S-Project

My latest for the S-Project. This month's assignment was Harry Potter mania. I'm not huge on fan-fiction in general (though I did recently enter a contest at The Leaky Cauldron) so I decided to use this story instead, which merely visits the world instead of fully inhabiting it. And if you liked this, check out Seduced by the Muse's story based on the same general idea, namely, what if the toy wand actually worked? Comments are welcome.

Garth Hoburn liked to walk to school even though he had a bus pass. It wasn’t out of any desire to be physically fit. It was more of a desire to live. If he got on the bus, Bill Andrew and his meat-headed buddies would be there waiting to beat the snot out of him again. Garth shook his head. Stupid Bill Andrew with his crappy two first names.

In elementary school Bill and Garth had been friends, united by their mutual love of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and Harry Potter. By the time junior high had rolled around Bill had stretched lengthwise and widthwise, and developed a fascination for girls and football, not necessarily in that order. Garth was a late bloomer. He’d eventually decided girls were okay, but he never had come round to football. Bill had found a group of friends with like-minded interests, and Garth, when he wasn’t defending himself from Bill’s fists, found himself rather on the edge of things.

He didn’t mind this so much. Garth thought of himself as a loner—a deep thinker. He preferred reading to sports and he spent the remainder of his spare time writing stories.

He always enjoyed his walks to and from school and today was no exception. He would stand up a little straighter and imagine the most wonderful things. He’d won the Pulitzer Prize for his debut novel…“Really?” he imagined himself saying to the New York Times critic. “I’m the youngest Pulitzer Prize winner ever? Well, that’s nice, I suppose. Though I don’t focus on awards, you know. I’m just interested in telling stories. Everything else is gravy.” Or perhaps he was at a Hollywood premiere of a movie he’d written. “Oh, Angelina, thank you for complimenting my writing—but you were amazing in the film. Just the Cassandra I’d imagined…nobody better really. Oh, you’d like to have dinner? What about Brad?”

Today, he was something even better. He was a wizard. Last night when he’d gone home, he’d found his mother sitting on the sofa holding a long skinny box wrapped up with a bow of vivid green.

“What’s that?” he’d asked his mother.

“A surprise for you,” she said, her smile creasing the lines of her face.

“But, we don’t have any money for surprises,” he reminded her. They didn’t either. That was one of the many things Bill Andrew made fun of him for, along with his unfashionable clothes and bottle-lens glasses.

A shadow crossed her face momentarily, but as she looked down at the package she brightened up again. “We do for this,” she said firmly, handing him the box.

He hesitated a moment and then tore the bow off, opened the lid, and pulled out a wand, richly carved, and polished to such a perfect sheen that Garth thought he could see his face in the wood. He’d wanted a wand ever since he’d read the first Harry Potter book, but he’d never expected to actually get one.

“Mom, this is amazing, but we can’t afford this!”

“We can,” she insisted. “I got a bonus at work and you know you’ve always wanted one.”

“I’m too old for toys,” he said haltingly, suddenly imagining Bill’s derisive expression at seeing him holding a wand.

“It’s not a toy,” his mother replied. “It’s a collector’s item. I bet it will be worth something some day. And anyway,” she continued, “you’ll always be my baby no matter how old you are.”

Garth rolled his eyes at this, but she was so clearly pleased with her gift that he put all thoughts of Bill away and hugged his mother. “Thanks, Mom,” he said.

She placed the wand on his desk in its stand, and the next morning, some irresistible urge made him throw it in his backpack along with his homework.

Now, walking to school, he had the same irresistible urge to pull the wand out. It would make the game of imagining he was a wizard a bit more life-like, he thought. He sat down on the curb, opened his backpack and pulled out the wand. It was made of oak and the certificate that accompanied the wand indicated a core of dragon heartstring. Gripping the wand, he had a curious sensation that some of the dragon’s strength was coursing into him. He stood up and quite easily slung his heavy backpack over his shoulder.

Holding the wand at his side, he walked to school, losing himself in his daydreams. He was Garth still, but this Garth was a wizard—not a British wizard, an American one. Bill Andrew, he reflected in satisfaction, was nothing but a dirty squib, and all of Bill Andrew’s meathead jock buddies were even stupider versions of Crabbe and Goyle. He had just pulled off a stunning bit of defensive magic, when reality veered its head. Garth hadn’t paid attention to what he was doing and the end result was that he found himself standing of the front lawn of his school holding a wand and wearing a slightly glazed expression that made him look mentally deficient. And to cap it off, Bill Andrew and his cadre were holding court at the front steps.

“Dude!” yelled Bill loudly, so that everyone in the immediate vicinity could overhear. “Is that a wand? Are you Harry Potter today?” Bill’s friends laughed appreciatively as Bill leaned casually against the railing. “Gonna do a spell, freak? Gonna turn me into a toad?”

Garth reddened and tried to sneak the wand into his pocket.

