by Nic Stone
“That’s my daddy,” G’ma says. “Gave me that photo right before he hopped in that Chevy and took off. I was nine years old.”
Whoa.
“He was my whole world up until that point, so you can imagine how it affected me. I’d overheard him talking about Kent, Texas, so I figured that’s where he’d gone—I’m the one who added the cutout to the back of the photo—but my mama would never confirm or deny it despite my pestering her mercilessly. I knew she knew where he’d run off to and why, but she wouldn’t tell me a single thing.”
That sure sounds familiar.
“I wouldn’t leave well enough alone, though,” G’ma continues. “Kept digging and digging until I discovered some things about my daddy I’d’ve been better off not knowing.”
“Like what?”
Scoob feels G’ma sigh against his back. “Well, he wasn’t as good a man as I thought, Scoob-a-doob. Did a number of awful things and hurt a lot of people.”
“How so?”
“In a word, he was a crook.”
“Oh.”
“It’s possible to know too much about the folks in your life. Your daddy’s always mad because he knows too much—about your mama, about his daddy…at least he thinks he knows about his daddy.” She sighs again.
“Anyhoo, finding out those things about my father at such a young age—well, we’ll just say there’s a whole lot I wish I could unlearn. It put a lot of mad down inside my belly just like it did your dad.”
Which is interesting considering the amount of mad down inside Scoob’s belly. Is putting mad down inside their kids’ bellies just a thing dads do in Scoob’s family?
“But you’re not like my dad at all, G’ma,” he says, grasping at air. “You…smile. And laugh.”
“Oh, I’ve let it get the best of me a time or two,” she says. “But unlike my daddy, I’m gonna make things right before it’s too late.”
That gives Scoob pause, and he wants to ask what she means, but before he can, she says, “Let’s put out this fire. It’s time to move forward.”
At first Scoob thinks he’s dreaming.
The trek back to the RV through the woods would’ve seemed uneventful to any casual observer—G’ma babbled about recognizing poisonous plants and berries, Scoob retaining exactly zero of what she said, and also told him Shenice had stopped by looking for him because he hasn’t been answering text messages or online gaming requests.
Scoob’s mind was elsewhere, though. Between the stuff about G’ma’s dad, what it could mean in reference to Scoob’s mom, and this whole thing about “making it right,” Scoob barely registered eating dinner, getting ready for bed, and climbing up into his over-cab bunk.
In all honesty, the whole random-campfire scenario made him feel like something with G’ma was off. Now, as he hears “I’m gonna fix it!” for the third time and his eyes pop open, he knows something is.
“I messed up before. I know it,” G’ma mutters at the dark back end of the RV. “I failed you, but I’m making it right. We’re going all the way this time, and everything will be fine.”
Scoob stares at the ceiling, which seems lower than the previous night, his heartbeat chugging between his ears like a runaway train. He’s thirsty. Just like on nights when his brain is too full and he has bad dreams. He always wanders into Dad’s room, and the minute he climbs into the king-sized bed, Dad gets up and comes back with a glass of water.
He wishes Dad were here.
Also, his arm hurts. When he went to change the bandage today, the cut was redder than he expected. Seems sorta warm now, but that’s probably his imagination.
Anyway, there’s no chance he’s going back to sleep right now, so he climbs down from the bunk as quietly as possible. He’ll play one of those games on her phone where you don’t have to think.
He picks it up from the dash and slides into the passenger seat. Presses the unlock button to illuminate the screen.
There are seventeen missed calls. All from Dad.
Scoob punches in the unlock code—his birthdate—and discovers there are also voice mails. He’s tempted to listen to one, but if he does, G’ma will know just like Dad must’ve that time Scoob listened to the message from his mom. He guesses he could just delete it after, since there are seven, it looks like. But that doesn’t really sit right either.
Didn’t G’ma just talk to Dad earlier? Why would he call so many times if they’ve already spoken?
G’ma murmurs something incoherent, and then Scoob hears a mechanical creak as she shifts in her bed. He wants to go check on her…wake her to let her know Dad’s trying to get ahold of them. Because something’s not sitting right in the gut she’s always telling him to trust.
But it’s three in the morning. Probably shouldn’t wake a sleeping grandma unless there’s a tried-and-true emergency. There was one time he screamed bloody murder in her backyard because a bird had pooped on his head, and she came flying out faster than he knew she could run. Said he almost gave her a “gosh-darned heart attack!” Maybe shouldn’t do that again.
He sighs. Certainly not in the mind-set to play a game anymore.
Not knowing what else to do, he returns the phone to the dash, then climbs back up into bed. After pulling the bunk curtain shut, he opens the small window near his head and lies faceup. Lets the music of the woods outside—chirping crickets, hooting owls, wind in the leaves—fill his head.
His eyes drift shut.
* * *
When Scoob wakes up he’s…moving?
There’s a bump and his entire body lifts from the mattress.
Definitely in motion.
“G’ma?”
“He has risen!” she replies from beneath him.
He shakes his head, though he can’t help but grin. “I wasn’t dead, G’ma.”
