The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  Joe and I finished our lap around the square, and I pointed out the drugstore across the way. “That’s Innis’s Drug Store.”

  Joe sighed. “I can read. Remember?”

  I didn’t care how cute he was. He was definitely rude.

  We crossed the street, and Joe read the sign above the drugstore door. “‘Original Soda Fountain Inside.’ How cool. Oh, man, do they have egg creams?”

  “Eggs and cream?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said. “You’ve never had an egg cream?”

  “Nope—so is it a dessert with eggs and cream in it?”

  “No eggs. No cream. Just milk, seltzer, and chocolate syrup. When I was little, my uncle would take my cousins and me to Hinsch’s every Saturday.” He spread his arms wide and turned around. “Oh, man. If I could have one right now.”

  “Sorry, but we do have milkshakes.”

  “Nah.” He was clearly disappointed.

  We walked a few steps. The big window on the side gave a wide view of the fountain bar. Right off, I noticed Vernon and Twig sitting there, sipping milkshakes.

  Joe noticed them too. “Who’s that?”

  “Him? Vernon. He’s the pinsetter who works for Ferris.”

  “I mean her. Who is she?” He was clearly interested. What guy wouldn’t be? Twig oozed confidence. Even the way she sat tall on her stool as she stirred her straw in her shake looked sophisticated.

  “Twig Wagner.”

  And as we walked away, he twisted his head in her direction.

  I picked up my pace so that when he finally awoke from Twig’s spell, he had to sprint to catch up.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  A little farther down Main Street was Opalina’s Opry House. Even though he didn’t want to meet anyone, no way would I pass the opry house and not stop and say hello to Opa.

  “‘Opalina’s Opry House’?” Joe read aloud, then snorted. “I feel like I’m on another planet.”

  “That’s my grandmother,” I snapped. “She’s a successful businesswoman. She’s even recorded an album.” I made her sound like she was Reba McEntire, even though none of Opa’s songs had ever played on the radio.

  Joe stared down. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just very different here. I’ve never seen an opry house.”

  I changed my mind about dropping in on Opa.

  We were quiet as we walked toward Allsup’s, the last stop on the tour. No reason to take him to Gossimer Pit, since he didn’t have a bike.

  “Want something to drink?” I asked him.

  “Good idea,” he said. “I’ll treat.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Admission for the tour.”

  “Fine.” I was still sore at him. It was as if he was looking for things to pick on. Searching with what Mom called a half-empty-glass attitude.

  Inside the convenience store, Twig’s mom worked the register. I hadn’t been inside Allsup’s since September, and it felt funny being around Mrs. Wagner. But she gave me the warmest smile when we entered the store, and when she rang us up, she said, “Girl, I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.” It came out in a whisper. That’s all my throat could manage.

  “Are you enjoying spring break?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  When we left, Joe asked, “Who is that lady?”

  “Mrs. Wagner. I didn’t introduce you because you didn’t want to meet anyone.”

  “Wagner? Twig’s mom?” Joe asked, but he might as well have said, The hot girl’s mom?

  I decided to tell him. He’d probably learn when he went to our school, and it might as well have come from me. “Twig and I used to be friends. I guess it wasn’t a true friendship, as you would say.”

  “I don’t know everything,” he said, maybe because he could tell I was sad about the situation. Or maybe this was his way of apologizing. Or maybe he only wanted to know more about Twig.

  “Mrs. Wagner is getting divorced. After September eleventh, she decided she didn’t want to be married anymore.”

  Joe scowled. “What does that have to do with September eleventh?”

  Even though my gut warned me not to say anything else, I explained anyway. “Well, that’s what I heard. After September eleventh, she felt like life was too short to waste more time being married to someone she didn’t want to be married to.”

  “That’s stupid,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “You don’t understand. He really…” I stopped. Even if Twig and I weren’t friends anymore, I didn’t want to betray her.

