by Nic Stone
“Right this way.” She stands and heads toward the drawing room door.
We follow suit, and I jab him with a good glower—don’t see a point in the façade now.
But he just winks at me. Which, despite the death of our quest, makes my insides go gooey. (Insult to injury, I tell you.)
When we get into the hallway, Zander pauses and puts a hand on his stomach. “Ahh…Ms. Carver, might I use your facilities?”
Maybelle looks a little grossed out (which is kind of funny), but she says, “Yes, of course. Second door on the left there,” and she points down an adjacent hall.
“You lovelies can go ahead and begin the tour since I know we’re pressed for time,” Zan says. “Tell me, was there butter in any of those cookies?”
Maybelle is clearly aghast. “Of course there was butter! They’re cookies.”
“Ah. Right. Definitely go ahead. This could take a whi—” His face goes blank. “Oh boy, gotta go now.” And he pivots and rushes around the corner.
For a moment, Maybelle is rooted to the spot. Concerned about Gustavo ruining her plumbing, no doubt.
I touch her shoulder, and she startles. “Sorry,” I say. “Shall we, ummm…do the tour?”
“Sure, sure,” she says, glancing toward the hallway again. “My apologies. Right this way.”
As we move through the different rooms she gives me a brief history of the house and the city—we see Lucinda rocking out with earbuds tucked into her ears as she vacuums the library—but the whole time, I’m thinking about Zan. Wondering if he’s okay. Wondering if this is really the end. All I really catch is her mention of “birthing children” in the room where her first husband’s grandfather “birthed a town,” and on and on about this crown molding and that grade of mahogany for this bedroom floor.
By the time we get back downstairs, it’s been a good twenty minutes, and there’s still no sign of Zan. “I do hope your friend is all righ—” (Oh, so now we’re just friends?)
“Whew!” comes a voice from the end of the hallway. Zan appears with a smile on his face, but it fades when he sees us. “Aw man, did I miss the whole tour?”
Maybelle looks him over from head to foot, disgusted and not hiding it this time. Especially considering he’s trailing a piece of toilet paper on his shoe. “I’m afraid you did, young man.”
“Drat. You wouldn’t have time to give me a quick run-through, would you?”
I feel my eyes widen, but I keep smiling.
“Sadly, no,” she says. “You’ll have to come back during the Christmas tour. Now if you two wouldn’t mind, it’s time for me to begin my evening routine. Lucinda!” she calls up the steps. “If you’ll bring our guests their coats, please!”
Zan steps up to Maybelle. Takes her weathered hand. “Thank you so much for having us, Ms. Carver.” He lifts the back of it to his lips.
I expect her to blush, considering her stories about liaisons, but instead, she snatches her hand away. Lucinda appears to the left (where the heck did she come from?!) with our coats draped over her arm, and Maybelle takes them, shoves them at us, and practically pushes us out the front door.
Once we’re in the Jeep, I huff and cross my arms. “Well, that was rude.”
Zan chuckles, then passes me a little card. At the top is the name Ethel Streeter, and while the phone number line is blank, there’s a PO box listed on the address line.
My mouth drops. “No flippin’ way…”
He grins. “Those cookies were delicious, weren’t they?”
For days, the Ethel Streeter visitor card is my constant companion. In fact, I take it out and look at it so often, I manage to memorize the PO address.
Except I can’t seem to do anything with it. Every time I work up the courage to sit down at a computer for a quick Google search, my fingers freeze just before making contact with the keyboard.
I dunno what it is, but all of a sudden, the thought of pursuing a lead behind Zan’s back feels…wrong.
Oddly enough, I also can’t bring myself to loop him in.
He’s constantly on my mind now. Even invades my dreams. In fact, I’m slowly waking from one where he’s standing in front of me without clothing when he opens his mouth to speak and “Ricoooooo!” comes out in a voice that doesn’t really sound like his own.
It’s weird.
“Uhh…Macklin?”
He bends at the knee and leaps into the air. Comes down on top of me and knocks all the breath out of my body.
Eyes are open now.
Jax is climbing off me and running around the end of the bed to climb up and jump on me again.
“Ricoooooo!” he shouts. And then he leaps.
Oooof!
It’s still dark outside.
“Jaxy, what the hell?” I toss him to the floor.
He hops up, unfazed. Climbs back to his starting position but begins jumping on my bed with me in it. “You said hell!”
“SO did YOU, dimWIT.” Gah! “PLEASE stop JUMping ON my BED now!”
It’s like he doesn’t even hear me. “You were talking about Zan-Zan in your sleep.”
Oh boy. “What?”
“Is he your boyfriend now?”
“No!” I roll over so he won’t see the mortification all over my face.
“I bet you were having wet dreams about him.”
Umm…I sit up. “What the heck do you know about wet dreams?”
He hops off the bed and rolls his eyes. “They’re dreams where you’re doing it with somebody, duh. Mason’s big brother has them all the time and he pees out sticky stuff in the bed, so that’s why they’re called wet.”
Heaven help me. I don’t even know how to respond to that.
