The Six Rules of Maybe

terminal, guiding the ferries into port wearing orange vests over their long brown habits, but they had gotten too old. One day they themselves had just slipped quietly away on a ferry, moving to the Franciscan Center in Bridal Veil, Oregon. Now Joe and Jim Nevins ushered the cars on and off the boats, and they were always looking for extra hands.
    Hayden didn’t want to “sit idle” all summer. That’s what he said. Sitting idle made me think of that car in front of Buddy Wilkes’s house, his El Camino. Practically anytime you drove past his street, you could see its hood up and the back of Buddy in his baggy-ass Levi’s as he leaned into the open hood, a beer bottle sitting on the curb. Juliet used to sit there too, on the curb, watching him. I saw her there many times, and later her breath would smell the sour yellow tang of Coronas.
    I’d liked riding in that truck in Hayden’s passenger seat. I’d liked standing beside him, both of us making reassuring sounds to Zeus as Big Bill held Zeus firmly and clipped his nails. We’d gotten back into the car and imitated Big Bill’s drawl, laughing at a dog groomer with a cowboy hat and big cowboy buckle that said USA on it.
    I’d liked hearing Hayden talk about school, too—graduate school, architecture. He wanted to make beautiful buildings with steel curves and angles of light. I’d also liked waiting outside the Hotel Delgado on that bench by the roses that looked out over the marina. I’d waited with Zeus sitting at my feet and my camera in my lap until Hayden came back out, the application in his hand. Front desk or waiter? he’d said. He had a big grin and his tousled hair was going all directions like it was up for anything. Front desk , I’d said. King-size bed, no smoking room, here’s your key , he’d said, shaking his car key at me, and we strode happily back to the car with Zeus running ahead, and it felt like we’d done it every day for years.
    There was so much liking that I convinced Hayden to buy Juliet some chocolates. It was probably one of those furtive moves your guilty conscience makes, even if you’ve been as innocent as everyone knows you to always be. Still, if Juliet didn’t really love Hayden, and if her love was what he wanted, chocolates were a smart move on his part. Juliet liked presents. Daniel Chris had given her that necklace one time and she hadn’t taken it off even after she had dumped him and moved on to Harrison-something, who had given her roses and more roses. Our house looked like the funeral parlor where Kevin Frink’s mom worked. But Buddy Wilkes had given chocolates at first, before he had given necklaces and roses and butterfly candleholders and everything all the other boys had given but more. Some people get adoration mixed up with love, and Juliet was one of them.
    I brought Hayden into Sweet Violet’s, across the street from Randall and Stein Booksellers and Mom’s store, Quill. Sweet Violet’s wrapped their boxes in thick purple paper and gold ribbon, and even Buddy Wilkes, who reeked of sweat and foul language, understood the importance of this.
    “I don’t even know if Juliet likes chocolates,” Hayden said. We stood in the chilled store air, which smelled thick and rich with dark cocoa and sugar. Hayden peered through the shiny glass cases at the truffles set gently in gold ruffled paper. “She’s always talking about her weight.”
    I could tell he might not understand the first thing about Juliet. Getting chocolates wasn’t about chocolates —it was about unwrapping the box and lifting up the lid and seeing what was inside. Chocolates were an invitation, a selection of possibilities, hope , the chance for something great, same as a letter, same as Christmas, same as car keys dangling from a finger or a passport with your picture inside. Maybe expensive chocolates meant too that someone was willing to sacrifice for you, and sacrifice seemed somehow tied to devotion. But it was too complicated to explain to Hayden, who pulled out dollar bills from his wallet; crumpled, jammed-in dollar bills which meant he didn’t have a lot of money. People with money—like Dean Neuhaus and Mom’s boss, Allen—they kept their bills flat and orderly. It wasn’t necessary to fluff and stuff in some act of monetary self-deception.
    “Trust me,” I said, as we left the cold of the store and went back outside into the glad sun. “She likes to be given things. Presents. Compliments. To feel