Chapter Two

"Alright, there's only one category remaining. Remember, with each clue you will be provided with three movies, and then you'll be expected to name the actress that stared in all three of films. Bob, you have control of the board. Make your selection."

"I'll take 'Three Movies and a Lady' for $400, Alex."

"Bridges of Madison County, Marvin's Room, Sophie's Choice."

"Meryl Streep," Ryan called out, making his son furrow his eyebrows in frustration.

"How did you know that, Dad?"

Chuckling, the older man answered, "Your Mom duped me into watching that movie back when we were teenagers, because she told me it was a Clint Eastwood movie. She wasn't lying," he explained, "but she forgot to mention it was a romance. Talk about the two longest hours of my life."

"Go ahead, Tammie," Alex Trebek instructed. "Which clue would you like to see?"

"The next in line, please," the contestant asked. "Let's go for the $800 clue."

"The Birds, Driving Miss Daisy, Fried Green Tomatoes."

"Ew," Joaquin exclaimed, "people eat green tomatoes? Why would you do that? They're not ripe!"

"It's not like that. They're supposed to be green. It's another breed of tomatoes."

"Well, you better never make them for dinner," the little boy dictated, his face set in stony seriousness. Turning back to the TV to hear the correct answer, he pouted. "This category sucks."

"For $1200: The Evening Star, Natural Born Killers, What's Eating Gilbert Grape?."

"Oh, I know this one," the younger Atwood boy called out, jumping out of his seat at the kitchen table and almost upsetting his glass of orange juice. "It's Lewis," he called out, "Juliette Lewis."

"How do you know that?"

"Margie's daughter, Sarah, is obsessed with Johnny Depp, and, when it rains, she always makes us watch his movies. I really don't like that one, but, when I get bored, I'll read the movie case and memorize the credits."

"Only you, J, only you," Ryan teased his son before the two of them let their attention drift back to the TV."

"Which one will it be, Tammie, the $1600 or the $2000 clue? You've pretty much controlled this category so far. Let's see if you can continue your recent run."

"I'll take 'Three Movies and a Lady' for $1600 please, Alex."

"Alright, and here is your answer. "Jane Eyre, Rebecca, The Women."

"Do you know this one, bud?"

"No," Joaquin answered. "Why would I?"

"Well, two of those movies are based upon novels of the same name. I thought you might have seen them in the library and recognized them."

"Dad, do you know how many books are in the library? How could I possibly know all of them? Besides, those sound like girly books."

"You're probably right, kiddo," the older of the two boys agreed, laughing.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Alex fairly taunted the contestant who got the question wrong. "What is Joan Fontaine. And here is our last clue. Ed Wood, L.A. Story, Mars Attacks!."

"And there is the nail in your coffin, kid," Ryan teased his son. "Sarah Jessica Parker, and that, my boy, puts me too far ahead of you. There's no way you can catch me in Final Jeopardy."

"How did you know that?"

"Let's just say that there was a time when your Dad found Carrie Bradshaw to be very….entertaining."

Puzzled, Joaquin queried, "and who's Carrie Bradshaw?"

"She's someone I'll introduce you to when you're a little bit older," Ryan promised his son. "She'll prove to be very helpful to you when you start dating, lots of good advice."

Shrugging his shoulders, the younger boy accepted his father's response. "Okay, but I still want to watch Final Jeopardy even if I can't win."

"Our Final Jeopardy category," Alex Trebek's voice broke through the Atwood kitchen, "is Presidential Nicknames. Players, make your wagers."

"Sure, that shouldn't be a problem. We still have 35 minutes until you have to be at school."

"Well, actually," Joaquin hedged, averting his eyes from his father's piercing gaze. "That's not exactly true."

Voice harsh, Ryan asked, "what do you mean, J?"

"Didn't you see the letter the school board sent out last month, the one that let all the parents know that school was going to start at 8:15 this year instead of 8:30?"

Frustrated, the older man replied, "No, I did not see that letter."

"You had to of," Joaquin argued. "I remember getting it. Margie and I walked to the post office that afternoon on her lunch break. I stayed with her in town instead of going out to her house, because she was teaching me how to play this new computer game, and, when we both got the same looking envelope, I opened ours, read it to her while we walked back to the café, and then we made peanut butter, banana, and raison sandwiches."

