1.13

"Stooge. Stooge. Stooge. It does sound funnier the more you say it."
"When I'm right, I'm right."
"Oh. Youth. Youth. Youth. Youth. Not as good as stooge."
"You win some, you lose some."

I read Marco's autobiography and tried, for a moment, to reconcile wheat I had learned to what I knew. Marco Polo was a famous explorer who went to China or at least made up really convincing stories about going to China. There are no other famous Marcos except soccer players, and the only soccer player I care about is Ros. So, basically, Marco is also dead and famous. Or an athlete, but I prefer dead and famous. It sounds better, like the smell of potpourri instead of socks and exercise. Speaking of, potpourri is a hilarious word.
"Potpourri."
"Excuse me, what?"
"Potpourri. It's another word to add to your list of words that sound funny when you say them out loud."
"I'll keep it in mind."
Well. That wasn't too bad. Now I just had to think of something clever to say, on Friday, in a café that probably never been witness to a clever thought before, while operating on fewer than five hours of sleep. Hm. Clever.
"Marco, I . . ."
"Where's yours?"
"My what?" I asked, though I knew the answer already. He wanted my autobiography. This was supposed to be a trade, not a steal. But I had written all night and I had nothing. Nothing to give him. Nothing to sum up my life. Nothing to let him get to know me. I knew his past, his secrets, his hurt, his victories, and I had thirteen pages of draft and zero pages of autobiography. So I deferred and dithered.
"What do you mean, 'My what?' You know."
He called my bluff at least twice as quickly as I expected him to. I got panicky and my voice went shaky.
"Well, you know how we were supposed to write autobiographies and how I'm not good at that? Well, if you didn't know before, I'm terrible at it. Just god-awful. I wrote and wrote and wrote last night and I have a million pages of garbage. I started over again twelve times, and I never once got past third grade, when I skinned my knee and got an infection and didn't tell mom for weeks, because I didn't want her to worry, but of course when I went to the hospital, she freaked out anyway, and I really hurt my mom and I cried last night and called mom at two in the morning and she didn't get it, but she listened and told me she loved me and went to sleep. I don't know. I can't write my life, because I've lived it and it has too much to think about. If I were writing somebody else's life, I wouldn't cry about a skinned knee and call their mother at two in the morning. I swear I wouldn't. But I did for me. So you don't have an autobiography from me and I'm so so so sorry."

Marco just laughed. "Well, the whole point was for you to get to know me, so I don't see anything wrong with it. Just . . . start at the beginning, and tell me things that don't make you cry. I'll listen."
"No."
"Yes."
"Seriously, no. I'm too embarrassed."
He just folded his hands and leaned back in the booth.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm working on having patience. It's one of my biggest faults. So I'll wait you out, until you tell me a part of your story, or die. Whichever, really, is acceptable to me." He smiled and settled into his chair like he had said his say and was proud of it.
"Ugh."
"Hmm."
"Fine, but just this, ok?" He just smiled. Infuriating. I should get to escape and not tell him my story. "Ok. Once upon a time in the year I was born, a girl was born and it was me. You told me about how you got your name, so I got mine from my aunt. She's pretty cool, "
"You say aunt, instead of aunt. You pronounce it funny."
"Don't interrupt." He laughed. "My aunt has hair the color of cinnamon. I don't know if that's important. Anyway, I was born, and my mother decided that one was enough and she would never again. She hasn't. My dad wanted more kids, or at least he must have, because the after of when mom said she didn't want any kids was when dad started cheating on her, hardcore. Mom's a patient woman. She didn't talk to him anymore, but she forgave the receptionist and the waitress and the saleswoman from Macy's. However, when the police caught dad soliciting a prostitute, mom said enough. When he was endangering me with his philandering, he had gone too far. She kicked him out and divorced him. I have no idea, to this day, why she put up with him as long as she did." I stopped, and shuffled his autobiography around in front of me. "I guess none of that was really about me. I am the worst storyteller."
Marco laughed again. I guess I was doing something right. He looked so right, even in the fake leather seat of the coffee shop. The orange seat and the old light through the window and the dust in the air and the odd stillness made everything look like an old photograph left on a windowsill for forty years in the sun.
He looked me straight in the eye. "Catherine, what are you doing here?"
"Well, I failed at telling my autobiography, so I don't know."
"I mean with me. What are you doing here with me?"
I paused. I was completely unsure of how to answer him. Make a fool of myself and tell him that I was just admiring how much like a weathered photo he looked, or tell him that when I first found out who he was, I thought I would never see him again, or tell him that I was completely unsure of myself and had no idea what I was doing? The last sounded good enough. I said it.
"I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Don't play games."
He called my bluff.
Self, what do I do now?
Well, me. I suppose I could just lie and leave. That's always worked for me in the past.
I know, I'm me. I don't have to tell me.
I don't want to lie.
"Marco . . ."
"Catherine."
"What should I be doing?"
"Well. I think you should be giving me your phone number so I can text you things I assume will impress you and make you like me."
"Well, I suppose there's always that."
"You should accept a date on Saturday, and then go, and have a good time. I think you should get to know me, and let me get to know you. I think . . . well. I think a lot of things."
I leaned forward and gave him a dry look. "You're telling me to hook up with you? You're not very subtle, are you?"
He leaned forward and said "Catherine, I'll write it on a big sign and hang it on the clock tower. I'm not in the business of being subtle. Go out with me."
It was about then that I realized we looked like people in a movie who have been apart for years but still love each other and come back to the hometown where they fell in love and finally kiss after so much time and then cue the music and roll the credits. There was no music, so he got up and went to the counter to order another coffee.
I mean, he was super cute. Cute is such a weird word for a boy. He wore jeans that made his legs look longer and shirts that made his shoulders look broad. Somewhere in me, I hoped his legs were long and his shoulders were broad, but I quashed that immediately. His smile was always genuine, and it always looked like if it didn't get out of him, he would just burst like a happy Marco balloon. His fingers were delicate and poised, and he never moved them unnecessarily. He spoke like he knew what he was doing, and he obviously liked me. That last point was a shocker. I don't think I ever said that before about anyone, except Darryl in second grade, and that doesn't count. Anything that happens before age ten is like crimes committed before age 18; it just doesn't matter. Dangit. He was just right, and he didn't even look like he would cut my skin off and eat it in his underground lair.
Why couldn't I say yes? What was holding me back? Why did he get his coffee black and why did that seem so right and why did he sit down opposite me, of all the girls in the coffee shop who would probably jump at a chance to date him? Why did I think I was going to say yes anyway?
"Marco?"
He didn't say anything, he just looked at me like he knew what I was going to say.
"One date. One. And if you don't kidnap me or feed me to your pet tiger, we'll see."
And there it was again: his smile, trying to explode him into a million tiny bits of light. Well, we'll see, Mr. Marco, if I fall for your charms. I like limes, and hanging out with Rosalyn, and the Internet, and cleaning, and sleep, and Marco. If it stays that way, I think we'll both be luckier for it.