  Then Joe raised his voice. “I think it’s stupid that people would use something really tragic as an excuse for their own selfish decisions.”

  I shouldn’t have brought September 11 up. After all, he was a New Yorker. The highway traffic buzzed behind us, and I was wishing I could be in one of those cars. The tour hadn’t gone as I’d planned.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know it must have been hard living so close to what happened.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “And what is it with this town? They act like it happened here, with all the flags waving and painting that café red, white, and blue. They have no idea what it was really like! You have no idea! Almost everyone I know knew someone that died that day. Mr. Hampshire, who owns the store around the corner, his daughter died. Maggie, who works at the coffee shop, lost her husband. My teacher’s brother, the postman’s cousin. That day touched everyone. Everyone there. Not here.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but I thought I should say something, and so I asked the most stupid question I could have asked. “Did you know anyone?”

  Joe glared at me.

  If I had only thought one moment before opening my big mouth.

  He squinted and looked away. “Yeah, I did.”

  Just one moment. He faced me, and his eyes were wet. “I knew a few people. One of them was a great—” His voice broke.

  Joe took a big breath and another, trying to steady his voice. Then he finished, “A really great guy. The bravest guy.”

  And then he walked away without saying another word.

  CHAPTER 19

  I wanted to tell him that I was sorry, but Joe had rushed away and was halfway down the street.

  My head pounded, and my insides felt all jumbled up. The closer I got to the snow cone stand, the blurrier everything looked.

  Dad stared in my direction while he waited on the customers who wore hiking boots and carried heavy backpacks. I went behind the stand and helped, filling the cups with grated ice while they talked to Dad about how they were walking to New Mexico from Dallas.

  Usually Dad would have eaten that up, asked them all about it, but he nodded politely and stole glances at me.

  “Stay safe out there,” he told them after they settled up.

  When the campers walked away, he asked, “What’s wrong, Rylee?”

  I stepped closer to him, and pressed my face against his T-shirt.

  “It’s okay,” he said, patting my back. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

  When I finished telling him what Joe had said and how I thought he was talking about his dad, he shook his head. “Poor kid. That explains a lot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why they moved to Antler, Texas, when they’ve never lived anywhere but New York. And Joe’s anger.”

  “I don’t think Joe likes me. I think he might even hate me now.”

  Dad lifted my chin. “Rylee, there’s not a person in this town who doesn’t like you.”

  I could think of one. Maybe two now.

  “Joe’s mad at the world,” Dad said.

  Two customers walked up and then three more. The line stayed short, but never slowed. I was thankful for that. We worked the busy hour together and then, when there was a lull, Dad got ready to head home.

  “It’s all yours,” he said, “until your mom arrives.”

>   “Are you going to tell Mom about Joe’s dad?” I asked him. “Maybe he wasn’t talking about his dad.”

  “They’re our neighbors and new friends. I think she should know it’s a possibility.”

  I gave a quick nod.

  Dad changed the subject. “By the way, we’re fully stocked with all the flavors now.”

  Right off, I noticed the two bottles of Burnt Marshmallow, which had proven a big hit. However Honey Pickle Juice had gotten gag reviews. It couldn’t beat the classic, plain ol’ Pickle Juice. I checked out the others, reading each label, searching for Blueberry.

  A few moments after Dad left, I heard him signal to me with his familiar whistle. It sounded like a mockingbird call, five quick trills, followed by a long seesaw one. His whistle for Mayzee was a high-pitched, noisy killdeer’s, but this one was mine.

  I whistled back to him, because that was part of the ritual.

  Dad stood at the edge of the square, giving me a thumbs-up sign.

  I lifted my thumb.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, on the way home from the stand, Mom and I saw Joe walking down the street toward us. Even from a distance, I recognized the Bowl-a-Rama Café T-shirt.

  When our paths crossed, he said, “Hi.” It came out in almost a whisper.

