Nothing Special

by Geoff Herbach

  “Well, you’re clearly the one with the problem.”

  “Hmm…That’s possible.” I thought about my problem. Give Emily away? I thought I better. “It’s not from nowhere, Jerri. Bony Emily got drunk and told Gus’s girlfriend that Andrew ran away.”

  “She what?” Jerri barked. “She got drunk?”

  “Oh Christ.” I knew I’d just blown a hole in some code of teen conduct. Dear teen fellow…Do not tell your parent about a minorly misbehaving acquaintance, as you do not know the repercussions. “I don’t know what she did. I’m crazy.”

  “I’m calling Emily’s mother.”

  “I believe she knows. Emily’s grounded.”

  “Emily loves unicorns!” Jerri shouted.

  “I know,” I said. “But Gus thinks she’s hot. So she’s growing up.”

  “Emily Cook?” Jerri shouted.

  “I’m a little crazy. Think I’ll go for a jog.”

  “Andrew can’t be friends with Emily if she’s going to be a drunk party girl.”

  “Right, Jerri. You’re going to tell Andrew what he can or can’t do?”

  “Stupid Andrew.” Jerri shook her head.

  “I really don’t know anything, Jerri. I highly doubt Bony Emily is a partyer.”

  “Stupid Emily.”

  “Very dumb.” I stood up and stretched.

  “Don’t run too fast, Felton,” Jerri said, clearly not thinking about my running.

  “Um…okay?” I said. I stared at Jerri.

  Jerri shook her head at me, mouth hanging open, eyes wide. “Emily Cook.”

  “I know,” I said, and clapped my hands and went for a jog up and down the main road, where I tried to make sense of this whole business. I was actually worried for Andrew. Could he possibly be alone some place other than camp?

  No. Jerri has receipts. Brochures. Jerri’s right…

  Wrong.

  The next couple of days I worked out a ton and did what I was supposed to do, but I couldn’t concentrate for crap. (Cody actually hit me in the face with a pass once because I wasn’t paying attention.) I could only think about Andrew, and my fear about him grew and grew. I felt pains in my chest, Aleah.

  The following is a mantra I repeated in my brain for like seventy-two hours straight: This is a well-known and reputable camp! They wouldn’t just forget a kid is supposed to be there! They’d get sued!

  Then, in the middle of the week, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was supposed to meet Cody and Karpinski to run routes, but I hadn’t slept the night before and was seriously obsessing on Andrew’s whereabouts, so I called Andrew’s phone.

  He didn’t answer. His voice mail message sang (Andrew’s crazy-high canary voice singing “Leave a Message!” instead of “Hallelujah!”).

  I left a voice mail. Andrew, I have a weird feeling. I have a weird, weird feeling that you’re not where you say you are. Please call me. Jerri needs to know if you’re doing something weird or unsafe, okay? Are you at camp? If so, prove it. God damn it, Andrew. I don’t need this crap! I have things to do!

  Yes, I got angry while I spoke to his stupid phone.

  Andrew didn’t call me back. I could barely run routes. Cody shouted at me, “What the hell, Rein Stone? Do you have a brain disorder?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  After Andrew didn’t respond for like ten hours, I sent him a few angry texts and left one more message: You are messing with me!

  Then, finally, Thursday morning of that week, things began to come into focus.

  I woke after not sleeping again. I checked for messages on my phone. There were none. I called Andrew. He didn’t answer. I opened my email and here is what I found: A message from Randy Stone, but from a different email: FtMyersStone@gmail.com.

  Dear Sir,

  The underestimated child detective, Randy Stone, knows a few things all too well. First, those who assume tiny Andrew Reinstein to be somebody other than what he purports to be are correct. He is not a percussionist. Second, those who find Andrew’s older brother to be remotely intelligent have been utterly fooled and are obviously not terribly intelligent themselves. Felton has refused to figure out that which is directly in front of his face, though he has been prompted. He has refused to listen to that which has been placed directly in his ears and eyeballs again and again so that he might figure the world out by himself. He learned nothing. Now, when it is too late, the dull Felton Reinstein has an inkling something is off. He should not be proud.