“Don’t hide your wand, dude,” said Bill nastily. “Bet the girls’ll be real impressed with that little bitty wand.” Bill laughed at his own joke and then leaned menacingly toward Garth as the pack closed in around him. “You know what I’m about to do?” He stared down at Garth, who did not reply. “I’m about to stuff your skinny ass into a locker, and then I think I’m gonna leave you there. But if your magic wand can help you, go ahead,” said Bill, smirking, “show us a spell.”

Garth barely had time for thought before Bill and his buddies picked him up and carried him, struggling and still clutching the wand, toward the nearest open locker.

“Move,” snarled Bill to a kid even scrawnier than Garth. The boy, apparently grateful that Bill wasn’t stuffing him into a locker, moved aside and took off quickly down the hallway, leaving his locker door wide open.

Bill shoved Garth into the locker, forcibly tucked his head down, and slammed the door shut. Garth heard Bill spin the dial of the lock twice and then bang on the door.

“I’ll let you out after school,” whispered Bill through the slats. “If you’re still alive. Better hope you’re dead, boy.” He pounded the door again and took off for his first period class, laughing the whole way. The bell rang and Garth could hear students rushing to get to their classes and then silence. He was alone.

A surge of hatred filled his being. He wished he was a wizard. Harry Potter might be too noble, but he wouldn’t mind using an unforgivable on Bill Andrew.

“Stupid useless wand,” said Garth bitterly. “I wish you worked.”

On a whim, he shifted as much as possible in the cramped locker, touched the lock with the tip of the wand, and said, “Alohamora.”

To his astonishment the lock clicked and the door opened of its own accord. Garth came tumbling out of the locker along with a pile of books and papers and a pair of dirty sweat socks. A glass paperweight that had been perched on the top shelf fell down and shattered on the tile floor. He sat for a moment, a bemused expression on his face. Then he pointed the wand at the shards of glass, and said, “Reparo.” The glass shards flew back into place and mended themselves together.

Garth laughed out loud in delight. It worked. His wand really worked.

“Bill Andrew,” said Garth as he rose to his feet, “I wonder where you are right now. Gotta say, I feel a little unforgiving.”

S-Project

This is my latest for the S-Project. Please note that ordinarily I avoid any type of poetry writing with a 10 foot pole. I enjoy reading it, but I'm not very good at writing it. So please bear that in mind if this happens to make you roll your eyes and think to yourself, "that Izzybella's a sweetie, but she ain't no poet!"

The assignment this month was to write something based on a photograph, a newspaper/magazine story, or an observation made while people-watching. I occasionally go to church with my stepmother, and without fail, there is a lovely old woman who sits in the pew in front of ours. My stepmother is Presbyterian and they're a very ceremonial type of religion-lots of standing up and sitting down throughout the service. No one would think less of this woman if she stayed seated--she is clearly frail, so stooped over she can barely walk, and anymore her cane seems even to lack the support it once did. But she still stands up. This is for her.


Even when she sits, she is bent over
back stooped with the weight of
eighty-four years worth of living.
Her cane leans against the pew
in front of her.
Her gnarled hands shake
with the effort of holding the hymnal.
The opening chords play
and the congregation rises to its feet.
She stands, too, slowly,
back still stooped, one hand holding
the back of the pew in front of her for support;
the other still tightly clutching her hymnal.
Her hand shakes so badly she cannot read,
so instead she hums.
Though she is stooped and frail;
her faith supports her.
She is not proud.
She stands because she loves Him.

Pink Crosses-Scherehazade Project Submission

This is for the S-Project. The picture below was our assignment. As always, comments and critique welcome.



The girl seated herself on the ground cross-legged in front of the pink cross bearing Evangelina’s name. It was hot and sticky and she reflected, not for the first time, that it was probably a waste of time coming here; that Evangelina couldn’t possibly hear her from such a great distance. She liked to imagine that Evangelina was so loved and blessed and adored in heaven that she barely had time to direct her attention to the dusty spot where her body had been found, now marked by lines and rows of pink crosses.

The girl touched the wood, lightly tracing the ripples of cracked and peeling paint with her finger. “Mama,” she whispered. “I have good news.” The wind came from nowhere and blew her dark hair away from her face. It was so much like a caress that the girl had the sudden feeling that her mother was there, that she already knew the good news. Perhaps Evangalina wasn’t too far away after all.

The girl smiled. “You know, then. I’m leaving here. I got accepted to college in Colorado, in the US. On scholarship, mama! I don’t have to pay for anything-I just have to work hard.” The wind blew her hair again, and the girl laughed in delight. “You are happy for me, aren’t you, mama?”

She stayed there till the sun began to set, its pink and orange hues contrasting strangely with the pink crosses before her. At last, she stood up and brushed the dirt off of her pants. “I will miss you, mama, but you aren’t really here anyway are you? I want you know that I will come back home someday. But first I’m going to learn everything I can. When I come back I will be a woman, not a girl, and I will know how to begin to change things here. I promise you, I will always remember.”

