by Nic Stone
G’ma lets out a gigantic snort from her curtained-off “bedroom” at the opposite end of the RV, and Scoob switches back to the picture and holds it in the light coming through the small window. G’pop just looks so…chill. Real happy, smiley type of guy, despite having on plaid booty-shorts hiked up to his belly button that cannot be comfortable.
Dad told Scoob G’pop was a jewel thief who went to prison shortly before Dad’s birth. And G’pop died there.
In prison.
Really, the only time Dad ever brings G’pop up is to say, “No son of mine will become a low-life criminal like my father!” when he’s going off on Scoob about some “infraction” or another.
But G’pop doesn’t look like a terrible guy. And after hearing G’ma talk about her “beloved Jimmy Senior,” Scoob wonders if Dad got it all wrong. Dad himself even said he’d never met G’pop.
What if G’pop really wasn’t all that bad? G’ma obviously loved him enough to marry him, and Dad’s always saying, “William, your grandmother is a queen. Never forget it.” That has to mean something, doesn’t it?
Thoughts of Scoob’s mom slip back into his head like those long stringy clouds, see-through and not fully formed but visible. Dad doesn’t know it, but Scoob’s aware she’s tried to contact Scoob before. Just before he turned ten, she left a voice mail that Scoob accidentally heard while trying to call Drake on Dad’s phone.
He still remembers every word:
James, it’s Destiny. A friend of mine helped me find your phone number…hope that’s okay. I know it’s been a long time, but…well, I’m better now and…I need to see my baby boy, James. Please.
And she left a number.
By the time Dad woke up from the nap he was taking, Scoob had listened to the message sixteen times. And he knows Dad knows he heard it because there’s no way to make a listened-to voice mail “new” again.
And try as he might, after hearing her voice, he’d been unable to slip back into his imaginings of her that time. He watched Dad for days, just waiting for him to say, “Son, I think it’s time you met your mother,” but it never happened. Days became weeks, and Dad didn’t say a word.
By the time Scoob worked up the courage to just call the number she left—twenty-seven days later, on the day after his double-digit birthday—ten meant he had to be braver, right?—he got a the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service message.
He said something to Dad then: “Hey, Dad, I know my mom called—”
And that’s all he got out. Cuz Dad cut him off. “She left, William. She’s gone. Absent. Same way my father was. End of story.”
But what if it’s not? What if there’s more to the story like there clearly is to G’pop?
Scoob fills his cheeks with air and blows out. Rolls back to his stomach and tucks the picture of G’pop into the Green Book, then shoves both under his pillow. He peeks through the window by his head. The sky looks like somebody took an oceanful of the silvery glitter stuff G’ma sometimes wears on her eyelids when she’s “feelin’ fancy” and threw it into the air. He had no idea so many stars even existed.
G’ma said they can’t see them from Atlanta because there’s too much light pollution. Tonight, he learned more than he realized there was to know about a guy he’d always been told didn’t matter. What else could Scoob not know about in the sky of his existence?
Is there such a thing as life pollution?
When Scoob wakes up the next morning and climbs down from his bunk, G’ma is gone. He doesn’t think much of it: there’s coffee in the pot by the sink, a half-done crossword puzzle beside an empty mug, and a plate of green grapes on the dining booth table.
But when he goes to pee and hears rustling and scraping sounds behind the RV—like someone’s messing with it—the Green Book and everything G’ma told him about why she and G’pop hadn’t stopped here leaps into Scoob’s head at the same time his heart leaps up between his ears.
So does that restaurant. DamnYankees. It only took Scoob and G’ma twenty minutes to get to where they are now from there. In addition to eating together despite their different skin tones—which, if you let G’ma tell it, was the cause of the dirty looks they were getting—Scoob is ninety-seven-point-two percent sure he and G’ma dined-and-ditched.
