Julian
“Is that what you’re having for breakfast?” my father asked in his stereotypical parent-voice. His tone told me this wasn’t a question at all, but a judgment on my nutritional choices. A frosted chocolate donut filled my mouth, precluding an immediate answer.
“Morning,” Oliver mumbled as he staggered sleepily into the kitchen, interrupting my donut standoff with Dad. Ah! Saved by the twin brother. Ollie was dressed for school, but clearly not yet awake. He headed to the counter and frowned, looking crestfallen at the empty box of donuts. Then, he looked back at me with a confused expression. Or maybe it was betrayal; I wasn’t quite sure.
“Julian,” my dad continued, his bushy brown eyebrows scrunched together, “you can’t just eat donuts for breakfast.”
“Then why did we buy them?” I righteously asked.
Dad let out a small sigh of defeat and shook his head (because he knew good and well that he was a major contributor to finishing off that box of a dozen donuts).
He capitulated with a small groan. “At least have a bowl of cereal to go with it. A donut is not enough for breakfast.”
At that moment, Harry, our Border Terrier, started howling at the front door (indicating he had passed the “scratching at the door” stage, clearly having been ignored). His pathetic whine served as a sufficient distraction, allowing me to get up from the table without getting cereal.
“Ollie, can you work after school today?” My dad turned to my brother suddenly. “I need to get some office work done.” My dad owned the town’s delicatessen, appropriately named “Dad’s Deli,” here in good ol’ Sugar Hollow, Virginia. It was actually started by my grandfather over fifty years ago. Right now, it could be described as vintage, with its vinyl-covered booths, black and white tiled floor, and retro signs, but the truth is, it wasn’t retro intentionally; it just hadn’t been remodeled since Grandpa built it.
“Can’t,” Ollie answered, glaring at me as I licked the frosting from my fingers. “I have baseball practice.” Ah yes! Baseball. Ollie was already a star player on the Varsity Baseball team, even though he’d only joined as a freshman last season. My twin and I are actually not much alike. He’s tall and lean, with short, light brown hair. I’m more like my dad, with thick, dark brown hair and a broad build—but we both have the same green eyes, like my mom. Ollie is the athlete and the scholar. I’m the delinquent.
Harry started howling louder and jumping against the door, as if he could push it open with his front paws.
“It’s September. Nice try. Your season doesn’t start until, what? February?” Dad continued.
“January. Officially. But the coach thought it was a good idea for returning players to go to the batting cages together, once a week,” Ollie mumbled while pulling out a box of pop tarts. Harry moved over to my dad, sitting at his feet and looking up at him with a forlorn look similar to Ollie’s when he’d spied the empty box of donuts.
“Julian, go walk the dog,” my dad snapped in irritation, standing up to put his dishes in the dishwasher.
“I can work after school,” I volunteered with a shrug. Not like I had anything better to do.
“Really? Thanks Julian.” My dad eyed me suspiciously. Even though I worked my fair share at the deli, it wasn’t a secret to anyone that I didn’t enjoy it and often came up with elaborate excuses as to why I couldn’t work. “I appreciate you stepping up; thanks.” Dad nodded in approval.
I answered with a smile and slight nod of my own before grabbing Harry’s leash.
#
Normally, I wait for Ollie before walking to school, but today I wanted to meet up with my friend Felix. I found him in his normal hangout, behind the baseball bleachers. He was sitting on the ground next to Ben, quickly scribbling something in a notebook—probably a copy of Ben’s algebra homework.
“What are you doing?” I asked while approaching.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he answered, without bothering to look up.
“Copying homework you could have done yourself in about ten minutes yesterday—when the teacher gave us time to do it in class?”
Felix just smirked in return.
“I need a favor,” I continued.
“Speak.”
“Can I go to your dad’s garage Saturday and borrow his welder? I’m working on my mom’s exhaust.”
“Ah, the Dodge!” Felix replied with more affection in his voice than when he spoke of his own mother. Yes, the Dodge. Technically, it belonged to my dad now, but he agreed I could use it when I got my license if I fixed it up. It was a 1970 Dodge Charger with its original dark metallic green paint. It belonged to my mom before she died, and she had cherished the car for as long as I could remember. I’d already fixed the vinyl roof and replaced some gauges. But now I needed to tackle some bigger problems.
“The shop is too busy on Saturday. How about Sunday night? Around six? I can meet you there and give you a hand,” Felix offered.
“That would be awesome, thanks. And thank your dad for me too.” The bell rang, just as Felix finished his homework and slipped his books away.
#
School was a mind-numbing blur of boredom and monotony, as usual. That is, until I got pulled out of Spanish class, the last period of the day. We were practicing a conversation about going to the library when the phone rang.
“Hola?” Ms. Torres answered, her eyes immediately seeking me out.
What did I do this time? I wondered, racking my brain for all my recent misdemeanors. I was told to go to the Guidance Office, so I guess I was about to find out.
