Page 7 of Bows & Eros
The gray coat was the one the little old lady had been wearing, I realized, looking down at it. No wonder it wouldn't button. She had been more than a head shorter than me and wire thin. I must have looked ridiculous.
I gave a short, bitter laugh, wondering if I shouldn't go back into the living room and make use of that mirror I'd passed. Vanity shouldn't have been a priority given everything else happening, but it was a loud and grating voice that was difficult to silence, at least in my head.
Ethan reappeared, still in his well-worn jeans and undershirt, but now with a pair of heavy boots pulled onto his feet and a brown and turquoise sweater that matched my gloves going over his head as he walked. His goggles had been replaced by a pair of slim, wire-frame glasses, and while it looked like he had at least given his head a once-over with a comb, it still sparkled with marble fragments when he turned his head.
I bit my lip, watching shamelessly as he reached for a jacket from that coat tree and slid his arms into it, one at a time, then wove a scarf around his lightly-stubbled throat. I cleared my throat, forcing myself to look away, and folded myself back into my too-small old-lady coat, toddling off to the passenger side of the humming car and sliding myself in without awaiting invitation from Mr. Weaver.
The car did not have heated seats.
I occupied myself with pulling the seat belt over my lap as Ethan slammed into the car and took to mashing buttons on his garage remote. He smelled better than he should have, I thought, for spending a day hacking at rocks in a garage. The faint tinge of pine and wood smoke wafted past me as he reached behind me to anchor his arm, so that he might back safely out of the garage and onto the street.
I wished again that I had spent a few seconds at that mirror.
"What in the world?" he muttered, tapping at the brake as he maneuvered the car out of the drive, doing his best to avoid a gaggle of his neighbors, who had decided that noon on a Tuesday was the perfect occasion for an impromptu session of ballroom dancing on the neighborhood lawns.
An elderly couple dripping in sparkles was leading the tango, while others giggled with their partners in an attempt to imitate the steps. If there was music playing, we couldn't hear it from inside the car. Maybe it just wasn't necessary.
"Don't stare or we'll never get out of here," I said quickly. "I can't believe it's already spread this far."
"Spread?" he repeated, turning to me with wide blue eyes.
I sighed, nodding my head and giving his hand a quick pat where it sat on his gear shift. "I would explain if I had an explanation. For now, we just have to get to the school. Please."
He stared down at his hand where I'd patted it, his face a mask of befuddlement. For a moment, I thought I'd have to kick him over and do the driving myself, but his head came up, his mouth set in a grim line, and he put the car into drive.
"My kid never seems to get into the normal kind of trouble, does he?" he said to me, eyes locked on the road as we passed the snow-dusted tango lesson. "It's always something weird."
I wanted to tell him that every parent believes something along those lines; that their child is the most outrageous, the most mischievous, the most surprising, that it was preternatural and the kid must be some sort of once-in-a-lifetime genius troublemaker, chosen by the gods to challenge even the most prepared mother or father.
Every kid inspires these thoughts in their caretakers, even the best-behaved ones. Rearing a little human is no simple undertaking, after all.
But I didn't say anything to Ethan Weaver. I didn't recite any of my well-rehearsed reassurances that every child has their moments and everything would be all right in the end. I stared straight ahead through the glass of the windshield and held my tongue.
There was no assuring this man that his son was a perfectly normal little boy.
We drove through a town of absurdities. The dentist and her two assistants were outside in their scrubs, lobbing snowballs at one another. Motorists dodged an ongoing guitar serenade by a pizza delivery boy on a motorbike. Necking couples filled grocery aisles and the bank's waiting area couches through big glass windows that broadcast it all to the world.
No. Aaron Weaver was most certainly not a normal little boy, and I suspected that Mr. Curie might not have been a normal substitute teacher either.
There was no explanation for what was going on today in Crete, NY … except magic. Somehow, it was magic.
Little Aaron Weaver was making people fall in love.
CHAPTER4
"There's nowhere to park," said Ethan Weaver, taking another leisurely turn around the bend of cars parked outside the school. His brow was furrowed in concentration, blue eyes darting around to see if anyone was about to leave.
I stared at him, impatience bubbling just beneath the surface of that garish red and white beanie he'd given me. He had driven the speed limit the entire way here, his hands dutifully at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel. He had come to a full and complete stop at every stop sign, despite the fact that we were pretty obviously the only car on the road in Crete right now.
A light dusting of new snow had begun to fall and seemed to be building up as it went, which was justgreat.
"Um, Ethan," I said as patiently as I could. "You're probably going to have to double-park."
"What?" he said, tawny eyebrows shooting up like I'd just suggested something lewd. "Why?"
"Because no one is leaving and the lot is full," I replied, a dollop of testiness permeating my tone despite my best efforts. "Family Fun Day, remember? Everyone in town with a kid is already here."
Except you.
