How We Roll

by Natasha Friend

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” Mrs. Strout frowned at the slate steps. “They look pretty steep. And there’s no railing.”

  “I’ve got it. You can go.”

  Quinn watched Nick’s mom start to move in for a kiss, then hesitate, then smooch him on the head anyway.

  “Mom,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “Sorry,” his mom said. “Bye, honey. Bye, Quinn.”

  “Bye, Mrs. Strout.”

  *   *   *

  Watching Nick navigate the front steps was like watching one of those puppets on strings. Because his prosthetics had no knee joints, he had to lean all the way to one side to lift the opposite leg onto the next step. Then he had to stand straight up and balance on one metal foot before leaning all the way to the other side and lifting the opposite leg up. It looked really hard. It took forever. Quinn wanted to cheer him on, to offer words of encouragement each time he scaled another step, but she knew Nick well enough by now to keep her mouth shut. The only time she opened it was when he got to the top, and then she said, “You want a Coke?”

  *   *   *

  Julius didn’t exactly ruin everything, but he didn’t help, either. Maybe ten minutes after Quinn got Nick’s Coke, Julius pounded on the front door. As soon as Quinn opened it and heard him muttering, “Mo. Mo makes my snack. Mo makes my snack,” she knew.

  “Rough day?” she said to her dad.

  He was trailing behind Julius, Guinness World Records 2017 in one hand and yellow headphones in the other. His glasses were smudged and there was a blotchy red stain on his white shirt. “You have no idea.”

  “Hi, Julius,” Quinn said, even though she knew it was pointless. “How was school today?”

  “Mo picks me up,” Julius said quietly to the coatrack. “Mo.” He paused to do one of his rock-and-roll moves, shifting his weight forward and backward, snapping his fingers high in the air. “Mo picks me up.”

  “Right,” Quinn said, turning back to her father. “So, Dad, Nick’s here. He’s in the bathroom right now, but I just wanted to let you know, before he comes out—”

  “Legs,” Julius said, not quietly. “Legs. Legs. Legs.”

  Quinn swore under her breath. She tried to catch Nick’s eye to tell him she was sorry, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was standing in the doorway, watching her brother.

  “Hi, Nick.” Quinn’s dad tucked the book under his elbow and walked briskly past Julius to shake Nick’s hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Svetlana Pankratova of Russia has the world’s longest legs—”

  Of course, Quinn thought. Of course this was happening right now. She closed her eyes.

  “—verified as measuring one hundred and thirty-two centimeters, fifty-one point nine inches, in Torremolinos, Spain, on eight July two thousand and three.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Quinn’s dad murmured. “He’s a little thrown off by his mother being out of town.”

  Quinn opened her eyes to shoot her dad a look, but he was focused on Julius. “Bud, you remember Nick? Can you say hello?”

  Snap, flap, kick. The triple threat.

  Nick took a few halting steps forward. “Hi, Julius.”

  “Wheels.”

  Oh dear Lord. If Quinn could have grabbed Nick under her arm like a football and run him out of the house, she would have.

  “That’s right,” Nick said to Julius. “The last time you saw me I had my wheels. This time I have my legs.”

  Julius stopped moving for about a nanosecond. “They’re short.”

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “They are. Because they don’t have knees.”

  “Largest game of head, shoulders, knees, and toes…”

  If Quinn’s dad hadn’t been there as a witness, Quinn might not have believed what she was hearing herself. Julius and Nick were having a conversation. Kind of. And the only people Julius had conversations with were Mo, Phil, and Q.

  *   *   *

  “What are you making?” Quinn asked her dad later. Julius was watching TV. Nick was in Mo’s studio, putting the finishing touches on his sculpture’s nose, which didn’t look half bad.

  “Pizza,” her dad said. He was standing at the kitchen counter, rolling out dough.

  “Seriously?” Quinn said.

  Her dad grinned. He had flour on his nose. “When you were little, we used to make pizza together every Friday night. Do you remember?”

  Quinn shook her head. “It’s Tuesday.”

  “We can pretend it’s Friday.”

