Page 19 of Bone to Pick
“Nope.” I shrugged again. “Well, I mean, I love Sunday Orchard. I do. And if they needed me, I’d move back and help out in a heartbeat. But Knox is back in the Hollow now. He and his boyfriend are working alongside my second-oldest brother, Webb, and his husband, and… they all really enjoy it. Way more than I would. Which is handy because if I moved back there, I’d end up being ‘Porter, the fourth Sunday sibling’ again. As much as I love my family, I’ve gotta say, I like being known for who I am now, as an adult, rather than for the shit I pulled as a kid. I watch my brother Hawk struggle with the same thing. He loves the Hollow too much to leave, but it’s been hard for him to break away from people’s expectations. Like, I baked a cake for my Scout troop leader’s birthday once, and everyone loved it, but that doesn’t mean I want to be known as the Scout Cake Kid forever,” I said with a chuckle. “You know?”
Theo shook his head, but he was smiling, too. “I grew up in Manhattan. We didn’t do Scout cakes. But I know what you mean. People became known for what their parents did—for better or worse. Or for what neighborhood they lived in. Or for being the kid whose uncle was in that music video that one time. That kind of thing. It was very… superficial.” He dragged a pita chip through the hummus. “Gotta say, I can’t really see you in that life, Porter.”
“Yeah?” The way he described it, I wasn’t sure either, to be honest. “Well, if I find I hate it, I’ll pivot. I’m not too worried. I’m really good with people.”
“So why not stay in Hannabury and make a difference here?”
“Uh…” I blinked. “Did you not hear the part about the small town, no jobs thing? I’m working at the Hub right now, and they don’t have enough money to pay me for all the hours I work, let alone to hire the program director they really need. If I stayed on after graduation, I wouldn’t be able to pay my own rent without taking help from my family.”
Theo nodded seriously and stared out the window at the snow that had started coming down again. “What if we could come up with a way for you to get the money?”
“Oh, sure.” I snorted. “Prostitution, perhaps? Or, I know! I’ll start a soliloquy-delivery service. Kinda like a singing telegram butfancier. For that hard-to-please professor in your life—”
“Creative non-fiction, Porter.” Theo rolled his eyes. “You know, the shit I tried to teach you? Well-crafted creative non-fiction can literally save lives. I can prove it to you.” He leaned back in his chair.
I felt like I’d walked directly into his trap. “Back to this again?” I sighed. “I have no idea how you critiquing my writing will help, but I suppose you technically won the challenge earlier, so fine.” I pushed back from the table and spread my arms wide. “I’m yours to command for the next two hours, Professor.”
My words fell into the space between us like a molten-hot hand grenade with the pin already pulled. Sexual innuendo seemed to pour freely from my mouth, whether it was intended or not.
Theo inhaled a deep breath as if gearing up for the most impressive I-told-you-so lecture ever, full of “profound” advice about narrative and essay structure.
“What are some ways you could get money to fund a director position at the Hub?” he asked.
I frowned. His practical approach took the wind out of my sails and left me scrambling for a response. “Uh. Ask wealthy donors for contributions? Apply for grants? I don’t know. Things like that?”
He nodded. “You got it in one. There are over a hundred thousand private foundations in this country alone. How do you get one to care aboutyourprogram more than the others they get bombarded with? What makes the Hub special?”
“Pfft. I think that’s pretty obvious. The Hub takes care of a really vulnerable, underserved population. It gives children a safe place to play after school, access to tutoring and mental health services.” I tried to think of the other kinds of information charitable foundations might find critical. “You know, this year alone, the Hub will serve two hundred thirty-six children aged four to fourteen, from Hannabury and surrounding towns in Averill County, which has an average per capita income that’s below the—”
Theo held up his hand. “Stop. You’re telling me about the soil properties again, Porter. Dryfacts.”
I grit my teeth in annoyance. “Facts are important.”
“Sometimes,” he allowed. “But tell me the facts fromhere.”He poked the center of my chest. “Like I’m sitting next to you having a snack, and you just found out I have fifty grand burning a hole in my pocket. Make it specific. Make it personal. Make me feel something. Tell me a story and convince me.”
I struggled to come up with the kind of proposal concept he was looking for. “But… it’s non-fiction,” I said. “Facts aren’t the same as a story.”
He nodded excitedly. “Okay, see, now I think I understand what you don’t understand.”
I opened my mouth to say,Good for you, I’m still lost, when Theo cleared his throat and removed his glasses so he could buff the lenses on the softness of his shirt.
“There’s a display of approximately one hundred seventeen old fishing lures that hangs at the Hannabury Courthouse. The lures were amateur construction, tied over a period of approximately thirty years. Some are quite intricately tied. Many appear to never have been used.” He put his glasses back on. “You can go and check them out anytime the courthouse is open if you’d like to see them.”
“What?” I wrinkled my nose in confusion. “I mean, I’m sure they’re great if you’re into fishing, but…”
“But you’re not convinced? No. I’m not surprised. Okay, how about this.” Theo cleared his throat and focused on nothing again. “When I was young, my grandfather made fishing lures out of dental floss and old bracelet beads from the thrift booth at the town’s open-air market in summer. We would go into town every Saturday morning without fail and get two things: Hildie Upton’s pumpkin spice muffins and any cheap broken beaded jewelry Morris Newton had in his stall that week. Then we would come back here and sit on the front porch, eating muffins and tying up flies, over and over again. Gramps made so many that after he died, I put together a display panel of intricate, hand-tied lures and donated them to the Hannabury Courthouse. They’re currently hanging outside the judge’s chamber because Judge Farino spent hours fishing with Gramps, and they remind him of good times on the river, but I like to think they’re a part of the history of this town, too. Of how one person’s castoffs became something more.” Theo looked back at me. “Now, would you like to see them?”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again.Yes. Yes, I really would.But he already knew that.
Theo tapped his pointer finger on the table. “Every word of both stories was non-fiction, Porter. Every single thing I said was a fact. It’s not about what you tell; it’s abouthowyou tell it.”
I wanted to argue with him. “It can’t be that simple,” I insisted. “No one will give fifty grand to someone because I tell them a story.”
“The movie adaptation ofSully, about the plane that landed in the Hudson River, grossed over $125 million dollars.”
“That’s…” We both knew I wanted to say it was different, but it wasn’t.
“Tell me a story,” Theo said in a gentle voice. “Just me. Right here. Don’t think about it, just give me one story of how the Hub has helped someone, even if that someone is you.”
