Calypso blushes easily, laughs easily. She’s open and honest. She looks at the world in such uniquely poetic ways. She isn’t afraid to tell me the depths of her thoughts, and every time I hear them, they follow me for hours after. The scene she paints around herself and the beautiful but haunting universe she sees is visceral.
I selfishly want to keep her for myself.
Why did I ever put her in a spotlight?
Because, she’s special. Because, shedeservesto be there. Because,youwanted to see what would happen.
I rap my fingers against the steering wheel and sigh, waiting for Calypso to come out of the theater classroom. She said shehad to talk to Mr. D’plume for a minute. Then she asked me to wait in the car. With the headlights on. Because she never knows what car I have.
It’s next Wednesday. It’s after class. It’s muffin time. What does she have to talk to Mr. D’plume about? And why is whatever it is private?
As far as I can tell, he’s not once corrected her on her portrayal of Harriet. Even I’ve received a note or two concerning something or another in the scenes that don’t involve her. She’s somewhat like a guard, now that I think about it. Neither Rebecca nor I receive any comments when we’re directly working with her. She takes hold of the scenes, whether she realizes it or not. She’s a whirlwind, dragging everyone she seriously considers worthy into the real world ofThe Magpie Girl.
Some actors have that power.
They can convince you of everything.
When she looks at me, IamKenneth.
Calypso exits the classroom, heading across the field to the parking lot, and I sit up a little straighter, flashing my headlights a couple times so she’ll notice me. When she has, she smiles.
“Ready for muffins?” I ask as she opens the passenger door, slings her backpack in, and plops into the seat.
“Absolutely. It’s a giant truck today.” She looks around the cab, then whistles. “It’s so high up. You sure you know how to drive this thing?” A braid finds its way to her fingers after she’s put on her seat belt and slouched back into the chair.
Is she nervous?
She doesn’t exactlyseemnervous.
“Of course I know how to drive this thing. But even if I didn’t, as long as I avoid any semis, we’re the largest thing out there. She’d chew up any cars in an instant.”
“Please don’t chew up any cars.” She leans forward to pat thedash, and the action is so simple and stupid, like the truck has a mind of its own and I’m not going to play any part in whether or not my Ridgeline eats another car. The lack of playful notes and the sincerity strikes me the most, and I avoid having to think any more about it by starting up the engine.
I’m already a key player in the magical, wispy world that she sees. I don’t need to dwell on her way of personifying the inanimate. Naturally, if my truck has a mind of its own to her, it does.
I think I’m the nervous one.
“What kinds of muffins do they have?” Calypso brightens in the evening sun, looking out the window and twirling the tips of her braid around a finger. It’s cold out there, and the sun is setting earlier and earlier, making it look later than it is. “Have you ever gotten them this late? I thought most good bakeries sold out of the best stuff in the mornings?”
“Oh, they’ve probably got hundreds of different kinds, I think.” Maybe thousands. I have a good stack of muffin recipe books. Only the ones with the pictures, too. “And I guarantee they’ll be fresh.”
Her eyes widen on me; I catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, since I’m keeping all my focus on the road and not eating cars.
“Really?” she breathes, like it’s something incredible.
“Sure. I normally get mine much later than this even.” After everyone has gone to their quarters or retired for the night. I am something of a muffin gremlin. Even if I’m not naive enough to believe none of the staff rumors won’t get back to my dad, the reason this little “event” is possible right now is because he’s on a business trip with Ophelia until Friday. Ophelia and Dad are the two people I don’t want to meet Calypso. Who knows what they’d say to her?
“Do you walk in with your rich people card and say, ‘Hey, I’mrich. Bake me fresh ones right now’?”
I should have gotten that horse. I can’t believe I’m about to shatter her delusions. Not only are we going to my house, but I’m also about to bake muffins for her myself. No doubt in her mind “rich people” have “people” for that.
“Ha ha,” I state.
She mimics, “Ha ha.”
I can distinctly feel her watching me, so I steal a glance and smile. “What’s up, sugar?”
“Nothing. Something’s different. Are you nervous?” Holding her braid, she takes in a soft breath. “It’s not a real date, you know. It’s a business excursion.”
