by T W Morse
“Take Ortiz out! And hurry, we need to go in fifteen minutes,” I yell to Ulysses as I slip back into the fresh memories of Jillian.
CHAPTER 1.5
- ULYSSES -
THE NOT-QUITE-BROKEN ADAIR FAMILY, CONTINUED
M y mind springs to life, as my cell phone’s alarm chirps annoyingly alive in my ear, spoiling my dream of Hannah. Dreams should be recorded so people can review them at leisure, dissecting the meaning and weirdness of our subconscious. I can only remember bits of this particular dream of Hannah. It involved her and me running on the beach.
You would think a dream that includes the girl of my literal dreams would be of us frolicking through the sand and passionately kissing in the dunes, but nope. In this dream, we were running from masked ninjas! Masked ninjas? Shouldn’t have stayed up late with Dad last night, binging the second season of Daredevil on Netflix.
“Ulysses. Ulysses, time to wake up!” my dad says through my door from the kitchen.
Yes, you guessed right, my name is Ulysses. Ulysses Robert Adair. I hate my name. My dad, a Civil War buff, named me after Ulysses S. Grant, great Union general and president. My dad got to name me, and, if I was a girl, my mother would have had the opportunity. She used to say my name would have been Emma, after my great-grandmother. Unfortunately, my father won this agreement and failed miserably in his task. Ulysses is such an old man name. I picture some crabby old man with a corduroy suit, hobbling around with a cane. All my friends, and even some of my teachers, call me U.
I yell out my door, “I’m up, I’m up!” I am exasperated by all that is in my head as my feet hit the cold faux wood floor. I slowly stretch my long body, as I lose all prior remembrance of my dream. Reluctantly, I transition into my morning routine. “Thanks, Dad!”
It wasn’t a typical dream. For years I have become used to nightmares, reliving the car crash my mother and I were in, night after night. I’ll take ninjas any day after enduring that nightmare for five years. She and I crashed on our move down to Florida from Maine. Dad was in the moving truck, several cars behind, and we were in our old minivan. Mom’s death happened so fast; I only remember fragments. They come back in sharp, painful blurs. After the crash, it took a long time for me and Dad to recover mentally, a lot longer than my physical injuries. But we lean on each other, and we’ve learned to function in our new normal. He’s my best friend, and we found out a lot about ourselves after the crash. We grew close, especially in this new strange place in Florida. But I still miss my mom, probably always will.
“Hey Siri, play some AC/DC.” “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” pulsates through the mini speaker dancing on my desk. It inspires me to drop to the floor and start my morning workout of fifty push-ups and crunches. My cold floor is littered with an unusual amount of dust and hair, reminding me to vacuum after school before Dad notices. I finish the workout and pop up to examine my shirtless body in front of my flimsy white mirror that hangs on my closet door. My pajama pants are getting tighter and the length is getting shorter. The material, once white, is now a bit gray and fraying. Pulling the waistband down I examine the four-inch scar on my upper thigh. Stroking the scar tissue, I wince at the memory of the crash and the weeks of rehab. I start flexing my biceps and abs in the mirror, showing off my thin muscled body to nobody but my fat brown guinea pig, Jedi. He is not impressed, and he scurries back into his purple plastic house.
Right on cue, Dad yells again, “Eggs are getting cold, double time!”
I check my phone; it explodes with snaps from Hannah and Conrad about today and later tonight. I have to ignore them because I am running late. I quickly throw on pink striped boxers, khaki shorts, and one of my prized Christmas presents from my rich Uncle Alan, a Vineyard Vines polo shirt. This particular one is bright blue. Dad and I cannot usually afford Vineyard Vines shirts. Reason 1: Dad is a teacher and widowed. Reason 2: Dad, being from Maine, is a tightwad. It’s a Maine thing, only true Mainers would understand. Dad is so tight with money; he owns clothes that predate me.
He always lectures me saying, “Why pay eighty dollars for a shirt with a little tiny whale, when you can buy 6 shirts with no whale, for the same price and material? The only difference is one has a tiny stitched whale!”
