The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  But there weren’t any. His name wasn’t in the 2000 one either.

  I turned to the 2001 edition and got the same results. I checked all the B’s again, just in case, but there were no articles by a Zachary or an Elvis or even a Z. E. Beaver. A split second had changed everything. I couldn’t help but believe my biggest fear might have come true.

  I thought about not telling Joe. He had been so happy, but when he returned from the bathroom, he must have recognized the disappointment on my face.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  I hesitated, but then handed him the other indexes.

  Joe read, running his finger down the list on the pages of each edition. Then he checked them again. He looked so sad that I forgot all about finding Zachary for Dad. Now I wanted him to be alive for Joe.

  Then Joe slammed the last book shut, and we went outside to wait for Opa. “We should check the obituaries,” he said. “Then at least we’d know. Nothing is worse than not knowing.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Eight months had passed since the 9/11 attacks, and Dad said thousands of people whose family members died still hadn’t received their loved ones’ remains. Not an elbow or a rib or even a tooth to prove that they were truly gone. Joe’s dad was among the lost.

  I understood why Joe would need to know about his dad and why he thought it was best if we found out if Zachary was dead, too, but I didn’t want to know. Because knowing meant I would have to carry that secret with me for the rest of my life.

  * * *

  Joe was scheduled to work Friday night, so I went to the Bowl-a-Rama Café to watch the ninepin bowling clubs. Unfortunately, that meant Vernon was working, too. The guys squatted on boxes in the pits behind the pins. After each frame, they jumped down and quickly returned the pins to their diamond pattern.

  Antler was winning over White Deer. The teams only had two more frames left. I pretended to watch the rest of the game while noticing Joe’s every move. Somehow he managed to look cute just by jumping off a box and resetting pins.

  Ninepin was played long before tenpin. Ferris said it was outlawed during prohibition times because people were gambling on the games. One of the main things that made it different than tenpin was the scoring. The object in ninepin was to leave the middle pin, called the redhead (because it was painted pink or red), standing. When that happened, the team scored twelve points for a twelve-ringer. If a bowler knocked down all the pins, the team received nine points for a ringer. When I was on Antler’s youth team, I managed to get a few ringers, but never a twelve-ringer.

  Tonight Antler won, and the bowling teams left. I waited for Joe to finish his shift.

  Vernon came out first and said, “Well, hello, hot stuff.”

  I ignored him.

  Behind me, I heard a familiar voice say, “Hey.”

  Vernon’s greeting wasn’t meant for me. Twig stood only a few yards away. It felt strange. Outside of school, I hadn’t breathed the same air as her in months.

  Joe came over and said, “Hi, Twig.”

  My heart sank a little until he looked over at me, smiling so sweet, and said, “Hey, thanks for dropping by.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Vernon said. “Since no one else is here, how about a game of ninepin, only Twig and Rylee?”

  Twig looked startled, but I knew her. She wouldn’t back down on any dare. Then she said, “It’s a team sport.”

  “You’re a team, and she’s a team,” Vernon said. “Wagner against Wilson.”

  “I’m in,” I said, instantly regretting it.

  “Twig? Are you in?” Joe asked.

  She nodded.

  “All right!” Vernon hurried back to the box.

  Joe spoke up. “I think you should set the pins for Rylee, and I’ll do it for Twig.”

  “Don’t trust me?” Vernon said in mock surprise.

  “Nope,” Joe said, “I don’t.”

  Before returning to the pit, Joe came over to me and lowered his voice. “Just so you know, Twig’s been practicing, and she’s really good.”

  I ignored him, glancing over at Twig and asking her, “Are you sure you want to?”

  “Whatever.” She seized a pair of size-seven shoes from the shelf and slipped them on.

  How could I feel scared and excited at the same time? I’d never taken the lead with Twig. Everything we did, everything we didn’t do was always her idea.

  Ferris came inside the bowling alley and stood at the back of the room. Mr. Pham joined him.

  I took a big breath and said, “Go ahead.”