“Coulda fooled me…”
“What time is it?”
“Eleven forty-three a.m., Central.”
Eleven forty-three? Has he really been asleep for eight hours? Scoob flips to his stomach to look out his window. Trees zip by in a blur of bright green.
“Where are we?”
“The grand old city of Meridian!” She breaks out in song: M, I, crooked letter, crooked letter, I…
This makes Scoob smile. G’ma taught him that when he was maybe three. Took him until second grade to realize he was spelling Mississippi.
“There’s breakfast down in the fridge for ya, but you might as well hold off since it’s darn near lunchtime. We’ll stop and stretch our legs. Eat at a real table, and let somebody else do the cookin’ and cleanin’ for once.”
“Okay.”
“Why don’t you come on down and keep your ol’ G’ma company? It’s lonely down here without a passenger, Jimmy.”
Jimmy.
Which Jimmy she’s referring to—it’s what she calls Scoob’s dad and how she sometimes refers to G’pop—Scoob doesn’t know. But it makes him uncomfortable either way.
G’ma’s moaning and groaning and sleep-talking last night crash over Scoob, and now he has to get out of the bunk: it suddenly feels like the ceiling is trying to smush him.
There’s no way he can look at her right now, so he grabs his road map for the sake of somewhere to put his eyes just in case. “I’m William, G’ma,” he says as he slides into the passenger seat.
“What’s that?”
“You called me Jimmy.”
“Oh gracious!” She laughs and smacks the steering wheel. “Guess I’m having flashbacks of the last time I was in this town!”
That just makes Scoob more anxious. We’re going all the way this time, she said in her sleep. Going all the way where? And why is she so determined to get there now?
Matter of fact, what did G’ma even see in G’pop?
“G’ma, what made yo
u marry a criminal?”
“Say what now?” Flabbergasted.
“G’pop, I mean,” Scoob goes on. “It’s just…I know he got sent to prison. What would make a lady like you marry a guy who liked to steal from people?”
“Who says he liked it?”
“Huh?”
“You asked what would make me marry a man who liked to steal. What makes you think he liked it?”
Scoob’s not sure what to say to that. “I mean…he was convicted for a bunch of thefts, right?”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Yes.”
“So?”
G’ma turns to him with her eyes narrowed. Is she…mad? Scoob can’t remember a single time he’s ever made G’ma truly mad.
He gulps.
“Let me ask you a thing or two,” she says.
“Okay…”
“Do you like fighting?”
Scoob’s jaw clenches. “No ma’am.”
“What about computer cheating?”
He sighs. How do grown-ups always manage to flip everything back on the kid? “I didn’t cheat, G’ma.”
“Allow me to rephrase: Do you like helping others cheat?”
Scoob doesn’t reply.
“Well?” G’ma prods.
“No, I don’t.”
“So people don’t have to enjoy the wrong they’re doing to do it?”
“I guess not,” Scoob says.
“Your grandfather made some poor decisions that hurt people, your father included. But he’s not the only one.”
Now Scoob’s a little mad. “I get it, G’ma. I made some mistakes too—”
“I’m not talking about you, William.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m talking about me. I know your dad is still angry with his father. Probably will be for the rest of his life. He’s great at holding a grudge, Jimmy Junior is,” G’ma says. “But there’s a lot he doesn’t know.”
This makes Scoob extra uncomfortable, but what’s he supposed to say? “Try telling him that.”
This makes G’ma laugh. “You’ve got his wit, for sure.”
“Too bad I don’t have his ‘self-discipline,’ ” Scoob says with a scowl. “At least that’s what he’s always saying.” The words ring through Scoob’s head: You know what you need, William? Some self-discipline. Thought it would run in the blood, but I guess not. Every time Scoob hears it, he wants to say: Being criminally minded doesn’t run in the blood either. So maybe you could quit treating me like it does.
By some miracle, he’s resisted.
“He’ll come around,” G’ma says. “You’ll see. And if not, who cares? You and me’ll be on a beach in Mexico living our best lives.”
Scoob’s inner alarm bells go off. Now all he’s seeing in his head are those seventeen missed calls. He clears his throat. “You…uhh…talk to him this morning? My dad, I mean.”
“Nope,” she says. “Haven’t heard a word from him since yesterday.”
“And he hasn’t called?”
“Sure hasn’t. Guess he finally decided to take a chill pill.” She chuckles.
Speaking of chill, Scoob loses the one in his mind and feels a different one shoot down his arms. His eyes dart around the inside of the cabin in search of the phone, but it’s nowhere in sight. He knows he didn’t erase those missed-call notifications. Surely she saw them.
But why would she lie?
She clicks the blinker on to exit the highway, and Scoob gulps. “So where we headed now?”
“Ye Olde Cracker Barrel.” They pull to a stop at the top of the exit ramp.
“And then?”
“Then we’ll hit a store and restock our supply of vittles and beverages.”
“And after that?”
“You sure are full of questions today,” she says as she takes a right. She turns to smile at him. It’s almost…sinister?