Dad doesn’t understand what a teen in Somerset, Florida, has to deal with in the twenty-first century. He thinks of the wealthy families as duchy elitists, but when I wear these shirts I feel like I belong here.
Uncle Alan is Dad’s brother who works in Boston. Did I mention he was loaded? I’m his only nephew, so I score big at Christmas and birthdays. I finish getting dressed by throwing on some Old Spice, which I know the ladies like — I hope.
I look around my room and know my dad, touched with a case of OCD, would freak if he saw the condition it is in, so I quickly start to pick things up. This doesn’t take long because my bedroom is an eight by eight box. It has a single bed, bureau, tiny desk and outdated soccer posters plastered to the walls. An overused and repurposed black spray-painted coffee table stands at the foot of my bed, where an oversized brown guinea pig plays hide and seek with himself in an equally oversized cage.
I smell-check each piece of clothing that is on the floor, throwing articles that pass into the closet. The ones that don’t pass litter the top of my hamper in a pile that balances to stay upright. I finish by quickly pulling my sheets and my Union Jack comforter into place.
I run a brush through my brown puffy, curly, unruly hair. I can thank Mom for my hair; her hair was long and curly. She often struggled in the morning, like I am now, trying to get a less Elvis look. Dad always says my hair looks a little bit like Elvis. I comb at it again, and again, but it springs back at me with a vengeance, often curling down my forehead like Clark Kent.
My attention is once again pulled away by little paws scratching at my door. I open it to unveil our Boston terrier, Ortiz. He swaggers his chubby black body into my room, suspiciously eyeing Jedi, who, in return, retreats into his purple plastic home. Ortiz sits in front of me, looking for attention.
Dad calls after him, “Take Ortiz out, please! And hurry, we need to go in fifteen minutes.”
Ortiz looks up intensely, knowing what Dad just ordered, wagging his tail ferociously. It always appears that Ortiz has a wide, smug, toothy grin on his face, right now more than ever.
I walk out of my bedroom and across the condo in five steps, passing by Dad in the dining room. He is watching ESPN in deep meditation, drinking from his enormous coffee cup. I slip on my aging tan Sperrys, grab the leash from the hook, and pin Ortiz to the ground, exposing his white belly as I clasp the leash to his collar. He leads the way out the front door, practically sprinting the entire way down our seventeen steps to the ground floor.
We live in a tight two-bedroom condo in Somerset, Florida. Somerset is one of the wealthiest zip codes in America, but unfortunately, we don’t see much of the wealth. We are in the part of the city where the lower to middle class live. Condos and small duplexes litter this part of Somerset; there’s a lot of Section 8 housing as well. The condos where we live are called River Creek. They are pretty nice. We have a pool and a fitness center. The complex runs behind the Goodlette River; it is probably the cheapest waterfront in Calusa County.
The apartment next door on our floor is vacant, and the Hernandezes live below us on the first floor. The Hernandezes are a nice young Hispanic couple who have a newborn - a loud newborn. Walls in River Creek are thin, even the ceilings.
We have an end unit on Dragonfly Way near the front gate. All Somerset street names sound like a yoga studio, even in the less desirable parts of the city; I don’t get it. Dad and I are happy at River Creek, since it is close to the beach and many restaurants.
We’ve lived here for five years now; Mom was supposed to live here too. River Creek is a series of seven cement buildings, all covered with stucco painted in browns and tans as to appear Tuscan. I’m not sure why people want Florida to look like Italy, but I’m not complaining. I
made a vow to never complain about Florida. Next time my friend Conrad complains about the heat, or how we have nothing to do in Somerset, I’m going to knock him out, throw him in a crate, and mail him to Maine in the middle of January. I was born in Clark, Maine, and we lived there until we couldn’t take the cold anymore and moved down here. I don’t want to call out Maine, it’s great in the summer, but during our last winter up in Clark we had 110 inches of snow! 110! Clark, Maine, is also home to seven antique stores. Not sure why they need seven, but, sure, whatever. I love Florida! The constant sun, the beaches, the stores, and malls. I’ll even add the weirdos and the gators to the list.
