Читать книгу Not If I See You First - Eric Lindstrom, Eric Lindstrom - Страница 12

etey has an endless fascination with anime, which isn’t great for me. I’m told the appeal is mostly visual and all I get is hearing bad actors reading badly translated dialog of badly written Japanese scripts. But it’s Sunday morning so I’m wearing my hachimaki while he wears his karate gi and the new purple belt he earned yesterday.

Someone walks into the living room and flops down hard on the leather easy chair. It’s Sheila; she’s the only one who would throw herself down nearby without saying anything. Now she’s texting. I sit with my head back on the sofa, not really listening to the show. I’m not even sure what it is anymore but it doesn’t matter because I can tell by the sudden crazy electric guitar and synth explosion that it’s the closing credits.

Aunt Celia calls from the entryway, “You girls ready?”

“Going somewhere?” Petey asks, sounding hopeful.

Even Sheila can tell he’s angling to come along and she says in her bored voice, “The mall. Shopping. Clothes. You’d hate it. Then we’d all hate it.”

“You’re coming anyway,” Aunt Celia says. “Dad took his car in for an oil change.”

Petey groans.

“It’ll be fun,” I say. “I need new running shoes. You can help me get them.”

“But I don’t want to stand around for hours while Sheila tries on a million pants.”

“Nobody does, sweetie,” Aunt Celia says, walking into the room. “That’s why we’re dropping her off. We’ll come home after we buy Parker shoes.”

“Shotgun!” Petey shouts as we leave the house.

“Uh-uh, in the back,” Aunt Celia says. Dictators don’t follow rules they don’t like. “I’m up front with Sheila.”

“But if—” Petey says.

“It’s a provisional license,” Sheila says. “I can’t drive with anyone in the car unless Mom’s there sitting next to me. Get used to it.”

In the back with Petey, I hold out my hand and whisper, “One, two, three, four …”

He grabs my hand in the proper grip and whispers back, “I declare a thumb war.”

*

In the Ridgeway Mall parking lot, we meander around. I can’t tell if it’s crowded or she’s just trying to save walking five extra feet.

Aunt Celia says, “I thought you were meeting your friend at the food court? That’s way at the other end.”

“Yep,” she says. I have no idea who this new friend is.

Sheila parks and almost before the engine is completely off, she’s gone.

“Can I go to the video game store?” Petey asks.

“We’re not buying any video games today.”

“Just to look?”

Petey likes helping me but shopping is apparently a step too far, even for him.

“We need to help Parker get shoes, then we’re going straight home.”

“I don’t need help, actually,” I say. Not to stir up trouble; it’s just true. “We’re coming up on the door where the pet shop is, right? Once we’re inside, I’ll meet you back here in half an hour.”

“Great!” Petey says.

“No, no. Of course we’ll help you, Parker.”

“Thanks, but there’s really nothing for you guys to do. I know where I’m going and what I’m buying, and I have my credit card. I’ll text you if anything changes. If I get back to the pet shop before you guys, I’ll play with the puppies till you show up.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

That’s where it tips. I confess that suggesting the pet shop was a dig—the only thing more exhausting than Petey trying to get a video game is Petey trying to get a puppy—but the rest was an honest attempt to give her a chance. She blew it.

“I can’t buy shoes on my own for half an hour but Sheila can wander around all day?”

“It’s not the same, Parker,” she says in her world-weary voice.

“It’s exactly the same.”

“I’m sorry, but it isn’t. You don’t want to talk about it—”

“No, I absolutely want to talk about it. Why, exactly, do you need to be with me?”

“Well, it’s just easier when we—”

“I don’t need easier.”

“How are you going to pick what you want?”

“I already know what I want. I tell them, they get it, I give them my credit card, it’s done.”

“What if they overcharge you? Shouldn’t you pay in cash?”

