said Marci, ‘but it means there’s probably more to her message than just “here I am”.’
‘There you are,’ said Marci’s mom, opening the screen door. Marci and I were sitting on the porch, our feet on the steps, and her mom set down a plate of buttered bread on the floor between us. ‘This isn’t fresh out of the oven or anything, but I thought you might like a snack.’
Marci’s mom was large – not fat, just big – and her hands were weathered and callused from constant work in the yard and garden. She was nice enough, but it was obvious Marci had gotten her good looks from somewhere else.
‘Thanks,’ said Marci, smiling widely. She seemed grateful for the interruption, though I wasn’t sure. She picked up a piece of bread. ‘Mom’s bread is great, John, you’ll love it. This is, what, like five wholegrains?’
‘Six,’ said her mom. ‘I added another one.’
I took a piece and held it up to inspect it. It looked like a slab of birdseed.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you could get that many wholegrains into one piece of bread.’
‘I don’t want to interrupt,’ said her mom, opening the door and stepping back in. ‘Just bringing a snack. Have fun!’
‘ “Have fun”,’ said Marci, laughing. ‘She thinks we’re out here talking about our favourite bands or something.’
I held out my bread. ‘Do you seriously eat this?’
She laughed some more. ‘Of course we eat it. What else would you do with it?’
‘You could hang it from a tree and feed every bird in the neighbourhood.’
‘It’s good for you ,’ she said, in a voice that meant she knew exactly how stupid that sounded, but then she took another big bite. She obviously enjoyed it.
I took a bite; it was rough and chewy. I tried to say something, but it took so long to chew I couldn’t form any words.
‘Mom’s been perfecting this recipe for years,’ said Marci. ‘You should have tried it when she first started – it was pretty heavy-duty.’
I finally managed to swallow, and shook my head in disbelief. ‘Holy crap, that’s like a buttered granola bar.’
‘We eat it all the time,’ said Marci. ‘It’s totally normal to us now. Anything else feels too flimsy. Wonder Bread’s practically tissue-paper compared to this.’
‘Wonder Bread’s like tissue paper compared to anything,’ I said, ‘but if I can reverse the metaphor, this is like titanium compared to Wonder Bread.’
‘That’s actually a simile, not a metaphor. You can tell because it has “like” in it.’
‘And this is actually a construction material, not a food,’ I said. ‘You can tell because it has wood pulp in it.’
‘Poor baby,’ said Marci, making an exaggerated frown. ‘Wood pulp is good for you – it’ll put hair on your chest.’
‘And you’ve been eating this for how long?’ I asked. ‘That’s horrifying.’
Marci laughed again. ‘Shut up!’
I heard a car engine rumbling closer, and looked out to the street just in time to see Marci’s dad pull up to the kerb in his squad car. I set the bread back down on the plate and tried to look innocent. I wasn’t afraid of cops, I actually quite liked them, but I’d never met one at his own house before. The last thing I needed was for Officer Jensen to freak out and tell me to stop corrupting his daughter.
‘Hey, Dad,’ said Marci, swallowing another bite of bread.
‘Hey, babe,’ said Officer Jensen, stepping out and closing the car door behind him. ‘And the venerable John Cleaver - it’s an honour.’
‘Hi,’ I said. I gave a small wave, uncertain what else to do.
‘What brings you here?’ he asked, stopping a few feet away with his hands on his hips. He seemed cheerful enough. Would he stay cheerful if he knew we were talking about the Handyman?
‘We’re talking about the Handyman,’ said Marci.
‘Cool,’ he
‘There you are,’ said Marci’s mom, opening the screen door. Marci and I were sitting on the porch, our feet on the steps, and her mom set down a plate of buttered bread on the floor between us. ‘This isn’t fresh out of the oven or anything, but I thought you might like a snack.’
Marci’s mom was large – not fat, just big – and her hands were weathered and callused from constant work in the yard and garden. She was nice enough, but it was obvious Marci had gotten her good looks from somewhere else.
‘Thanks,’ said Marci, smiling widely. She seemed grateful for the interruption, though I wasn’t sure. She picked up a piece of bread. ‘Mom’s bread is great, John, you’ll love it. This is, what, like five wholegrains?’
‘Six,’ said her mom. ‘I added another one.’
I took a piece and held it up to inspect it. It looked like a slab of birdseed.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you could get that many wholegrains into one piece of bread.’
‘I don’t want to interrupt,’ said her mom, opening the door and stepping back in. ‘Just bringing a snack. Have fun!’
‘ “Have fun”,’ said Marci, laughing. ‘She thinks we’re out here talking about our favourite bands or something.’
I held out my bread. ‘Do you seriously eat this?’
She laughed some more. ‘Of course we eat it. What else would you do with it?’
‘You could hang it from a tree and feed every bird in the neighbourhood.’
‘It’s good for you ,’ she said, in a voice that meant she knew exactly how stupid that sounded, but then she took another big bite. She obviously enjoyed it.
I took a bite; it was rough and chewy. I tried to say something, but it took so long to chew I couldn’t form any words.
‘Mom’s been perfecting this recipe for years,’ said Marci. ‘You should have tried it when she first started – it was pretty heavy-duty.’
I finally managed to swallow, and shook my head in disbelief. ‘Holy crap, that’s like a buttered granola bar.’
‘We eat it all the time,’ said Marci. ‘It’s totally normal to us now. Anything else feels too flimsy. Wonder Bread’s practically tissue-paper compared to this.’
‘Wonder Bread’s like tissue paper compared to anything,’ I said, ‘but if I can reverse the metaphor, this is like titanium compared to Wonder Bread.’
‘That’s actually a simile, not a metaphor. You can tell because it has “like” in it.’
‘And this is actually a construction material, not a food,’ I said. ‘You can tell because it has wood pulp in it.’
‘Poor baby,’ said Marci, making an exaggerated frown. ‘Wood pulp is good for you – it’ll put hair on your chest.’
‘And you’ve been eating this for how long?’ I asked. ‘That’s horrifying.’
Marci laughed again. ‘Shut up!’
I heard a car engine rumbling closer, and looked out to the street just in time to see Marci’s dad pull up to the kerb in his squad car. I set the bread back down on the plate and tried to look innocent. I wasn’t afraid of cops, I actually quite liked them, but I’d never met one at his own house before. The last thing I needed was for Officer Jensen to freak out and tell me to stop corrupting his daughter.
‘Hey, Dad,’ said Marci, swallowing another bite of bread.
‘Hey, babe,’ said Officer Jensen, stepping out and closing the car door behind him. ‘And the venerable John Cleaver - it’s an honour.’
‘Hi,’ I said. I gave a small wave, uncertain what else to do.
‘What brings you here?’ he asked, stopping a few feet away with his hands on his hips. He seemed cheerful enough. Would he stay cheerful if he knew we were talking about the Handyman?
‘We’re talking about the Handyman,’ said Marci.
‘Cool,’ he
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