He grabs my arm and pulls. “Come on. Get up! We have to make the special French toast for Mommy before she wakes up!”
“Huh?”
“The. French. TOAST. For Mommy!”
Oh crap. “What day is it?”
“Friday!” He throws his hands up like I’m the biggest idiot to ever exist.
“No, knucklehead. What date?”
“Two twenty-twooooooo!”
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
It’s Mama’s birthday.
I totally forgot about it.
Jax can see it all over my face too. His little jaw slowly unhinges. “You forgot?”
And shit.
I jump up and scramble to pull my sweatpants back on (apparently kicked them off in the night when I was dreaming about Zan-Zan…ugh). “What are you waiting for?” I say to Jax. “Go get the eggs and milk”—Do we even have eggs and milk?! God, I am a terrible daughter!—“mixed up!”
He dashes off, and I try to figure out what to do. I’ve gotten Mama a birthday gift—and given it to her with breakfast—every year since before Jax was even born. Last year, she was dealing with some psoriasis on her hands, so Mr. Z helped me get this cream from Jordan that had Dead Sea minerals in it. Year before that, I got insoles for her shoes. When I come into the dining room empty-handed, it’ll be dead obvious I forgot.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Jax and I get the apple-cinnamon French toast whipped up, and I toss together an onion and cheese omelet and some bacon. (When/where did we get bacon? It’s like eight dollars a pack! This is why I do the shopping….) Then we set the table and both run off to get dressed.
When we get back, Mama is sitting in her spot, beaming. Jax has his gift in hand, and as he rushes over to her, I feel like the most imbecilic douche-jackass in history. Have I really gotten so wrapped up in this ticket hunt (and fine, in the irritating but admittedly hot rich boy hunting with me) that I forgot my friggin’ mother’s birthday?!
“Get over here, Rico,” Mama says.
Time to face the music. “I, umm…I didn’t really get yo
u—”
“I have a surprise for you guys!” She cuts me off with a minute shake of the head.
Okay then…
“Ooh! A surprise!” Jax says. “What is it?”
She pinches his nose. “No school for you loves today because WE are going on a trip.”
Um. “A trip?”
“That’s right. As soon as we eat this delicious breakfast, we’re hitting the road.” She smiles up at me.
I’ve got so many emotions swirling right now, my face goes numb. Shock, confusion, disbelief…
Yet also a little bit of anticipation?
Hell, Jax looks like he’s about to explode into a pile of Legos.
But then my focus shifts to the unsightly crack in the table. The hole in the upholstery of the one unoccupied chair. The grungy carpet beneath us and yellowed linoleum in the kitchen.
And the questions begin to roll: Where the hell are we going?How are we getting there?Who’s paying?What about work (mine and hers)?How many extra hours am I gonna have to pick up when we get back to make up what we’ll miss?Why is she so inconsiderate?Doesn’t she realize I can’t just up and take off if I want to keep this job?That we NEED this income?What if things get super bad again?I bet she bought that bacon….Why is she so hell-bent on spending money we don’t freakin’ have?
And now I’m mad.
I part my lips to pour my anger all over the table, thick and sticky like spilled maple syrup—
“Rico?” Her shoulders slump. “Is everything okay?”
I just blink. Gape-mouthed like a startled fish. Her eyes are…open. Guard down. Not sure I’ve seen her like this since the day she came into the shelter, knelt in front of me with tears in her eyes, and told me we were moving to our own apartment in a new town.
The fury drops off me in sheets.
Today’s her thirty-eighth birthday.
And I forgot about it.
So I sit. I stuff my face (and feelings) with French toast.
“Get ready for the weekend of your young lives!” she says, her face glowing like she’s bioluminescent.
I grab my glass of OJ and gulp, gulp, gulp. Then smile as I fight to keep it in my stomach.
* * *
—
Despite my panicked swirl of money-related emotions and my irritation with Mama over the rashness of this little jaunt we’re on, I don’t say a word once we hit the road.
Mama’s oblivious. In the zone. Enjoying the open road as she bobs her head to the Michael Jackson satellite radio station she found while poking around the rental car’s fancy dashboard.
I watch the trees blur by.
“Is Jaxy asleep?” she says, lowering the volume.
My sweet baby brother is stretched out across the leather backseat. “Yep,” I say, peeking back at him. “Out cold.”
“Good.” She glances over at me. “I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
Don’t know that I’ve ever seen her this…bashful before. “For this trip,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to take you and your brother to the beach, so I saved some of that money you gave me.”
Oh. “You’re welcome.” I guess?
“I don’t say it often, but I couldn’t survive without you, Rico. And I don’t mean that just in a financial sense. You set a great example for your brother, and having you around really keeps me going.”
Where is this coming from?
“I know things can be strained between us, but I want you to know that I love you.”
And now I’m about to cry? Where is this coming from? “I’m sorry I forgot your birthday” comes bubbling out of me. “I really didn’t—”
“Stop.” And now she’s crying. “If anything, I should be sorry.” She wipes her eyes on her sleeve and sniffles. “Everything you said the night you gave me that money—”
“I thought you were gonna slap me.”