“No. They scan the box and it goes straight to the credit card. If you pay cash, the register can say sixty bucks but the guy tells you a hundred; then he puts the extra forty in his pocket and you’re screwed with no proof of anything. With the credit card I check online when I get home and see if it cost what the guy said, then I only pay if it’s right.”

Silence.

Aunt Celia’s only been living with me three months and there are lots of things we haven’t run into yet. I didn’t figure today was the day to have a showdown over shopping alone, but I also didn’t figure on Petey pushing for the video game store, which he has every right to do.

“I only want to help,” she says.

She sounds like she means it. Like I’m hurting her feelings. But if someone’s feelings get hurt when they insist on giving me something I don’t want, I don’t see how that’s my fault. It doesn’t get us anywhere, though.

“Tell you what. Follow me if you want and you’ll see I’m fine. It won’t be any fun for Petey but it wasn’t going to be anyway.”

“You want us to follow you?” she asks. “Like ten steps back?”

“No, but I can’t stop you either. Do what you want. Just don’t interfere unless I’m doing something life-threatening. Either way, I’ll meet you back here in a half hour or I’ll text you.”

Sigh. “Fine.”

I cane my way over to the wall. In all the arguing I almost lost track of where it should be, but the sound of puppies to my left orients me. I know there are no benches or other protrusions along this wing of the mall so I cane along it easily, tapping hard enough for people who aren’t looking to hear me coming.

There are seven stores ahead. My cane hits the side wall, and then not when I pass a store entrance, and then wall again. After seven gaps, I know I’m in the center hub.

This is the first time I expect Aunt Celia might intervene because I’m heading straight for the fountain. On purpose, but she doesn’t know that. It’s only shin high and she probably thinks I’ll plow into it. My cane strikes the rim and I stop. No one says anything.

Except a little boy nearby whispers loudly, “Mom! Mom! Look!”

Who knows what that’s about. Maybe me or maybe a turd floating in the fountain. Now comes the tricky part: orienting to the shoe store from here.

“She’s pretending she’s blind!” the boy says in a whisper loud enough to echo.

It’s always a question whether or not to ignore these things. I can tell he isn’t far away, so I lean toward him a bit.

“I’m not pretending,” I say in a loud whisper. “I’m really blind. And not deaf.”

He gasps and I hear scrambling. Maybe he’s hiding behind his mom.

“Then why’re you wearing a blindfold?” he asks.

“Come on, Donnie,” says a young woman. “Don’t bother her.”

“I wear it because it’s pretty. And because Japanese pilots in World War Two wore them when they crashed into things on purpose. Sometimes I crash into things too, though not on purpose.”

I realize this might be offensive, even if they aren’t Japanese. Too late now.

“Kamikaze!” he shouts, followed by plane noises, bullet noises, and an explosion noise, all of which probably adds several ounces of spit to the air.

With that taken care of, it’s time for the tricky part. The wing of the mall with the shoe place, Running Rampant, is opposite the fountain, which is round. It works best if I tap my way around by sidestepping, always trying to face the same way without pivoting, or else it’s hard to keep track of my direction. As I do it, the airplane noises diminish. When I think I’m there, it’s time to see if I got it right.

I walk far enough forward to know I’m generally in the main wing, and then I start trending toward the right, where I know the store is. I manage not to bump into anyone, like people who are probably just facing away, gawking at the window displays or whatever, and don’t hear my taps.

When I reach the doorway I pass through and walk straight until I tap a barrier that should be a shoe display. I reach out and touch canvas and shoelaces. Success. Now it’s a waiting game, and usually a short one.

“May I help you?”

It’s a guy’s voice. Maybe my age. I don’t recognize it.

“That depends. Do you work here?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I’m an employee. Want to touch my name tag?”

“Not until we know each other better. Unless it’s in braille.”

“It’s not. It says Jason. Are you looking for someone?”

“Nope.” I lift my right leg a bit and turn my foot to the side. “Can I get a new pair of these in an eight?”

“Hmmm … I don’t think we carry those anymore.”

