I tried to remember what little Spanish I’d learned in my one month at Buffalo Falls High School. “Uh, muy bien.”
“Haha, what’s up, my man? Pull up a seat.” He motioned to his bed. I sat. “You moved here from Chicago, right? You have a weird name in real life, don’t tell me.” He shut his eyes and tapped his forehead with his knuckles. “Hercules?”
“Zeus. Short for Jesús.”
“Oh, right. Hence, Jesucristo.”
“Sí.”
Honestly, I was surprised he remembered me at all. I remembered him, of course. He was the kind of guy everyone noticed, the guy everyone wanted to be friends with. His real name was Dylan Rafferty, but Se?ora Stanford, our Spanish teacher, had nicknamed him Shakira, like the Latin pop star, due to his wavy, shoulder-length blond hair. And since another guy in the class had already been christened Jesús, she referred to me as Jesucristo, crossing herself Catholic-style every time she called on me. It’d been the only class I looked forward to, mostly because it was the last period of the day, but also because Se?ora was a wack job. The good kind of wack job though—the kind that randomly starts salsa dancing in the middle of class.
Dylan was the same age as me but looked about three years older. He leaned back in his desk chair, a tobacco-sunburst Gibson Les Paul guitar lying across his chest. His left leg was in a cast, propped on top of the desk. Long hair fell on either side of his face, the rest tied back in a messy knot. Thick sideburns extended to his jaw. From what little information I’d been able to gather during my time at BFHS, Dylan not only dated the hottest girl at school, but could also shred guitar. I wondered if the two things were related.
“Hey, mi hermana had to run,” he said, forgetting the h was supposed to be silent in Spanish, “but she told me to pay for her comero.”
I laughed. His Spanish was even worse than mine. “You mean her comida?”
“Her food-o deliverio,” he said, twirling a finger at the salad box I held.
I laughed again. Dylan reminded me of the friends I’d left behind in Chicago: laid-back, funny, easy to talk to.
Just then, a giant beast of a dog entered the room and lumbered toward us. Its jowls hung like mud flaps, from which ropes of drool dangled an inch from the ground.
“Say hello, Agatha,” Dylan said.
Agatha wagged her tail. Though her coat was light brown, she had a black face and ears to match. Grub walked up to her and they nearly met eye to eye.
“I bet she’d be a good bomb sniffer,” Grub said, examining the dog’s huge nostrils.
“No doubt. She’s an excellent butt sniffer.” Dylan gave Agatha a playful slap on the hip. The dog leaned in and licked Grub’s face from chin to forehead.
“Ohhhh, sorry about that, little dude,” said Dylan, then turned to the dog. “A little less tongue next time, Aggs.”
Grub giggled and wiped his face with his sleeve.
Agatha sat in front of him and held a paw in the air.
“Atta girl,” Dylan said. “Now she wants to shake your hand, like a proper lady.”
Grub stuck out his hand, which was smaller than her paw. “Nice to meet you, Agatha.”
Agatha barked in agreement.
“So, what have we got here?” Dylan asked, eyeing the cardboard box I carried.
“Peas and Hominy.”
“For sure. What’s in the box?”
“That’s what it’s called.”
“Oh, right on. How much?”
“Eight ninety-five.”
Dylan reacted as anyone would after being told a salad named Peas and Hominy cost nearly nine dollars: a quick twitch of the eyebrows and mouth, followed by a head nod of justification.
We made the exchange, and Dylan opened the container to inspect it. He made the same face as when I’d told him the price, then showed it to Agatha. She sneezed, shook her head, and flung drool around the room.
“It’s actually really good,” I said. “The peas are organic, locally grown, and—” I began, reciting Mom’s delivery pitch.
He cut me off. “It’s all good, man. Maybe I’ll give it a try. Maggie—my sister—got called into work and won’t be home till late. I could probably use a night off of deep-fried burritos anyway.”
I nodded back. “Hard to beat a deep-fried burrito though.”
“Hell yeah. So your mom owns that new place on Main Street? World Hunger Café or something?”
I nodded. “World Peas Café.”
“She, like, a hippie-type?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess.”
Dylan chuckled. “She’d probably get along great with my parents. They’re spending two months in India at some Buddhist retreat center. Just me and Maggie for now. And Agatha.”
Agatha’s tongue spilled from the side of her mouth as she smiled.
“Your parents left you guys alone for two months? That must be awesome.”
It was Dylan’s turn to shrug. “Kind of awesome. Maggie’s a social worker, studying for her master’s, so she’s not around much. My girlfriend’s away in Maine all summer, working as a camp counselor. And most of my friends have temp jobs at the moving company where I used to work before my little accident.” He motioned to his cast-entombed leg.
I raised my eyebrows in question. “Little accident?”
Dylan blew out a breath. “Ladder. Squirrel. Life-and-death struggle.”
“Sounds traumatic.”
“Yeah, that squirrel was a real asshole.” He set the salad box on his desk, then played a riff on his guitar. It was a simple slidey, bendy move, but much better than I could do.
A couple more guitars hung on his bedroom wall.
“How long have you been playing?” I asked.
“I guess about five years now.”
“Cool. I’ve been playing for a few months, but I just have a shitty acoustic.”
“You want to play one of mine? Here, let me—”
“No, that’s okay. Thanks though. We have to get running. Maybe next time.”
Dylan nodded. “Next time.”
Grub was on his knees stroking Agatha’s ears, relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen him since we’d moved. I almost hated to interrupt him, but we’d been there long enough.
“Let’s move, soldier, time to go.”
“Do we have to? Look, she wants to play.” Agatha had rolled onto her back, her big paws hanging limp over her chest. Agatha and Grub both looked at me awaiting an answer.
I patted Grub on top of his army helmet. “Not today, bud. Need to head back. Tell Agatha good-bye. Maybe we’ll see her again soon.”
“All right.” Grub hopped up and darted out the door. “Bye, Agatha!” he called, his voice fading down the hall.
Agatha barked.
I started after Grub but something made me stop and turn back to Dylan. “By the way, was that you singing when we pulled up?”
Dylan’s face turned as red as the Stratocaster hanging on his wall. “Uh, that, yeah.” He held up his phone to show me. “My girlfriend, Anna, the one in Maine this summer? She loves Christina Perri.”
“Right on,” I said, unsure what that had to do with anything.