Page 26 of Summer Lessons

Jefferson talked nonstop as Mason drove—mostly about the things he saw as they passed.

“Dude, did you see that? That squirrel was like… suicidal! What makes them do that? They run in, they run out, they run in—”

“No peripheral vision,” Mason said. “They can’t see to the side, so suddenly they’re like, ‘Oh! Car!’”

“I did not know that! Why do cats get stuck in trees?” He was looking at Mason like he held the secrets of the universe, and Mason was suddenly afraid his well of useless facts was as shallow as a saucer of milk.

“Because their claws curve to help them climb up!” he said triumphantly.

“Oh wow! Again, I did not know that! So, why does hummus taste so good?”

“Tahini oil and lemon juice?”

“Excellent!”

“Are you going to make your own now?” Mason asked, trying to maybe pin him down on a subject.

“How would you do that?”

“Cooked chickpeas, tahini oil, lemon juice, garlic if you like it—”

“Really? So, like, I could buy that shit?”

“Yeah, although specialty stores have—”

“Okay. So I can make hummus. Like in a blender. That’s awesome. ’Cause it tastes great on the bread Skip makes, but I don’t like to ask Skipper to make it, right? But if I go, ‘Hey, Skipper, I’ll make the hummus if you make the bread,’ then I’ve got something to bring to the table, right?”

“Right,” Mason said, bemused. “Why don’t you get Skipper’s bread recipe, and then you could make your own?”

“Because bread is Skipper’sthing, you understand?”

They were at a stoplight when he said this, and Mason turned to look at him. “Thing?”

“It’s green, Mace.”

He turned back to the road and stepped on the gas. “Green? I mean thing?”

“Yeah. Like, Skipper likes to take care of us, but he doesn’t have many mom tricks. So, like, he keeps extra sweatshirts in his car, and power bars and Gatorade during games, and for holidays he gives out bread. But it’s like all he’s got. So, you know, I just bought chips and whatever, and it was good. I didn’t have anything to give him for the bread, and I couldn’t take away his thing, right?”

It made a twisted sort of sense—sort of. “But… but my ex used to spend hours swapping recipes and looking stuff up on the Internet and trying new stuff out. Why couldn’t you do that?”

Silence.

Mason turned right down Fair Oaks Boulevard and made his way toward Eastwood Street.

Silence.

Unnerving silence.

“What?” Mason said at last, glancing at him.

“I just… I mean, you know. Never thought of that.”

Mason shrugged. “I, uh—I mean, I guess we both saw our parents do it.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”