“I’m one of the disgruntled hippies,” Jesse blurts out.
Across the table, Wyatt’s face constricts with dread.
“Oh, you are?” Howard turns an extra-dazzling smile on Jesse. “You signed that little petition?”
“I wrote it,” Jesse says.
Now Wyatt drops his head, weary.
“Interesting.” Howard maintains his comfortable smile. “Very interesting. So you don’t believe that your school should benefit from our generosity.”
“I think StarMart has ulterior motives.”
“We don’t have to talk about work,” Wyatt says hopefully, but Howard plows on.
“Ulterior motives, meaning that we want to become part of this community? It’s true that we do want to become part of this community, and forming relationships with members of the community is one of the most important parts of that process.”
“But public schools shouldn’t take money from corporations,” Jesse counters.
“Bunnies?” Wyatt tries to interrupt.
“Public schools have been taking contributions from private individuals and corporations for hundreds of years, it’s a time-honored practice. That’s not something you learn if you go to the various quote unquote research sites you refer to in the text of that petition. And you know,” Howard says, settling comfortably into his seat, propping his right foot up on his corduroyed left knee, “there are a lot of people out there who don’t know the truth about NorthStar and who spread misinformation about us around to try to undermine us, and honestly that’s why I love my job. Because every day I have the chance to go out there and let uninformed people like you, Jesse, know the real story about this company I believe in so strongly.”
“Um, I’m actually not uninformed,” Jesse says.
“You are, in fact, naïve and ignorant, if you’re the author of that petition, but it’s all right. It’s not your fault.”
“She’s not naïve and ignorant,” Wyatt says, suddenly steely.
“I don’t mean it in a judgmental way, son. She’s like a lot of people out there, she doesn’t have the facts. Let me tell you two something about the way the world works.”
“No, don’t!” Wyatt snaps. “Please don’t tell us about the way the world works.”
Jesse watches with concern as Wyatt begins to implode internally across the table from her.
“Um,” she says, “maybe this is a bad thing for us to talk about after all. I have like a great new joke for you guys, if you—”
But Howard continues with perfect patience. “Excuse me, you don’t have to be rude to me, Wyatt. I’m trying to have a civil conversation with you and your friend, and I don’t appreciate being shouted down when I’m trying to speak.”
“I feel a lecture about values coming on,” says Wyatt, “and I just want to, like, head it off at the pass before it starts.”
“Okay,” Jesse says, panicky. “Okay, okay—”
Howard shakes his head. “I do not lecture you about values. I have never lectured you about values.”
“You lecture me about values every time I see you!”
“I respect you enough to tell you the truth about my beliefs and to make clear to you the objections I have about your problematic life choices, but I do not lecture you about—”
“Right now, right now you’re starting to do it! Problematic life choices! And you called Jesse ignorant!”
“It’s okay,” says Jesse, but Wyatt scoops his backpack off the floor and gets to his feet.
“We don’t have to do this anymore, really,” he tells his father. “If we never meet like this again, it’ll be fine with me. Come on, Jesse.”
“Sorry,” Jesse says to Howard as she follows Wyatt out the door.
“See you next month,” Howard replies drily.
***
In the mildewy button-down-shirt aisle of Rose’s Turn, Jesse follows a couple of paces behind Wyatt, fingering collars. Still coursing with rage, Wyatt flips through shirts fiercely, flicking the hangers along the pole with a metallic click. Click. Click.
“Horrible,” he declares. “All horribly ugly. Anyway, I don’t even need a shirt. I need a scarf. Where are their scarves? Where are their freaking scarves?”
“In the, um, scarf aisle?” Jesse says timidly.
Wyatt ignores her. Click. Click. Click.
“Wyatt, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Wyatt shrugs. “My job is to tell jokes, not to start fights. I know.”
“It’s not your fault. He’s a congenital idiot.”