wall and checked out the view screen. I was surprised when I recognized who it was. This was out of left field.
Smiling, I pushed the button to speak. “Crookie! Hey, easy on the buzzer. It’s so nice to see you, but why am I seeing you?”
The irritating noise stopped and a garbled voice queried, “An..el? Is ..at you?”
I watched the screen as Bob “Crookie” Crookston bent from his considerable height to speak directly into the box attached to Bel’s front entrance outside wall. He appeared to put his lips against it. I giggled, I couldn’t help it--this was so like him. He was essentially a rocket scientist, but didn’t get intercom systems and microphones had evolved since his ghetto, ancient apartment days at Purdue.
“Tis I, Anabel of Northfield. What’s up?” I reared back in shock when a blast of jumbled, shouted words was my answer. Bob excited and loud was one thing, but Bob angry and yelling? This was very strange behavior coming from him.
Bob was an old buddy from high school. We had bonded our senior year as science partners. I had learned to really like the loveable boy. He was very tall even then and gangly skinny. He dressed goofy and wore ugly, thick framed glasses. He was your typical nerd; incredibly intelligent and incredibly socially awkward.
Sitting next to me at our lab station, he was terrified of me for the first two weeks of class. He couldn’t even look at me without turning beet red and breaking out into a sweat, sometimes hyperventilating.
I had to put a stop to that nonsense immediately. I really needed his help; science gives me the worst headache. It was bad enough I had gotten stuck in biology instead of my first choice of earth science--which sounded a whole lot friendlier to me.
My procrastination at taking the required science credit had caused me trouble; I couldn’t afford a B or lower because my colossally smart partner was petrified of half the human race. NanaBel paid out a significant bonus for straight A’s. I was too greedy to lose out on that primo deal for the first time ever in my school history. I’m a girl with goals.
After my first quiz result of a B minus, I waited after school for Bob. I had borrowed Mackenzie’s pristine 1980 turbocharged Firebird Trans Am and drove that day. Mac, when she wasn’t being too bossy, was a great oldest sister. She was usually willing to let me use her car during the day while she slept after her graveyard nursing shift at Northfield Hospital. Mac’s only requirement was I keep the gas tank topped. I had a hard time seeing clearly over the bulge of the turbo hood, but it was worth the neck strain; I loved the scream of the engine as I shifted from second into third at 4000 rpm’s.
Standing beside the Firebird, I picked Bob immediately out of the crowd of our fellow inmates by his towering height as he came scurrying down the sidewalk. Even with his head facing down, he was taller than everyone around him. By his hunched over posture, I could only surmise he was carrying a load of boulders in his backpack.
I reached in the driver’s side open window and tooted the horn. He didn’t look up. I laid on the horn until it penetrated even his genius fog. When he was looking my way, I waved to him with a big smile and motioned for him to come over to my waiting car at the curb. It was comical to see him look around and point to himself in disbelief when he realized it was his attention I was trying to grab. It was even funnier to see his expression as he checked out my ride. The decaled, turbo bird spitting out a large flame across the hood was pretty, damn awesome.
At my cajoling insistence, he reluctantly folded himself into the passenger side. He had to slide the bucket seat so far back to accommodate his thirty-eight inch inseam he was technically sitting in the back seat.
“What do you want, Ana…Anabel?”
Pulled so far forward in the driver’s seat to reach the pedals I could be mistaken for a hood
Smiling, I pushed the button to speak. “Crookie! Hey, easy on the buzzer. It’s so nice to see you, but why am I seeing you?”
The irritating noise stopped and a garbled voice queried, “An..el? Is ..at you?”
I watched the screen as Bob “Crookie” Crookston bent from his considerable height to speak directly into the box attached to Bel’s front entrance outside wall. He appeared to put his lips against it. I giggled, I couldn’t help it--this was so like him. He was essentially a rocket scientist, but didn’t get intercom systems and microphones had evolved since his ghetto, ancient apartment days at Purdue.
“Tis I, Anabel of Northfield. What’s up?” I reared back in shock when a blast of jumbled, shouted words was my answer. Bob excited and loud was one thing, but Bob angry and yelling? This was very strange behavior coming from him.
Bob was an old buddy from high school. We had bonded our senior year as science partners. I had learned to really like the loveable boy. He was very tall even then and gangly skinny. He dressed goofy and wore ugly, thick framed glasses. He was your typical nerd; incredibly intelligent and incredibly socially awkward.
Sitting next to me at our lab station, he was terrified of me for the first two weeks of class. He couldn’t even look at me without turning beet red and breaking out into a sweat, sometimes hyperventilating.
I had to put a stop to that nonsense immediately. I really needed his help; science gives me the worst headache. It was bad enough I had gotten stuck in biology instead of my first choice of earth science--which sounded a whole lot friendlier to me.
My procrastination at taking the required science credit had caused me trouble; I couldn’t afford a B or lower because my colossally smart partner was petrified of half the human race. NanaBel paid out a significant bonus for straight A’s. I was too greedy to lose out on that primo deal for the first time ever in my school history. I’m a girl with goals.
After my first quiz result of a B minus, I waited after school for Bob. I had borrowed Mackenzie’s pristine 1980 turbocharged Firebird Trans Am and drove that day. Mac, when she wasn’t being too bossy, was a great oldest sister. She was usually willing to let me use her car during the day while she slept after her graveyard nursing shift at Northfield Hospital. Mac’s only requirement was I keep the gas tank topped. I had a hard time seeing clearly over the bulge of the turbo hood, but it was worth the neck strain; I loved the scream of the engine as I shifted from second into third at 4000 rpm’s.
Standing beside the Firebird, I picked Bob immediately out of the crowd of our fellow inmates by his towering height as he came scurrying down the sidewalk. Even with his head facing down, he was taller than everyone around him. By his hunched over posture, I could only surmise he was carrying a load of boulders in his backpack.
I reached in the driver’s side open window and tooted the horn. He didn’t look up. I laid on the horn until it penetrated even his genius fog. When he was looking my way, I waved to him with a big smile and motioned for him to come over to my waiting car at the curb. It was comical to see him look around and point to himself in disbelief when he realized it was his attention I was trying to grab. It was even funnier to see his expression as he checked out my ride. The decaled, turbo bird spitting out a large flame across the hood was pretty, damn awesome.
At my cajoling insistence, he reluctantly folded himself into the passenger side. He had to slide the bucket seat so far back to accommodate his thirty-eight inch inseam he was technically sitting in the back seat.
“What do you want, Ana…Anabel?”
Pulled so far forward in the driver’s seat to reach the pedals I could be mistaken for a hood
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