The wind blew gently around the memorial site, swirling dust particles and leaves into circles, and girl smiled. “I love you, too, Mama.”

S-Project_Little Red in the Hood

My latest submission to the S-Project. Comments and critique welcome.

Little Red in the Hood

I remember it like it was yesterday even though it was far, far away and a long time ago. Red’s mom used to always send Red on her errands. It would be “Red, go down to the corner store and get me a diet coke” or “Red, pick up the dry cleaning, would you, and make sure that crook, Peterson, didn’t over-charge us again.” That day we were hanging in the back yard shooting the breeze, when her mom opened the back door to holler, “Red, take the leftover lasagna to your gramma’s house and be quick about it because I have a few things I need you to do back home.”

Red didn’t want to go. For starters her gramma was kind of strange. She wore bowling shirts and hung out with a bunch of crazy old ladies—dirty old ladies who liked to talk about sex and stuff. When you’re 13 there is nothing more disgusting than little old sex-obsessed ladies, unless one of them also happens to be your gramma. But besides that Red’s gramma would sometimes go out with this weird guy named Ed. Ed had a ginormous head with a great big wolfish smile. He sort of creeped Red out, even though Red’s mom said he was harmless.

“You be nice to Ed,” she was wont to say. “He’s good to your gramma and he’s a good friend.”

Red looked at her mom and set her jaw stubbornly. She actually looked kind of like her mom when she did that, but I wasn’t going to be the one to say so. “Aw, ma, I don’t wanna go. You go,” cried Red plaintively.

“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady,” replied Red’s mom. “Besides, I can’t go. My soap is on. Dirk is about to pop the question to Adrianna, and I don’t want to miss it.”

Red sighed and gave me a look that plainly expressed her exasperation. “Let’s go,” she said.

“Wait a minute,” her mom yelled. “Don’t forget your coat, it looks like rain.”

Red scowled. She hated that stupid coat with its stupid babyish red hood. “It’s not going to rain, Ma,” she said. “Besides Elizabeth’s ma isn’t making her wear a coat. Why do I have to?”

“Elizabeth’s ma will regret not making her wear a coat when she catches a cold and then dies. You don’t want to die like Elizabeth, do you?” she replied snappishly. And then to me, she said, “You aren’t really going to die, dear. I’m just making a point. Would you like to borrow one of Red’s old coats?”

“No thank you, ma’am,” I replied. Red’s mom looked for a moment as if she was going to force me into a coat, but she merely shrugged her shoulders and handed Red the red monstrosity with the baby hood. Red threw the coat on over her shoulders and raised the hood. “Happy now, ma?” she asked, her voice dripping with disdain.

“Yes, I am,” said Red’s mother, choosing to be oblivious to Red’s waspish reply. “Look sharp. I’ll see you soon.”

Red grumbled the entire walk over to her gramma’s. Now I gotta be honest. Red didn’t have too much to complain about really. I mean, yeah, Red’s mom gave her a lot of chores, but she got a lot of free time still. Plus three squares a day. I’m not saying my mom starved me, because she didn’t at all. What I’m saying is that my mom wasn’t a very good cook. She tried and all, and sometimes, she’d come up with something that was pretty tasty. But usually? Ever had an egg omelet with tofu? Well, if you haven’t, then don’t. That’s all I’m saying. Red’s mom was practically gourmet, and except for her obsession with the soaps and her tendency to dress Red a bit younger than Red would have liked, she was tops as a mom. So the closer we got to Red’s gramma, the more annoyed I got.

“Your mom doesn’t censor what you read,” said Red out of nowhere.

“Yeah, well you don’t read all that much, anyway,” I pointed out.

“So what,” said Red. “It’s the principle of the matter.”

“Okay, fine, you’re censored. But you get gourmet meals all the time. You are so lucky.”

Red scowled at me. “Is that all you ever think about? Food?”

“Have you ever had a tofu omelet?” I asked her, melodramatically.

“Enough about the tofu omelet. I’m sick of hearing about the stupid tofu omelet,” said Red grumpily.

We walked the rest of the way in silence. When we got to Red’s gramma’s house, it was shut up tight.

“Did she go somewhere?” I asked Red. “I thought she was expecting us.”

“I don’t know,” answered Red. “But there’s a key under the concrete statue of the three little pigs, there by the daisy patch. Grab it for me, okay?”

I handed Red the key and she opened the door. “Gramma?” called Red.

No answer.

“C’mon,” said Red, “let’s just leave the lasagna in the fridge and go back home.” Red’s gramma had a nice kitchen. Lots of yellow gingham and a tin full of yummy-smelling cookies.

“Are those snickerdoodles?” I asked Red.

“Geez, eat one and shut up,” said Red handing me a cookie. “Let’s go.”