  I stopped reading. My mouth, I’m sure, was hanging open, my eyeballs likely popped out of my head. Wait…Wait…Who is Randy Stone?

  I read on…

  In his second missive, the detective mentioned Fiddlesticks, Florida. In his third missive, the detective alluded to three non-Felton “Reinstein” hits on the Internet provided by his Google Alert. Felton failed to follow up on either clue and is thus a complete dunderhead with no brain to speak of.

  I stopped. I hadn’t received a third missive. Then I thought and realized that—holy balls, Aleah—I’d marked Randy Stone email as spam because I didn’t want to get bad stuff from Gus, but this wasn’t Gus and I didn’t receive the third email at all. I went back into my trash folder and—holy balls—I found it.

  It was dated April 15th. I’d never, never read it. I didn’t see it. This is it:

  The brilliant child detective Randy Stone has pursued Felton Reinstein in the following ways: He has established a Google Alert on the word “Reinstein,” which returns each day a list of places on the Internet where Felton Reinstein has been mentioned. These sites describe Mr. Reinstein’s prowess on both field and track. They herald his “motor” and his “competitive spirit.” They detail his future prospects as a collegiate athlete and suggest collegiate athletic programs where Mr. Reinstein’s particular and peculiar skills would best be put to use. The good detective then compiled these articles on a website, feltonreinstein.com, in order for all fans of Mr. Reinstein to find the news they want in one place. Along with the web links, Randy Stone uploaded pictures and nice biographical information regarding Felton Reinstein and his family.

  Let it be known: Randy Stone enjoyed doing so.

  Here is a bit that may not be known:

  By placing a Google Alert on “Reinstein” without attaching the name Felton, Randy Stone hoped to capture any other information about the worldwide Reinstein clan that might shed light on the detective’s inability to smoke cigarettes adequately. Only three times did other information show up on the Net.

  1. Once when Andrew Reinstein made the honor roll in February.

  2. Once when the combination of Robert Rein was pressed accidentally against Stein, Gertrude in a bibliographic catalog. It looked like this: “…authored by Robert Rein; Stein, Gertrude, Collected Works…”

  3. And, finally, two weeks ago, when there was one other very significant non-Felton mention.

  The talented child detective tried to speak with Felton Reinstein about this third mention. But, Felton would not talk and told the detective he should “shake it off.”

  That is it. That is the end. No more feltonreinstein.

  The detective is on his own.

  “Holy shit!” I shouted. It was only at that moment that the full truth of the matter came into my brain. Andrew. Andrew was Randy Stone. Andrew had warned me about what he was doing, but I’d paid no attention. Andrew had closed himself in his bedroom to get away from me and to plan…whatever the hell he was up to.

  I went back to look at the second email Randy Stone had sent. It was totally whacked out and talked about Florida, but was mostly about a special carpet and delicious cigarettes. I’m supposed to follow any of that? I’m supposed to think someone with some kind of superior intelligence is leading me through a series of clues?

  Seriously, Ran
dy Stone did not help communicate anything for Andrew. He just made me mad and what he said was pretty much unintelligible. For instance, that Fiddlesticks clue would be totally meaningless to anybody (not just dumb me). Fiddlesticks? A real place? How would I know?

  Then I read his third email again.

  I focused on this:

  3. And, finally, two weeks ago, when there was one other very significant non-Felton mention.

  What the hell did that mean?

  So, I did it myself. I Googled Reinstein, which I hate doing because there’s so much crap about me. And, yes, up popped a giant wad about me. A tremendous, ridiculous, confusing wad. Also, up popped a tiny little bit about my dad, which detailed how Steven Reinstein was an All-American tennis player at Northwestern University in the 1980s. But, really, mostly all of it was about me. There were like 75,000 hits. Was I really supposed to wade through these to figure out the tiny few that weren’t about me or my dad (or maybe Andrew on the honor roll)?