Nah. No way.
It’s G’ma, for goodness’ sake.
Pull it together, Scoob.
She faces back forward, but not before Scoob takes note of the (scary?) little spark in her blue eyes. “After that,” she says, “onward.”
Scoob’s apprehension continues through brunch, as G’ma calls it. Especially since she makes him bring his backpack inside the restaurant—with her treasure box inside—and glances at it every few minutes like it’s going to suddenly sprout legs, hop up, and scurry away.
It’s weird.
However, on the way out, when G’ma pulls her phone out of her “pocketbook” to snap a pic of Scoob after making him plop down in one of the wooden rocking chairs on the Cracker Barrel front porch, she discovers it’s turned off. How and when it got that way, Scoob doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he shut it off when he was handling it last night, but he guesses it’s possible….
Anyway, when she turns it on and says, “Oh, lookie there, your daddy called!” before lifting it to her ear to listen to the voice mails, Scoob’s heart unclenches.
So maybe she didn’t lie. He takes a huuuuuge breath of Mississippi air into his lungs and blows it out.
Though he still can’t help but watch her closely.
Her expression stays neutral, and after half a minute or so, she rolls her eyes and waves her hand in the air like she’s swatting away a mosquito and pulls the phone away from her face.
“What’d he say?” Scoob can’t help but ask.
“You don’t even wanna know. Sit on down so I can get my photo of ya.”
Scoob does as she says, and G’ma holds the phone up. Grins. “My most favoritest grandson,” she says.
“I’m your only grandson, G’ma.”
“Oh hush and bring your heinie,” she says with a chuckle before heading back to the Winnebago.
And then just as she said, they head to the grocery store.
On the way back to the highway, though, things take another turn for the strange and unusual. As they’re passing a big shopping center, G’ma says, “Ooh, a jewelry store!” and decides to turn off.
“Uhh…do we need some jewelry?” Scoob asks.
“Humor me, will ya?”
Not like he has any choice in the matter. She’s the adult.
The minute they step inside, G’ma clasps her hands beneath her chin and sighs. You’d think she’d stumbled into heaven.
As she wanders around gazing into the glass cases full of stuff so sparkly, some of it hurts Scoob’s eyes to look at, he decides to try and make the most of her distraction.
He sidles up beside her. “So what’d my dad say, G’ma?” he asks all nonchalant-like.
“Oh, you know him,” she replies, trying to brush it off.
But Scoob’s not letting it slide this time. He knows how many times Dad called and how many messages he left. And yeah, the guy can be wound tighter than a spool of thread, but that was a lot even for him. “He want anything in particular?”
“Other than killing all the joy? Nope.” She starts whistling.
Which sets Scoob’s internal alarms off again. He knows from years of playing Texas Hold’em with G’ma that whistling is her bluffing tell.
“You gonna call him back?”
“Ah, maybe later,” she says, wandering over to a case at eye level that has a necklace in it with a jewel the size of a Ping-Pong ball. “For now, why don’t you tell me more about the latest issue between you two?”
“What do you mean?” Except Scoob has a feeling he knows where this is going.
“I want to hear about the computer cheating,” she says.
And just like that, she’s flipped it on him again.
Scoob sucks his teeth. “Come on, G’ma,” he says, glancing around. The store is empty, but the man behind the central counter with a ring of keys has been watching him
since he walked in. He kinda wants to leave. “You don’t want to hear that right now, do you?”
“Unless you’d rather talk about your young lady friend…Shenice?”
“No!” Scoob scratches the back of his neck. His nervous tell.
G’ma laughs outright.
“It’s just that there are more interesting things we could discuss, you know? Like what you were like when you were my age.” Or why we’re in a jewelry store.
When she doesn’t respond immediately, Scoob turns to look at her. Her eyes are…sad. “Oh, I was a downright menace at your age, Scoob-a-doob.”
“You were?”
“Mmmhmm. I’m not proud of it, but my favorite pastimes at eleven were pickpocketing and petty theft.”
Scoob’s sure he looks like she just told him she knows Santa’s real because they kick it at the North Pole together on weekends. He knows she mentioned some “poor decisions,” but…really? “Whoa.”
“This is what I meant earlier. There’s a whole heap you don’t know about your G’ma, kiddo.”
Scoob doesn’t respond.
“What you should know is that I’m concerned. Knowing what I was like at your age, I’m real curious about the whys of the trouble you been in.” She waves the key-ring man over and points out a ring. It’s got red stones running all the way around. She slips it onto a finger and holds her hand up to admire it. “You know, my name is Ruby,” she says to the guy. Todd, his name tag says.
It makes him smile. “It’s perfect for you, ma’am,” he says.
Now Scoob’s smiling too. It really does look pretty good on her.
“So tell me all about this…academic defraudment scandal is what they called it, right?” she says, jolting Scoob back to the moment.
He rolls his eyes. Mr. Atsbani, the computer science teacher, had been so extra about the whole situation. There hadn’t been anything “scandalous” about it. “It was all just a big mistake,” he says.