"The problem is that you don't remember bringing the letter home or giving it to me to read. Go," Ryan directed his son, "we have fifteen minutes to get you to school on time, and I refuse to let you be late on your first day. Brush your teeth; I'll figure out something for you to eat for breakfast on the way." When the little boy went to protest, pointing towards the television, the older man interrupted his silent protests. "No, you're not finishing Jeopardy. Consider it your punishment. Now run. My truck is pulling out of this driveway in five minutes. If you're not out there and ready by then, there will be no TV, no books, and no trips to see Margie for a week."

Sighing, he listened as the little boy scurried out of the room, his voice carrying back as he called for his Dad to grab his book bag out off his bed. Flipping the television off, Ryan scrounged through the cupboards until he found a box of Poptarts, grabbed a package, a juice box, and a cup of coffee for himself before retreating to his truck just as he told his son. They would have to Tivo the morning episode of Jeopardy and watch it together at night, because, with fifteen minutes less in the mornings to get ready, his reluctant to rise son would never be ready on time if they stuck with their routine from years passed. It was a subtle change to their lives, but, for some reason, it made him wonder if it was just a precursor for bigger, more important changes that were looming in the future. There was only one way to find out though, and he had never shied away from confronting anything in his life, even the unknown.

"Now, after you get out of school, I want you to walk to Margie's and wait there for me to pick you up after I get off of work. I talked to her last night," Ryan explained to his son, "and she said you could go there every day after school this year, if you want, instead of riding the bus out to her house. This way you're closer to the golf course, and it won't take us as long to get home at night."

"But what about my homework," the little boy asked, wanting to work out the details just like his father always did.

"She said that you can either sit up front with her while she waits on customers to do your homework, or, if it's too distracting for you, her back office will be semi-clean and ready for your use."

"Semi-clean in Margie speak means there will be a path from the doorway to her desk," Joaquin grumbled. "I think I'll stick to sitting out front."

"That's probably safer," the older man laughed, knowing well his friend's penchant for clutter and chaos. Pulling up outside of the school, he unlocked the doors and turned to his son. "Have a good day, kiddo," he encouraged, ruffling his free hand through the little boy's hair, "and remember to ignore those rumors Alex told you about your teacher. I'm sure she's going to be really nice, and, no matter what, she'll definitely be impressed with your summer reading list."

"Thanks, Dad," J chuckled, hopping out of the truck and situating his backpack on his shoulder. Pulling his Poptart out of his pocket, he went to close the door, yelling, "see you tonight. Have a good day at work." And, with that, Ryan watched as his only child ambled lazily into the Chino Elementary School's courtyard, completely oblivious to time and his surroundings. Instead, his attention was on his breakfast, and he only hoped his son remembered to wipe his face off; otherwise, he'd pick him up from Margie's that afternoon with breakfast pastry still smeared along the corners of his mouth, just one of many things that served to remind him that his gifted eight year old was still the little boy he pretended not to be.

This was not how Marissa Cooper had envisioned her first day of school. While she had planned her outfit the night before, she pictured herself waiting in her classroom for her students to arrive, looking fresh, poised, and collected, exuding a sense of confidence and warmth to her students; instead, she was running late after accidentally sleeping in, she was anything but organized and prepared, and she was trying to balance her tote bag, her lunch box, her purse, and a duffel bag with a change of clothes in it so she could go to Margie's after school and not have to worry about ruining another work outfit while, at the same time, attempting to eat her breakfast and put up her long, unruly, blonde hair. To say that she having a difficult time balancing everything did not quite capture the awkward ineptness she was, at the moment, displaying.

"Do you need some help," a rather short student beside her asked. To see him, she had to look down for he was walking beside her. "I could help you carry your stuff inside," he offered.

"Wouldyou," her words ran together and became mumbled, making her hard to understand. Of course, attempting to talk while holding a Poptart in your mouth tended to that. As the little boy took her purse and lunch box out of her right hand, she pulled her quick breakfast out of her mouth and smiled down at him. "Thank you. If you wouldn't have come along when you did, I probably would have ended up falling down flat on my face. Then I really would have been late. My name's Marissa Cooper, by the way" she introduced herself, holding out the hand with the breakfast pastry before pulling it back away from the little boy, putting the food back in her back, and then reoffering him her hand.