  Twig shook her head. “Nah, you go. I insist.”

  “After you,” I told her.

  “I’ll flip a coin.” Ferris dug in his pocket.

  “Heads,” Twig called out.

  Ferris flipped the coin.

  Tails. My decision.

  “I’ll go last,” I said.

  Twig went over and chose a ball, held it against her chest, and stared down the pins. She stepped up to the line, swung back her arm, and released the ball.

  The ball rolled fast, straight down the middle until it hit the lead pin. Every pin followed. Ringer.

  Vernon made a little victory cry—“Whoop, whoop, whoop”—while Joe quickly put the pins back in place.

  Twig went again, and this time, seven pins fell.

  At my turn, I focused on my secret weapon, the pin to the left of the lead one, closed my eyes for a split second, imagining the redhead standing alone. Then I took four steps toward the first line, and when I let go of the ball, it rolled its way to where I willed it. Every pin dropped except for the redhead.

  “Twelve-ringer!” Joe yelled.

  My first ever.

  Joe jumped out of the pit and danced on the lane where the pins had once stood. All he needed were pom-poms.

  Twig twisted her mouth. When she went up the next time, she dropped the ball a little too soon, and it jagged its way over toward the gutter.

  “Focus!” Vernon yelled.

  Her ball traveled the edge of the lane and dropped into the gutter right before reaching the pins.

  My next frame, I bowled a ringer, then another.

  Twig rolled a gutter ball and then another.

  At the end of the third frame, Twig waved her hands over the air vent a long time before picking up the ball. She wasn’t used to losing, especially to me, Soccer-ball Catcher Wilson.

  “Aw, come on, Twig,” Vernon said. “Concentrate, dingy!”

  How could he call her that? Why would she put up with it? That wasn’t like her at all. I wanted to punch Vernon. Instead I threw the ball, aiming and sending it straight to the gutter. Winning wasn’t that important to me. Not like it was to Twig.

  Twig looked over at me in bewilderment. Then she frowned. I hadn’t fooled her. She knew I’d messed up on purpose.

  Joe lowered his head from the pit and threw me a what-were-you-thinking look.

  Then Twig picked up the ball and rolled a ringer.

  Ferris and Mr. Pham turned and went back into the café. I wondered if they had a customer or if they were disappointed in me, too. Across the alley, Miss Myrtie Mae’s picture of my dad and Uncle Cal on top of the roof hung on the wall. I stared at the photo, remembering all those last pictures she’d taken and how they’d made me realize so many of my decisions were based on Twig’s happiness.

  She was waiting now. So was everyone else.

  I picked up the ball and eyed that left pin. And when I released the ball, it was so quiet, the rumble of it rolling down the lane was all that could be heard. I knew what would happen before it did. Every pin dropped except the redhead.

  “Twelve-ringer!” Joe yelled.

  Ferris and Mr. Pham were back.

  The last two frames, Twig hit pins, but no ringers, no twelve-ringers, no points.

  Frame five, I got a ringer. There was only one more frame, and we already knew the outcome, but I rolled anyway. Ringer.

  I won.

  Mr. Pham nodde
d to me, and Ferris said, “Think I’ll start calling you Twelve-ringer Rylee.”

  “Great game,” Twig said. She was even kind of smiling. She was competitive, but only if she won it square and fair.

  After saying good night to Ferris and Mr. Pham, Joe and I left the café. He held my hand and chattered about the game the whole way to my house.

  “Man,” he said, “I thought you were going to try and lose that game in the third frame.”

  I felt lighter than air, as if I could soar all the way home. It wasn’t because Joe was holding my hand for the very first time or because I’d won the game. It was because something had shifted inside me when I realized it was okay to try and win.

  When we reached my house, Joe said watching our game had mentally exhausted him, and he was going straight home to bed. “You were awesome tonight,” he told me before leaning over and giving me a quick hug and a peck on my forehead. “I probably won’t see you this weekend. I have to work on my history report.”