  Then I became very, very mad. Picture me shaking my fist in the air, crying out, “Andrewwwww!”

  He spent all his time gathering Google crap. When whatever website went up that had the non-Felton info on it, he received that alert that day. For me, finding that odd Reinstein mention was like searching for an ant with a weird-shaped thorax, but still just a single ant, in a giant freaking Mexican ant hill. Impossible!

  I almost called Jerri at her job. She was already gone for the day. She was at the Edward Jones office, where she works part-time. I wanted to yell at her for having created the terrible monster Andrew. I wanted to tell her that she’d been duped, and, according to Randy Stone, Andrew wasn’t even a percussionist (whatever that means). I picked up the phone, then stopped myself, because freaking out on Jerri did not appeal to me in the slightest. Repercussions? Crazy Jerri?

  I went back to Randy Stone’s new message.

  The outlook is not “rosy.” A rose of another name would not be named “Rose” Reinstein.

  With this, the child detective Randy Stone lights another cigarette, which catches fire and nearly burns his hands off. He hacks out his totally sick lungs, watches the smoke trail up into the tropical sky, and wonders if Andrew and Felton could even possibly be related, because Felton is so sadly dumb.

  That Felton figured out the lack of percussion instruction in Andrew’s present is a near-on miracle that should be taken to the Pope.

  Good day.

  P.S. Randy Stone knows not to tell Jerri because she might go crazy like last summer.

  Jerk, Andrew!

  What about his P.S.?

  Here’s me: Can’t tell. Can’t tell. Whatever Andrew is into might be bad enough to knock Jerri off her solid rock. What if Andrew is part of an apocalypse cult? What if he’s wearing long burlap robes and is taking hallucinogenic magical mushrooms that make him think his name is Randy Stone? What if he’s decided to grow roses in Florida? Wouldn’t that freak Jerri out, because he refuses to help in the garden ever? What does a rose of another name would not be named “Rose” Reinstein mean?

  ANDREW!

  I stood up. I looked toward the door, toward the freedom of the road where I might run…

  But, instead of just running around Bluffton and jumping up and down like a monkey and cursing Andrew’s name, I paused, breathed, sat back down, and Googled “Rose” Reinstein.

  Every result that came up on the Google page referred to me, except for the very first one. I stared at this result. It was an obituary from the Fort Myers News-Press dated March 29 (the same week when everything went bad for me—and you, I guess, Aleah). I took a deep breath and then clicked on the link. Here’s what I saw:

  Rose Reinstein, 71, of Fort Myers died the morning of Wednesday, March 28, surrounded by family. Survived by her beloved husband, Stan; daughter, Evith (David Halpen); granddaughter, Tovi; and two grandsons, Felton and Andrew. Preceded in death by son, Steven. Born in Prague (the Czech Republic); an accomplished tennis player and track athlete in her youth. Rose played golf at Fiddlesticks with the same group for fifteen years and volunteered for numerous local organizations. She was a beautiful light to all who knew her. Services will be at the Centennial Cemetery on Monday. In lieu of flowers, please send gifts to the American Cancer Society.

  Holy God, Aleah.

  Do you have any idea? I mean, what the holy freaking…what?

  Rose. Stan. Steven.

  Tovi?

  Andrew. (Poor Andrew.)

  Felton.

  Rose and Stan. My grandparents. I met them when I was a little kid (tiny). A couple times. In Florida too. (That other time I flew.) I could picture a skinny woman with big hands and a giant smile that took up the bottom half of her face. She had black, curly hair like mine. This is what I knew too: these grandparents, they did not like Jerri. They did not like Grandma Berba. They stayed away from Andrew and me entirely: no cards, no phone calls, no anything.

  (I didn’t know anything.)

  They lost their son because he killed himself in our garage (Dad).