But just then we heard a peculiar sound coming from the bedroom.

“What is that sound?” Red asked.

I paused for a moment and listened again. “Sounds like someone snoring. Think your gramma is asleep or something?”

“That’s snoring?” asked Red incredulously. “Sounds like a freight train.”

“That’s what my step-dad sounds like when he snores. Seriously, it’s that loud. She’s probably just asleep. We should go.”

“But it’s the middle of the day,” said Red. “Maybe we should check on her.”

“Okay,” I replied. “You go. I’ll wait here.”

“No,” said Red. “You come with me. Please? Pretty-please?”

“Fine,” I said. We made our way down the hallway and to Red’s gramma’s room. Red tentatively opened the door. Red’s gramma was lying in bed completely obscured by all the blankets.

“Gramma? You okay?” asked Red.

“Mm-hm” came a muffled reply.

Red stepped closer to the bed. “You sure? Can I get you anything?”

“Nm-hm” came a muffled reply.

Red hesitated. “Are you sure, gramma? ‘Cause you have to be hot all smothered in that blanket. Let me fluff your pillows for you.”

Red’s gramma snickered funny and then replied in a high-pitched voice, “It’s okay, dear. You go home now.”

But Red had already crossed to the bed and grabbed the pillow at the top of the heap, only to expose Ed and his big wolfish grin. Red shrieked and backed away, still holding the pillow.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Gramma, emerging from the blankets. “It’s just Ed. You go home now. Hi, Elizabeth, didn’t know you were there. Go home, the both of you. And don’t tell your ma, okay? She wouldn’t understand.”

We turned on our heels and left as fast as we could. We were halfway home when Red started laughing so hard she had to stop and lean up against a tree.

“Gram and Ed,” she said, wheezing, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Ma is gonna die.”

“Don’t tell her,” I said. “Even dirty old ladies need some privacy every now and again.”

Red considered me for a moment thoughtfully. “Well I have to tell Ma something. She’s gonna ask.”

“Make something up,” I suggested.

And that’s how the fairy tale about Little Red Riding Hood was born. ‘Course nobody mentions how much trouble Red got into for telling the big whopper about her gramma and the wolf. But she kept her Gramma’s secret her whole life.

The Truth About a Lie I Told

(For the S-Project)

I was a very little girl the day it happened. I couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6 years old. My much adored older sister was out, who knows where, and there sitting on her vanity like a personal invitation was her make-up bag, half-open with colorful bottles and tubes spilling out.

Even at that age, I loved make-up. My sister, who had a habit of spoiling me rotten, had occasionally purchased bonnie bell lip smackers for me. Our mother wasn’t crazy about the idea of giving a five-year-old any make-up whatsoever, even something as innocuous as glorified chapstick, but she let it pass. In delight, I smothered my lips with cherry flavored lip smackers and made kissy faces in the mirror while my older sister looked on in amusement. But bonnie bell aside, I yearned to wear makeup like Faithie did.

And here was the perfect opportunity. I was well aware that Faithie might object to me using her make-up. Though she was very generous with her allowance and baby-sitting money, I thought she was awfully stingy with her personal possessions. Her reaction to finding me playing in her Candies pumps taught me quickly to keep my hands off her stuff. So, I reasoned to myself, if I were to use her make-up, I’d have to be very careful and put it right back where I found it.

I stared at the counter for a very long time trying to memorize exactly where each tube and container lay on the counter. If I misplaced even one little tube, I knew I’d be in trouble, and I loved Faithie so much that it truly hurt when she was angry with me. Plus she might tell Mom, and Mom, whatever her faults with regard to little girls and make-up, respected other people’s space. There would be no spinning this in my favor. Such an endeavor required stealth, and I felt up to the challenge.

Gingerly, I picked up a plastic case containing blue eyeshadow and opened it. The applicator was smudged blue on both sides, so it wouldn’t matter which side of the wand I used. I rubbed the applicator in the shadow, then applied it to my eyelids, just like I’d watched Faithie do countless times. Next was blusher-great big cherry colored splotches on the apples of my cheeks. I followed that with a pinky-red lipstick. Smack. Blot. I finished it off with two coats of pink nail polish. This was less satisfactory as I couldn’t get the polish to go on smooth, the way Faithie’s did. Instead it looked grainy and lumpy, but it was still pink. And pink, I reflected, was much prettier than no nail polish at all even if it wasn’t perfect. I surveyed myself in the mirror.

I was beautiful.

The only thing missing was my tiara, because I truly was a princess. Problem was, there was no tiara anywhere to be found in the whole house. I improvised. My mother had a cheap set of red plastic beads in her jewelry box she let me play with sometimes. I liked to wear them and pretend they were rubies. That day I draped them over my tangled hair and pretended they were a ruby crown. I glided from room to room, haughtily acknowledging my subjects (e.g. my dolls).