  Mom greeted him with a sympathetic tone. “Hi, Joe.”

  Then she said, “I better head to the house.” She turned to Joe. “Tell your mom hello for me.”

  I felt like a little girl wanting my mom to stay and rescue me from the awkward moment. Knowing Mom, that was probably why she took off. One of those you-can-handle-this moments. I swallowed and the lump slid down hard and rough.

  “It looks like you got a job,” I said.

  “Yep.” Joe yanked at his shirt. “I need to start earning some money. That way I can get a bike. I heard there’s a cool pit where you can ride.”

  “Yeah, Gossimer Pit.”

  “The Ambassador of Antler didn’t put that on her tour.”

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted, but I wasn’t apologizing about that. “I’m so sorry.” Then softly, I asked, “Was it your dad?”

  Joe stared down, nodded, and kicked low at the air like he was aiming for a pebble.

  “That really sucks,” I said.

  He looked up then, kind of smiling. “That’s the best thing anyone has ever said to me about what happened. You’re right. It really does suck.”

  Something lifted inside me, and all at once I felt comfortable with Joe for the first time. We continued walking together, not speaking, not needing to, as the wind shook the leaves of the cottonwood trees that grew in the front yards along my street.

  CHAPTER 20

  Two thousand six hundred and six people died at the World Trade Center on September 11. Three hundred and forty-three were firefighters. Joe’s dad was one of them.

  The first day back to school from spring break, I kept an eye out for Joe. He never showed until last period, when I caught a glimpse of him with his mom in the office. She was probably registering him. Even from the back, I could tell he wasn’t excited about being at school. A few feet away, he stood with his shoulders slouched and hands tucked in his pockets.

  The next day I slowed my pace with Mayzee, hoping to see him before school, but I didn’t catch sight of him until history class, when he beat me there. He sat in Twig’s old seat, the one right next to mine. She’d long since moved to the back of class to sit between Vernon and Boone, while her former seat had remained empty like a reminder of our broken friendship.

  Dad stood above him, showing him where we were in the textbook. When I sat, they both looked my way, smiling. Joe’s was a nervous one. I gave him an encouraging smile back. It must have been hard to be the new kid. When my classmates entered and noticed Joe, they lowered their voices, whispering. Vernon came in with Twig. As usual, when he flopped in his chair, his big body caused the desk to move. Then he made such a loud display of adjusting it, moving it about, scraping the floor, that there was an almost perfect circle of scuffs on the linoleum.

  Twig rerolled her army jacket cuffs, ignoring him. Attention-getting episodes never impressed her.

  Why are you with him?

  After calling roll, Dad got up from his desk and said, “Class, Joe Toscani is joining us. Please make him feel welcome.”

  That was it. No asking Joe to stand up or raise his hand. Everyone knew who the new kid was. If I were grading Dad’s introduction, I’d give him an A-plus. No kid liked to have a big production made of such an awkward moment.

  Dad got off his stool and wove between rows, circling the room as he spoke, causing us to twist around to see him. My neck always hurt when I left his class.

  Every semester we were assigned a subject to write about, and since he’d taught seventh- and eighth-grade history for years, we knew what to expect. This semester we had to choose a person who was an important influence in the twentieth century. Dad asked one student a day to read their report until we’d heard the entire class. We never knew who he’d call on, so we had to be prepared.

  That day, Dad asked, “Rylee, why don’t you start us off?”

  He could have warned me at breakfast. Didn’t I get some privileges being the teacher’s kid? I pushed the chair away from my desk, stood, and felt that stupid tickle. I cleared my throat.

  I sounded like someone who’d swallowed a bug and couldn’t cough it up. It was as if I were waving a flag, announcing NERVOUS PERSON HERE. But any of my classmates would have been a wreck reading in front of other kids if the teacher were their parent. Or in front of Joe. I felt like I was in a blackberry-pie-eating contest with my hands tied behind my back.

