by Mary Penney
“Well,” she said, carefully picking off a small snail from a young bud. “I wonder if the ‘ruined’ part is just the plain fact that your grandmother isn’t there anymore.”
I swallowed.
She studied the snail up close. “Losing someone you love changes everything. It is really quite impossible to absorb. Sometimes you need to stay really mad about it for a while. Just so you can survive the shock of it all.” She set the baby snail down on the brick border away from her flowers. She drew a deep breath and looked off in the distance again. Started to speak, but then just cleared her throat hard instead.
Unfolding her legs she stood up, and brushed her pants off. She reached a hand out for me, pulled me up next to her. “But if you stay mad, you stay alone. And when you’ve lost someone, that’s the loneliest place in the world to be.” She gave my hand a slow squeeze and then let it go.
I felt that prickling between my shoulder blades that I felt the first time I met her. “Do you feel alone?” I asked, my voice small.
She put an arm across my shoulders and waved out at her garden with her hand shovel. She lifted her shoulders and then dropped them. “I’m trying to fill it up best I know how, Macy.”
I looked out at the row after row of flowers in her yard and thought of the rows of dog food in her kitchen. I could see how she was trying to fill up every square inch of empty space in her life. So far, I kept all my empty spaces full of mad. That’s what I grew in my garden.
“Come inside with me a minute, will you? I have something for you.”
I brushed the knees of my pants as I followed her into the house. She opened the door to her darkroom and motioned me in. It was very cool inside, and the light was eerie. But I liked it.
“Do you remember the story the local paper did on your grandmother when she celebrated the thirty-fifth anniversary of her café?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Mom has it somewhere. Why?”
“I remembered last night that I took the pictures for that, and wondered if I still had the negatives.” She placed what looked like a blank sheet of paper into a metal tray full of liquid. With tongs, she carefully dunked the paper, so it stayed below the liquid.
“Now, keep your eyes on it,” she said.
I leaned over the tray and watched as the paper slowly began to change. Shadows started to appear, some lighter and some darker, and then little by little, the outline of a face. The eyes came first and held me, and then the mouth and familiar crow’s-feet around the eyes. Nana emerged like a ghost from the past, but not a ghost at all. The hundred details of her began to fill in then. A whole life lived on that face. I could hardly breathe. She looked alive.
And there was something else. There in the shadows of the shop, barely visible over Nana’s shoulder, a man in a white T-shirt.
My father.
“I’d wanted to use this picture for the piece in the newspaper, but she didn’t care for it. Said her hair was a mess, and she wanted to just use the photo of the front of the café.” Ginger laughed, remembering. “She told me that it had weathered the years better than she had.”
“You—you knew her?” I said in a small voice when I could finally trust myself to speak.
“I wouldn’t say I ‘knew’ her, but I had the pleasure of meeting her. I liked her. She was a straight shooter.”
“I think this is the best picture anyone ever took of her,” I said, full of awe. “It’s how she actually looked, you know? Can I really have it?”
“Of course. I made it just for you.”
As she looked at me, I fought an urge to hug her as we stood in that dark private space. But we weren’t alone. We were sharing it with Nana and—only I knew—with my dad.
Feeling shy, I stuck out my hand. “Well, thanks a lot. I really love it.”
Ginger took my hand and squeezed it. “You are so welcome. But you need to leave it with me to dry, okay?” She paused a moment and then added, “Twee tells me it is your birthday in a few days. Would you allow me to photograph you two as a birthday gift? The two of you are quite special together.”
“I’m not—” I started, and then softened my voice. “I’m not celebrating my birthday. At least not yet. You don’t need to give me a present.”
She regarded me a moment but didn’t ask me any questions or interrogate me. She just left it alone. I loved that about her.
“Well, take it from an old dame. When you’re older, you’ll appreciate having a picture of the two of you to remember this summer. You’ll be all grown up before you know it. Perhaps you’ll allow me to take photos to simply celebrate two best friends.”
With a gulp, I wondered if it would be our last summer together. I prayed Twee would even be speaking to me next week. If I was so lucky, this would be the last double cross I would ever do of her. That, I swore on my nana.