I lost track of time. All too soon, Faithie was home. I yanked Mom’s beads off my head, taking a few fine blonde hairs with it, and ran to Faithie’s room to ensure the make-up looked the same as it had when she’d left that afternoon. Satisfied that I’d done a good job covering my tracks I sat down in my bedroom and began playing with my dolls.

Faithie went into her bedroom and emerged a moment later, holding her make-up bag and glowering at me. “You were in my make-up, weren’t you?” she accused.

Indignantly, I denied it. “Everything is right where you left it,” I replied solemnly.

She looked at me disbelievingly. “You’re telling me you weren’t in my make-up?” she asked shaking the bag at me.

Just then Mom walked into the room and looked from me to Faith and back again. “Betsy,” she said, “why were you in your sister’s make-up?”

I then did what I always did when under great pressure as a child. I cried. Between great gulping sobs I denied again that I’d been in her make-up, pointed out that it was exactly where Faithie’d left it and how come I always get blamed for every thing and no way was I anywhere near Faithie’s stupid make-up.

“You’re WEARING it!” Faith exclaimed impatiently, interrupting me.

For just a moment, I stopped crying. It hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would see the make-up on my face. It seemed impossible that I didn’t think of that, but clearly I didn’t. I looked up at Faithie, and at the anger etched across her face, burst into tears again. My sister was mad at me and I knew she’d never love me again and I deserved it. I was bad and mean and awful. I cried and cried and cried for hours till Faithie came over and curled up next to me.

“You know I still love you, don’t you, squirt?” she said sweetly, wiping my hair out of my face and tapping the tip of my tear-stained nose.

“You do?” I said, sniffling.

“I really do,” she replied. “But you have to stay out of my stuff, okay?”

I nodded and snuggled next to her. And I never got into her stuff ever again.

That very last sentence was a lie.

Scheherazade Project-Cars

Here's my submission for the S-project. Be forewarned. One reviewer accused me of putting him in sugar shock. Just consider it a modern day fairy-tale. Nothing gritty or realistic about it!

Also, in case you're wondering, Leroy is a composite of two men I worked for one summer as a painter. The car analogy is theirs, all the way down to the Blue Book clause. And, yes, I loved them both as much as Prue loves Leroy.

HERE IN MY CAR...

Men are like cars. At least that’s what Leroy liked to say and he knew because he was a man. The analogy made sense the way Leroy explained it.

“You have your fast cars, Prue—the Porsches, Lamborghinis; cars like those are made to drive fast and hard, but you know they aren’t really practical for everyday use. Men like those kinds of cars, but the men who drive them all the time aren’t really useful for much,” Leroy said.

Leroy was a janitor at my father’s law firm. Not a sanitation engineer, or a maintenance engineer, or anything with “engineer” in the title—a janitor. Leroy would never have gone for some high-falutin’, politically-correct title meant to instill self-respect and pride in one’s work. You either had those qualities or you didn’t. Changing the title didn’t change the way a man thought about himself. Leroy liked to say that, too.

Although Leroy had worked for my father’s firm, Lockhart, Monson and Price, for over 20 years, I didn’t meet him until the summer before I started college. Dad and his partners wanted to remodel the four-story mansion that housed the firm. In an effort to save money on the remodeling costs, he assigned the task of painting the interior to Leroy. And in an effort to engender a sense of responsibility and appreciation for my own good fortune in life, he informed me I would be assisting Leroy for minimum wage.

It might be a bit of an understatement when I tell you I wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea. The summer plans I’d hoped for were more along the lines of laying out at the beach or going on an extended road trip with my two best friends, Glennie and Carolyn, both of whom were going to different colleges than I was.

“Can’t you just tell your dad you don’t want to?” asked Glennie, petulantly. The three of us were sprawled out in Carolyn’s room debating my parentally-imposed employment. The matter was simple for Glennie, who always did exactly what she wanted without too much concern for anyone else.

“We’re college women now,” she continued. “We’re adults.” Her pronouncement would have carried more weight had we not been sitting in her bedroom, a revoltingly frilly concoction of lace, ruffles, and stuffed animals, only slightly mitigated by three over-sized posters of Sting, and a cardboard cutout of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“Besides,” added Carolyn, “we’re moving to opposite ends of the coast. It’s the last summer we’ll have together.”

“That is so not true,” said Glennie. “We’ll always be friends.”

“Yeah, but it won’t be the same,” said Carolyn. “I mean, yeah, we’ll always be friends, you guys. But we’re going to college now. Far away from each other. We’ll all make new friends and gradually we’ll stop calling each other as often and summers home won’t be the same anymore. In fifteen years, I’ll be living in Connecticut with my husband, the doctor, and I’ll be much too busy with my children and volunteer activities to keep in close contact; Glennie will be a famous movie-star, too important to remember her little friends from home; and you’ll be…who knows…working for your father?”

