The three hours on Main Street on Saturday morning are not fun. Grandad can see it. He keeps saying stuff like “You have really great friends!” and “Boy, I wish I had a crew like this when I was your age.”
Denis brought a sign that says CENSORSHIP IS WRONG.
Marci has her signs from last week and I prop the extra one up against the back of my chair, but don’t hold any. I’m used to holding wrenches and car parts on Saturdays, not signs. It’s not like I loved that stuff, either, and it’s not like I want to see the guy, but he’s my dad and I guess I’m getting used to it.
By noon, when Grandad goes to the food truck to buy us all hot dogs, Marci and Denis have noticed I am in a mood and are no longer trying to get me to smile or be part of the conversation. It feels like the wrong time to tell them the truth about what’s going on.
By the time we pack up our chairs and leave, Marci and Denis are playing BOT DUCK MAN and it makes me furious. I don’t say anything, but I can feel myself frowning. And I can see them seeing me frowning, but they don’t stop playing. It feels like they don’t want me as a friend anymore.
Once it’s just me and Grandad walking back to our house, he says, “What’s going on, Mac? You don’t seem like yourself.”
“I’m myself.”
“Okay,” he says.
We keep walking.
He says, “Denis told me that there’s a dance coming and you want to go with Marci but haven’t asked her yet.”
I think really hard on this before I say anything. Fact: I’m not even sure I want to go to the dance with Marci.
“Mac?”
“I don’t know,” I say. Maybe I just need to live in a cave by myself for the rest of my life or something.
“I think you’re having a hard day,” Grandad says. “We should probably take it easy and play games or something.”
“I’d play catch but my glove is gone,” I say.
“Ah,” he says—in that way like this sentence solves bigger mysteries.
“What?”
“Let’s go get you a new glove and bat and everything. Your mom said that was on her list for this week, so I’m sure she’d be thrilled if we did it for her.”
“But what if Dad comes back and brings my old ones with him?” I ask.
He nods and says, “Well, if that happens, we can always donate the new stuff to someone who needs it, right?”
An hour later, I’m trying on baseball gloves and they smell like new leather and it makes me miss my old glove. But I’m happy when we walk out of the store with a new bag, bat, and glove, with a batting glove and a big bag of Swedish Fish thrown in for fun.
As we drive home, Grandad says, “So are you scared to ask her out? I mean, at your age, I couldn’t do that stuff, either. So maybe you could write her a letter. You’re good with words, you know.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not scared. I can’t figure it out. I think I don’t trust her or something. I don’t trust anyone.”
“Oh. That’s not a good place to be,” he says. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” I answer.
“Why do you think you don’t trust anyone? You were always the kind of kid who gave people a chance.”
I know the answer to the question. I’m not a psychologist, but I totally know this has something to do with why there’s a new baseball glove on my lap and my mood all day. Dad. Dad leaving. Dad being so impossible to understand.
“You’re right,” I say. “I always give people a chance. I’m probably just having a bad day.”
“Dinner will help,” he says.
He turns up a song on the radio for the last five minutes of the drive home. I think about how the last week has been foggy—I’m here but I’m not. I feel like I have a secret because I kinda do have a secret. Not being able to be my true and honest self around Marci and Denis has been painful, even though it’s kinda always been that way thanks to my dad being, well, who he is. Being fake is like lying and I hate lying.
They probably didn’t mean to hurt my feelings with BOT DUCK MAN, but it’s not like they know what’s going on because I haven’t told them yet. Everything is moving so fast. Plus, if I really want Marci to come to the dance with me, I have to ask her. But every time I think of it, I feel like I’m lying if I don’t tell her about my dad. And I don’t feel like talking about my dad. Because I don’t know what to say about my dad.
I go to bed early after oiling my new baseball glove and wrapping it up in a rubber band, the way Grandad taught me to when I got my old glove. The whole time, I still feel like an office guy in my office, sorting through filing cabinets, looking for an answer.
I don’t even know what the question is.
White (House Paint) Only
When did the rule about house paint come into effect? I went to the paint store yesterday and talked to them about what colors I’d like to paint my house and they told me I can only paint it white due to my address and a recent ordinance. Who thought this was a good idea? And how can we change it?
—John Zimmerman, Main Street
Re: White (House Paint) Only
Everyone knows that white is the best color for a house. Especially in a town with so much history. Back when the founders came here, the only way to paint a house was with lime whitewash and all homes were white. To maintain the look of history, going back to all white is a great idea. I applaud all who have followed the rules!
—Laura Samuel Sett