My resolve melted like an Eskimo Pie on a hot spit at the sight of the express bus to Los Robles. I bit down hard on my lip and checked my watch. Just in time. I handed my ticket to the bleary-eyed clerk in the window, who ripped it down the middle and handed me half. She pointed to the bus.
I had made myself stay up real late last night baking cookies, hoping I’d be so tired I’d fall right to sleep on the bus. Yeah, right.
I tiptoed on to the hulking metal thing, like there might be a land mine under any one of the steps. Then I stood tall in the aisle, breathing deeply.
Took two steps. Stopped. Inhale.
Four steps. Wiped the sweat off my upper lip. Exhale.
Six steps. Pictured how glad my dad would be to see me. Inhale.
Eight steps. A wave of dizzy made my knees buckle, and I caught myself on a seat. Steady, steady.
Ten steps and then no stopping until the end. I moved quickly with stiff, short strides, my eyes on the black rubber aisle runner.
And then on two big long feet in holey socks.
I caught my breath at the sight of Switch camped out on the long backseat—sound asleep, curled up like a little mouse. A crumpled paper bag was halfway shoved under the seat along with his skateboard, a carton of chocolate milk, and some old curly French fries.
His watch beeped and his eyes flew open. He rubbed his head and then caught sight of me staring at him like he was some kind of alien.
“Hey!” he said, reaching for his chocolate milk. He took a deep swig, his eyes never leaving me. “What are you doing here? Need a place to hurl again?” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“No!” I said, waving my ticket in his face. “I’m going to Los Robles—to see my dad.” I bit down on my lip, hard. My big secret just leaped right out of my mouth like it wasn’t mine to keep.
“Cool.” Switch started packing up and putting everything into his bag. At least he was tidy. Some boys would have left all their food junk on the floor.
“Are you going to Los Robles?” I asked, trying hard not to sound too interested.
“Naw, I was just hanging out, catching some Zs.”
I pointed my head over in the direction of the station. “What if you got caught?”
He shook his head. “Not too worried about that. I know the graveyard guy inside. He’s cool. He’s a skater too,” he said, his foot finding his wheels below him. “Sometimes I help him clean out the bus or inside the terminal for a couple bucks.” Switch studied me a minute. “So, what’s your story? You get on the bus the other day, lose a load, and leave. Now, you’re back. I’m no shrink, but you got some problem about going to see your dad or something?”
My cheeks flushed. “No. I love my dad.”
“You’re not one of those girls who eat and then puke it up on purpose, are you? Because that is so lame.”
I stared at my feet a moment, feeling a ridiculous urge to confess. “No— It’s just that— Well, buses make me puke.”
“Can’t your mom drive you to your dad’s?” he asked, puzzled.
I gnawed the inside of my cheek. “She doesn’t exactly know I’m going.”
“Oh,” he said. “This is getting interesting.” He pulled me down next to him, close. “Give it up.”
The pulse point in my temple started beating like a tiny drum.
“You running away?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I just need to see my dad real bad.”
Switch looked over at me sideways. “You know, I could take you.”
I guffawed. “What? On your skateboard?”
“I got wheels,” he said, giving me a long, slow smile. He had really white teeth, and this loopy scar at the corner of his mouth, like a fish that had once been hooked. I wondered how he got it.
A uniformed driver hopped aboard and picked up his clipboard. Switch scootched down in his seat. The driver turned over the ignition, gave it some gas. And then revved the engine a few times, like he was going to race it in the Indy 500 or something.
A cloud of smoke billowed up. My mouth felt like it was filled with exhaust. I might as well have been under the bus, sucking on the tailpipe. I swallowed and licked my lips.
Switch looked me over. “I’ll make you a deal. Go turn in your bus ticket. They’ll give you cash back for it. You give me half for gas; you take half for snacks on the way. What do you say?”
I couldn’t say much of anything.
“Oh, man, you’re going all green on me! C’mon.” Switch grabbed his board and sack in one arm, and me in the other. Dragged me down the aisle.
Sweat ran down both my legs, and it felt like I was wearing cement boots. Switch looked back at me. “Hang on—almost there.”