  I’d forgotten he hadn’t done his and figured he’d probably forgotten, too.

  “Mr. Wilson is a tough grader,” I said. “Good luck.”

  “I’ll need it.”

  “Just make sure you can back up your facts. That will impress him.”

  “One more thing,” Joe said. “I was going to tell you later, but I’ll tell you now. My mom and I are going home for a week. We leave a day before school lets out.”

  He called it home. New York was still home to him.

  “When did you decide that?” I asked.

  “This morning. Yesterday Mom found out they’re ending the cleanup at Ground Zero, and they’re doing a ceremony for the unrecovered dead.” His voice cracked on the last word. Then he raised his chin as if to get a grip on his emotions. “We’re going to be in the honor guard. If you want to watch, it will be on television.”

  “Of course I’ll be watching,” I said.

  “Don’t expect me to wave or anything.”

  We laughed a little, then he walked backward from my front porch until he reached the road, gazing at me the whole way.

  * * *

  The next morning I slept until nine, later than I ever remembered. It felt strange to greet the sun instead of the moon. Once out of bed, I opened my windows, took my mandolin out of the closet, and began to play “Sweet Afton.” My rendition proved mediocre at best. I still struggled with the bar chords on the chorus, but it felt good to play and release a part of myself into the world instead of hiding behind the clothes and pillows inside my closet.

  When I finished the song, I went downstairs, where my family sat at the breakfast table. The three of them gazed at me with silly grins while I settled in my chair and struggled to untie one of Mayzee’s tightly knotted napkins.

  Then Mayzee asked, “Would you play ‘You Are My Sunshine’ for me at the opry?”

  CHAPTER 33

  Sunday morning I looked out the window toward Joe’s bedroom. I’d gotten in the habit of checking it ever since that day weeks ago when I saw him waiting for Uncle Cal. After that, the lamp was never on before dawn.

  Until now.

  I watched for a moment, and when I didn’t see any moving shadows, I looked down at the street, but Joe wasn’t there. Then I rushed to my north window and waited for Uncle Cal, expecting him to make his appearance. Maybe I should have told him that Joe might have changed his mind.

  After a while, I gave up and listened to my iPod. I was great at playing the air-mandolin, my fingers mastering G-sharp minor. If only my actual daily afternoon sessions did it justice. But I was getting better even if the improvement was slow going. At least I was prepared to play “You Are My Sunshine” for Mayzee in a couple of weeks.

  One song later, I glanced out my window again. There they were, Uncle Cal and Joe, side by side, coming in from the west, returning from a neighborhood ride. When they got to Uncle Cal’s driveway, they lifted their palms and slapped each other five. Then Joe rode on, turned at the corner, and cycled the rest of the way home.

  * * *

  Joe was wearing his FDNY T-shirt. He looked nervous. Remembering the books he’d checked out of the library, I wondered if his report was on a sideshow operator or a circus owner. I just hoped he didn’t mention anything about Zachary Beaver.

  After taking attendance in history, Dad said, “We have one last report to hear. Mr. Toscani?”

  Joe opened his folder and pulled out the pages.

  Then with hands shaking, he began to read.

  “If it hadn’t been for the firefighters of the twentieth century, many United States cities would have lost more lives, homes, and businesses.”

  His voice cracked a little, and a few sentences in, he stopped reading. I glanced around the class, but everyone was sitting politely waiting. By now the word had spread through town about Joe’s dad.

  Joe started reading again, covering the heroic acts of both the volunteer departments and full-time firefighters. We listened to him talk about the ongoing training the firefighters had so they could handle all kinds of fires from high-rise buildings to confined areas. He shared how they had to have an extensive education and skill in fighting wildland fires and working around hazardous materials.

  Ending his report, he said, “When a person becomes a firefighter, they’ve made a decision that could come at a high cost. When they leave the front doors of their homes each day, they never know if that will be the last time they will see their families. It was true in the last century, true in this century, too.”

