I’m at an Atticus table I paid 11 dollars worth of frittata to sit at and my pledge is telling me that if I were a cat, I would be a domestic longhair. In the olden days of this society, my pledges wouldn’t know me well enough to guess what kind of cat breed I am. I would be a stoic, unbreakable golem, mysterious and cold and untouchable. I’d speak only in riddles. I’d dress in devastating gothic. But I’m a summer camp counselor of a person, and these rapscallioned pledges make it impossible to swallow my soft spot for them. If I were a legume, I’d be a jellybean. If I were a tree, I’d be a weeping willow. My pledges say it’s because they love how willows dangle over them. Their kindnesses startle and delight me.
I work 30-hour weeks for their two-hour meetings. I plan their projects and retreats and escape rooms and scavenger hunts. I print out clues on fancy paper. I buy them spray paint and take them on field trips. Last night, I spent two hours cutting my hands on a crowbar to show them my favorite secret library. It was an unsuccessful venture, but I don’t regret a second of it. Someday, I’ll show them all our secrets.
But for now, I’m feigning ignorance at a pledge sketching me on his receipt. His eyes flick up at me in a way he thinks is subtle, and the counselor in me warms. If he could see my computer screen, he’d see me doing the same thing, but in a portrait of words instead of lines. More pledges, cozied by the bookshop aesthetic, burble and chitchat around me. If they were a stone, they’d be kryptonite. If they were a word, they’d be perfect. If they were a friend, they’d be mine.