School is dragging its way to break, but at least the torture of the weeks following Thanksgiving relents in the last week before Christmas.
Still no reach-backs in science, but Tabby does at least turn around and look at me again. And she says bye to me as she and Branson walk away, shoulder to shoulder down the hall. So that’s nice.
Mr. Ellis kicks off our week of gift writing by sharing this strange little poem called “Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?” After a deep breath, he reads aloud:
Don’t fill up on bread
I say absentmindedly
The servings here are huge
My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?
What he doesn’t know
is that when we’re walking
together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand.
He stares at us all for a moment, expectantly, as he often does after reading something out loud, then goes into a long, emotional rant about parenthood, and responsibility, and how some things will stay the same no matter how old you are. And after another deep breath, he tells us how when he first read this poem a couple of years ago, he immediately thought of his own father, printed a copy, and gave it to him. A few months later, he found it taped to the wall next to his dad’s workbench. His voice gets a little wobbly at that last part, and suddenly we all seem to have great interest in our desks or the floor or the side walls.
I try to imagine what Dad would do if I wrote him a poem for Christmas. I could probably get Mom to cry, but I think it would make Dad highly uncomfortable. I’m going to stick with my original plan for him: an Admiral Ackbar action figure from Star Wars—in fact, that might make him cry.
I could play it safe and do my gift of writing for Gramma. Zoom in on her sugar cookies and sweet tea. I could maybe do one for Murray, too, to go with the new stuffed animal I got him. Or perhaps one on behalf of Bernard?
Wow. Really, M-Dub? Three poems?
Damn you, Ellis. Damn you and your Poetry Jedi mind tricks.
The last two games are pretty much the same, though I don’t quite go into full-on f-bomb-charley-horse meltdown mode when Tabby and crew show up for the varsity games. Instead, I more or less stop doing anything that could cause such a meltdown: no shooting, no layups unless I’m truly wide-open and it would be too awkward and embarrassing not to take it, which nearly causes meltdown anyway. Basically, I get to play a little over two quarters the way I know I can play, and two quarters like a scared little kid—granted, a fundamentally sound, pass-first, defensive-minded little kid.
Overall, the games still go pretty well, but I think Trip’s catching on to the fact that I take almost no shots after the first half, even wide-open shots—especially since this means I’m giving up solid would-be assists from him. The man takes pride in his assists.
When I finally board the bus after school on Friday, Miss Edna is all smiles.
“Hi, Matt! I was hoping you’d be on today. Merry Christmas!” She hands me a bag stuffed full of homemade Christmas cookies and holiday Reese’s, a candy cane taped to the outside. “Make sure you grab a drink from the cooler,” she says, motioning with her thumb to the seat behind her.
“Thanks, Miss Edna.”
At least two cases of Little Hugs are on ice in the cooler. I grab a blue one and walk down the aisle to my seat near the back.
Seriously. Greatest bus ever. Even without Tabby.
I flop down into my seat, jam a thumb through the foil, and take the first glorious swig of Little Hug. I pull my iPod from my coat and flip through songs, thinking about tonight’s game and what awaits me over Christmas break: sleep, basketball—though there’s no holiday tournament for JV, so I’ll get a little break there—and at least one much-needed turkey- and stuffing-induced coma.
Before I get my earbuds in and tear into my cookies, though, I see Miss Edna jump out of her seat and throw her arms in the air. A second later, Tabby appears, coming up the steps. Her wide smile matches Miss Edna’s, and as soon as she reaches the top step, Miss Edna wraps her in a huge hug. It’s been probably two months since Tabby’s ridden the bus, after barely missing a day in over nine years. I guess I’m not the only one who’s missed her.