I do have some great memories of Maine, especially since they are basically all memories of my mom. Like the times we traveled down to Boston, catching a game at Fenway Park to watch our beloved Red Sox. Memories of Mom and I building a snowman after Dad snow-blowed the driveway, or a cup of cocoa with Mom as she read mysteries to me by the wood stove. Ortiz once again yanks me away from my deep thoughts. His business is done and he wants to go back in to see his favorite person — Dad.
Ortiz’s tiny black paws zoom back up the seventeen steps to our apartment. I open the door and Ortiz bursts in, jumping on Dad in pure elation. Dad scratches at Ortiz’s ear and throws one of his tennis balls across the room. Ortiz shoots from Dad’s lap and through the house in a couple of strides, catching the ball on one of its first bounces. He then holds it between his canines, as he lays down near the front door in triumphant satisfaction.
“Eat!” Dad instructs. “We have a long day ahead of us, and you need protein if you want those muscles to grow.”
“Fine, fine,” I mumble from the side of my mouth. Dad’s ringtone for me is the Swedish Chef from the Muppets because he claims I mumble a lot. I’m in denial. Dad is washing his breakfast dishes, while I smear my favorite BBQ sauce on my two eggs and do my best impression of a speed eater. I then pop a waffle in the toaster and gulp down a glass of OJ.
My dad looks at me quizzically; I smile, saying with a full mouth, “What?!”
“You ready?”
I slather peanut butter across the newly toasted waffle, grab a banana, and throw my plate in the dishwasher. “I’m ready.”
“Okay, but did you pack your math work? If you have another missing assignment, O’Leary will want to meet with me!”
Mr. O’Leary is my honors geometry teacher, and he is in Dad’s carpool. We mutually agree that Mr. O’Leary is the biggest tool in the tool bag. The guy hates me, and he always looks down at Dad.
“I packed it, and I’m trying to turn him now. He’s coming around, too; he only hates me a little. You can bring me today, right?”
I usually like biking to school, but our guitars are in the back of the car and we always look forward to Penny University. Lately there are new reasons to like it though.
“Yeah, no carpool today. I’m looking forward to tonight; maybe we can play some of those Eagles songs we rehearsed.”
“Too new, we better do some of the songs we’re used to.”
You guessed it, Dad teaches at my high school, Mangrove High. He got a U.S. history position five years ago. I don’t mind having my dad teaching at my high school, especially since he's a pretty laid-back teacher. His students generally like him, unlike O’Leary: He’s the devil. Just thinking about him gives me chills. I look over my shoulder like he knows I’m thinking about him and he’ll magically appear, like in a cheesy horror movie.
“Can you go lock up Ortiz while I get the car and A/C going?” Dad asks as he grabs his work bag and pours the rest of his coffee from his big mug into his to-go mug, which reads “World's Okayest Teacher,” before slipping out the door.
I throw Ortiz's tennis ball, now oozing with slobber, into his metal wire crate just inside Dad’s bedroom. The crate is filled with a cushy bright golden bed and a couple of chew toys to keep him entertained throughout the school day. Ortiz scampers in, and I latch the door behind him.
“Works every time.” His face looks sad and pathetic, not smiling at me anymore. “I’ll make it up to you after school, I promise.”
I run to the door, grab my faded red L.L. Bean backpack, and snatch my lanyard with my house key attached. I lock the door as I exit, racing down the steps, and yell, “Buenos dias,” to a groggy looking Mr. Hernandez as he reaches for his morning newspaper. I practically somersault into our Silver Prius. “Smooth,” Dad comments.
“I know — right?” I grin back.
CHAPTER 2
- ULYSSES -
THE PINK HIGH SCHOOL IS NOT A PRISON?
T he Prius drifts through the streets of Somerset while the satellite radio plays a Jimmy Buffet tune, and Dad sings along. He is always singing.
As we drive through the streets to school, the restaurants and condos near River Creek blend together, passing us like the light humid breeze breaking through the open windows, encircling us in warmth. The roads of Somerset are pristine, the grass perfectly manicured, the giant palm trees remind you of where you are as they dot the medians in perfect symmetry. Nothing is out of sorts in this 1% city.
