Page 14 of What I'm Looking For

Kate. Roland here. Thank you for getting that report on my desk. Your timely response is always appreciated.

KATE

Stretching my arms toward a robin’s-egg-blue sky, I take in huge lungfuls of the sweet-smelling spring air. A day like this begs to be fully appreciated. Going outside without having to wear twelve layers of clothing, the sun warming my skin—living in Boston has made me truly appreciate the warm months.

I swing a leg over my bike seat and head toward the Charles River. It’s early, so I’m taking the long way to Harvard Square. I’ll get in some extra exercise before my coffee date with Will and hopefully work off some nervous energy. It’s not like I haven’t dated at all since my disastrous breakup with my college boyfriend, but I sure haven’t dated anyone as intriguing as Will. Even an extra-late Saturday night at the office didn’t stop me from getting up early to get ready for it.

Anticipation has me wiggling on my seat, which sets off a series of naughtier thoughts. I’m fully invested in a fantasy starring a naked Will when a loud honk from a car is the only thing that keeps me from blowing through an intersection without looking.

Okay. Not safe to let my imagination run wild while biking.Focus, Kate.The tranquil views along the Charles are always calming to me. Sculls gliding across the river, long-legged birds wading near its banks, sun sparkling on the water and the full sails of a fleet of colorful little boats. Nodding at joggers I recognize from my morning runs, I close the loop by heading toward the Square.

On JFK Street, foot traffic forces me to get off the bike. I’m still early to meet Will, so I lock it up and wander a bit until the path gets clogged by a crowd, probably watching a street performer. Quite a few of the spectators seem to be wearing athletic clothing, even though they aren’t exercising. Track pants, sweatshirts and running shoes surround me. Since this is the primary trade group Roland and I research, I dig a notebook out of my backpack to jot down brands.

When I look up from my notes, I seem to have drifted to within arm’s reach of the performer, who’s dressed kind of like a clown, without the red nose. Unfortunately, he’s looking right at me, saying something about needing an assistant for his next trick. Scanning nearby faces, I spot a cute teenaged girl jumping up and down like she’d love to help. Anybody would be better suited than me, so I point at her. “How about this girl?”

The performer stops. Looks at the girl. I let out the breath I’d been holding, thankful to have escaped sure humiliation. Before I take in the next breath, however, the performer points at me, booming out, “We all know what happens when you volunteer someone.” He raises his hands up and down, causing a few in the audience to join in as he shouts, “You volunteer yourself!”

Laughing, he grabs my hand and pulls me onto his makeshift stage even though I’m leaning away from him, shaking my head, unsuccessfully attempting to form the wordNo.

Everyone is staring at me.

I can’t swallow, can’t breathe.

The clown puts his arm around me. “What’s your name, my beautiful new assistant?”

I manage to squeak out, “Kate.”

“Don’t worry, Kate. I don’t bite. And this’ll be easy.” He bows slightly before handing me five juggling pins. “You juggle, right?”

The crowd laughs at what must be a look of horror on my face.

He laughs with them. At me. The jerk. “Just kidding. All you have to do is throw me these pins. Even if you throw like a girl, I’ll catch them.”

Stifling the desire hit him over his sexist head with a pin is better than worrying about making a fool of myself. At least I don’t have to say anything. Throwing isn’t so hard.

The clown mounts a unicycle and rides it in a circle around me. I have to admit that if he can juggle while riding that thing, I’ll be impressed. I launch the first pin, which he has to swerve to catch, causing the crowd to cheer. He dramatically puts his hand on his chest and says something about how I need to throw a littlemorelike a girl. Rolling my eyes, I toss him two more, underhand this time, and he juggles all three while balancing in place.

A ridiculous sense of accomplishment lifts the corners of my mouth. I survived being “onstage” without freaking out. I still have two pins, but I figure they’re extras. Juggling more than three would be crazy.

As I step back toward the rest of the crowd, hoping to fade into it, someone crashes into me from behind, knocking me off balance and sending me stumbling forward. My arms windmill, the pins extending their length, and I flail right into the juggler. After a few long moments of wrestling for control, we both lose the battle with gravity. I hit the ground hard. Laughter surrounds me. And yelling. I peek between crossed elbows. The juggler looms over me, face red and eyes blazing.

“I’m… I’m… sorry… I?…” My throat closes down. The crowd and the juggler get louder. I curl into a ball.

Suddenly, everything quiets. After a few hammering heartbeats, I risk another look. A tall man, silhouetted by the sun, speaks to the performer in a calming voice.

The man turns to the crowd, a hand on the juggler’s shoulder. “Okay, show’s over. Hey, can somebody hand me those pins?”

It’s Will. Come to rescue me.

Anger shoves embarrassment aside. I may be a total dork, but I don’t need rescuing. I get to my feet but then everything goes hazy.

A firm grip catches me. “Hey, hey, no rush.”

“Whoo.” I sink back to earth. “Dizzy.”

“It’s okay. It’s probably just adrenaline. Just take a few deep breaths; it’ll undo the proprioceptive response.”

Everything’s still so fuzzy all I can come up with is “Huh.”

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