Except it turns out that being at a buffet in the middle of nowhere with a group of hostile debaters is even more painful than being in a car alone with Truman Alexander.
We are the youngest people at the restaurant, which appears to be the local spot for sitting and visiting while having coffee and pie. Since Truman and I have arrived late thanks to our bathroom break, everyone’s already seated. Riley immediately leads him away to a packed table.
I find a booth in the back corner and put down my bag, then head to the buffet. I might be on my own, but at least the food looks good. I load up on fried chicken with gravy and sides. When I return to my seat, Truman is there, his notebook on the table next to a second water glass.
“Don’t tell me. You asked if you could invite me to your table and everybody said no.”
“Since you requested that I not tell you, I won’t.”
“Won’t your girlfriend get mad if you’re spending so much time with me?”
“Riley isn’t my girlfriend.” He nods at the notebook. “Will you watch that for me while I go get lunch?”
While he’s gone, I text my parents that I’m okay, sending a photo of my plate as proof. My phone makes a weird sound, then belches out a notification from the reunion website.
This is something new: a message board.
I’ll be avoiding it. The last thing I need is a bunch of golf posts from Ryan Oard.
Truman returns to the table. I put my phone facedown on the seat next to me. “Is that all you want?” I ask. On his plate is a spoonful of cottage cheese, one sad-looking baked pork chop, and a dinner roll. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I’m famished.” He pulls his knife out of his napkin and starts cutting his pork chop into little pieces.
“So why didn’t you get more? Or more to the point, why didn’t you get something more exciting? We’re at a buffet. You can have anything you want.”
“This is what I want.”
“Are you a toddler?”
“No. I’m perfectly happy with my selections.”
He nibbles a small bite, and it’s clear he’s not trying to engage in an argument this time. Truman, apparently, is fine with safe, bland, and boring.
It’s unexpectedly adorable. It’s also completely unacceptable.
“Why are you so fixated on what I’m eating?” he asks.
“It’s what you’re not eating that disturbs me. Try this.” I hand over one of my drumsticks, which Truman regards with suspicion. He uses his knife and fork to cut out a miniscule piece.
“Ugh! Truman! You have to enjoy it. Like this!” I shove my own drumstick into my face and gnaw off a chunk.
He picks off a bigger piece with his fingers, puts it in his mouth. “It’s very good,” he admits.
He reaches his fork across the table and snags some of my grits. I watch as he tastes them, and the way his features relax with pleasure fills me with something more than vindication—it turns out I sort of like seeing Truman happy. I head back to the buffet to get him some chicken of his own.
Once we’ve stopped shoveling food into our faces, he opens his notebook and says, “So I’ve worked out the timing for tomorrow. If we leave your sister’s by six a.m., we’ll be at Margaret’s by seven. We get back on the highway by eight, and we’re back at the dorm by nine, in time for the team meeting before first round. It’s tight, but it should work if we’re efficient and stick to the schedule.”
“Piper is thrilled we’re coming, apparently. I’m sure you two will have a ton in common.”
Truman furrows his brow, like he does in class when he’s thinking up an angle to argue.
“What?”
“I’m just trying to figure out how we get from a sister at Duke and then law school to you going to State,” he says.
“There’s nothing wrong with State.”
“There’s nothing great about it either. We’re talking about the rest of your life here.”
“No one asked for your opinion.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“And I’m enjoying lunch. Let’s not ruin it.”
“Well, then think about it like this. State is baked pork chop and cottage cheese. You’ve got a whole buffet of other choices. Why not try something more exciting?”
“Cute metaphor, but it’s not the same.”
“I don’t understand why not. You could go anywhere you want.”
“No, I really can’t.”
“If it’s a financial issue, then you could look into aid. Or scholarships. It can be a lot of work to find them sometimes, but if you’re motivated, you’d be surprised what’s out there. I’ve already identified three that I’m going to apply for, and I’m tailoring my résumé to hit the high points I know those particular ones are focused on.”
“Oh my God, would you shut up?” It’s like Piper invaded Truman’s brain to lecture me. “If I don’t get my trig grade up, State may not even be an option.”
