1.

My favorite time of day was when I walked from the art shop on the strip down to the bus stop beside the pier. The sidewalk stretched barely a quarter of a mile between the two, but I always slowed my steps in order to leave the class at seven and catch the seven fifteen bus the minute I reached the stop. After unwinding during my sculpting class I could stop off for a giant pretzel at the little shop with all of the cute Italian guys or could hear a dozen scraggy men playing acoustic tunes on their guitars. Besides for my class, I didn’t get to that side of town much, and it was a refreshing escape from my neighborhood.

The rain had fallen periodically that day and had left millions of shiny puddles on the uneven sidewalk and all of the troubadours with their guitars in the worn cases. Most of the vendors on the pier had closed up for the day. All that could be heard from that direction were ocean waves crashing upon the rocks and the calls of a pesky couple of gulls. I figured it would rain again any minute, even though the orange and purple clouds were already growing patchy.

A slow-moving line was boarding the bus when I approached it. Generally its passengers included those adults that had just concluded dinner or a bunch of kids who’d been out for an afternoon at the pier, but today I recognized a lot of vendors. Filing in behind an old, bald-headed guy, I glanced out toward the pier, which couldn’t be fully viewed until I reached the corner.

That’s when I saw him, rising from a wooden bench with his messenger bag in tow. His light brown hair, which had been clean cut, was shaggy now. The water looked dull compared to the blue of his eyes. Even though I hadn’t seen him in eight months or better, the minute I laid eyes on him I’d known it could’ve been no one else.

Maybe now would be a good time to explain how I knew him. I’d met Zeke Fitch in one of those amazingly romantic ways, the kind that leads any fan of drugstore romance novels to expect something from the relationship. That day had begun with mismatched socks and an unruly mop of honey-colored hair and had only worsened by the minute, so when I slammed into him outside of one of those unique stores on the strip, he reached out to catch me before I fell. Cliché, I know, but that’s how it had happened. The connection was apparent from the minute he’d wrapped his arm around me as I uncoordinatedly stumbled.

As I boarded the bus, purposely avoiding his eyes, I couldn’t pinpoint what had led up to that night when I’d calmly delivered the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech on my front porch. I winced as it replayed in my mind. As I lifted my dazed stare to flash my bus pass at the driver, I pushed the memory aside. I could occupy myself with a book I had only half finished at that point instead of worrying myself sick over some awkwardly cute guy. But before I reached my seat I awed myself with the realization that nothing had gone wrong with that relationship. Why had I done it?

The bus was fuller than usual, forcing me to slide into one of the gray vinyl seats near the front. Upon cue I opened up my book and attempted to locate my place on the page. One-by-one the vendors passed me up, pairing off with acquaintances of theirs further back. A loud whoosh accompanied the doors of the bus as they closed shut. Just as I was about to heave a sigh of relief, a hand steadied itself on the edge of my seat. “May I sit here?” he asked. That voice… I didn’t even have to look up. Pretending to be thoroughly occupied was difficult, but I merely gave a nod and kept my head down.

“Alex?” he asked. Embarrassed by his own surprise, he swallowed it back down and gave a shrug. “What brings you out here?”

Lying was a good option. “I take a sculpting class down on the strip,” I replied. My book had already closed itself and was working its way into my backpack before I could force it back open. And why had I told him the truth? My face burned with blush. Zeke’s eyes wandered; he’d sensed my discomfort.

“You been good?” He always kept it short and one of his feet shuffled around when he was nervous, as he did just then. With a temporarily paralyzed larynx, I offered yet another nod. “I just got a job at the hotdog stand on the pier.” He motioned out the window, but by then we’d already rumbled by the scene. For fear of resembling a bobbing-head dashboard ornament, I kept rather still.

A long pause worked its way between us, during which I repetitively kicked myself. Tons of conversation topics came to mind, most of them beginning with “we should get together sometime…” or “it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around…” Zeke knew I wasn’t an airhead, and he’d once admired me for that, but every word that ached to come out lacked any hint of intelligence. My social skills were terrible when put under pressure.

My shoulder was pressed against the window, in which I caught the reflection my own blank expression and Zeke running a hand through his hair. That’s when I turned, without thinking, and made a comment that wasn’t hinting towards a date. “I like your hair longer.” That’s all it took to break the ice. What a miracle.

“You’re the first person that’s said that to me. Mom wanted to cut it last time she saw me,” he said. We shared a smile, as I attempted to recall why his mother wasn’t ever around. Without any recollection and any will to pry, I reveled in the small talk that was to follow.

A few of the things I loved about Zeke initially recaptured my interest: the way his whole face lit up when he smiled; his mannerisms, especially the one in which he narrowed his eyes and slid his top teeth over his bottom lip in thought; how he talked with his hands; the satisfaction of conversing with him. Some of his quirks emerged from the depths of my memory: he was a klutz, particularly on skates, though he had the tall, thin, skater-boy build; when he had no paper handy he wrote short verses on his inner arms; he played the piano. I’d never heard him play, but I could only imagine that, like most things about him, it was breathtaking.