  “Hello? Taco Tuesday?” Quinn walked over to the refrigerator, where her mom had tacked up all her instructions. Quinn tapped the meal plan with her finger. “‘Tuesday dinner. Tacos. Ground beef in the fridge. Chop the tomatoes as small as possible. Use the tomatillo salsa…’ Did you even read this?”

  “I read it. And I decided to make pizza.”

  “Dad,” Quinn said. “Mom wrote this down for a reason. She knows what she’s doing.”

  “So do I,” Quinn’s dad said, slopping a spoonful of sauce onto his rolled-out dough. “Tonight we’re trying something new. Phil’s rules.”

  Quinn stared at him. “Phil’s rules?”

  “Phil’s rules,” he repeated, smoothing the sauce with the back of his spoon.

  “You’re going rogue.”

  “I’m expanding your brother’s culinary horizons.”

  “Just for the record,” Quinn said, “I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Julius is going to flip out.”

  “Possibly. Let’s see what happens.”

  *   *   *

  What happened was hand flapping and finger snapping and foot kicking and ear smacking and “Taco Tuesday, Phil, Taco Tuesday, Taco Tuesday, Phil, Phil, Taco Tuesday, Phil, Taco Tuesday, Phil,” until finally, Julius grabbed the freshly baked pizza off the stovetop and flung it across the kitchen like a discus, splattering sauce and cheese everywhere.

  Quinn’s dad stared at the mess.

  Quinn stared at her dad.

  Julius smacked his ears.

  “You know,” Nick said, “there’s a Mexican place in town that delivers. La Cucaracha. They make really good tacos.”

  Quinn’s dad turned to Nick and said, “Deus te benedicat.”

  Nick looked at Quinn.

  “It’s Latin,” she said. “He just blessed you.”

  *   *   *

  “So,” Quinn said, when she and Nick were standing out on the front lawn, waiting for Nick’s mom to pick him up. “Have we scared you away forever?”

  “I don’t scare that easy,” Nick said.

  “You don’t?”

  “Nah. You should see some of the blowouts at my house when all my brothers are home. One Thanksgiving, Kip threw the vacuum across the dining room at Gavin. It landed on the turkey.”

  Quinn laughed. “Really?”

  “Yeah. My mom was so mad.”

  It was still a little unreal to Quinn that Nick was standing here on her front lawn. Literally standing. Going down the stairs had been tricky. A few times Quinn had almost reached out to grab his arm, but it turned out she didn’t have to.

  “Speak of the devil,” Nick said as his mom’s car pulled into the driveway. He started walking, slow, wobbly steps down the path.

  “Hey,” Quinn said, walking behind him. “Thanks for suggesting that Mexican place. The tacos were really good.”

  “I know, right?”

  “I liked the hot sauce,” Quinn said. “And I don’t usually like hot sauce.”

  “I like you,” Nick said.

  At least that was what Quinn thought he said. That was what it sounded like. But he was facing the other direction, and his mom’s car was running, so it was kind of hard to hear.

  “What?” she said.

  But Nick was already getting into the front seat, saying something to his mom. Now he was waving goodbye to Quinn, a regular wave, not an
I-like-you sort of wave. So probably what he’d said was I like juice, which was what they’d had to drink with their tacos. Grape juice.

  Yeah, Quinn thought, as she waved back. I like juice. That made more sense.

  CHAPTER

  16

  THURSDAY WAS AN EARLY DISMISSAL. Professional development for teachers and no after-school activities. “You should come to JB’s with us,” Ivy said to Quinn during PE. “It’s tradition.”

  “Yeah,” Carmen said, “we stuff ourselves with mozzarella sticks and Lissa barfs in the trash can.”

  “That only happened once,” Lissa said.

  “Yes. But it was legendary.”

  “I can’t,” Quinn said.

  “What?” Ivy said. “You have coolah friends to hang out with?”

  Quinn shook her head. “My mom’s out of town, remember? I have to help my dad.”

  “With what?” Carmen said.

  “My brother.”

  “How old is he again?” Lissa said.

  “Nine.”