  Dad cleared his throat. “Thank you, Joe. That was excellent. Any questions for Joe?”

  Even though Dad always invited the class to ask questions after everyone’s report, I wished he could have made an exception with Joe. He knew how the Jerks behaved in this class. When Vernon’s hand went up, I was wishing Dad had used some deductive reasoning.

  “Mr. Clifton?” Dad’s tone had a load of reluctance pinned to it.

  “Joe, how long was your dad a fireman?” Vernon asked.

  Joe raised his chin. “Twenty-one years.”

  I hoped Vernon wasn’t going to start bragging about how his dad was a volunteer fireman and had served for years, too.

  Instead Vernon asked, “What was his name?”

  “Frank Toscani,” Joe said, sliding into his seat, his back now to the class.

  “You must really be proud of what he did. I mean your dad, Frank Toscani, was a hero.” Vernon scooted his chair away from his desk, stood up, and began to clap.

  Boone followed his lead. So did Twig, Juan Leon, and Frederica. Now everyone was on their feet, clapping, including Dad and me.

  Then Vernon hollered, “FDNY!” And the rest of us joined in. “FDNY! FDNY!”

  There was no stopping us. We clapped and clapped, and when Mr. Arlo stuck his head in the classroom to see what was going on, we continued to clap.

  None of us had lost a parent in that tragedy, nor seen firsthand the horror of the towers collapsing. We had only witnessed it through our television screens and believed that it was real. It wasn’t enough to fly our flags, gather in prayer circles, paint a café in patriotic colors, or send our dollars to help rebuild.

  But we had to do something.

  Joe just sat there in his front row seat, staring down at his desk, his shoulders raised to his ears. His face was hidden, but if I could have seen his eyes, I knew what I would have found there. I leaned over, touched his arm, and motioned for him to turn around.

  He quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Then he looked back at us, taking in all of the best that our seventh-grade history class could give.

  CHAPTER 34

  The day before the school year ended, Joe and his mom left for New York. They would spend a few days with his aunt and uncle in his old neighborhood before the ceremony on May 30. I tried not to think about him having fun with Arham, going to all the places they used to go, like Owl Head’s Park, or having an egg cream at Hinsch’s.

  The fi
rst official day of summer vacation, I pedaled to the edge of town where they were building the frame of the new library. The sounds of saws singing and nail guns popping filled the air. Dad said the rest of the construction would go faster now. Usually that would be exciting, but nothing seemed worth celebrating.

  Deep in thought, I rode away from the worksite and somehow ended up at the courthouse basement door, in front of the Antler Public Library sign. The library would be closed soon to prepare for the move across town. I wanted to take a last look around.

  “Hello.” The voice came from somewhere behind the stacks of boxes and books. A tall young woman with blond curly hair and a cheerful face emerged from the spot where the checkout counter used to be.

  “Hi,” I answered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone would be here.”

  “Can I help you?” Her voice was as friendly as her face, almost as if it were suppressing giggles.

  “I used to come here all the time.”

  “Come back for a last look?”

  “Yes, I guess.” My timing was late. I wished I’d visited sooner. “Are you the new librarian?”

  “I sure am. My name is Kennedy Parsons.”

  “I’m Rylee Wilson.” I held out my hand, and she gave it a nice firm shake.

  “My dad didn’t tell me you’d started. You may have met him. He’s on the building committee. His name is Toby Wilson.”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes, Mr. Wilson. He interviewed me first.”

  “Are you from the Panhandle?”

  “Yes, I’m from Borger.”

  That explained the good firm handshake.

  “So it’s not so different there,” she said. “Well, bigger for sure.”

  “For sure,” I said. Then we both laughed.

  “But I’ve driven through Antler lots of times, and I always thought it was a cute town. So charming—like the opry house.”

  “That’s my grandmother’s. Opalina Wilson.”

  “Oh, I love that!”

  “Do you like country music?”

  “Well…,” she said, “I’m a bit of an indie rock fan. Sorry.”