Free Waiting for Unicorns by Beth Hautala Page B

stairs I’d been an observer, but as I stood there trying to decide where I fit in this room, the blue house curled itself around me, pulling me in. Everything smelled like maple syrup and hot coffee. Guitars, sweaters the color of saffron, and red hats belonged. The cold frozenness of the Arctic wasn’t allowed inside.
    I slipped into the chair across from Simon, a little uncomfortable. He passed the bottle of syrup without comment. His hair was behaving itself today. I liked it better sticking up off one side.
    I watched as Sura turned pancakes at the stove, smiling. I was beginning to realize that Sura used her cooking to show people how she felt about them. It was kind of nice.
    I didn’t say much all through breakfast, which seemed to be okay with Simon. The Guitar Boy was alive and animated, making up for my silence by talking and singing continually, telling about his year, his friends, and his grandfather. His life seemed like some kind of grand performance, and it made my life seem pretty boring by comparison. I thought about that sweeping bow he’d made the first time I saw him. It made more sense now. It fit him. He had a song for
everything,
and when he couldn’t find one, he made one up.
    As I finished eating, the Guitar Boy pushed himself away from the table and slung his guitar back over his shoulder where it belonged. He kissed Sura on the cheek, thanking her for breakfast, and then nodded toward the door.
    â€œC’mon,
you,
” he said to me. “We’re going to visit Miss Piggy.”
    I waited for a minute, expecting some kind of explanation, but he just stood there, looking at me.
    â€œI have a
name,
you know.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
    The Guitar Boy grinned, unfazed, and as if that had been some kind of invitation, he swung his guitar around and broke into song. Something about names, and that everyone and everything has one.
    Strumming a final chord, he closed with that sweeping bow of his—one arm flung out behind him. This time I clapped. He seemed like the sort of person you needed to clap for. And besides that, he was actually pretty good. Even though I’d only ever played the recorder for band, I could recognize talent when I heard it.
    â€œTalia Lea McQuinn,” I said, standing up and sticking out my hand, just like I’d done with his grandfather.
    â€œYes,” he said. “I know.” And he took my hand. But instead of the shake I expected, he bent over and kissed it, the way men do in old movies. I snatched it away and jammed both hands deep into the pockets of my flannel pajama pants.
    Laughing, he thumbed toward the door. “I’ll wait here. You should probably get dressed.”
    Of course, if I’d known he was coming for breakfast, I would’ve. This wasn’t the sort of first impression I’d had in mind—me in my pajamas. But I just nodded, taking the stairs two at a time.
    Long underwear, wool socks, jeans, and two sweaters later, I pulled my coat from its hook on the wall, laced up my boots, and waved good-bye to Sura. Then I followed the Guitar Boy out into the arctic morning.

    The average temperature for Churchill this time of year ranged anywhere from three degrees below zero to thirty degrees above. Today it was on the colder side of that range and I was thankful for my layers.
    â€œSo, who is your Muppet friend?” I asked.
    The Guitar Boy smiled and with a kick, sent a little chunk of ice skittering down the road. I walked beside him, my mittened hands in my pockets and my red hat pulled down over my ears. The wind pushed at our backs as we trudged down the road, cold, but not unkind.
    â€œYou’ll see.” The Guitar Boy grinned at me, secretive.
    I glanced away, burying my hands deeper into my coat pockets and peered anxiously into the scrub. Surprises made me uncomfortable, and I was terrified we were going to get one from a bear.
    I fell in step a little