The Boy Who Wore Boat Shoes

23⎜The Condo

23⎜The Condo

I stared at the cream-colored carpet as I pressed down, my arms folding at the elbows. My palms were against the floor, as were the tips of my feet. It was about six or so in the morning, and because I was me, I had naturally woken up around this time, the only thought in my mind being, “I need to workout.” And so, here I was, doing my pushup regiment like every other morning, only without the comforting familiarity of the UWBDC.

           “What number was that?” a voice said, ruining my concentration as I supported my entire body weight with my arms and parts of my legs. I glanced up, though I already knew who the intruder was. She was dressed in a simple white T-shirt and gray sweats. I was slightly embarrassed to only have on a pair of mesh shorts myself, but then I remembered that my upper body was about as close to perfection as one individual could come, so my qualms easily evaporated.

           “Three hundred sixty-eight,” I replied, figuring that my workout routine would be cut short today. I stood up so that I wasn’t awkwardly on the ground, and offered up a small smile to the girl.

           “What time did you wake up?” was the next question that fired out of her mouth.

           “Eh. Five or so, maybe?” I guessed, estimating when exactly I had fallen out of sleep.

           She grinned. “Do you want breakfast?”

           I shrugged. “Sure.”

           Instead of immediately bombarding me with another inquiry, she just nodded, leading me out of the room in which I had slept during the previous night, past a concise hallway, and into the sunlit kitchen. The place that was commonly associated with the preparation by food looked to be almost untouched—all the stainless steel appliances still having a tint of newness to them. There were closed cabinets, a fridge, an oven, a microwave, a sink, and an array of granite counter space that stretched all around.

           “My dad doesn’t cook a lot,” Ari explained, catching my drifting eyes. She moved over to the refrigerator, and opened it, then asking something that would’ve come across as rude if asked by anyone but her. “So, what do you want?”

           “I’m really fine with whatever,” I said, trying to be an easy and gracious guest.

           “Well, we don’t have ‘whatever,’ but if you want fruit or cereal, I’m sure we can find that,” she replied, closing the stream of chilled air and going over to a cupboard.

           “Uh, if you have cereal, then I’d eat that, thanks,” I gulped, stretching my arms so that they were interlocked and tension was applied to the shoulder region.

           “With milk?” she probed, pulling out two boxes—one yellow and the other blue.

           “Yes, please,” I answered, my manners on hyper drive.

           “Eric, you can chill with the manners,” she said, practically reading my mind. She moved back over to the fridge and extracted a boxy carton. “I’m going to judge you more if you act overly polite rather than if you just be yourself. How did you sleep?”

           “Fine, th—” I began, catching myself before I added yet another unnecessary thanks to my repertoire. “Yeah, fine.”

           Yesterday, after revisiting the school that Ari Remon spent all four of her high school years and that her father happened to coach football at and her ex-boyfriend still attended, we went to her dad’s condo. On the road to the condo, there was no explanation about what had transpired on the field with that Brett kid, or any of the like. Ari was just silent, her mood slightly off—as if something was distinctly puncturing her normally impervious demeanor.