“The closest thing is fine. I’m not that picky.”

“In black?”

“Definitely. I am picky about that. No stripes or colors or any wacky stuff. If I run at night I want to get hit by a car because they can’t see me.”

“You might as well run at night since you don’t need any light. I’ll be right back.”

He leaves. No reaction to me running at night, or running at all; he even made a crack about it. I could like this guy. Except I don’t know if he’s seventeen or twenty-seven and that’s a tough thing to ask, even for me.

I say “No thank you, I’m being helped” to three different people before Jason returns.

“There’s an empty bench about three steps to your right,” he says.

While I tap over and sweep my hand, he keeps talking. “I don’t know if you care about brands—”

“I don’t.” I find the bench and sit down.

“Okay. They discontinued the shoes you’re wearing and replaced them with these, which are close but they put in more arch support and some B.S. spring-foam technology in the heel that doesn’t help but doesn’t hurt either. Do you want me to lace them for you?”

He asked me. He’s racking up points now.

“Give me one and you do the other.” I hold out a hand and a shoe lands in it.

“Sure thing.” He sits down next to me. “We can race.”

I have lots of experience lacing shoes but he works here so I’m guessing he’ll win.

“Are you a runner?” I ask. “Or is this just a job?”

“Why not both? But yeah, I run.”

“You ever run track in school?” I ask. Very smooth.

“Still do. Well, if I make the team, which seems likely. Tryouts are next week.”

“Where do you go?”

“I’m a senior at Adams, now. What about you?”

“Ah, you’re one of the immigrants. I’m a native.”

“Really?”

Now I wonder if he’s playing me. Not to be conceited or anything but what are the odds that he’s never seen me and my blindfold tapping around school?

It’s too much to let go. “You haven’t seen me around?”

“No, I guess we don’t have any of the same classes.”

“Or walk the same halls, or eat in the same cafeteria.”

He laughs. “I just walk the track with a granola bar at lunchtime.”

I finish lacing. “Time. You finished already?”

“Uhhh …” he says. “Yeeeeeaaaaaah … finished … Here.”

“I won, didn’t I?”

“You’ll never know.”

Wow, taking advantage of my blindness in a safe, playful way in the first five minutes.

I put on both shoes and stand.

“You have about three or four clear steps in front of you. If you want more, I can clear out an aisle for you.”

“No, this is fine.” I bounce on my toes and run the shoes through some paces. They feel odd but in the usual way new shoes do. Otherwise good.

“How much?”

“Seventy-nine ninety-nine.”

I pull the credit card from my pocket and hold it out. “I’ll take them. I’ll be up to the counter in a minute.”

“No need, we just got these portable scanners.”

While he scans the shoe box (beep) and types (click click) I change back into my old shoes and pack the new ones away.

“You sign on the screen. I’ll put the tip of the pen where it goes.”

I hold out a hand and it finds a pen. I grab on and he’s holding the other end in space until it clicks on a hard surface.

“There.”

I sign my name and he takes back the pen.

“I tucked the receipt in the box.”

“Thanks.”

“If you check it later, which you should, it actually cost only sixty-eight dollars, or seventy-three seventy-eight with tax.”

“They’re on sale?”

“No, I have a Friends and Family discount. I think we’re friends now. It’s just a code we enter—we don’t flag your account or anything—so whenever you come here you have to ask for me, Jason Freeborn.”

“Cool—thanks, Jason.”

“But if my boss asks, I’d better have a name to give him.”

“I’m sorry?”

“What’s your name?”

Oh. What an idiot. “Parker. Parker Grant. Just like on the credit card.”

“I didn’t want to assume. A lot of people use their parents’ cards.”

“I wish.”

“Here are your shoes. Promise me you won’t run at night, even though you can.”

“I promise.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll see you in the halls at Adams. And since we’re friends now, I want to see you run in these sometime.”

Strangely enough, I’m thinking I might let him.