parents chuckled, increasing our discomfiture. “Children are such a puzzle sometimes, aren’t they?” said Mom.
“Yes, I have no idea what’s gotten into the younger boys,” agreed Mrs. Spiralli. Mark, Luke, and John were absent, since they were still cowering in the upstairs playroom. A note that they had slid under the locked door, written in crayon, said that one of the guests was “evul” and “well come out after ther gone, save some ice cream plz”. After several threats of no TV for a week if they didn’t open the door right now had failed to produce any results, their parents had given up.
When Matt reappeared, he shoveled in his food, took my plate and his to the kitchen, and then bobbed his head towards the stairs. I got the cue and followed him to his room. “Remember the rules and leave your door open, Matthew!” his mother called after us.
“Oh please,” he replied over his shoulder. “She never checks,” he added to me in a conspiratorial tone. The familiar tingle moved up my spinal cord again, despite all that had happened.
Matt’s room was an intriguing, inspiring, amusing, awe-inducing, horrible mess. More specifically, it was a horrible mess that seemed to have later been afflicted with all sorts of meteorological disasters. Braving the gargantuan piles of dirty clothes, little bits of scrap metal, unfinished jigsaw puzzles, and unidentified moldy things to clear a safe path for his guest was the most chivalrous thing any boy has ever done for me, then or since. I decided that it wasn’t through any lack of maternal concern that his mother didn’t check his room; it was because she lacked the proper safari equipment to come within five feet of it.
In order to make room for us Matt was forced to push some of the junk into the hall. “Sorry about this, it’s a little cluttered,” he apologized as he heaved the door closed.
Now that my senses had become accustomed to this kaleidoscope of confusion, I could pick out the grace notes of my crush’s sanctuary: his violin, his arty photographs, and his hockey trophies. I suppose it was a sanctuary for him, even if it was dominated by a chaos that would make Dad scream. Poking through the jumbled hills and valleys was a desk creaking under the weight of science fiction novels and the cage of his Mexican red-kneed tarantula, Shelob, who seemed to be contemplating whether or not to eat the insect trying to hop away from her. On a special little stand I could see Matt’s model of. . . what was it a model of?
“Minneapolis,” he told me, smiling. “Back when we lived there I used to go through the dumpster behind the nearby computer store, and I unscrewed all these old computer parts. At first it was just mindless destruction, but one day I thought, hey, that looks kind of like a little digital city.”
I grinned. “You have way too much time on your hands.”
“I like having a full life. Would you like to hold Shelob? She doesn’t bite.” He carefully scooped up the fuzzy arachnid, which seemed used to being handled. I sat cross-legged on the bed and cradled her in my hands like a little living jewel. Her eight glittering eyes surveyed me benignly.
Matt leveled out a spot to recline on the floor. “I think we need to talk,” he said, almost regretfully, as if he would have much preferred light chitchat.
The spider was climbing up my arm. I hardly dared to breathe, a cauldron of wonder, hormones, sadness, anxiety, and tension boiling inside of me. “So now you know why I couldn’t tell you more about where the rumors came from.”
He laughed. “Definitely. I don’t blame you.”
“Um. . . is she going to climb on my head?”
“Maybe. I used to feed her crickets on my shoulder, so she likes sitting there.”
“You are evil.”
“Said the wolf-girl.” Matt thought for a moment, then added, “If you don’t find that hurtful, of course.”
True to his prediction, Shelob came to rest on my shoulder, tapping me with her forelegs.
“Yes, I have no idea what’s gotten into the younger boys,” agreed Mrs. Spiralli. Mark, Luke, and John were absent, since they were still cowering in the upstairs playroom. A note that they had slid under the locked door, written in crayon, said that one of the guests was “evul” and “well come out after ther gone, save some ice cream plz”. After several threats of no TV for a week if they didn’t open the door right now had failed to produce any results, their parents had given up.
When Matt reappeared, he shoveled in his food, took my plate and his to the kitchen, and then bobbed his head towards the stairs. I got the cue and followed him to his room. “Remember the rules and leave your door open, Matthew!” his mother called after us.
“Oh please,” he replied over his shoulder. “She never checks,” he added to me in a conspiratorial tone. The familiar tingle moved up my spinal cord again, despite all that had happened.
Matt’s room was an intriguing, inspiring, amusing, awe-inducing, horrible mess. More specifically, it was a horrible mess that seemed to have later been afflicted with all sorts of meteorological disasters. Braving the gargantuan piles of dirty clothes, little bits of scrap metal, unfinished jigsaw puzzles, and unidentified moldy things to clear a safe path for his guest was the most chivalrous thing any boy has ever done for me, then or since. I decided that it wasn’t through any lack of maternal concern that his mother didn’t check his room; it was because she lacked the proper safari equipment to come within five feet of it.
In order to make room for us Matt was forced to push some of the junk into the hall. “Sorry about this, it’s a little cluttered,” he apologized as he heaved the door closed.
Now that my senses had become accustomed to this kaleidoscope of confusion, I could pick out the grace notes of my crush’s sanctuary: his violin, his arty photographs, and his hockey trophies. I suppose it was a sanctuary for him, even if it was dominated by a chaos that would make Dad scream. Poking through the jumbled hills and valleys was a desk creaking under the weight of science fiction novels and the cage of his Mexican red-kneed tarantula, Shelob, who seemed to be contemplating whether or not to eat the insect trying to hop away from her. On a special little stand I could see Matt’s model of. . . what was it a model of?
“Minneapolis,” he told me, smiling. “Back when we lived there I used to go through the dumpster behind the nearby computer store, and I unscrewed all these old computer parts. At first it was just mindless destruction, but one day I thought, hey, that looks kind of like a little digital city.”
I grinned. “You have way too much time on your hands.”
“I like having a full life. Would you like to hold Shelob? She doesn’t bite.” He carefully scooped up the fuzzy arachnid, which seemed used to being handled. I sat cross-legged on the bed and cradled her in my hands like a little living jewel. Her eight glittering eyes surveyed me benignly.
Matt leveled out a spot to recline on the floor. “I think we need to talk,” he said, almost regretfully, as if he would have much preferred light chitchat.
The spider was climbing up my arm. I hardly dared to breathe, a cauldron of wonder, hormones, sadness, anxiety, and tension boiling inside of me. “So now you know why I couldn’t tell you more about where the rumors came from.”
He laughed. “Definitely. I don’t blame you.”
“Um. . . is she going to climb on my head?”
“Maybe. I used to feed her crickets on my shoulder, so she likes sitting there.”
“You are evil.”
“Said the wolf-girl.” Matt thought for a moment, then added, “If you don’t find that hurtful, of course.”
True to his prediction, Shelob came to rest on my shoulder, tapping me with her forelegs.
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