Beck pats Walt’s back. “Kluszewski is the rendezvous, Walt. Can you remember that?”
“Yes,” says Walt, going back to his butterfly. “I’ll remember the rendezvouski.”
I smile at Beck, a wide-eyed, can-you-believe-the-awesomeness-that-is-Walt sort of smile. He’s wearing the same one.
“I think we’ll all remember the rendezvouski.”
ONCE THROUGH THE gates, we follow the signs to our section. Vendors are everywhere, selling hot dogs, beer, peanuts—one guy even has a half-dozen empty beer bottles glued to his hat. Just before we reach our aisle, Walt hands Beck his bottle-slash-butterfly coffin. “Bathroom,” he says. Throwing his finger in the air, he disappears into the men’s room.
Beck raises the bottle to his face, flicks the plastic to see if the butterfly is alive.
“Call it,” I say, grimacing.
Beck looks at his phone. “Time of death, four fifty-two.”
“Poor thing never stood a chance.” I kneel down to tighten the Velcro straps on my shoes; afterward, I notice Beck admiring them. “Très chic, non?” I say, kicking a foot up in the air.
He nods. “Oui. Et . . . French-for-old.”
“Vieilles. And yes, they’re old. I like old things, though.”
He looks at me like he wants to laugh. “You like old things?”
“Sure. Frayed, worn, stringy, faded . . . It’s all just proof of a life lived well.”
“Or maybe it’s proof of a life, well . . . lived.”
I smile, and for the next few moments, we people-watch. I’m about to crack a joke about how crowds wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for all the people when Beck says, “Speaking of life and living it—Mim, you see this?” He points to the same gaggle of girls I’d seen out front, the ones with the ridiculous shopping bags.
Easy, Mary. Don’t scare him off.
I nod—coolly, coyly, like I just noticed.
“Live your life,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes. But it’s no normal eye roll. It’s an iris-receding, sigh-inducing, shoulder-sagging eye roll. In the history of History, no one has rolled eyes like this, and I suddenly can’t remember the name of any boy I’ve ever known. I’m not sure what that says about me, that I can get this turned on by an eye roll. Honestly, I don’t care. In the movie of my life, I jump in Beck’s arms, wrap my legs around his waist, feel the slight bitterness of his tongue against my own as we kiss and the crowd goes wild. Walt—depicted by an unknown actor in an Oscar Award–winning breakout performance—is an ordained minister. He marries us then and there, right by the men’s restroom. Beck is a Phoenix brother, either River (pre–Viper Room) or Joaquin (pre-bearded insanity), and I, as discussed earlier, am indie-darling Zooey Deschanel. Or . . . fine, a young, straight Ellen Page.
“Live your life. How about, breathe your air?” he says.
I smile at him. “Eat your food.”
“Button your pants.”
“Walk your dog.”
“Take your shower.”
“Do your work.”
Beck shakes his head. “Live your life, Mim. Whatever you do, just . . . live your life, okay?”
Walt returns from the bathroom. “I’ve decided something important,” he says. Taking his bottle from Beck, he holds it an inch from his nose. “I’m going to name him Mr. Luke Skywalker Butterfly.”
Beck and I smile at each other, and as we turn toward our aisle, neither of us says a word. We don’t have the heart to tell him Mr. Luke Skywalker Butterfly has gone the way of Obi-Wan.
27
The Many Flaws of Beck Van Buren
THE CHEERING, CLAPPING Beck Van Buren best exemplifies the contagious nature of Walt’s enthusiasm. The Cubs’ first batter of the inning draws a walk, but from the exuberance of my friends, you’d think they’d just won the pennant. It is, truly, a thing of beauty.
I rummage through my backpack, locate the Hills Bros. can, and do some math. I started with eight hundred eighty dollars, minus one eighty for the bus ticket, then seven dollars for haircutting shears and makeup remover. Between there and Nashville, everything was covered by the Goofball Greyhound Corp. Three bucks on carnitas, five on ice cream (at the inimitable Aces Dairy Dip Mart Stop Plus), three hundred on Uncle Phil, fifty-six on gas, nineteen at Medieval Burger, one hundred twenty on these tickets, and six on my official Reds program. I have a total of one hundred eighty-four dollars.
Damn, Malone.
Still. It’s not my money.
“I’m gonna get a pretzel,” I say.
The Cubs ground into a double play, something they do often and well. Beck and Walt throw their hands in the air as if the ump got the call wrong.
“You’re getting a pretzel now?” mutters Beck, leafing through the program. “It’s a long game.”
“Is it, Beck? Please, enlighten me about the ins and outs of this strange game.” I stand, start for the aisle.
“Here, wait. Gimme your phone.”
I pull my phone out of my backpack—like it’s no big thing—and hand it over.
“Old-school,” he says, flipping it open. “Nice.”
I reach out my hand. “If you’re just gonna make fun of it . . .”
He punches a few keys, then hands it back. “There. Now you have my number. Just in case.”
I smile, wondering if he can actually see my heart in my throat. “You’re like a little safety patrol officer, aren’t you? Rendezvous points and emergency phone numbers. Are my clothes bright enough?”