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“I’m Callie,” she blurts. “I mean, hi.”
“Hop in,” I say, opening the door for her. “I hear we’re going for pizza and hockey.”
She and Willa chat for the short time it takes to drive to the other end of town, Callie giving directions on where to go. She laughs easily, smiles genuinely, and has that same homegrown politeness as her brother.
Like Willa, she’s impossible not to be enamored with. I’ve little experience with children, but within minutes, Callie has passed her infectious lightheartedness to me.
The restaurant is a hive of noise, the game is about to start on at least four screens that I can see from the entryway. It’s crowded but not full.
“Hey, Callie,” the young woman at the hostess station greets her. The expression she wears changes when she catches sight of the bruise.
“Hi, Claire. Can we get a table for three, please?”
“For sure,” she says, glancing at both Willa and I. We offer soft smiles, hoping she won’t make spectacle of the poor girl. She leads us to a table in prime position to two large screens just as the starting lineups are announced. Callie cheers gleefully for her brother, along with the rest of the patrons.
“Can we order pepperoni? Would that be okay?”
“Anything you want Callie,” I tell her.
“Poutine?”
“Oh, man. Poutine sounds good,” Willa agrees. “With Seattle being so close to British Columbia you’d think poutine would be easier to find on menus.”
“I don’t even know what it is,” I say.
“Gosh, it’s so good,” Callie says dramatically. “French fries with gravy and cheese curds. It sounds disgusting but you have to try it!”
“I’ll try anything once,” I tell her. She resembles Zander. Same nose, same hair color, same shaped eyes. I haven’t seen pictures of him as a kid, but I bet he looked a lot like she does.
They order the pizza, poutine, and a couple other appetizers when the server comes by. When it arrives at the table, the first period is nearly over. Alexander has already earned an assist in the two-to-nothing match.
Intermission comes and it gives the opportunity to get to know the girl better.
“What’s your favorite subject at school, Callie?”
“Math,” she says, brightly. An unexpected answer.
“That’s great,” I tell her. “I was never a fan.”
“It comes easy to me,” she says. “What was your favorite?”
“History.”
“English is great. I love art, but we don’t have that as a class. Oh, I do love history, too. Not as much as math and English, but almost. I really like Tudor history, especially.”
Again, an unexpected answer.
“How’d you get into that?”
“Last year, we had to do a report on a historical European figure. We didn’t get to choose; our teacher had a bunch of names written on pieces of paper in a hat. Anyway, I got Anne of Cleves, who was Henry the Eighth’s fourth wife. Henry didn’t like her because she wasn’t pretty. But I’ve seen portraits of all six of his wives, and I think she was prettier than most,” she rambles on. “But whatever, boys are stupid that way. And she came out of it all right. I mean, he didn’t chop off her head anyway.”
“Definitely better than the rest of the wives,” Willa concurs.
“Did you know they had to have a crane to set him on his horse in the last years of his life?” I ask her.
“Yes.” Callie laughs. “He’d gotten so big. He could have just not ridden, I mean, that poor horse.”
“Right,” I concur.