  I read my opening. “Bill Monroe is considered the father of bluegrass. A mandolin player, singer, and songwriter, he created a style of music that continues to influence today’s musicians such as Marty Stuart, Ricky Skaggs, and Chris Thile.”

  My report had taken me weeks to research and write, and I believed it was good. I knew it was good. Most of my classmates coasted. Some practically plagiarized their reports from the library’s ancient encyclopedias.

  There I was, standing in front of what seemed like the whole world. After the first sentence, I had to clear my throat again, but halfway through my report, I relaxed a little, became braver and more confident. The rest of the reading went smoother.

  When I’d finished, I looked up at Dad and could tell he thought my report was good, too, because of the way he tried not to smile. His eyes looked like I’d won an Olympic medal.

  Dad cleared his throat. Apparently I’d inherited the family tic.

  From the back of the room, Twig gave me a blank stare.

  “Thank you, Rylee.” Then Dad turned to my classmates. “Any questions for her?”

  Vernon’s hand shot up.

  Dad called on him. “Yes, Mr. Clifton?”

  “I wanted to ask Rylee if her dad helped with her homework?”

  “No.” I sat down, humiliated.

  After school Joe came over to me while I waited for slowpoke Mayzee. “Vernon is a jerk.”

  “First day at school, and you already have him pegged.”

  “I had him figured out the first night we worked together. What does Twig see in him?”

  I pretended I didn’t hear his question.

  * * *

  I couldn’t wait for school each morning. Joe was in half of my classes, and he sat with the Garcia twins and me at lunch.

  Frederica had a crush on him. I knew right off when, after Joe’s first day, she came to school with her hair down and legs shaved, with a couple of bandages above each ankle.

  Joe’s eyes glazed over whenever Juan Leon talked about math, but he politely slipped in “hmm” and “really” every once in a while.

  By Joe’s third day, though, he interrupted Juan Leon. “Man, I’m glad you like math, but I really don’t think I’ll be using it much after I graduate.”

  Juan Leon frowned. “Of course you w
ill.”

  “No,” Joe said, “I really don’t think so. Well, maybe to count my money.”

  “How about deductive reasoning?” Juan Leon asked.

  Joe’s forehead wrinkled. “Say what?”

  Great thought. Now he’s invited Juan Leon to get on a math tangent that will leave us even more exhausted and confused.

  Juan Leon put down his sandwich and straightened his back. “Deductive reasoning is the process a person uses to make conclusions based on previously known facts.”

  Joe shook his head.

  “You’ll use it,” Juan Leon said. “Believe me.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The groundbreaking for the new library was on Saturday, so Mom and Dad decided not to open the stand until after the ceremony. Dad was giving a speech on behalf of the building committee. Our family showed up dressed in our Sunday best. The whole town seemed to have turned out, including Joe and his mom. Some people stood while others sat in lawn chairs like they were waiting for a Fourth of July parade. There hadn’t been a new building in Antler since before I was born. Maybe before Mom and Dad were born. This was a big deal.

  Across the street, Twig perched on a curb. I wanted to check out her reaction when Joe came over and stood by me. Unfortunately Vernon joined her at the same time.

  Joe had noticed Twig and Vernon. They sat so closely their legs were touching. I hoped Joe noticed that, too.

  Twig lifted her hand, and for a quick second, it looked like she was going to wave at us.

  I raised my hand to wave back.

  But she wasn’t waving. She was merely tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

  Embarrassed, I quickly did the same.

  The crowd quieted because Dad was standing at the podium and had begun his speech. “This library was the dream of one woman, who wanted our citizens to have a better library so that we, too, could dream. Miss Myrtie Mae Pruitt loved this town. We see that love in her photography. We see it in her generous gift.”

  Dad unveiled a plaque with today’s date and the library’s name—THE MYRTIE MAE PRUITT PUBLIC LIBRARY. Everyone applauded.