Drumbeats into My Heart

3. Seth, Avocados, and Girls

This awesome drummer girl actually wants to see me again! I mean, I'm not reading this wrong, right? That radiant smile of hers feels like it's just for me.

I grin back, big and wide because I can't help it. This girl makes me feel so giddy that I don't even care I'm exposing these fugly braces again.

Before I can make a bigger fool of myself, I wave goodbye and spin around to head home. I have no idea how long I've dawdled here, but Mom is sure to notice. I'd better run. Like, literally run home.

By the time I get to my front door, I'm sweating and wheezing like I've been running from lions. Which might actually be preferable to what I get to face inside. Mom can be a fearsome, roaring beast when irked. I take a minute to catch my breath and mop my face with my shirt before heading in.

"It's about time, Seth," Mom calls from the kitchen. "What took you so long?"

I rush to the kitchen and hand her the plastic bag. "Sorry."

She closes the refrigerator and sets down a tomato, resting her hands on her hips and fixing me with her brown gaze. Everything about her is square. Square jaw, square shoulders, square fingertips. Much as I hate to say it, even her personality is that of a square. She's a sturdily built, no-nonsense woman. I look nothing like her, taking more after my rail-thin dad instead.

She looks me over, dark eyebrow raised. "Did you join a marathon along the way?"

"Oh," I laugh nervously. "There was a really cool street performer. I stopped to watch."

"Mm-hm." She isn't really listening anymore as she peers into the bag. "Didn't I say four avocados?"

I'm definitely not going to mention the donation to one very talented and very pretty drummer. "You did? Oh, uh, I must have forgotten."

She sighs. "Fine, I'll make do with two. Do you have the change?" She holds out her hand, waiting for me to return the remaining money.

I stare at it, wondering why she's such a cheapskate and can't just let me keep the change for my trouble. "Uh..." Think fast! She would most certainly not approve of giving money away to street performers. "I bought a snack." I hold my breath, waiting for the imminent disapproval for this unsanctioned transaction.

She sets the bag down and presses her lips together. "That's fine, but next time, ask. Those farmer's markets have the freshest produce, but those food vendors will rip you off."

That's fine? Wow, I was expecting a totally different response. I mean, she's still a cheapskate, but this is surprisingly mellow for her.

"What kind of snack?"

I blink at her. "What?"

"What did you eat? I hope you didn't spoil your appetite with junk."

"Oh, it was, uh..." I rack my brain for things I saw at the farmers market that weren't junk. "Ice cream." That's junk, dummy.

Her mouth twists, and she inhales a breath, ready to express her displeasure. But I guess she changes her mind because she says, "Go do your homework."

Gladly. I shuffle to my room, thoughts already returning to the golden-haired girl from the farmer's market. Jordi. Jordi, Jordi, Jordi. I've never met a girl who watches Star Trek. Aren't most girls, like, too busy ogling guys named Jake with washboard abs? Not that I'd know. I don't actually talk to girls. They're so... unobtainable.

Or maybe it's me. I'm almost seventeen now and have never had a girlfriend. Or maybe it's these braces. No one looks good with these things on.

Would you believe my mom once asked me if I was gay? Well, she didn't ask like that. She said, "Seth, do you like girls?" Which is pretty much the same thing.

I remember turning beet red and snapping my pencil in half. "Yes, Mom. I like girls."

"All right. Because..." She fidgeted with the hem of her apron. "It's okay if you don't." When I didn't answer, she went on, "I just wonder because I never find any Playboy magazines or... you know, porn. In your room."

"Mom! Gross! Do you want me to objectify women?"

She smoothed the apron along her leg. "Isn't that what boys do?"

"Not all of them."

"Well." She stood and straightened her already smooth apron, obviously relieved this conversation was over. "If you ever want to talk."

Ugh, if I ever want to die of embarrassment, I'll know what to do. Also, it's very disconcerting to know she's been searching my room. To be honest, though, I kind of liked that she was putting in the effort. It was awkward as hell, but it was probably the most meaningful conversation we've ever had. Most of the time she's telling me things like, "You should join a sport because colleges like that sort of thing." And I'll just nod and smile without telling her I'm about as graceful and coordinated as walrus knitting a sweater.

Oh, there was also that time she said, "That's great you got so many A's on your report card, but what happened here?" She pointed to the only B-minus on the page.

What had happened was I'd spent most of my time in Geometry memorizing how to spell and pronounce Amy Kruczkiewicz's name (KROO-skuh-wits) in case, well, in case I ever had to write her a letter. Or ask her out. Or something. Because then she would be so impressed that she'd have no choice but to express her undying love.

It made sense to me at the time.

I switch on my laptop and lean back in my chair. Not since Amy breezed into my Geometry class have I ever been so taken with anyone before. With Amy, it was purely physical. I was a hormonal fifteen-year-old, and she'd looked right at me that first day with her bright smile. And breasts. No one else in class had those in such generous proportions.

It was different with Jordi. I was impressed before I'd even laid eyes on her. What she did with kitchen tools was pure magic.

I open a browser and search the name Jordi McKay. A few social media profiles come up as well as a wedding registry, but none of the photos look like her. Whew, wouldn't it suck if she was getting married?

Wait, what am I doing? I talked to her for, what, five minutes? Probably not even that long. What's with all the cyber-stalking?

I close the browser and try to shake off the obsession, as if I can fling it out of my head if I shake it hard enough. That doesn't seem to work, so I shut the laptop and start pacing the room. Nothing good ever comes from obsession. That B-minus in Geometry had earned me repeated lectures over the importance of paying attention, and how this sort of trend would pretty much guarantee I'd end up in a third-rate community college. Mom had sounded like such a snob when she said it, too. Like it was an express train ticket to the world of blue collar jobs. It made me wonder how my dad, a mechanic, put up with it all these years.

Anyway, the important thing for me to do was to forget about her. Curb the obsession now and focus on school. It was the only way to shut my mother up.

With a resolute nod, I sit down again and reopen the laptop to start the essay due next week.

But first, I should look up the farmer's market schedule. You know, just in case Mom needs more avocados.

Riiiiight, avocados. I wonder if he ever gets obsessed with vote buttons?