“Wow,” I said. “You are really a pessimist. And kind of bitchy, too.”

“Bitchy, maybe, but not pessimistic,” said Carolyn. “Realistic. I’m just saying… I’m sorry, Prue. Play with us this summer. We’re young and we’re supposed to be having fun. We need to play now before we start looking like our mothers. Just tell your dad you can’t work for him this summer.”

“Too late,” I replied. “He used the word, ‘responsibility,’ and the phrase, ‘teach you to appreciate your own good fortune.’ He thinks he’s teaching me a lesson. No way is he gonna back down.”

He didn’t either. The day after Glennie and Carolyn took off for a road trip to Austin, Texas, I showed up at Lockhart, Monson and Price in a pair of worn overalls and reported to Leroy at precisely 8:00 A.M.

“You must be Prue,” said Leroy, extending a calloused hand. His hands were huge, with large oversized palms and short bent fingers. He wasn’t very tall, average maybe, not quite six feet. But he was stocky-built like the proverbial tank. He appeared to be in his late fifties, early sixties. Unlike my father, who was around the same age and balding, Leroy had a full head of steel gray, thick, wavy hair. No one could ever call Leroy vain, but I would quickly learn that he was very proud of his hair and meticulous in keeping it neatly groomed.

He was sizing me up the same time I was sizing him up. Finally he said, “You look like a Prue. That’s a good name.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I replied. “Now I don’t have to worry about changing it.”

Leroy laughed. “I like when people look like their names. Makes it easier to remember.”

We spent that first day painting the conference room. “It’s a big room for your first day painting, but pretty straight-forward,” said Leroy. “No weird corners to look out for.”

Leroy showed me how to prep a room before painting: taping the baseboards, removing light-switch covers, and draping everything. He showed me the proper method of stirring, pouring and storing paint. He taught me how to cut and paint walls so there weren’t any lines, and then he taught me how to put everything away correctly when we were finished, rinsing the brushes and rollers until the water ran clear.

The first week passed quickly by without much conversation, aside from instruction, by Leroy.

The next Monday we started on the lobby. We worked for a while in silence, the only sound the sticky splatter of paint being rolled onto the walls.

“You got you a boyfriend, Prue?” asked Leroy suddenly.

“No,” I answered, which was mostly true. I’d dated Christopher off and on throughout my entire high school career. We were currently off, but he’d shown up over the weekend and taken me to see a movie.

“I was just wondering,” said Leroy. “Seems like a nice girl like you probably has the boys hanging around. My boys would like you.”

This was new. I didn’t know Leroy had children. This was the first time he’d mentioned them.

“I got three boys,” he said. “No girls. Wouldn’t have minded having a daughter though. I’m proud of my sons but I bet if we’d had a girl, she’d have been pretty like my wife.”

“How old are they?” I asked.

“Well, they’re all grown-up. Oldest is 34; youngest is 22. They’re good men. They were good boys, too. ‘Course we trained them up to be Honda Accord or Ford Taurus types instead of Pintos. No son of mine is gonna be a Pinto,” said Leroy grimly.

I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

“A Pinto?” I asked. “What do you mean by that?”

“All men are like cars,” said Leroy. And that was the day I heard Leroy’s analogy.

“You got your Pinto guys; they’re good for nothing, make a lot of excuses instead of just working hard. I drove a Pinto once and it was a pain to shift gears. They get the job done, but barely, you know what I’m saying? Then on the other end of the spectrum, you got your fancy sports cars that cost upwards of $100K. Now those cars look nice and go fast, but they don’t like to stick around in one spot. You understand?”

I nodded. I had the gist of it at least, but since when did a Honda beat out a Ferrari? I needed clarification. “So you’re saying a Honda Accord is better than a Ferrari because?”

“Well, a Honda Accord is a nice looking car, don’t you think? Plus it’s reliable—has a good service record. You get you a Honda Accord and it’ll take you where you need to go, plus you’ll look pretty respectable driving it. People will look at you in your Honda and think, ‘now there’s a real nice down-to-earth person.’ But you get you a Ferrari and you start driving too fast, ‘cause a Ferrari is built to go fast, people look at you and think, ‘that’s a lot of car for one person. Wonder why they need that much car.’ Plus, when you want to slow down, the Ferrari wants to speed up.”

“Yeah,” I began, “but a Ferrari looks way better than a Honda Accord. Besides they’re both just cars. They can both break down, for instance.”

Leroy grinned at me. “Well, I can tell you it’s way more expensive to fix a broke-down Ferrari than a Honda Accord.”

“Okay, but c’mon…a FERRARI. No one’s going to think less of me if I drive a Ferrari,” I persisted.

“Not if you happen to be a Ferrari yourself. Then it’s fine for you to drive a Ferrari.”

“Leroy,” I protested, “are you saying I’m not a Ferrari? Should I be offended?”

