Almost Perfect - Brian Katcher [27]
If this was an ideal world, I’d have a father I could ask for some advice. If this was a sitcom, there’d be some young black teacher I could confide in. But life is not ideal and is only occasionally a situation comedy.
I sat in the commons after school bouncing the gift-wrapped package on my knee like it was a toddler. The school was almost deserted. Christmas break had begun with the last bell, and not too many students wanted to hang around.
I had no reason to be nervous. I’d left a note in Sage’s locker asking her to meet me here. I wouldn’t see her for almost two weeks and wanted to give her her present. I’d spent the afternoon before at the Wal-Mart in Moberly trying to find something I thought she’d like. A little something to let her know I’d been thinking about her. But nothing too fancy, so she wouldn’t feel like I expected a gift (or anything else) in return. Since I only had thirty bucks, it was easy not to go overboard. I’d finally settled on the third-most-expensive body lotion for sale. I’d seen it on TV, endorsed by an actual celebrity, so it must have been good.
I looked at the clock. I’d been waiting ten minutes. What if Sage hadn’t gotten my note? Gift exchanges hadn’t been nearly this nerve-racking with Brenda. I’d always flat-out ask her what she wanted, and she’d always tell me. Usually a CD or a DVD. She knew my limited budget. And knowing my love of football, Brenda would always buy me some Kansas City Chiefs memorabilia because it’s the most popular team in the area. I never had the heart to tell her I was a Rams fan.
“Is that for me?” Sage sat close to me even though the bench was empty.
“Just a little something.” I shrugged, wishing it could have been a big something.
“What lovely paper you picked out!” she said, examining the obviously store-wrapped box. “Should I open it now or wait till Christmas?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Good!” She greedily tore open the package. When she saw what the gift was, she froze.
“Like it?” I prompted, worrying that I’d accidentally picked out some sort of feminine hygiene product by mistake.
“Logan, it’s wonderful,” she whispered, staring at the bottle. “Thank you.” Her eyes glistened. I couldn’t tell if she was tearing up.
“Well …” I tried to shrug it off but was mentally patting myself on the back. I’d done good.
Sage sniffed loudly. “Okay, open yours.” She passed me a large brown paper bag, stapled shut. Inside was some sort of a blanket or comforter. It wasn’t the size of a standard bed; in fact, it was more of a trapezoid than a rectangle. It was made of strips of black and yellow material. A picture of the University of Missouri tiger, clipped from an old sweater, was inexpertly stitched to the middle.
Sage had made this herself. She must have been working on it for weeks.
“It’s for your bed at Mizzou,” she explained. “Someone said the heat doesn’t always work in the dorms.”
“Sage …” Cookies were one thing, but a handmade blanket? No one had ever sewed me anything. Thank you didn’t seem sufficient.
“Just make sure you don’t spill any crap on it,” said Sage half mockingly. “And wash it occasionally. I’ll be there to check up on you.”
She must have noticed my baffled look. “Didn’t I tell you? I got accepted to Mizzou.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that Sage would be leaving home after high school. But she was going off to college, where her parents had no control, where their rules didn’t apply. Where Sage and I could do anything we wanted. The idea made me smile. Sage smiled back. We just sat there smiling at each other, and it wasn’t awkward.
“You know,” she said after a while, “I kind of wish we were sitting under the mistletoe right now.”
Score! My grin got bigger. I tried to place my hand on her cheek.
Sage abruptly looked up at the bare ceiling.
“Hmm. Too bad.” She stood. “See you in January, Logan.” She walked away, not looking back.
Christmas at the Witherspoon trailer didn’t involve a huge turkey, roasted chestnuts, and spiced oranges, but I preferred it that way. To me, the holidays would always mean a raggedy fiberglass tree, Mom