"Hi, Miss Cooper. I'm Joaquin Atwood, but you can call me J." Releasing her hand, he motioned towards her Poptart. "I wish my Dad let me have the S'mores ones. He says they're not nutritious enough for the most important meal of the day."

"Yeah, I saw you were eating one that didn't have any frosting," she motioned towards the child's own Poptart. "It looks fruity, too. I'm not too big into fruit."

"You're lucky your Dad doesn't tell you what to eat then anymore."

"Well, when I think about it," Marissa realized, cocking her head to the side and stopping in her tracks. Joaquin slowed to a stop beside her. "He never really did care about what I ate. He was always busy in the morning, reading his papers, and we always had to do whatever my Mom told us to. He let rule the roost. So, growing up, my breakfasts consisted mainly of protein bars and shakes, energy drinks, and a whole bevy of vitamins. We only had good meals when my Mom wanted to impress someone."

"I've never had any of that stuff," Joaquin commented, "but it sounds disgusting."

"Oh, it is," she agreed with him. "But, anyway, the point of my rambling is to tell you that fruity Poptarts without frosting aren't that bad. After all, it could be worse; you could be forced to have a Julie Cooper breakfast."

They fell silent for a moment as they walked down the halls towards the classrooms, J lost in thought about what his new, older acquaintance had told him and Marissa concentrating on finishing her foil wrapped pastry. "Miss Cooper," he broke through the quiet, "may I ask you something?"

"Just because you said may I instead of can I, you can ask me anything," she agreed.

"What's that tattoo on the back of your neck supposed to be? It just kind of looks like a blob of paint."

"What," she asked, twisting around aimlessly for there was no way she'd be able to see the mark he was talking about. "I don't have any tattoos. What color is it?"

"It's red," he replied.

Stomping her foot impetuously, Marissa grumbled in frustration. "Shoot," she yelled, oblivious to the otherwise soft voices permeating from the various classrooms they were passing. "I was up late last night painting my bedroom. You see," she explained, "I just bought a new house, and I'm remodeling. Apparently, I haven't mastered the art of taking a shower yet, because I didn't get all the paint off of myself. I do hold out hope that I'll learn how to someday though." Taking her hair down to cover the spot, she asked, "how bad is it; can you still see it?"

"A little bit," Joaquin answered honestly, "but, like me, most of your students will probably be short. Just make sure that you don't turn around much when you're teaching."

"How did you know that I was a teacher?"

"Well, you're not a student," the little boy said, gesturing to the adult standing beside him, "you don't look mean enough to be a principle, and you're not old enough to be a secretary. They only hire old ladies here to be secretaries. My friend, Margie, says that it's reverse age discrimination."

"You might have a case," Marissa nodded her head while she debated the merits of his point. "However, I think that discussion will have to be shelved until we meet again running late one morning. I'm sure it'll be a common occurrence for me. What about you, J?"

"My Dad doesn't like to be late," he replied. "He says it's unprofessional and gives the boss a bad impression. This morning it was my fault we were running behind. I forgot to tell him I was supposed to be here by 8:15."

"Your Dad sounds like a very smart, very responsible guy. I'm just glad that I don't work for him," she teased, winking at the little boy standing beside her and making him laugh. "However, J, this is my stop. Thank you for your help," she said sincerely, retaking her bags from him, "but it was your company that I appreciated the most. Talking to you helped to alleviate my first day jitters. I guess I'll see you around." Marissa went to walk away, thinking that the child would continue on his way towards his own classroom, but, when she could sense him still standing behind her, she stopped and turned back around. "Is something wrong, Joaquin?"

"You….this is your classroom," he asked her, his eyes wide with surprise. "You teach third grade?"

"Yes, I do," she answered slowly, unsure of what was wrong. "Is that a problem?"

"No," he smiled up at her, his grin growing wider with every passing second. "It's not a problem at all. "In fact, it's a great thing. I'm in your class," he told her. "You're my teacher, and now, after talking to you, I don't feel so nervous anymore either."

Nodding for him to follow her into the classroom, Marissa leaned down to whisper in his ear. "I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, J. You and me," she motioned between them, "I think we're going to be good friends."