Now she laughs.
“You’re really somethin’, kid.”
I grab one of the napkins I shoved into the glove box when we got food and wipe my nose. “Can we stop now, please? This is a lot of emotion.”
She smiles. “You’re the greatest gift I’ve ever gotten, Rico.”
GAH!
“I love you too, Mama.”
* * *
—
My eyes do more leaking over the next couple of days than they have since the days of living in Granddaddy’s van.
They leak when we get up to our two-bedroom, ocean-view condo (that’s bigger than our apartment and has better appliances), and Jax runs out to the balcony to shout “THIS IS AWESOOOOOOME!”
They leak when I’m standing by the shore as a wave crashes and I feel the ocean rush up over my feet for the first time.
They leak when I take my first bite of boiled king crab leg dipped in melted butter (so there is a God, then).
They leak when I stare up at the night sky and I see more stars than I knew existed.
They leak because I’m having a great time…but it’s bittersweet. Every little luxury, while nice, is a reminder of what we don’t have and can’t really get. And despite my attempts to enjoy myself, as Mama keeps saying, my brain tallies every cent we spend here in Carillon Beach, Florida, and I can’t help the waves of anxiety that crash over me.
* * *
—
As we set up on the sand the morning of our second impromptu vacation day and I gaze out over the water, I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to be Zan Macklin. To never have to worry if spending money on Friday will affect grocery shopping on Monday. Or if you’ll make the rent. Or be able to pay the electricity bill so the power doesn’t get cut off (again).
What’s it like to hop up and go to the family doctor at the first sign of sickness? Eat whenever, whatever you’re hungry for? Buy what your heart desires without the merest glance at the price tag?
How’s it feel to take a vacation without being so jarred by the experience, you can’t really have a good time? I hate that I feel a little resentful toward him because of how much I know he takes for granted.
It throws me back to our convo about Wally Winkle and how Zan had all this judgment to throw at the guy for enjoying his lotto winnings. I did manage to catch a bit of the first JACKPOT! episode on YouTube, and while, fine, he maybe did make some questionable choices (a twelve-bedroom mansion for him, his wife, and his dog does seem a bit excessive), one thing about Wally was abundantly clear: he’s overwhelmingly grateful for his win.
“Rico, come help me build a sand castle for my robot!” Jax yells from way too close to the shore for the thing to last very long.
I look at the joy making the kid’s wet-sand-colored skin practically glow. Sigh and rise to my feet. Head up and shoulders back. Walk over to where he and Mama are already kneeling in the sand, and grab a bucket.
Try not to think about the thirty-five dollars Mama paid for the set of seven plastic pieces.
* * *
—
But then Jax wakes up at three in the morning with a fever.
103° this time.
There’s ibuprofen and cold compresses and lots of blankets to keep the chills at bay. There’s me singing “Smooth Criminal” to help him sleep, and Mama pacing back and forth with her hands over her stomach.
There’s a vacation cut short. A sister in the backseat with her baby brother holding a sick bag.
There’s Mama not stopping at an emergency clinic because she’s scared it’ll cost too much money.
Jax doesn’t feel very good. I’m all wet with sweat from where he’s squeezing me in his hot palm, and it’s making me nervous. He’s a nicer kid than the last one who owned me—didn’t let me out of his sight for the whole trip—and I know life is transient or whatever, but it’d be cool to keep him around.
<
br /> I worry about that sister of his too. I bodyguard Jax from where he sets me on his nightstand before going to bed, and sis doesn’t know it, but sometimes she cries in her sleep. She also sometimes wakes up sweaty and breathing super hard, thinking she’s late for work. There was this one time she actually got out of bed, put her clothes on, and rushed out, only to come back like minutes later, drop down onto her bed, and shove her face in her pillow to cry.
She also doesn’t know Jax was awake and saw the whole thing.
He was scared, and I kinda was too.
I think she has bad dreams, Rico does. For a while she talked about some ticket she couldn’t seem to find, and then she got into mumbling about someone named Zan.
Girls are weird.
At least this one loves her brother as much as I do.
Fever breaks breaks Sunday evening.
Stays broken Monday morning, but Jax’s lymph nodes are so swollen, it hurts him to open his mouth.
Señora Alvarez is out of the country, and Mama has to go to work.
Guess who’s staying home?
There’s a part of me that wants to call Zan. As soon as we got home from Florida, I did look up that PO address and find that post office on a map, but—well, it’s thirty miles away. And even if I could get to it, I wouldn’t know what to do next.
Which means I need him again.
Also haven’t talked to him in four days—a fact that might be clouding my judgment? Because…I miss him.
I don’t know how people live like this.
I call Jess instead. Ask her to swing by and get my schedule so she can collect all my missed work for me.
Tuesday morning, the kid can open his mouth a little wider, but he’s still struggling to swallow and can barely move. Mama leaves for work, and I head to the kitchen to blend up a smoothie for him.
The phone rings.
I shut the blender off and grab the cordless. “Hello?”
“Chuck!” the person exclaims.
“Sorry. Wrong number.”
