How They Met Read Free Page A

figured out I was kidding.
    “The emu is not named Clifford,” she said. “Clifford is a dog.”
    “Did I say Clifford?” I backtracked. “I meant Gifford. Like Kathie Lee.”
    “Who’s Kathie Lee?”
    “Kathie Lee’s the sea otter. Let’s go see her.”
    I had thought it wouldn’t be any problem for us to get back by two, and because of that I didn’t bother to check the clock on my cell phone. I was shocked when I finally saw that we only had twenty-five minutes to get home.
    “You forgot lunch,” Arabella said as we headed home.
    “You didn’t tell me you were hungry,” I replied, and then immediately felt the way any adult feels when he or she picks an argument with a six-year-old—namely, stupid.
    “I was,” Arabella said, and that was that.
    We got back with three minutes to spare.
    “Don’t worry,” Arabella told me as I made her a pb & j sandwich in the kitchen. “Manolo’s always late.”
    I nodded and asked her who Manolo was.
    “My French tutor,” she replied. Then she asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
    I was about to bitch and moan—the usual response—but then I realized who I was talking to. Only in New York (and maybe San Francisco) could a six-year-old have gaydar.
    “How do you know I’m gay?” I asked. I genuinely wanted to know. My wardrobe wasn’t infused with pink or rainbows, and I certainly hadn’t been very flamboyant in her presence. I wondered what my tells were.
    “The way you look at boys,” she said. “You’re gay.”
    The doorbell rang. Arabella made no move to answer it.
    “I’ll get it,” I said. It took me a minute to walk to the door, but two minutes to get the locks open.
    “The top one first and to the left,” the voice on the other side of the door said. “Then the middle one to the right. Then the bottom one, twice around to the left. Now turn the knob.”
    When I finally got it open, I found a guy a few years older than me, wearing a winter sweater on a summer day. He had Harry Potter glasses and a Beatrix Potter body.
    “Bonjour,”
he said.
    “’Allo,”
I said, trying to sound Cockney but ending up sounding Klingon.
    “You must be Astrid’s successor,” he continued. “I’m charmed to meet you.”
    “And you must be Manolo,” I said. “Or do you prefer Manny?”
    At that last word, he shuddered.
    “Manolo,” he said. “Is
la fille
ready?”
    “She’s in
le kitchen.
”
    “Can you tell her to meet me in the study?”
    “My pleasure.”
    I watched him stroll off without another look in my direction, then poked my head into the kitchen.
    “Your Frenchman’s here,” I said. “I’m going to head home.”
    Arabella put her sandwich down and said, “That’s fine. I won’t tell Mom about lunch as long as you remember tomorrow.”
    I told her she had a deal.
             
    The next day was much the same, only I was wearing better clothes. I had a suspicion that Arabella was a daily-ritual kind of girl, and if I was going to see Starbucks Boy again, it wasn’t going to be in khakis and a button-down.
    If Elise or Arabella noticed my more casual attire, neither mentioned it. Instead Elise mentioned that Ivan—the math tutor—was coming at three.
    Figuring it might mean extra money—and also figuring I had more than a fair grasp of first-grade math—I told Elise, “If you want, I could tutor Arabella. You know, stay later and do it.”
    Elise stared down her nose at me. She had to angle her head to do it.
    “I’m sure you’re very intelligent, but we prefer Arabella’s tutors to have graduated college.”
    “Ivy league?” I asked, tongue in cheek.
    “Preferred, but not essential,” Elise replied, tongue nowhere near cheek. “We had a lovely girl from Smith, but she went away to India with her new lover.”
    I didn’t think it would win me the argument to point out that I wasn’t going to be running off with any lovers anytime soon. I made a mental note to teach Arabella some really stupid knock-knock