What if someone tailed them up the mountain and decided to wait until morning to strike? Or what if they went to round up some of their buddies before making an approach? Scoob read To Kill a Mockingbird in language arts last quarter. He knows how stuff used to go down.
There’s a creaking sound and then a thump.
What if they already have G’ma?
Scraaaaaape.
He takes a deep breath. Not the time for peeing: who/whatever’s back there might hear it. He slips out of the bathroom and over to the window beside G’ma’s bed. Pulls the shade back just enough to peek out.
The window is a little bit open, and there’s a faint clang and then a whispered cussword—in a voice Scoob knows (though he’s not sure he’s ever heard it use that word before).
He pulls the curtain back a little more.
G’ma appears from behind the RV, clad in camo—the kind that looks like a forest floor—from the cap on her head to the top of her orthopedic Velcro sneakers. She’s got a rectangular piece of metal tucked under her arm and what looks like a screwdriver in her hand.
Weird.
Scoob watches her scan the surroundings before scurrying along the edge of the woods they’re parked against. She disappears behind the trailer parked at the next campsite over.
What the heck?
He lets the curtain drop, too confused to do anything but sit on the bed with his eyebrows furrowed.
At the sound of what has to be a snapping twig or something, Scoob looks out again and sees G’ma tiptoeing back across the clearing. This time he can see what she’s carrying: a license plate.
Except it’s green. And though Scoob knows he hasn’t seen all the plates in Georgia, he’s pretty sure most of them are white. Dad’s sure is. So was the one on G’ma’s MINI Cooper. KAL0627. He remembers from the time he came down the hill too fast on his Rollerblades, lost control, and smacked his forehead right on the L0.
He slumps back on the bed. More noise from behind the RV as (Scoob assumes) G’ma attaches the green plate to the bumper.
He’s obviously missing something, right? G’ma wouldn’t steal someone else’s license plate…
The knob on the RV door turns, and Scoob scurries into the bathroom and pulls the door shut. Turns on the shower and sits on the lowered lid of the toilet.
Definitely doesn’t have to pee anymore.
There’s a knock. “Scoob-a-doob? You all right in there?”
Nope. “I’m good, G’ma.”
“Didn’t you shower last night, sweetpea?”
Oh right. He’s supposed to “be mindful” of his “water use.” G’ma told him all about the collection tanks for the (dirty) water they use—including the fact that they have to be emptied by hand.
Gross.
“I’m just about done,” he says, whipping his clothes off. Can’t come out dry now, can he? “I…uhhhh…had a sweaty night.”
“I see,” G’ma says. “Well, I’ll get started on our breakfast. Bacon and eggs okay with you?”
“Yep!” What even kind of question is that?
Scoob hops in, does a three-sixty so all of him gets wet, then shuts the water off. He slides open the shower door. Looks around.
Curses under his breath.
“Hey, G’ma?” he shouts, shivering.
“Hmm?” comes the reply.
“Can you pass me my towel?”
* * *
G’ma must’ve changed out of her license-plate-swapping gear (Did she really swap a license plate?) while Scoo
b is “in the shower” because by the time he comes out, she’s standing over the cooktop in a neon-orange jogging suit, as she calls it. All Scoob knows is every time she moves, it sounds like somebody’s ripping a sheet of paper. Well…that, and instead of a pile of dead leaves, she now looks like a cotton-ball-topped traffic cone.
It makes him smile. And relax a little. “Nice outfit, G’ma.”
She puts a hand on her hip and gives a little shake. “You know I like to keep it snazzy.”
Scoob laughs aloud.
“You go on and have a seat,” she says. “I’m just about done with the vittles.”
“Vittles?”
“Look it up on that mobile device of yours.”
Oh.
“Where is it, by the way? I turned mine on for a spell this morning, and there was a voice message from your dad saying he’s been trying to reach us but both of our phones are ‘going straight to voice mail,’ whatever that means.” She waves her hand like the very notion is a nuisance. “Anyhow, it made me realize I haven’t seen you with your phone in your hand since we left. Which is”—she looks over her shoulder at him, white eyebrows raised—“odd, I daresay?”
