Lauve


Victor’s crayon box had the normal colors that were named for exactly what they were: brown and black and green. He had to borrow “brick red” from Rick who had the sixty-four deluxe box with built in sharpener. This one was deeper than regular red; it could carry his pulse.

He folded the yellow construction paper in two, but the crease was crooked. He used scissors to cut the paper and make the sides even, but he ended up with a somewhat lopsided paper snowflake. Crumpling it into a ball of frustration, just what he wished he had not outgrown, Victor decided to start over. All the yellow paper was gone and the only color left was dark blue. The crayon could not highlight his message like it would have on the yellow, instead his intentions would be but a shadow stained on blue.

Still, he held the writing utensil steady and drew a question mark. The easy part over, he proceeded to draw a backwards one next to it. Underneath his lumpy heart, Victor spelled out words like they sounded.

“La” like his mom sang when she didn’t know the all the words.

“u” like in umbrella, as the alphabet poster showed on the classroom wall.

“v” like in “vroom.”

And an “e” because he was told that the best words have letters that are not pronounced. It all made sense: he didn’t know all the words to say, he wanted to hold an umbrella over her head in the rain, and she made his heart go vroom.

He wrote the word too big, but Victor managed to cram in a little “I” and an “Ilsa.”

In the remaining space above he drew an airplane, because his big cousin had taught him how and it looked cool.

“Okay.” He whispered “okay this it.”

“What’s he talking about?” Rick asked Sam.

“He says it’s my turn to use brick green.”

Ignoring Rick, Victor stood up and stole a step. Like he was learning right foot, left foot all over again, the tortoise advanced toward the finish line. Without so much as a shy “hi,” Victor scrunched the masterpiece in Ilsa’s hand, and then looked at his shoelace knots until she responded.

It didn’t take long.

“What tith?” she asked and paused and stared at him like he should read it out loud for her.

Victor opened his mouth and his face turned brick.

“Haven’t you heard that ‘love’ is jut another word in the dicthionary? It like ‘table,’ noting but a object. They haven’t even fettled the argument whether it the only tooth or the biggeth lie. And after the San’a thing I can only afume it the later. Befideth I am four, I can’t eat the thpinach off my plate and you want me to athept your irrathional declarathion like thome fereal ad? Lord what fool the mortalf be.”

Again, Victor parted his lips and his face turned crayon. The room was quiet. Everyone had heard.

Rick asked Sam “what is she talkin abou?”

“I think uhh she says he’s got cooties.”

“Befideth,” Ilsa said more gently. “You can’t even thpell ‘love.’ The only thing a romantic relathionfip between you and me can mean ith that you will gib me your Jell-o at lunch and my mommy thayth it made of rubber.”

Rick nudged Sam.

“She says she’ll only be his gurlfren if he gives her his Jell-o.”

At this, Victor regained his ability to move. He snatched back his card, deciding that he would give it to his mom instead.

It didn’t matter that her name wasn’t Ilsa, because his handwriting was hardly legible anyway. The important part was, of course, the Jello-o. She was the one who cut the crust off of his sandwich and put Jello-o in his lunch box.

Victor’s dad saw that his son had made his wife a Valentine. Fearing an Oedipus complex, he made an appointment for his son to see a shrink. He then used a plain red pen to write his wife a note, “Please pick up spaghetti, garlic and matches.”



Now Victor has a brother.

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