So here is the next day of my life. I get up early. No Theo. But of course this is my story. Theo brings his heavy bag of books to read, always fearful that the small island library will not have the books he wants.
Theo is the watcher and listener of my story.
Jake is in the kitchen with Tess. He has lots of toast on the counter and is making his famous poached eggs in his six-cup poached egg pan. He tosses bits of toast over his head every so often for Tess. She runs and scrambles and jumps to catch the pieces.
He does this every morning “for her exercise,” as he puts it with a smile.
Actually, it is Jake’s exercise.
Jake looks sideways at me. He pushes a plate of toast on the counter—waiting for the egg that will sit on it.
“What are you doing this morning?” he asks.
He has a sly look to him.
He tosses a piece of toast over his head, and I reach over, catch it, and give it to Tess.
“Nothing,” I say to Jake. “You have something exciting planned? Right?”
“Yep, I do.”
He slips a perfectly poached egg onto my toast.
“I know that because we’re kindred spirits,” I say.
He looks sideways at me again. “No. I already have a kindred spirit. I’m your pal, Louisa. When you were a baby and I walked into the room, your eyes lit up. Just seeing me!”
This makes me smile. I remember when I was four years old I had a temper tantrum. My parents sent me upstairs to “think about it.”
Jake came upstairs and into my room. “That was a good tantrum,” he said. “And you were right to have it. We learn a lot from suffering a bit afterward.”
I never forgot that. Jake is right. We were pals even then.
“She went shopping with her friend Talking Tillie. I don’t have much time for my project.”
“Project? What project?”
He looks at me. “Come on, Louisa. Hurry and eat up.”
He hurries out the screen door, letting it slap behind him.
Project?
I pick up a piece of toast and share it with Tess. I take two quick bites. The rest will wait for me.
And we both go out the door.
There is early-morning sun, but no Jake.
“Jake?” I call.
“In here,” he calls back.
I see the garage door is open. Tess and I walk over and look inside.
Jake is pushing a soft rag over the gleaming black car.
And standing next to the car is a boy a bit taller than I am.
His hair is the black color of Jake’s car. His skin is brown.
Jake looks up.
“This is Louisiana. Louisa, this is my friend George.”
Tess goes over to George and he bends down to pat her. Then he straightens up.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
George has no idea what I am actually thinking and can’t say to him.
Jake looks at George, then at me.
“Louisiana is probably thinking that you are pretty swell.”
George smiles.
I can feel myself blush. I am startled.
Jake knows.
“Then I’ll admit I have never seen anyone with the beautiful red color of your tumbling hair,” says George.
Tumbling hair?
I can’t help smiling back at George.
“Even steven,” I say.
“Even steven,” George repeats.
“Okay,” says Jake loudly. “Now that we all like each other, get in the car! Boots will be back in an hour. We can only do this when Boots is gone. She wouldn’t approve of us driving when we drive on the road.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“This is my project,” says Jake. “Get in. I’m teaching George how to drive my car.”
Jake opens the back door of his beautiful car. I get in. Tess surprises me by jumping in beside me.
She’s done this before.
Jake sits on the passenger side, not the driver’s side.
George gets in the driver’s seat, starts the car, and backs out of the garage, down the driveway, and onto the road.
“Still no seat belts,” I say from the back seat.
George looks at me in the rearview mirror. I can tell he’s amused.
“No seat belts,” says Jake. “This is a l938 car. Same age as I am.”
We drive up the road.
“Is George allowed to drive on the road?” I ask.
“Not legally!” says Jake cheerfully.
Then we avoid one of the neighbors’ chickens running down the road. We turn and go up into the land behind Jake’s house.
Beside me, Tess wags her tail and looks out the window, leaving dog nose marks there.
We drive around the field and the pond, George working the clutch and brake smoothly.
A heron flies up from the pond, then flies back again.
When we return home, down off the grass hill and onto the road, we go back to the garage.
George grins at me.
“Even steven,” he says, holding up his hand.
I put my hand against his.
His hand is cool.
“Even steven,” I say.
We are friends.