  She could have left it there. All her friends knew was that Quinn had a nine-year-old brother, so they probably assumed he went to one of the elementary schools in town and had an early dismissal, too. But not saying more, not being completely honest, was beginning to feel like a heavy box Quinn had been lugging around. She was tired of carrying it, so she set it down and let something crawl out. “He has autism. He goes to the Cove. He doesn’t have early dismissal, but he’s had a hard time since my mom left, and my dad is, like, flailing, so I want to be home in case his school calls and we have to go get him.”

  Quinn waited for awkward silence to set in. But Lissa said, “I get it. My sistah has Down syndrome.”

  “She does?” Quinn said.

  “Uh-huh. Not my oldah sistah, Jenny. My youngah sistah, Mae. She’s mainstreamed at the middle school.”

  “We love Mae,” Ivy said.

  And Carmen said, “Mae is the bomb. She gives the best hugs.”

  “Well,” Quinn said, trying not to look surprised. “I hope I get to meet her sometime.”

  *   *   *

  Quinn texted her dad as she was walking home. On my way. I can help w/ J’s snacks and dinner. Thermos Thurs.

  Then Quinn sent a quick group text to the girls. Sry to miss JBs. Eat a mozz stick for me.

  Finally, she sent a text to Nick, who she hadn’t seen all day because there was no lunch or study hall. Hey. Hope ur doing something fun w/ ur free afternoon. Check in l8r.

  When Quinn got to her house and unlocked the front door, there was a piece of notebook paper taped to the floor in the foyer. Salve, filia. I’m heading to town in search of cappuccino and a quiet spot to grade papers. Home by 4:00 with the divine Julius in tow. Love, Dad.

  Huh. Quinn thought for a minute. She could still go into town and meet the girls. She could hop on her skateboard and be there in twenty minutes.

  Or.

  Quinn reached up and peeled Guinevere off her head. Rip, rip, rip, went the wig tape.

  This feeling. This, right here. It was like diving into a pool on a hundred-degree day. It was like finally getting to pee after holding it for hours.

  Quinn gave her scalp a good, long scratch. She walked into the kitchen and got herself a bag of chips, a bowl of baby carrots. She carried her snacks into the living room and kicked her feet up on the coffee table. She clicked on the TV.

  There was nothing to watch. Game shows. Soap operas in English. Soap operas in Spanish. More game shows. Quinn flipped from channel to channel until she came upon three women sitting in a row with hair salon capes over their shoulders. One by one, the trio of stylists standing behind them held up signs. Choose a cut that flatters your face. Consider your color. Take stock of your styling products. It was the kind of stupid show that Quinn would normally never watch. She would skip right over it. But today, she stayed where she was. She sat on the couch, and she ate her snacks, and she watched the three women get transformed. Long hair to pixie cut. Bleached blond to honey brown. All-one-length to shaggy, chunky layers. She watched the women squeal and shriek and thank their stylists for changing their looks, for changing their lives.

  When the show was over, Quinn clicked off the TV. She walked into her dad’s office. She sat down at his computer and logged on to the alopeciasucks.com message board.

  FuzzyWuzzy: Anyone out there? I need to vent.

  It didn’t take long for a response to pop up.

  BaldFacedTruth: I’m here Fuzz. You ok?

  Quinn took a breath. She started to type.

  FuzzyWuzzy: I hate my wig. I HATE my wig. HATE IT. Every time I take it off I am so relieved I want to set it on fire so I never have to wear it again. But I am also grateful for it because for the past month it has transformed me. I know that sounds dramatic but it’s actually how it feels, like I’ve morphed into someone else. Which is what I thought I needed. Did u see my old post that I started at a new school? And that no one here knows I am AAT?

  BaldFacedTruth: I have been following all ur posts. How was the sleepover?

  FuzzyWuzzy: Fine. I mean my wig stayed on all night and no one could tell, but it sucked too b/c I was nervous the whole time and I felt like I was being sneaky, u know? That’s how I have felt this whole time, like I am not being honest w my new friends. Meanwhile, some of them have been very honest w me abt personal things with them that I have not judged them on. But I am still afraid to tell them.

  BaldFacedTruth: What do u think will happen if u do?

  FuzzyWuzzy: Idk.

  BaldFacedTruth: Do u trust them?