As we get closer to Mangrove High, the condos and restaurants slowly recede, giving way to multi-million-dollar gated communities lined by ten-foot privacy walls and towering fountains that play peekaboo through the security gates. The wealth is exuded on every corner, making our Prius awkward among the Porsches and Maseratis coasting by us.
I focus my attention on my phone, exchanging texts and snaps with Conrad and Hannah.
We pass a few reclaimed and recently flipped warehouses near our downtown. Probably once used for processing fish when Somerset was a fishing village in a bygone era. Now they appear lost among the brand-new condos and ritzy banks on every other corner. One warehouse in particular is painted bright slate blue with a weathered, rusty tin roof. The warehouse wears an oversized marquee facade, covered in large Broadway Edison bulbs that read “Penny University Cafe” in a bold, exaggerated, cursive font. I can’t wait till tonight! Hannah’s parents own and operate Penny University. She also is now old enough to work there. As we pass I start to think of her, and these thoughts become a daydream.
Hannah and I share two classes together, U.S history and geometry. Ever since seventh grade I’ve been wanting to ask her on a date. Two years seems like an eternity, at least an eternity for a teenager. I always lacked the courage to act.
Dad is reading my mind as he turns to me, with his lopsided grin, and says, “So — when are you going to ask Hannah out?”
“Seriously, Dad? How? How did you know what I was thinking? I don’t know. I’m waiting for the right moment. Seriously, how did you do that?” He always does this, not just with me but everyone.
“Elementary, my dear Ulysses. You were zoning out when we drove by Penny University while a romantic tune by Buffett was on, and you sighed to yourself. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that train of thought. She’s working tonight. The moment may pass by; you better act quick. I think it’s her first night working since she turned fourteen, so now she’s getting paid. She told me in class yesterday. She’ll be so impressed to hear you play tonight.”
“Hopefully,” I murmur, frustrated at how Dad could read my mind so easily. “Did it take forever for you to get the courage to ask Mom out?” I ask.
“Mom actually asked me out.”
“You never said that!”
“You never asked. It happened a couple of decades ago while I was waiting tables at the Kennebec Resort, back in Maine. It was during the summer of my sophomore year in college.
“I was walking out of our kitchen with a huge tray full of food when I bumped into a resort guest standing right in front of the entrance to the kitchen. I only saw a blur of bright orange before my tray went flying in the air and all over my customer’s lap. The fish dish went one way, the steak went flying another, soup sloshing everywhere, a complete crazy mess. If I was lucky, the tray and the food would’ve gone on the floor, but no.
My luck had it spilling right on the lap of my two customers, who happened to have been the couple who owned the resort! While they were celebrating their anniversary!”
“No way, so how did Mom ask you out?”
“Let me finish, U.”
“I thought your first date was at the carnival?”
“It was, but Mom asked me.”
Now my curiosity was building. “How?” I ask.
“Let me finish!”
“Ok, ok.”
“So I started to say sorry to the owner, I think his name was Horner, yeah Mr. and Mrs. Horner. I profusely said sorry, but he barked at me like I was a stupid simpleton, calling me some nasty names, so my anger grew. I may as well have turned green and had gamma radiation running through my veins. I called him a pompous douchebag! I never want this repeated, Ulysses, I was embarrassed, juvenile, and unprofessional.”
“I know, Dad. So did you hit him?” I make the motion with my fist and start giggling.
“No! The reverse actually. Mr. Horner said, in many curse words, that I was finished at his establishment, and he had me escorted out of the resort.”
“That’s great, Dad, that you like to share your most embarrassing moments with me, but I thought you were sharing how Mom asked you out, not reliving Logan Adair bloopers through the years.”
“Who do you think I bumped into?” Dad says smiling.
“No way?”
“Way!”
“Dad, nobody says that anymore.”
“It’s not hip?” Dad asks.
“No, and stop saying hip!”
“Okay, so I was sitting out on the curb in front of this massive white nineteenth-century Victorian resort on the down east coast of Maine with no ride home because my shift wasn’t over. I was now jobless for the foreseeable future, and that’s when I heard the most delicate English-accented voice behind me saying ‘I'm so sorry!’ She came up beside me and sat on the curb next to me, wearing a bright orange jumper that hugged her tiny frame.
