Thing (or Two) about Curtis and Camilla - Nick Fowler - Hardcover - 1ST

Chapter One Just a Little Green "I'm Little Green," she explained, in the ripe tone of Manhattan sophisticates. "Today I turned nine and a half and I'm your new neighbor." "I'm Curtis," I admitted. "Happy half-birthday." I wriggled from the straps of my gig bag to shake an earnest, outstretched hand-and for just a fraction of a second longer than might've been necessary, I held the wee of her palm, still soft to this world. Little Green gave me an appraising squint. "Um, why are there calluses on your fingertips?" she wanted to know, like she'd caught me in a lie. I strummed an air guitar. "Oh," she went, slightly delighted, while we stood in the 'Nilla Wafer scent of her cardboard boxes. There were about a dozen of them blocking the dust-bunnied hall. I stepped over the largest and unlocked my Lilliputian studio, but as I was about to go inside, I felt Little Green looking into me. "Were you named after that Joni Mitchell song?" I asked her over my shoulder. "Yes," she said gravely. "It's about a girl who was given up for adoption, only I'm not adopted. It's my mom's favorite song." I left my door ajar and fully faced my new acquaintance. "So how much do you charge for guitar lessons?" she continued, sizing me up. "For you?" I rubbed my chin (which badly needed shaving). "I'll do one for ten thousand dollars." She rolled a set of voracious green eyes, looking far too large in her little blonde head. (I could see that the latter would catch up to the former as she began to break hearts.) "Come on, really," she insisted, all business. "For the beautiful and talented Little Green? Make me blueberry pancakes someday and we'll call it a deal." "All my mom can make is toast." She examined, then bit off, a cuticle. "Oh, and Cornish hens," she remembered, looking back up at me. "Oh, they're tasty." "Quite." Little Green had on Diesel jeans, a tank top, and powder blue mules. She was gawky, nearly gorgeous-standing in that gangly limbo between girl and woman where they're still overwhelmed by their new, rude beauty. And so wearing what someone (with whom I'll be overwhelming you and myself in just a minute) referred to as my uniform of black oil jeans and T-shirt, I asked my friend if she weren't married. "No," she said, with totality, her nostrils flaring to tame what I hoped was a smile. "Divorced then?" I said-and I immediately wished I hadn't. She gazed down at a mule, which she then began revolving in front of her, ballerina style. "No, but my parents have been considering one since I was six." She crossed her extended foot over the vertical leg. "My dad says that's why I'm an only child." "I am too," I said, over-eagerly. But then, in my coolest Cary Grant: "I guess we have them to thank for your lovely eyes." "Rather." She yawned, covering a dainty mouth only as it was closing. "Have you been to London, England? U.K.'" I told her I'd studied there. "We just got back. They call parakeets budgies." "I hope you brought along a warm jumper," I said. She gave me a shallow curtsy of a nod. "I get it." Then she looked at me carefully. "I write short stories, you know." I told her that I'd actually just been thinking she was probably pretty gifted. "I am. My dad says I'm extremely perceptive for my age. I have my own ascetic sense of abilities." I asked her how she felt her writing was coming along. "Comme ci, comme ca. That's French." I told her I'd hadFowler, Nick is the author of 'Thing (or Two) about Curtis and Camilla - Nick Fowler - Hardcover - 1ST' with ISBN 9780375421600 and ISBN 0375421602.