Over latteswhich, the waiter explained to us, the Dutch called “wrong coffee” because it had more milk than coffee
we sat in the lacy shade of a huge chestnut tree and recounted for Mom our encounter with the great Peter Van Houten.
We made the story funny. You have a choice in this world, I believe, about how to tell sad stories, and we made the funny choice:
Augustus, slumped in the café chair, pretended to be the tongue-tied, word-slurring Van Houten
who could not so much as push himself out of his chair;
I stood up to play a me all full of bluster and machismo, shouting, “Get up, you fat ugly old man!”
“Did you call him ugly?” Augustus asked. “Just go with it,” I told him.
“I’m naht uggy. You’re the uggy one, nosetube girl.” “You’re a coward!” I rumbled, and Augustus broke character to laugh.
I sat down. We told Mom about the Anne Frank House, leaving out the kissing.
“Did you go back to chez Van Houten afterward?” Mom asked. Augustus didn’t even give me time to blush.
“Nah, we just hung out at a café. Hazel amused me with some Venn diagram humor.” He glanced at me. God, he was sexy.
“Sounds lovely,” she said. “Listen, I’m going to go for a walk. Give the two of you time to talk,” she said at Gus, an edge in it.
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