a look that said
I trust
you.
Not him. You.
From that moment, I felt a weighted responsibility to Peter Baker.
We watched him get into his truck, back out, and drive down the street. When he was out of sight, David and Wylie looked at each other. To hug, or not to hug? I had never seen David this befuddled. He wound up giving her a pat on the arm. “How was the ride?”
She shrugged. “OK, I guess.”
“It’s nice to see you.” I said, and took hold of the suitcase handle. “Here, let me get that for you.”
“Thanks.”
David wrung his hands for a moment as he frantically searched for something to say, and came up with, “You hungry?”
She shrugged again. “I guess so.”
“We can do Italian,” he suggested. “Or would you rather get a burger?”
“David, it’s only eleven o’clock,” I pointed out.
He scratched his head. “Sorry.” He paused to consider options. “There are some cute shops on Main Street in Amherst. Wanna walk around and check ’em out?”
“There’s also Emily Dickinson’s house,” I offered. “You know, the poet?”
David sought Wylie’s approval before giving his own. Wylie shrugged. “Whatever you guys want to do is OK with me. I mean, I guess we could check out those shops.” She paused for a beat before asking, “Can we go to Boston?”
“Your dad didn’t seem too keen on it,” I said. From my peripheral vision I caught David furtively slip me an irked look for answering on his behalf. Or maybe it was because I referred to Peter as her dad. I clamped my mouth shut and felt self-conscious, as if I’d just been commanded to shut up.
“Ever been to Boston?” asked David.
“My parents took me along the Freedom Trail the summer before middle school,” she replied. “I was bored beyond measure.”
David laughed in a forced effort. I watched him in awe, wondering why he was so bumbling and fidgety, why schmooze-boy wasn’t taking over.
We took Wylie’s suitcase inside, freshened up, and left for Amherst less than thirty minutes later. We sauntered up anddown Main Street, in and out of the shops and boutiques and Starbucks, exchanging bits of shy small talk along the route, mostly in the form of questions:
“Do you want to go in there?”
“If you want to buy anything, let us know, OK?”
“Do you like kites?”
“I smell waffles.”
The weather was perfect—sunny and mild and cloudless, the azure sky complemented by golds and reds and oranges of the foliage. College students abounded at every turn, and I ran into three students, two of them from the previous semester. “Hey, Professor Vanzant!” they called and waved. I smiled and waved back and returned their greeting: “Hey!” One of them even crossed the street to tell me that he’d submitted a short story to an online magazine and it had been accepted. I beamed and congratulated him. Running into students, past or present, filled me with validation and well-being, a sense of being at home in my skin.
“Wow,” said Wylie. “You’re, like, popular here.”
“Andi is a
great
teacher,” said David. His pride made me feel even better. “Her students love her. In fact, she taught me everything I know about writing.”
All the walking worked up our hunger, and we decided on a café that made pita wraps. When we sat at a table, a shot of something worse than silence stunned each of us into submission, as if we’d become paralyzed not only in our tongues and throats, but also our brains. I could see the look of panic both in David’s and Wylie’s eyes, not doubting that it was in my own as well.
However, I was the first to break free of it.
This is stupid
, I thought. “Just breathe normally, folks,” I said as I picked up my wrap and bit heartily into it. I followed with a yummy soundand licked my fingers that had caught some of the spilled contents. The earnest gesture broke David’s spell, and the muscles in his face softened. I read a note of gratitude, as if for the first
I trust
you.
Not him. You.
From that moment, I felt a weighted responsibility to Peter Baker.
We watched him get into his truck, back out, and drive down the street. When he was out of sight, David and Wylie looked at each other. To hug, or not to hug? I had never seen David this befuddled. He wound up giving her a pat on the arm. “How was the ride?”
She shrugged. “OK, I guess.”
“It’s nice to see you.” I said, and took hold of the suitcase handle. “Here, let me get that for you.”
“Thanks.”
David wrung his hands for a moment as he frantically searched for something to say, and came up with, “You hungry?”
She shrugged again. “I guess so.”
“We can do Italian,” he suggested. “Or would you rather get a burger?”
“David, it’s only eleven o’clock,” I pointed out.
He scratched his head. “Sorry.” He paused to consider options. “There are some cute shops on Main Street in Amherst. Wanna walk around and check ’em out?”
“There’s also Emily Dickinson’s house,” I offered. “You know, the poet?”
David sought Wylie’s approval before giving his own. Wylie shrugged. “Whatever you guys want to do is OK with me. I mean, I guess we could check out those shops.” She paused for a beat before asking, “Can we go to Boston?”
“Your dad didn’t seem too keen on it,” I said. From my peripheral vision I caught David furtively slip me an irked look for answering on his behalf. Or maybe it was because I referred to Peter as her dad. I clamped my mouth shut and felt self-conscious, as if I’d just been commanded to shut up.
“Ever been to Boston?” asked David.
“My parents took me along the Freedom Trail the summer before middle school,” she replied. “I was bored beyond measure.”
David laughed in a forced effort. I watched him in awe, wondering why he was so bumbling and fidgety, why schmooze-boy wasn’t taking over.
We took Wylie’s suitcase inside, freshened up, and left for Amherst less than thirty minutes later. We sauntered up anddown Main Street, in and out of the shops and boutiques and Starbucks, exchanging bits of shy small talk along the route, mostly in the form of questions:
“Do you want to go in there?”
“If you want to buy anything, let us know, OK?”
“Do you like kites?”
“I smell waffles.”
The weather was perfect—sunny and mild and cloudless, the azure sky complemented by golds and reds and oranges of the foliage. College students abounded at every turn, and I ran into three students, two of them from the previous semester. “Hey, Professor Vanzant!” they called and waved. I smiled and waved back and returned their greeting: “Hey!” One of them even crossed the street to tell me that he’d submitted a short story to an online magazine and it had been accepted. I beamed and congratulated him. Running into students, past or present, filled me with validation and well-being, a sense of being at home in my skin.
“Wow,” said Wylie. “You’re, like, popular here.”
“Andi is a
great
teacher,” said David. His pride made me feel even better. “Her students love her. In fact, she taught me everything I know about writing.”
All the walking worked up our hunger, and we decided on a café that made pita wraps. When we sat at a table, a shot of something worse than silence stunned each of us into submission, as if we’d become paralyzed not only in our tongues and throats, but also our brains. I could see the look of panic both in David’s and Wylie’s eyes, not doubting that it was in my own as well.
However, I was the first to break free of it.
This is stupid
, I thought. “Just breathe normally, folks,” I said as I picked up my wrap and bit heartily into it. I followed with a yummy soundand licked my fingers that had caught some of the spilled contents. The earnest gesture broke David’s spell, and the muscles in his face softened. I read a note of gratitude, as if for the first
Similar Books