Suddenly the next year at Chino Elementary School wasn't looking as scary for either of the Poptart eating, absentminded, blue eyed, newly arrived members of classroom 131.

"Hey Margie," Joaquin called out as he ran into his surrogate aunt's café, waving goodbye to the other students he had walked from school with and ignoring the amused looks the few patrons cast in his direction.

"Your snack's in the back; look in the fridge," the busy owner directed her young friend. "Go ahead and grab it and then sit at the bar, and I'll join you as soon as I check with all the customers and refill their drinks."

Five minutes later, legs swinging from the barstool he was sitting on, J had a wide, chocolate stained smile plastered across his tan face. Margie had prepared him one of his favorite desserts for his after school snack: dirt pie, and she had even gone out and bought him his favorite kind of apple juice. Between meeting and liking his new teacher, getting his new books, and going to Margie's after school, the day had been a memorable first day of school for Joaquin, and, with plans to start a new book as soon as he finished his snack, he knew he and his Dad would have many things to talk about over dinner.

"My children are not going to be very happy with me if I get all the first day gossip from you," Margie announced as she slid onto the seat next to him, "but I'm impatient, and I want to hear how your first day of third grade went, kiddo."

"It was good," the little boy shrugged his shoulders, more interested in eating his snack than in talking.

"Oh no, I don't think so, Atwood," the café owner chastised him. "I cooked for you, and, in lieu of payment, we're going to sit here and we're going to talk like two little old biddies with nothing else better to do. Now, start with what song went off when your alarm woke you up this morning."

"You're a dork, Margie. You know my Dad wakes me up."

"Alright, alright," she relented, playfully nudging his shoulder. "I guess the abbreviated version would be alright."

"Dad beat me at Jeopardy this morning, but you'll have to tell Sarah that there was a question about What's Eating Gilbert Grape?, and I got it right."

"She'll be quite impressed," Margie quipped, smiling at the eight year old sitting beside her. "And although your Dad deserves his congratulations for winning the game this morning, that really doesn't have anything to do with your first day of school. Are your friends in your class? How's your teacher. Don't tell me you got that wart prone bag of bones Alex had last year. I swear, she's going to die teaching third grade at that school, and, when it happens, the janitors will just step right over her, believing she's just taking a nap."

"Nope, I got lucky," Joaquin answered, "and, hopefully, I'll never even see old Mrs. Conners. My teacher is really nice. We walked inside together this morning, and I got to talk to her before I even knew that she was my teacher."

"And…what did you think? Is she cool enough to be your teacher?"

"She's really cool," he responded, putting his spoon down and turning to face his older friend. "You know how some adults talk to kids like they don't matter?" Margie shook her head yes to signify that she understood what he was talking about. "Well, she doesn't do that. We talked about our families, she told me a little bit about herself, and she likes Poptarts."

"Well, that's a very important quality in a person."

"And not just any kind of Poptarts but S'mores." Falling silent for a moment, Joaquin thought to himself before continuing. "She actually reminds me a little of you, except she's younger, taller, and has blonde hair instead of brown, like yours."

"Wait a minute," Margie realized, smirking at the eight year old across from her. "What's your teacher's name?"

"Miss Cooper," J yelled, jumping down from his barstool and running across the café. Quietly while still sitting, Margie watched as the little boy greeted the newest arrival, and, apparently, Marissa was a friend to both of them. Although she couldn't hear what they were saying, she could tell they were both happy to see each other.

"Well, hello there, stranger," the blonde greeted the older woman as she came to stand beside her. "Long time, no see."

"Don't let her fool you. She was here last night for dinner," the brunette told the child standing with her younger friend. Turning back to the other woman, she said, "J and I were just talking about his first day of school. There's some extra dirt pie in the back left over from his snack. If you want some, it's yours. I know how wicked your sweet tooth can be."

"That sounds delicious. I'll grab some on my way back from changing." Swinging her duffel bag onto her shoulder, Marissa pointed towards the back of the establishment. "Is your office open so I can use it to get dressed?"

"Help yourself," Margie directed her, "but make sure you put the blinds down. Old Man Morris next door has been known to be a peeping Tom. There's no need to give him a heart attack. He's a good customer."

