Chapter Five

Angelo and I sat looking at Van Gogh’s Olive Trees. After many minutes of silence, Angelo made a small snorting sound. The snort grew into shoulder-shaking giggles and then, belly-grabbing laughter.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

Angelo wiped tears from his cheeks. “Rosaline.”

He told me about the time that Rosaline hid inside the piano when he wasn’t looking. Angelo lifted the lid to check why the notes sounded sour, and she leapt out with a great loud Boo that made him fall off his chair and laugh until his throat hurt.

He told me how Rosaline insisted that they send each other letters, even though they lived in the same cereal box. He sent her poems and song lyrics. She sent him drawings and jokes. Like this one, her favorite: Why didn’t the skeleton cross the road?

“Because he didn’t have the guts,” Angelo said, grinning. “The guts.”

“Rosaline sounds like a funny, wonderful lady,” I said.

“She was.” Angelo hugged his knees to his chest and looked down at his feet. He curled one set of toes over the other, like he was trying to make himself as tiny as possible. In a whisper he said, “I’m afraid that if I remember what happiness is, it means I don’t care that Rosaline is gone. I do care.”

“Maybe your happiness honors her,” I said, “in a way that sadness cannot.”

Angelo slowly uncurled his toes. “Maybe.”

When he was ready, I carried Angelo down to the museum gift shop. I bought him a postcard of Olive Trees.