“That can’t be true. Just get a tutor and—”
“Listen to me, Truman, I don’t just suck at trig, I’m failing it. Even with a tutor. And don’t try to reassure me that it’s not a big deal, because I have seen my future. Every crappy grade I get in that class leads me deeper into adult failure.”
He looks surprised. “You can see that kind of thing?”
“Yes! I told you it wasn’t just pictures of you and me on that website. It keeps changing and adding things, and in some cases, subtracting things, and I’ve seen more than I ever wanted to see about myself and all sorts of other people. Congratulations, you’re on track for an amazing life, while I’m probably going to end up the lonely town cat lady, and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to change that.”
I immediately regret this sudden burst of honesty. Now I’ve all but invited him to feel superior. I get up and go to the dessert bar, where I help myself to a slice of chocolate silk pie. If I have to listen to more Truman advice, maybe chocolate will make it more bearable.
When I get back, Truman has put something next to my water glass. It’s the sculpture he was working on at the bowling alley—the one that looks like a man, with the childlike eyes and the glazed swoop of a body. He reaches out, turns his hand over, and there’s another sculpture hiding there. He sets this one down too. It’s only half-finished, but it looks like a little boy with a face that’s eerily old and, again, those huge expressive eyes.
“You might not believe this,” he says, “but listening to you just brought back a lot of awfully familiar memories. And when I say awful, I mean it.”
I pick up the little man, rolling him between my fingers. “I know your parents are hard on you. It’s not the same thing. My parents are supportive. It’s me who’s the problem.”
“It’s not just that they were unsupportive, it’s that I couldn’t focus on anything for more than a few minutes at a time. My brain was like a hamster wheel of thoughts and worries that would loop and loop until I felt like I was stuck in some kind of nightmare. I couldn’t sit still to save my life.”
“They have medication for that kind of thing.”
“Once we found the right ones, it helped me get off the wheel. But up until then, my dad was pretty frank about not seeing any future where I wouldn’t be a total disappointment.”
“That is awful. What did you do?”
He glances at the notebook with its tabs fanned in a well-ordered rainbow. “I got focused. And then…” He picks up the half-finished little boy. “This gave me someplace to put the extra energy—something to do because I wanted to do it, not because I had to.”
The man in my hand looks as if he’s trying to say something inexpressibly important. I run my finger over his face, feeling the fine bumps of his features.
“I just can’t believe how talented you are, Truman. These are incredible.”
He nods at my hand. “You can have it.”
“Really?” The tiny face tilts up as if to say, Yes, really. Put me in your pocket and take me anywhere you need help feeling confident and strong.
“I’ll call him Miles. Get it? Because he’s traveling all these miles with us? He’ll be our trip mascot.”
Truman grins, then says, “But seriously, Skyler, don’t be so down on yourself. You’re incredibly smart. I really think you’d be surprised at where you could go.”
This whole conversation is so un–Truman Alexander–ish, or at least so unlike the Truman Alexander I thought I knew. I could sit with this Truman for hours, eating pie and talking about the things that stress us out about the worlds we live in. But there’s no more time. Everybody else is getting up to leave.
Oscar comes over and looks at me with disdain.
“You guys ready?” he asks.
“Never readier!” I say, extra enthusiastic. Truman looks at me funny. “What? I’m just making a point.” Instead of being disdainful, Oscar should be thanking me for taking his roommate tonight and making it possible for him to hook up with Tessa.
“Okay…,” says Truman while Oscar walks off.
“I’m here to learn the finer points of debate, Truman. Maybe some of these guys could learn the finer points of having fun.”
“You clearly have never been to a debate party,” Truman says.
“So invite me sometime.”
“You have to earn your way in.”
“If that means actually joining the team, then I’m still in the nope column. But nice try!”
I put money on the table. Truman goes to talk with the rest of his teammates, and I head back out to the car. We’re starting the final leg to Lake Champion. Truman and I are going to talk his aunt into buying the garden. It’s all coming together, and that, it turns out, is super exhilarating.
I take Miles out of the pocket of my shorts, put him on the little ledge next to my steering wheel, and boop his tiny nose for luck.
It’s showtime.