Page 25 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
I’m grinning hard as I pocket my phone. Between Aggie’s overnight fan club and my giddiness about Everett, I’m brimming over with happy feelings that can’t be contained. I don’t completely trust them, but when Aggie stumble-walks across the entire thirty-yard span of lawn with me only supporting her back end, like she knows thousands of people are cheering her on now, I stop worrying about what might go wrong and decide to enjoy the ride.
THE LINGERING JOYof my morning quickly dims when I pick up my mail in the Maple Lane Apartments’ lobby after work at Loden and Linden, where I was a model employee for once, infusing my sales pitch for $140 artisan-made Turkish linen hand towels in colors like Night Moth and Misty Vale with genuine enthusiasm. I even talked a customer buying a hammered-copper soap dish into several artfully branded mason jars of hand-rolled soap balls to go with it, indisputable proof that my brain was flooded with a cocktail of happy-making chemicals.
Now, once again, my mail includes charity donation solicitations that keep finding me for some reason and coupons for local establishments I can’t afford, even with a discount. I ignore all of it, as always, but I can’t ignore the envelope with the bold red letters that sayFinal notice. It’s from my telecom company. They’ve sent emails, too, which I’ve ignored as consistently as I’ve ignored thestack of mail on my kitchen counter. I eked out my October rent but let most of my utilities slide at the start of the month, having maxed out my credit with the loss of my pizzeria income and the expenses that came with adopting Aggie.
I’m still staring at the envelope, afraid to open it, when I hear Khalil’s voice behind me.
“Get something good?” he asks as he nudges the front of his cycle through the main door.
I grab the door to hold it open. “Does anything good come in the mail anymore?”
“I don’t know. Birthday cards, maybe?”
“It’s been, like, ten years since I got a physical birthday card.”
He nods like he gets it and we step toward the elevator together. I’d take the stairs but I kind of like the idea of chatting with Khalil for a few minutes, even if it means being stuck in the steel box while imaginary hamsters on tiny treadmills try to get the dammed thing to move.
“Bills,” I tell him with an annoyed wave of the envelope. “I’ve been looking for a second part-time job, ideally something I can do on weekday evenings from home while Aggie’s going through the most critical stage of her recovery, but I haven’t had any luck yet.”
Khalil gives me another commiserating nod. “Good thing grad school’s so cheap.”
I snort a laugh. “And great that Congress isn’t obstructing student loan forgiveness.”
He laughs with me, and when the elevator arrives, I let him get on first so he can swing his cycle into position, well-practiced at how to rotate it so it fits.
As the doors shut and we start our slow ascent, my mind recyclesold questions, ones I’m tired of wrestling with, and ones Aggie has graciously distracted me from over the past month, but I can’t shove them aside forever, as the ugly notice in my hand insists on reminding me.
“Is it worth it to you?” I ask Khalil.
“Grad school?” he asks, and when I nod, he pops the chin strap on his helmet and scratches his chiseled jawline. The man is all hard edges with zero body fat. One day I’ll ask him how far he rides, but only when I’m sure I can do it without sounding like I’m hitting on him.
“I just wonder sometimes,” I say. “It’s so much debt. And so much work. And so much stress. What if we don’t build successful careers in the fields we’re studying? Or what if we do, only to find out we don’t like the careers we’ve chosen? What if it’s all for nothing?”
“Well...” He considers this, still scratching at his chin as the elevator dings on two. “I get to play with supercool toys most days. The lab I’m in is working on robotic prosthetics for amputees. Pretty sure I won’t find out I don’t like that work. Or that it’s all for nothing.”
I feel my eyes go wide with astonishment. “Like, the real-life Bionic Man?”
“Something like that.” He unbuckles a saddlebag and carefully peels back the lid to reveal several zip-top bags full of gears, wires, and other mechanical parts. “Pretty cool, huh?”
“Extremelycool.” I gawk at him, blown away by what he does.
He accepts my gushing with a humble shrug and a self-conscious smile that only increase my awe. The more I learn about my neighbors, the weirder I feel about not speaking to them for so long. All this time, I’ve been living between a literature professor and arobotics genius and I had no idea, though I guess that’s modern life. We’re more connected than ever, but also... not.
“Do you really think you might not like being a vet?” Khalil asks as the elevator inches toward three. “Seems like a natural fit. Taking care of animals like Aggie.”
“It is, and always has been, though it’s harder than I used to imagine, seeing animals in pain all the time, or dying. I barely held myself together when Aggie was in intensive care. And her vets haven’t just been great with her. They’ve been great withme. That’s the part that scares me most. The people part. And then there’s this to deal with.” I hold up the envelope again. “If I was working full-time, I wouldn’t have to worry if my Wi-Fi was about to get cut off.”
Khalil winces. “Maybe you’ll feel better when you find that job you’re looking for?”
“Maybe.” I prod a blackened gum spot with the toe of my only decent pair of shoes, which I probably shouldn’t be doing but the spot’s been here as long as I have. It’s not going anywhere. “I have classes Monday through Friday and a weekend job, so I’m only available weeknights, and I need time for studying and Aggie and dealing with dumb stuff like laundry.”
“It’s the laundry that screws you every time,” Khalil jokes.
I laugh, but with effort, and he deflates at the same moment I do.
“Does it have to be remote?” he asks.
“I’d prefer it, for Aggie, but I may have to reconsider.”