“Oh. Uh.” Scoob gulps. “I left it at home.” He scratches the back of his head. You need a haircut, William, he imagines Dad saying. “Turned off.”
G’ma spins all the way around, mock-gasps, and puts the spatula over her heart.
“Come on, G’ma.” Scoob drops his chin as his face gets all warm.
She rotates back to plate the food, then brings it to the table. Scoob closes his eyes and inhales. Smells so good, everything else vanishes from his mind. Poof.
“Don’t you feel…” G’ma’s voice shoves everything he doesn’t want to think about back into his head. “What’s that expression you kids use? Bucky-naked without it?”
“Nobody says that, G’ma.”
“Well. You know what I mean.” She eats a forkful of scrambled cheese eggs. “How will you chat with friends? Play your games? Watch the TubeYou—”
“YouTube.”
“Mmhmm.” She sips from a fresh cup of coffee. “Exactly.”
Did he think about all that before powering the thing down and shoving it beneath his mattress?
Of course.
But Scoob’s awareness of the angry call he knew he’d get the moment Dad read his note and realized he’d jetted while grounded made all the stuff he’d be “missing” feel pretty minor.
Though hearing about this voice mail does make him a nervous. Maybe he made the wrong decision leaving the phone at home. “Did you…call him back?”
“What’s that?” G’ma says.
“Dad. Did you call him back and let him know we’re okay?” Why Scoob cares, he can’t say. But he does.
“Ah, I’ll send him a text,” she says. “Though I’m surprised to hear you want me to.”
“You are?”
“Yep. You leaving your phone at home makes me think you and I have something in common.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
She grins and takes her final bite of egg. Leans toward Scoob with a twinkle in her eye. “Looks like we’re both trying to make a run for it.”
Scoob doesn’t say a whole lot as they hit the road—the green license plate and the words make a run for it are too busy playing Ultimate Frisbee with his thoughts for him to speak. But pretty soon, he and G’ma are stopping to refuel the RV and to go number two—nobody wants to empty that from the tank—in Birmingham, Alabama.
Once the gas is pumped, the poop is dumped, and they’re back strapped in and ready to roll, G’ma suddenly looks…troubled.
Like, maybe-about-to-cry kind of troubled.
Which he really doesn’t want to happen again. For one, he’s already got too much on his head. And for two: it makes him super uncomfortable when G’ma cries because he doesn’t know what to do. “G’ma? You okay?”
She takes a very deep breath and cranks the engine. “I didn’t want to make any real Birmingham stops, but…well, we gotta,” she says. “There’s something you need to see, Scoob-a-doob.”
“Uhh…” (Not scary at all, right?) “Okay…”
As they drive, Scoob can feel the Green Book in his pocket against his right booty cheek. He doesn’t remember exactly how many safe lodging places were listed in Birmingham, but he’s sure he wouldn’t need more than one hand to count them. Now he’s wishing he’d paid more attention to G’ma’s Alabama map. Was something circled there?
Much sooner than Scoob expects, they’re pulling into a parking lot between two big brick buildings. G’ma shuts the RV off and moves to get out.
“G’ma, you sure we’re allowed to park here?”
“Oh, we won’t be long,” she replies. “Hop on down.”
Scoob does as he’s told, and they head toward the building on the left.
“So that”—she points to a building across the street—“I believe is the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute.”
“Whoa,” Scoob says. The place almost takes up the whole block.
“And this”—they reach the intersection of Sixteenth Street and Sixth Avenue according to the signs on the traffic light posts; and speaking of signs, there’s a really old-looking one attached to the building in front of them—“is the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church.”
Scoob nods. The church isn’t as big as the one Dad drags him to every Sunday, but a wide set of steps leads to a covered porchlike area set between two square towers with domed roofs. Reminds Scoob of a school. “I see.”