Squealing breaks and lower rumbling signaled that the bus was coming to its first stop. It was a few blocks from the pier, a street corner amongst tons of apartment buildings, some old, some new. Zeke stood, holding the front of the seat to keep his balance, and readjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. Extending his right hand, he shook mine, the warmth of his palm transferring rapidly. “Good to see you again, Alex. Have a nice night,” he said. With one of his trademark smiles, he winked and me. Before I could extend much more than a goofy grin, he turned and skipped off of the bus, and I was left with a billion unsettled thoughts surrounding him.

By the time I’d walked the short distance from the bus stop to the end of my driveway with the mailbox bearing the last name Cavanaugh I had been misted with rain and drown in the conclusion that my goodbye speech to him had been right on target. It wasn’t him; it was me.

A ball of matted, orange fur waited at the front door for me to let him in. His routine was to bathe in the sun all day and to follow me inside around dark. Though Mom would complain about a wet cat being in the house, I greeted him with a scratch on the head and let him on in. The minute the door closed behind me I heard Mom groan loudly from the kitchen. “Alex, why did you let Felix in? He’s going to get everything filthy!” I ignored her, tracked down Felix, who was now in the living room, and scooped him up. “Your brother’s dog made a mud pit of the backyard already.” Mom popped one of her white pills into her mouth and chased it with water.

“Maybe we could start neighborhood mud wrestling later. A five dollar cover charge. We’d make a small fortune,” I said. Mom gave me that look, the one that shrieked that she had a headache from work and wouldn’t be available for comment until early the next morning.

Dad came up from the basement stairs with a smile on his face. “Hey, Al. How was your day?” he asked. Felix leapt from my arms and went to rub his body against Dad’s leg as he paused for a drink of water.

“It was okay,” I said. A smile crept onto my face. Dad narrowed his eyes at me, green like mine.

“Just okay?” He sounded skeptical, but I confirmed with a more serious expression. “Ginger was wondering when you could come by and see her new apartment. She wants one of you sculptures to put in her foyer.” Ginger was Dad’s secretary, but from the way he talked about her she could’ve been my aunt or something. Mom twisted her face into a disgusted scowl.

“I’ll try to sometime next week. This week is pretty full-up. The Beta Club is sponsoring a carnival on Friday night and preparing for it is hectic,” I said. Dad, the light catching his bold spot, just nodded and his forehead wrinkled in consideration.

“Just whenever you can get to it. Give her a call,” he said.

A mental note I’d made on the bus ride home urgently presented itself in my head. Ducking down the hallway and into my room with the door shut, I dialed up Hannah’s number. I needed a second opinion on my newfound self-criticism. At my desk with my feet propped on top of the mess of papers and books littering it, I waited for someone to answer. Twisting the black, spiraled cord around my finger, I impatiently took to silent praying that she’d be there. Leaving me alone to my own thoughts for much longer could’ve been self-destructive.

The Brooklyn-born teenager answered, blasting my ear with loud music. “What took so long?” I asked. After a series of opening and closing doors the music was gone.

“Couldn’t hear it,” she replied. Wow, that was hard to believe, considering I’d almost been deafened by that brief exposure to her music. “What’s up?” I paused, unsure of where to begin. “Alex?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” Inhale… exhale… untangle the cord from my finger… “You’ll never guess who got on the bus with me today.”

“Zeke.” Damn, she was good. If her name was more exotic she’d have an instant phone-a-psychic-friend hotline. “Were you sorry for breaking up with him?” It was an unnecessary question because Miss Hannah already knew the answer, but I muttered anyway. “It was a stupid move to break it off with him in the first place.” Then I began to rapidly, almost incoherently, explain that my approach to relationships was detrimental. Breathless, I waited for an evaluation.

“It’s not entirely your fault. You learn relationship behavior from your parents or other adults. Maybe you just had bad teachers? However, the relationship is salvageable. Call him.” This philosophical proposition was fine, except for one minor detail: Brant. He and I were sort of dating. “And about Brant. Honey, give it up. He’d be better of with that cheerleader Ashley anyway.” What a way to boost my confidence.

“Thanks a lot. What do I owe you? Are you charging by the minute yet?” I asked. My dry attempts at humor roused no smiles from me. By the time Hannah and I hung up I was feeling ten times lower than before.

Those seven digits still came naturally, well, at least six of them did. I knew the last one. I was one digit away from a wonderful conversation. I slammed the phone onto the receiver for the hundredth time. Come on, Alex. Pull it together.

With the receiver to my ear, I let my fingers dance over the number pad, and waited for the ringing to begin. An annoying, ascending tune played into my ear, followed by a recording, “The number you are trying to call has been temporarily disconnected. Please try your call again later. Message three.”