“Are you setting me up? I’ve never dated anyone before, you know.”
“He’s a talented poet. Reminds me of you.”
“How so? I’m not a poet.”
“Well, I like him a lot. I like you a lot. Do the math!”
“What does he look like?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course!”
“Well then, let me see. He has three heads, seven eyes, one nose, two forked tongues, scales all over his body, a tail, and—”
“Seriously.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him in person. He doesn’t send me pictures. But he’s coming for dinner this Saturday night, and so are you. I’ve told him all about my Nanette, and I have a feeling you might end up marrying each other and making future babies.”
“Stop it! I can’t believe you’re setting me up on a blind date!”
“It’s dinner. Don’t be so dramatic. We’re going to eat. Drink coffee. Talk about the weather. Maybe he’ll read you one of his poems. That’s not going to kill anyone, is it? Why label the event as a date? Why can’t it just be a discussion among three people?”
But when I arrived at Booker’s that Saturday night, I immediately realized I had absolutely been tricked into going on a blind date. Candles flickered on the dining room table, scratchy classical music spun out of an antique record player that looked decades older than me, and an arrangement of chocolate-covered strawberries served as the centerpiece. A very large boy with enormous hands and shoulder-length blond hair was seated at the head of the table, and he kept cracking his knuckles, which made me trust him for some reason.
Booker put his arm around me and said, “Nanette, this is Little Lex. Little Lex, this is Nanette. Speak amongst yourselves as I prepare our feast.”
When Booker left, Little Lex said “Hey” from behind a curtain of hair.
I sat down.
“I don’t know what Booker told you, but—”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know I’m out of my league here.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged and then looked out the window.
“You like the Buk?” I asked, and pointed to Lex’s T-shirt, on which Charles Bukowski’s almost-werewolf-like head screamed in black and white over a plastic cup of bloodred wine.
He looked down at the old poet’s face and said, “Love him.”
“You’ve been sending Booker your own poetry?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice. So then you’re an official poet?”
“Booker has me trying to avoid labels.”
“Me too.”
I looked around the room for a few moments and heard Little Lex tapping his black Chuck Taylor sneaker too rapidly.
“You read The Bubblegum Reaper, right?” I said.
“Of course.”
“Lena Thatch.”
“What about her?”
“You’re tapping your foot like she does. When she’s in the cafeteria and Wrigley is watching her. Wrigley’s true love. It’s Lena, right?”
“Could be Stella,” Little Lex said, meeting my eyes for the first time.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, here’s the thing,” he said, and then told me a few of his theories.
We talked about The Bubblegum Reaper for a good half hour, and I soon learned that Little Lex had memorized all the same quotes that I had and that he had been having the exact same experience with Booker’s novel—only his sophomore-year English teacher had given him a photocopied version and not a real paperback, and he thought Stella was Wrigley’s true love and I believed in Lena. Somewhere during the conversation, I discovered that I was enjoying myself immensely, that time was flying by like pelicans over the sea while you stretch out on a towel during a hot summer’s day. I had had access to the wonderful, amazing world of The Bubblegum Reaper for the past eight months but no one to share it with because I didn’t know anyone else who had read my favorite novel except Booker, who had forbidden me to speak about it, and Mr. Graves, who was officially gone. Sharing it with Little Lex now was a way to experience it for the first time again—through another’s eyes.
“When I first read the ending,” Little Lex said, “and Wrigley says he understands Unproductive Ted and that he’s quitting, when Wrigley’s floating in the creek—that’s when everything clicked into place in my mind.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I realized I could quit.”
“Quit what?”
Right then, Booker came in with a large bowl of spaghetti, mushrooms, and spinach. “Italiano!” he said in a funny accent, and then began to scoop his creation onto our plates. When he was finished, Booker sat and said, “I think I may have heard talk of a certain book that has been banned in this house.”
Little Lex and I glanced at each other.
“Enough of that,” Booker said. “Little Lex, why don’t you read us some of your radical, life-altering, vivid poetry?”
“Now?” he said as his face went red.
“Oh, he’s just being modest,” Booker said to me. “After all, he brought his briefcase with him, and I’m pretty sure it’s full of poems. He simply cannot wait any longer. The poet must sing!”
“You made me bring my poems. You said you wouldn’t let me in without them!” Little Lex said.
“Wouldn’t you like to hear a sample of Little Lex’s poetry, Nanette?”