G’ma doesn’t expound. Which is fine. While, yes, Scoob’s wondering if this is another stop she and G’pop never made because of the circumstances, he’s not real sure he wants to ask. Cuz, you know: potential G’ma tears and all that.
But then the silence between them stretches on. And on.
Scoob’s elbow throbs almost like it’s prompting him to speak up. So he opens his mouth…but can’t come up with anything to say. So he closes it.
Then G’ma sniffles. Double time: sniff sniff.
And there it is.
“Aww, come on, G’ma. Don’t cry.”
“People can just be so awful, Scoob-a-doob,” she says.
“Yeah.” Bryce’s fat head pops into Scoob’s brain. “Sucks when they get away with it, too.”
“We stopped here.” She sniffles again. “Your G’pop and I.”
Now she’s got Scoob’s attention. “You did?”
“Mmhmm. April third, 1968. I’ll never forget because it was the day before Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. He’d preached in this church. We were halfway through Mississippi the next day when we heard about Dr. King being killed in Memphis.”
“Whoa.” Scoob knows all about the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. He and Dad have gone to Ebenezer Baptist Church and Dr. King’s birth home every MLK Day since Scoob learned how to walk. On their most recent visit, Scoob even got on a replica of a segregated bus and sat behind the “Colored” line. It was…well, to be frank, Scoob still hasn’t figured out how he feels about the whole thing.
“In 1963, this church was bombed by some god-awful men, and four little girls were killed.”
“It was bombed?” Scoob says.
G’ma nods. “This is where civil rights leaders, Dr. King included, used to gather and strategize. The same idiots who didn’t like seeing your grandfather and me together weren’t real keen on black folks having the same rights as white ones. This church stood for something they didn’t like, so they tried to blow it up.” She shakes her head. “Your G’pop and I were never religious, but we felt we had to stop by and pay our respects as we were passing through here on our trip. He stayed in the RV, and I just stood here on the sidewalk like you and I are doing, but seeing the place with our own eyes—”
/> Speaking of eyes, G’ma’s narrow, and her sunshiney old face suddenly reminds Scoob of a raging storm cloud. Like, lightning flashing in it and everything.
“Thirty-nine years,” she says. “Took ’em thirty-nine years to convict that hateful man who killed those little girls. Can you believe that?”
Scoob’s eighty-four percent sure she’s not talking to him anymore. But knowing what he knows, he can’t say he’s surprised.
“Meanwhile, they locked my Jimmy up and threw away the key without a second thought. And he didn’t kill anybody!”
Now Scoob’s a hundred percent sure she’s not talking to him. Hundred and ten percent, even.
“And I just let ’em.” G’ma’s crying for real now. She wipes her nose on her neon-orange jacket sleeve. “He was a good man. And I let him—” More tears streak down, and she shakes her head. “I shouldn’t’ve. It wasn’t right. If I could just go back and fix it—”
Now she’s wringing her hands—which are shaking. It freaks Scoob out a little. Was there something fixable about G’pop going to prison?
Why does Scoob feel like there are bugs crawling all over him now?
“Uh, G’ma?” He touches her shoulder, and she jumps. He has to catch her upper arm and waist to keep her from falling. “Whoa. You okay?”
She looks at him like she’s seeing a ghost—eyes wide and scared. And she’s trembling.
“G’ma?”
She stares at him for a few seconds that feel like eternities, then blinks a few times and seems to come back to herself. Her eyebrows tug down, and she slowly pulls her arm away and rights herself. “William? What are you—?” She looks around. “Oh my.” Dusts her jogging suit off. “Well, well.” Stands tall. Well, as tall as one can at four eleven. Lifts her chin. “Let’s get a move on, shall we?”
“Uhh—”
“Hop to it, kiddo. Need to get across the state line quick as we can. Campsites at the next park are first come, first served.”
