Unrequited

On Sunday we went out to eat at Scott's favorite Ethiopian restaurant--and while we were there L. surprised us all by striking up a friendship with an eight-year old Ethiopian girl who was also there eating with her family. The people who own the restaurant were friends of theirs, or family, perhaps. They seemed to know each other very well, and not to mind at all that the kids (three of theirs and our two) took over the restaurant and made it their own personal playground. The girl was, as girls L. age are, taller than L., and larger too, in that big-boned awkward way girls that age are if they haven't quite grown into their bodies yet. Some day she would be tall and wear her height well, but at eight you could tell she was having trouble with that body of hers, in all its loose-limbed awkwardness. She approached L. while he was studying the sound system set-up near the front of the restaurant, and before long she was talking his ear off. He was enamored of her, I think he really was. She loved science, liked mysteries and spy stuff, hated school, and this past year some bully girl had tripped her up at the water fountain.

"My friend robbed my safe," L. told her. They shook heads over this. "Friends," L. said ruefully. "Who knows what to do with them these days."

Right there they had identified in each other the stuff of kindred spirits; kids on the fringe of it all, kids who didn't quite fit in with their peers, kids who outside of school were interesting and smart and able but inside school felt misshapen, those proverbial square pegs being forced into round holes. She was just the kind of friend we've ached for L. to have--the kind of friend he hasn't been able to find yet. And there she was, in an Ethiopian restaurant, of all places.

When we left (prolonging the moment as long as we could, but T. had lost interest in the goings on and was getting into trouble) the girl hugged L. and I swear he blushed. "Hope to see you around some time," he told her, with his body facing away from her, and a backward wave in her direction. I wondered what the odds of this were--maybe high, after all. How many science-loving, mystery-solving, eight-year old Ethiopian girls are there running around these parts?

"I'll probably never see her again," L. said matter-of-factly, as we drove away. "I don't even know where she lives."

The car was silent for a few minutes, while I tried to figure out ways to engineer another meeting. Was there another popular Ethiopian gathering place in this city? A local church? Would fate intervene and orchestrate a playdate for us? Maybe we'd run into them somewhere? Anywhere? I weighed the pros and cons of rushing back into the restaurant, accosting the parents, and asking them for their phone number on L.'s behalf. Then T. piped up.

"I know!" She exclaimed, her finger held up in the air in revelation. "You can MapQuest her!"

"Don't be ridiculous," L. said crossly from his backseat. "But..."

He thought for a moment. "Do you think I can find her on Facebook?"