He laughed. “No, I don’t think you’re a Ferrari and you shouldn’t be offended at that. You’re a nice girl, though. I can see why a Ferrari might pull up to you and offer you a ride. Just don’t lose sight of the fact that he’s a Ferrari and you’re not.”

“So what am I then?” I asked.

Leroy shrugged. “You gotta figure that out for yourself.”

“Foul!” I exclaimed. “That’s avoidance. Not a good answer, Leroy.”

“Too bad,” he replied, grinning at me. “It’s the only answer you’re getting from me.”

Later that day I asked him, “What about a Cadillac? Can I date a Cadillac?”

“Too old for you, Prue,” he said. “Don’t go dating a Cadillac.”

The summer passed by quickly. Each day Leroy and I learned something more about one another. One day he told me how he met and courted his wife. Another day he told me about the day he received his high school diploma at age 35. He didn’t want a GED. He wanted a real diploma, and he worked hard for it. He told me about his dog he had when he was a boy and how much he loved it. “Lived a long time, that dog. I still miss him.” He still had dogs, too. “It’s not a home without a dog.” His wife loved cats and he had finally reconciled himself to the way “that damn cat” would curl up into a ball on top his newspaper every time he tried to read it.

And each day Leroy would tell me, “Be careful, Prue. Don’t pick yourself a lemon. You need a good, steady, reliable automobile. I saw one of those Nissan Altimas the other day. Nice car, but a little flashy, don’t you think?”

I left for college late August. Before I left, Leroy gave me a gift—a copy of the annual Consumer’s Digest Auto Rating issue. Inside he’d scribbled, “Just a reference guide in case you need it. Love, Leroy.”

It took me a while to adjust to life on campus. I was lonesome at first and I missed Glennie and Carolyn. But one day everything seemed to fall into place and I knew where I fit and who my friends were. I even got lucky by being assigned a roommate I really, really got along with.

That first year my roommate fell in and out of love on a regular and predictable schedule. Eddie lasted through fall semester. Dan took her through spring break. Will lasted exactly two weeks, but it wasn’t until Benjamin broke her heart that I showed her the Consumer’s Digest Auto Rating issue and told her about Leroy’s analogy.

“That makes so much sense,” exclaimed Janice. “I mean, think about it—some cars are beautiful, but they have a horrible maintenance record. I know this one girl with a Jag and the thing is always breaking down,” she said. Then she added, “Of course, when it’s running, she looks totally hot.”

After that Janice began describing each crush: “Darren is a F-150, kind of sturdy and good-looking…Joe is sort of like a Mustang convertible, he’s gonna be fun while it lasts…Alex is a total Mercedes!”

They were fitting for the most part too. Darren turned out to have a lot of baggage, hence the extended truck bed. Joe was definitely a hot convertible, problem was, he knew it. But Alex turned out to be an early model Mercedes, the ones who chug gallons upon gallons of diesel fuel. I couldn’t help thinking Janice would be better off with one of those eco cars, the ones that run on electricity.

Each summer I went home, and no visit was complete without stopping at Dad’s office to see Leroy. He asked a million questions about what I’d been doing, always ending with an admonition to stay away from the fast cars. “They’re fun, but you miss the scenery when you’re going that fast!”

My senior year, I met Brian. He was a geology grad student—obsessed with rocks. Our early dates consisted of prolonged drives to various geological hotspots to examine the strata. He could be absentminded, but every now and then he’d look at me just so and my heart would start beating fast. I told my family and friends about him. I bored Janice to tears rhapsodizing on his wonderful qualities. When I realized I wanted to tell Leroy about him, I knew I loved him. I also knew Leroy’s first question would be, “What kind of car is he?”

I flipped through Leroy’s Consumer Digest magazine trying to figure out what Brian was. An SUV like an Explorer or a Suburban? No, Brian was ecologically minded, but he wasn’t a Prius either. He also wasn’t a Saturn, a Mazda, a Volkswagen, or any of the Korean automobiles. Maybe a Jeep? Those were outdoorsy geological type automobiles. A Jeep, then. But not a fancy Jeep, tricked out with tons of extras. He was a bare bones Jeep Wrangler, a true off-roader.

I picked up the phone and called Leroy.

“I met the perfect car,” I said by way of greeting.

I could practically see Leroy’s left eyebrow rise as he asked, “What kind of car is he?”

“A Jeep,” I said.

“A Jeep,” he repeated. “I’ve seen some damn ugly Jeeps in my life. What kind of Jeep exactly?”

I laughed. “Just a Jeep Wrangler. Not one of those fancy ones or the type with monster tires. Just a Jeep.”

Leroy paused a moment. “Just a Jeep,” he repeated again. “I guess a Jeep ain’t so bad. Any nicks or scratches? Any dents?”

“None that I can see,” I said. “I mean there’s probably some somewhere—there’s bound to be. He’s only human. But I like him, Leroy. I like him a lot.”