"Aren't we a regular Florence Nightingale," the blonde teased her older friend. "You two play nice. I'll be right back."

Once she left, Margie motioned for Joaquin to retake his seat beside her. "So, kid, I see you finally met my friend Marissa…not that you can call her that, at least not in school. It's good to see two of my favorite people in the whole world get along so well though."

"Do you know that she loves to read poetry," the little boy asked her. "We talked again during recess duty, because I saw her reading and I wanted to know what it was. I've never read much poetry before, but, the next time Dad and I go to the library, I'm going to check some out."

"The next time the two of you get to talk," the café owner suggested, "why don't you ask her about her pets. She loves to talk about them."

"How many does she have?"

"Hey, that's not my story to tell," Margie protested, standing up and moving behind the bar to get herself a glass of water. "Just ask her though. She'll tell you all about them."

Nodding his head in agreement, Joaquin turned towards his backpack and pulled out a book. Instead of opening it though, he merely rested his hands against it, leaning his chin down upon his hands in thought. Needing to voice his ideas, he finally broke the quiet which had descended upon them and asked his older friend a question that had been plaguing his mind. "Did you know that Marissa and my Dad are the same age?"

"I did." When the little boy didn't continue, the brunette pushed. "Is there any particular reason that interests you or did you just think it was a cool coincidence, J?"

"It's just….they're so different," he finally blurted out after stumbling over his words. "Marissa's so happy, always smiling, and, though Dad's happy with me, he doesn't laugh like she does, especially after my Mom does something stupid like calling and upsetting him."

"Your Dad just needs to get out more. Sure, you're not only his son but his best friend, too, but a guy needs more than just two close people in his life." Pausing for a moment, Margie thought about what she should say next. "You know what I think your Dad needs, kiddo; I think your Dad needs to start dating again, and I just so happen to know a lot of really nice, really pretty, single woman. Leave it to me, J. We'll have your Dad smiling and laughing in no time. I'm going to set him up." With a determined smile, the older woman tossed her dish towel aside when a new customer entered into the café and went to offer them a menu. "I'll be right back. Let Marissa know she can make herself a drink if she wants one."

Five minutes later, the eight year old's nose was buried in his book, and he never heard his new teacher and friend come back into the main room. "Whatcha reading there, kid," she asked, sitting down beside him. Leaning over, she read the spine of the book. "Joaquin, why are you already reading that book? I haven't even started the lesson plans for it yet. I just handed them out today to help fill up the time during the first day."

"I've always wanted to read it," he offered as an excuse. "Besides, my Dad won't be here for a little while longer, and Margie's busy. Why not read?"

"Because every time I turned around today, your head was bent over one book or another. It's time to give those baby blues of yours a rest. Now, put that book back in your book bag, hop off that stool, and come with me. Have you ever played pool before?"

"Miss Cooper," he laughed, "I'm only eight."

"First of all," she chastised him, "when we're not in school, you can call me Marissa. Miss Cooper makes me feel old or, even worse, like my Mom. As for your age, if you're eight, you're already years behind," she teased the little boy. "If we're going to turn you into someone I can compete against in this town and perhaps have at my side to help hustle unsuspecting fools, our lessons need to begin tonight. Now, pick up your cue stick. The first thing I'm going to show you is how to hold it properly."

From across the room, Margie watched as her friend spent quality time with Joaquin, a child she had felt a special connection to for years. It was refreshing to see, especially since there was no maternal influence in the little boy's life. Determined even more to set Ryan up on a date, she quickly dashed into he back room to grab her address book. As Marissa and J continued their first pool lesson, she started to make her way through the various women she could set his Father up with on a date. Midway through her list, a car horn sounded, alerting the eight year old to the fact that his Dad was outside waiting for him to go home. The intelligent child grabbed his backpack and said two quick goodbyes to his older, female friends before running out the door and jumping excitedly into the truck so he could tell his Dad all about his first day of school. Then Marissa called it an early night, determined to go home and work, once again, on her ever expanding list of home remodeling projects she wanted to tackle for her new house. Slowly, the customers dwindled away, night fell, and Margie was left with an empty café, dinner to take home to her family, and the name of the date she was going to set Ryan up with. Now all she had to do, she realized, was convince the said bachelor to enter the dating scene again, and she realized that would be easier said than done.