Tabby talks with Miss Edna for a moment, both of them laughing, Tabby looking a little sheepish, and once, Miss Edna even glances at me. When a line starts to form behind Tabby, Miss Edna gives her one last squeeze on her shoulders and hands her a bag of holiday goodies. Tabby grabs her own Little Hug from the cooler—green, it’s always been green—and looks up. For a moment I think she’s going to stay at the front and catch up with Miss Edna some more; she’s still smiling and laughing at something Miss Edna’s saying, but her smile disappears when she catches my eye. Her eyes drop to the floor for a second, and when she looks back, a smaller one returns.
Now it’s my turn to avoid eye contact. I take another long swig of blue Hug, my eyes glued to the ceiling, then make a show of looking down into my cookie bag, as though much depends upon which shape I choose: Star with green sugar? Boot with chocolate sprinkles? Naked snowman? But when I feel her standing next to me in the aisle, I automatically slide in against the window.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say through a mouthful of sprinkled boot.
We sit in awkward silence before I come through with my conversational Jedi skills.
“I think it’s really shameful, you know.” Tabby looks at me, startled. “The way you’re using Miss Edna, only showing up for cookies and Little Hugs. Shameful.”
She punches my arm, clearly relieved.
I rub my shoulder and smile. I’ve never been so happy to be punched. And because I can’t allow that happiness to go on for too long, I say, “No Liam today?” with the faintest hope that she’s here because they broke up—or, better yet, that she chose to ride the bus to be with me. Her face tells me it’s neither.
“He said he had some last-minute shopping to do and that I wasn’t allowed to come along.” She can’t even contain her smile as she says it.
“Oh?” I say, trying my best to play along. “Someone special to shop for?”
She punches me again, lighter this time. She’s still smiling when her phone buzzes. I don’t need to look to see who it is, but there’s a pic of an empty passenger seat and a frowning emoji.
Sigh.
In my mind, I throw my arm around Tabby and take a Christmas cookie/Little Hug selfie—ridin’ the cheese with M-Dubz 2day, muthafuckaz!!! Instead, I leave Tabby to her texting—put my earbuds in, stuff a naked snowman in my mouth, and stare out the window.
I mean, isn’t this what I wanted? Just to be next to her again?
I jump when Tabby pulls the earbud from my left ear. Without a word, she puts it in her right and takes my iPod from my hand. A moment later, “Seaweed Song” comes on, a Passion Pit song that we used to listen to all the time last year. She leans her head on the seat behind her and closes her eyes. I turn back to the window and watch the same houses pass by, the familiar favorites decked out with lights and decorations waiting to be lit for the night.
Yeah. I did want this back.
Tabby flips through songs the rest of the way home, some old songs we used to listen to all the time, others seemingly chosen at random. We don’t talk. A few times I see her typing in her phone, and I wonder how she can share two different experiences at the same time with such ease, texting with him and sharing music with me. But maybe I’m just having a different experience.
When we get to our stop, Miss Edna gives Tabby one more squeeze from her seat and makes us each take another Little Hug.
We’re greeted by snow flurries and a gust of December air when we step off onto our street. I pull up my hood, and as the bus drives away, we both pause for a moment and watch our breath. Without a word, Tabby hands me her second green Hug. I punch my thumb through the foil and hand it back to her, then do the same with my own. My hands are already freezing.
We walk mostly in silence, munching on cookies.
“Murray’s probably losing his mind right now,” I say, looking up into the gray afternoon, tiny flakes prickling my face.
“Awww, I miss my Murray. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
I nod, take my last sip of blue Hug, and watch the flurries float down around us.
We continue in silence for the rest of the short walk down our street until we reach the circle.
“Matt, are we okay?”
“What? Yeah. Yeah, of course we’re okay.” Which feels stupid, pretending like I don’t know what she could be talking about. But Tabby seems to accept it. She smiles and nods without looking up at me.
“Good luck at your game tonight, Matt.”
“Thanks.”
I’m about to say more, but she’s already turning toward her house, looking down at her phone.
It’s okay.
I have a pretty good idea how this night will go, anyway.