“You bringing him home?” he asked casually.

“We’re not at the bringing home stage quite yet. But maybe. Maybe soon,” I said.

“A Jeep. Okay, so’d you check Blue Book?” he asked.

“You never told me about the Blue Book, Leroy.”

“Prue, you gotta consider everything. How can you not look at Blue Book?”

Leroy sighed as I laughed out loud.

“Leroy, he’s nice. You’ll like him when you meet him, I promise.”

“Okay,” he began, “but don’t do anything till you bring him home. Your folks ain’t the only ones who have to approve.”

Eventually Brian and I got to the bringing home stage. Accordingly, he came home with me with me for spring break. My parents liked him, and Gwennie did too. Carolyn wasn’t around to pass judgment—her school’s spring break wasn’t until the week following. Brian charmed everyone with ease, but he was a little worried about Leroy.

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” I told him. “Just be yourself. He’ll like you fine.”

Brian wasn’t so sure. “You have him on a pedestal, Prue. If I can reach that high, I’m sure I’ll like him. I’m just worried he won’t like me very much and I’m afraid if he disapproves, you’ll cut me loose. I don’t want to be cut loose, Prue.”

“You won’t be,” I promised.

Brian met Leroy the night before we had to leave. Leroy’s wife, Diane, made dinner for us, her special spaghetti and a salad with warm crusty bread. After dinner I helped Diane clean up while Brian followed Leroy into the living room.

Diane and I quickly set up a system with me rinsing dishes off and Diane loading the dishwasher. “Leroy cares about you, you know,” she said. “He always calls you the daughter we were supposed to have.”

She smiled at me. “Did he ever tell you what kind of car he thinks you are?”

“No,” I said. “Did he tell you? Please tell me he told you-then you can tell me, because he’ll never say.”

Diane laughed. “Can’t do that,” she said. “If he hasn’t told you, then he doesn’t want to tell you.”

“Gimme a hint?” I begged. “Please??”

“Nope! Sorry, kiddo.” She started the dishwasher and led me out of the kitchen. “We’d better go rescue your friend. Leroy’s probably grilling him on his maintenance records and mileage.”

As we were leaving that night, Leroy pulled me aside and whispered in my ear. “Yep, a Jeep. But a good one, I think.”

One year later, Brian and I were married. Our reception was big and noisy. My entire family was there, along with Brian’s family, Dad’s business associates, and a few well-heeled clients. Glennie and Carolyn flew home to be my bridesmaids.

Leroy was there, too, with Diane. They’d been among the first to arrive at the wedding and reception. They danced together most of the afternoon, Leroy holding Diane tightly as they moved together on the dance floor.

Later, as Brian and I were dancing together, Leroy tapped him on the shoulder. “May I cut in?” he asked.

“Of course,” Brian said.

Leroy was surprisingly graceful for such a stocky man. He moved like Fred Astaire and compensated beautifully for the fact that I was no Ginger Rogers. We danced together in silence. Occasionally he would smile down at me, his eyes and mouth crinkling with the evidence of years of laughter.

“Did I ever tell you what kind of car I think you are?” he asked.

Finally! “No, you didn’t,” I said, expectantly.

“Oh,” he replied, and then lapsed again into silence.

“Leroy,” I said with exasperation, “aren’t you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” he said.

“The car, Leroy. What kind of car am I?”

“Oh, that,” he said. “Don’t you know what kind of car you are?”

I rolled my eyes. “I want to know what kind of car you think I am.”

Leroy cocked his head to one side and considered for a moment. “Don’t really matter much what I think, does it?” he said.

“It does matter, Leroy” I said. “It just does.”

He smiled again and then gently led me back to Brian. “Here she is, just as pretty as she was a few minutes ago.”

“Wait,” I exclaimed to Leroy. “You have to tell me!”

“Don’t have time now,” replied Leroy. “I think your daddy wants you to go cut the cake now.”

I could hear Leroy’s amused laughter trailing me as Brian and I made our way to the cake table. The cake was beautiful: a three-tiered masterpiece covered in yellow and pink roses, with the traditional bride and groom decorating the top. As we got closer, though, Brian nudged me, “What happened to ‘little us’ on top of the cake?” he asked, pointing to where the bride and groom used to be.

The bride and groom were indeed gone, replaced by a model Jeep and something else. I glanced back at Leroy. He smiled and nodded. Leaning against the Jeep was a model Vespa, painted powder-blue.

A Vespa? Leroy thought I was a motor scooter? I looked again at Leroy, holding Diane’s hand, smiling at me with suspiciously shining eyes.

“Always liked Vespas,” I heard him say to Diane. “They’re sort of open, you know. Real friendly and fun and young enough to still think the world is a wonderful place full of possibilities.”

Leroy smiled at me, leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Always wanted a daughter,” he said. “Tell your daddy thanks for sharing. He’s a bit of a Rolls Royce, if you ask me.”