  And, Rose, my grandmother, died of cancer.

  • • •

  Jesus, Aleah. It’s like five in the morning.

  August 16th, 9:15 a.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part XIII

  I was just going to leave it at that, Aleah. I finally (like three hours ago) fell asleep thinking: that’s all she needs to know, that Andrew disappeared because of something to do with my dad’s parents (one of whom is totally dead, like Dad). Aleah’s not my family. Ronald has probably told her everything anyway and she never bothered to contact me, which is terrible.

  Aleah? You’ve really made me feel bad. Do you know that? What am I suppose to do?

  Forget it.

  Want to know something funny? There’s a heat wave in the South. One airport is having delays because of pavement issues. One airport just shut down completely because of some kind of power outage. Fort Myers is fine, apparently, but they’re having problems with planes getting where they need to be everywhere in the system. I am very confused.

  I actually said to the gate agent, without stuttering or stumbling, because I was pissed: “The South doesn’t know how to handle hot weather? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Not this kind of hot, sir. This is unprecedented.”

  Sir? Unprecedented? Like in the world? Makes me worry about the future.

  Now they won’t tell me if my flight’s going to get the crap out of here on time.

  I am angry. Angry! Monkey chest pound.

  I do not enjoy air travel, for it puts me in prison.

  • • •

  My legs feel like Jell-O. Donkey needs to run.

  What if I’m stuck in Chicago forever?

  Jerri would come get me.

  Your dad is still in Bluffton, so he can’t just drive over to O’Hare and take me for breakfast.

  Maybe I’ll still be here when you get back from Germany on Friday morning. Then you can spit on my shoes in person.

  Or maybe we’d make up?

  No. Maybe.

  Gus and I sort of made up after I received that unbelievable email from Randy Stone. Who could I call? Who could I talk to? Not Jerri, you know? After falling on the floor for like three hours, I decided no, no, no Jerri.

  I called Gus.

  (After I left Andrew several hysterical voice mails, by the way.)

  Gus didn’t pick up when I called, of course. But in my message I pretty much shouted: “Check your email immediately!” Then I forwarded him the child detective Randy Stone dispatch.

  Gus called me back about thirty seconds after I hit Send.

  “Holy shit!”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Randy Freaking Stone! Andrew!”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “I’m so
rry I blamed you for that crap.”

  “I wish I did it because Randy Stone’s awesome, but I didn’t,” Gus said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Jesus. That drunken, bony unicorn girl told the truth, didn’t she?”

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  “Whoa, man. So weird.”

  Gus knowing about this made me feel better.

  “Where do you think he went? Is he smoking cigarettes, that sly devil? What the hell is going on? What’s all that ‘rosy’ babble about at the end?”

  “I think he’s probably in Florida. I think maybe with our cousin, Tovi. I don’t know for sure, though.”

  “Evidence?”

  “He posted a picture of a pelican on feltonreinstein.com.”

  “Solid.”

  “Couple days ago he claimed his new friend at orchestra camp is named Tovi.”

  “So?”

  “The Rose babble at the bottom led me to my grandma’s obituary where a girl named Tovi is listed as our cousin.”

  “Grandma? Grandma Berba? What do you mean? Grandma who?”

  “Grandma Rose Reinstein.”

  “Wow.” Gus’s voice lost its normal edge. No one else in the world other than Andrew and Jerri would know exactly what that meant. (Long. Lost. Grandparent.) “No shit, Felton.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Seriously.”

  “What are you going to do? Tell Jerri?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know…No.”

  “Whoa,” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Aw, Jesus Christ, Felton.”

  “What?”

  “Do you want to hang out or something?” he asked, clearly not totally convinced he should.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Please.”

  “Okay,” he sort of whispered.

  • • •

  Announcement on loudspeaker…

  Oh, god-dang dog crap.

  My flight is now officially delayed.

  I’m in prison, Aleah.

  August 16th, 9:43 a.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part XIV