing—it takes Davey a moment to realize I’m dressed as him. My hair, which is the same color as his—a dark brown that is almost black and nearly the same length—is parted, glued (thanks to Janie Lee’s stash of cosmetics in my bathroom), and bandanna-ed to mirror his style. It isn’t hard to emulate his clothes: scissors to every piece of fabric on my body. I added silver accessories. I added sideburns. Because I am an overachiever, I added makeup that angles my chin, triples my eyebrows, and hints at an Adam’s apple. Though that part is flubbed.
“That’s sort of hilarious,” he says, circling me.
I’m pleased he’s pleased.
He continues his survey. I get the feeling he’s not looking at my clothes, but somewhere deeper. He says, “I thought you’d fit in with my cosplay friends.” He means, I thought you’d fit in with me. And I finally feel like I’m getting somewhere with this boy.
“Cause-what?” I ask.
“Cosplay.”
“Is that like chains and whips?” I am not balking just yet, but perhaps I have underestimated him.
Davey laughs in earnest, head back, teeth showing. “No. A cosplay party is just a regular old costume party that doesn’t use Halloween as an excuse to dress up.”
“What are you going as?” I ask.
“Good question. They just called, so I’m going to throw something together.” He uses the utility sink to clean his arms and then paws around in the trunk of his car. He comes up with a navy V-neck sweater, tie, and white dress shirt. After shucking his T-shirt and tossing it onto the Daily Sit, he eyeballs the knight in the corner while he dresses and expertly ties a Windsor. He asks if the knight has a name. Certainly. I name everything. “Guinevere,” I say.
“Is she stable enough to borrow?”
If he wants to borrow a half-assembled lady knight, who am I to stop him? We toss Guinevere in among the thank-you gifts, and I toss myself among the books on his front seat. Graphic novels. A biography on Teddy Roosevelt. Sex for Dummies. One of those cheap sketchbooks from the bargain aisle.
“Doing some extracurricular reading?” I ask, and drop the books on the back floorboard.
“Roosevelt, yes. Sex, no. That’s Mash’s copy. Comic, hell yeah and always.”
You gotta love a guy who throws his cousin under the sexually inexperienced bus.
I’m pretty enamored with Davey’s car. The seats are leather, the radio is exquisite—like the bands are playing in my lap—and he’s got another tie hanging from the rearview mirror. Did I mention it’s a V-8 engine with 455 thoroughbreds under the hood and a manual transmission? Did I mention I drive a bicycle?
I give the tie a swing—it’s identical to the one he’s wearing. “This from your last school?”
“My last life.” He shifts, revs, off we go. “You want me to dress as you?” he asks when we hit the interstate.
No. Yes. It would be funny. “I’d like to see you try.”
I am glad we’re joking. Since he moved to Otters Holt, he’s been dawdling through the school hallways, chin always down, moving the way this one Death Cab for Cutie song sounds. Trudge. Trudge. Sad. Sad.