  FuzzyWuzzy: I think so. But I trusted my old friends too, and that was a mistake.

  BaldFacedTruth: What happened?

  FuzzyWuzzy: Long story.

  BaldFacedTruth: Ive got time.

  So Quinn started at the beginning. She began with the first time she told Paige and Tara about her alopecia. She wrote about how they tried to act normal, but Quinn could tell they thought it was weird. How they were always trying to get her to wear something other than her Colorado Rockies baseball cap. How, before the Valentine’s party, they took Quinn to Anthropologie and insisted that she buy the red-and-white beanie with the earflaps.

  Quinn kept writing and writing. She wrote about that One Stupid Night. She wrote about what happened in Paige’s bathroom. She wrote about Ethan lying to everyone, and laughing, and stuffing his face with the cookies she’d baked. She wrote about the Monday after the party. The girls on her basketball team cornering her in the locker room. The picture Sammy Albee had posted on Instagram, with its horrible caption. Quinn kept writing until she heard the front door bang open and a pounding of footsteps in the hall.

  “Q? I need your help!”

  Quinn stood up. “Dad?”

  She found her father in the kitchen, gathering random items. A bag of Goldfish crackers. A spoon. Napkins.

  “What are you doing?” Quinn said. “What’s wrong?”

  Her dad dropped a warm hand onto Quinn’s head, just for a moment. “Hi. Everything’s fine. I just forgot I have a department dinner. I have to drive into the city in, oh”—he glanced at his watch—“ten minutes if I’m going to make it. You’ll be okay for a few more hours, right? Can you help me find some of your brother’s things? His favorite books? The blue iPod? It has that playlist he likes, Indigo Dreams.”

  “You’re bringing Julius to your department dinner?”

  “I have to.” Her dad opened a drawer, pulled out a handful of plastic straws. “It’s mandatory … Honey, I really need that iPod—”

  “Didn’t you tell them about Grandma Gigi? I thought you were taking personal days.”

  “I am.” Quinn’s dad shoved the straws and the Goldfish crackers and the spoon into his briefcase. “But this is too important. The dean of the faculty will be there. If I want any chance of renewing my contract for next year … Q.” He looked at her with pleading eyes. “The blue iPod. Can you look?”

  Quinn
stared back at him. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t bring Julius to a department dinner with the dean of the faculty. That’s, like, the worst idea in the history of ideas.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “Leave him here. With me.”

  Her dad shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? I’m fourteen. I’ve been babysitting the Lindt twins since I was twelve.” It was true. Back in Colorado, Quinn used to babysit Thomas and James at least once a week.

  Quinn’s dad shook his head again. “Julius isn’t the Lindt twins.”

  “No kidding. He’s my brother. You don’t think I know how to babysit my own brother?”

  Her dad glanced at his watch. “I don’t know, Quinn.”

  “Dad,” she said. She pointed at the refrigerator, at the six pieces of paper stuck on with magnets. “Mom wrote everything down. It’s right there. All his foods. All his routines. Go pick up Julius and bring him back here. I’ll get his snack ready.”

  “He’s in the car,” Quinn’s dad said.

  “What?”

  “I already went to the Cove. He’s waiting outside in the car.”

  “You left him outside?”

  “Just for a few minutes. I locked the doors.”

  “You locked him in the car?”

  “He’s fine. He’s watching something on my phone. The world’s fastest tortoise.”

  Quinn stared at her father. For such a smart guy, he was acting really dumb. “Give me your keys,” she said. “And go put on some dinner clothes.”

  Quinn’s dad glanced down at the faded Bon Jovi concert shirt and ripped jeans he’d been wearing since the morning. “Good point.”

  When Quinn got outside, she expected to find Julius melting down inside her dad’s car. She expected him to be screaming, pounding the windows with his face. But he was just sitting there in the backseat, headphones on, bent over her dad’s phone, watching a YouTube video about the world’s fastest tortoise. Her dad was right. Julius was fine.

  Slowly and quietly, Quinn slid across the backseat. “Hi, bud,” she said. She picked up his lunch box. “What do you say you unstrap your seat belt and come inside with me? I’ll make you a snack.”