I walked down the empty hall of lockers and down the corridor toward Mrs. Patel’s office. I knocked on the open door and she gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. “Julian. You were late for school. Again. And you seem to have missed P.E. class . . . again,” she said as her way of greeting. She placed her index finger on the bridge of her nose, pushing up her red-rimmed glasses.
“Um, shouldn’t I go to the Principal’s Office, then?” I asked, confused.
Her eyes widened in response.
I quickly amended, “Not that I’m complaining about avoiding detention. I was just curious as to why I’m here.”
Mrs. Patel tilted her head and gave me a sad smile, one I’ve seen many times before on others. It was a look of pity.
“What’s going on with you, Julian?” she began, leveling her gaze at me. “You are smart and popular. I hear you’re a star in your mechanics class. Why do you treat school like some kind of inconvenience? Like it’s of no consequence? Because let me tell you, Julian—there are consequences.”
I remained quiet for an uncomfortable minute before Mrs. Patel filled the silence. “I tried reaching out to your dad, but I don’t think he actually heard me.”
Oh, he heard her, all right. He heard that she thought I needed a professional to talk to after my mother died of sepsis three years ago. My dad, a seasoned war veteran, does not believe in therapy.
“Tell me, Julian,” she coaxed. “How can I help you? I want you to like school. I want you to do well.”
And she wants me to graduate so she can get me out of her hair, I thought, but wisely kept quiet.
“How about if we try getting to know each other better. Then you might trust me to help? Let me think. How about I’ll tell you something that . . .” she drew out the sentence and scanned the room for inspiration. Her eyes landed on a picture on her desk, then she continued, “. . . something that made me laugh recently. Then you go, ok?”
I nodded, but only because I didn’t think I had a choice. I half-listened to her story about her cat chasing a ladybug, then landing inside a trashcan. All I could think about was her plump Persian cat, probably resembling Mrs. Patel, herself, with greyish white hair and a well-fed appearance. When she was finished, she folded her hands neatly on her desk and gave me a pointed look. It was my turn to share something that made me laugh. I told her the first thing that came to mind.
“My dog suffers from pareidolia. Bet you don’t know what that is, do you?”
“No,” she chuckled, as if it were a rare thing to stump her, “can’t say that I do.”
“It’s the tendency to see faces in inanimate objects. Ollie and I self-diagnosed our dog, Harry, when we were seven years old. It happened one night when my parents were watching some gameshow—Jeopardy, I think it was. The host gave the answer, and the contestants had to guess the question.
“So, the host said in his announcer voice, ‘This is the tendency to perceive patterns or images, especially faces, in random shapes and lines, as in one famous example: The Face on Mars.’
“When a contestant answered, he pronounced the word wrong. He pronounced the ‘do’ part of the word like ‘doo’ instead of ‘dough.’ Ollie tried to hold in a laugh, which slipped out anyway with this weird squeak. And you know how, the harder someone tries to hold in a laugh, the more impossible it is? Once my parents shushed us for the third time, my mom tried a different tactic. ‘Oliver, do you understand what the word means?’ she asked my brother, while I was laughing so hard it hurt. Ollie was the smart one. He got it right away without my mom having to dumb it down. ‘Yeah, he just said it. It’s seeing faces on things that aren’t really there. Like seeing shapes in the clouds,’ he explained.
“‘That’s correct!’ My mom shouted a little too loud.
“Even as a kid, I could see Ollie was the smart one.” I shrugged.
At this, Mrs. Patel’s smile faltered a bit, replaced with one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Then I got my own genius idea,” I continued. “I started shouting, ‘Uh, oh! Like Harry! Like when he barks at the neighbors’ trash bags filled with leaves!’
“Now Ollie was laughing again. Even my dad joined in, nodding his head in agreement that Harry needed ‘professional help.’”
I paused in remembrance, my smile more genuine than it had been in a while. But then it fell like a leaf from a September Maple. “That’s one of the last memories I have when I can remember all of us laughing like that. Together.”
There was silence when I finished. I don’t think either one of us knew what to say. So, I decided it was best to just get up and leave. Which is what I did. School would be over in a matter of minutes, so I grabbed my bag, swung it over my shoulder, and headed to the parking lot to hang out with Felix, blowing off work at the deli.
#
J? Where r u? Dad said you’re a no show for work, now I have to go.
Sorry, Ollie. Was running an errand
with Felix and lost track of time . . .
Thx for covering.
Why can’t you go now? I’m practicing with the team.
I’m over an hour away. Really sorry.
Besides, Dad likes it when you work
anyway . . .
Last week I cleaned that place top to
bottom, did the inventory,
and got caught up on stocking. Did
he even say thank you? Nope.
Dude—that’s what we get paid to do. And not even the point.
Might not matter to you, but it matters
to me.
Do you ever say thank you to Dad? Huh??
. . .
Sorry again. Gotta go. Thx.