My head grew heavy and stupid. A strong arm came around my waist, dragged me the rest of the way. I don’t remember getting out. Next thing I knew I was sitting with my head pushed down between my legs.
“Stay!” Switch barked.
No problem, I thought.
Moments later something icy cold was pressed against my neck. My eyes rolled back into their proper places, and the dancing lights finished their sideshow.
“Kid, you weren’t joking about hating the bus!” Switch’s voice was close and teasing next to my ear.
I grabbed the cold thing he was pressing against my neck. It was a can of soda. I rolled it against my face. I tried to look at him, but his face was too close, and there were three of him.
He took the can from me and popped the lid. “Here, drink. You could use some caffeine.”
I took a long swig, trying to get the world back into focus. I stared at the line of people getting on the bus.
“So, what’ya think?” he asked. His eyes swept my face. “You gonna get on, or you gonna take me up on my deal?”
The driver pulled the last ticket, checked his watch, and double-checked the luggage storage. Then he looked over at me. “Coming, miss? Time to pull out.”
I wiped my sleeve across my forehead. I tried to imagine myself getting back on, settling in a seat, even saw myself waving good-bye to Switch. Then the driver would have to give it some gas, and we’d lurch out into traffic. Before I knew it we’d be tearing down the freeway toward Los Robles.
My stomach seized up into a ball of snow. I stuck my head back between my legs.
Switch patted the top of my head. “Naw, go on,” he told the bus driver. “She’s with me.”
“Hey,” Switch said, leaning in. “Let me take you, okay? You need to see your dad real bad? I’m your man. I’ll get you there, no problem.”
I sat up and dragged a deep breath of fresh air. Gave him a long sideways look. Quickly counted up how many weeks I’d probably get grounded for this. Weighed that against not seeing my dad. Weighed it against Jack growing up in a broken home.
“I’ll go turn in my ticket,” I said.
Barely an hour later I was trudging back to Jet Park. Sort of like déjà vu, but without the mystery. Switch told me to meet him here while he went to deliver his newspapers and get his wheels. Said he could get there faster on his board. We’d had a short conversation about his age, and the fact that he didn’t actually have a license. He explained that was only a technicality, as he’d had the class and drivers’ training. What was most important was that he knew how to drive.
Oh, boy, would my mom love to get her hands on that argument. She’d pound it into holiday mincemeat. Her whole world was technicalities, making sure every kid in the county followed the very letter of the law. And living under the same roof with Mrs. Probation Pants meant that whatever I did always got serious scrutiny.
But, like Switch said, some good things didn’t fit under the law. We had stopped at a small market near the bus station to pick out some snacks for our trip. While I was paying for our stuff, I saw Switch slip a cigar into one of the “free” newspapers he was holding. He just smiled at me when I’d looked at him shocked, and then he cruised out of the store, like he didn’t have a care in the world. I left a whole dollar in the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray, hoping that would cover the price of a cigar.
“Are you crazy?”
“Will you relax? It’s for one of my old guys on my paper route. He loves a good stogie. Not that he’ll ever smoke it,” he added with a grin. “He’ll just gum it to death all day.”
“But I could have paid for it!” I sputtered.
“I know, but why should you? It’s not for you, and it’s not for me.” Switch just jumped up on his board with a giant clack. “If I can make the day nicer for someone, I’m going to do it. So, arrest me,” he’d said, holding his wrists out for handcuffs. His eyes locked on my face, teasing.
Twenty minutes later I was busying myself with repacking my backpack to take my mind off my superterrible new plan to get to Los Robles.
I popped open the lid on the tin of macaroons I’d brought my dad. Took a deep whiff. They were his favorite treat in the world. I could hardly believe that in just a few hours I could be seeing him, and we’d be eating these very cookies together.
Mom seemed surprised that I was baking so late last night. I told her in a frosty voice that the Green Angels loved macaroons. I could tell she wanted to patch things up between us, but I wouldn’t give her an inch. Not even a half inch.
The sidewalk under me rumbled, and a distant roar cut through the quiet morning. I looked overhead for a helicopter, shading my eyes from the sun. The rumble grew stronger, louder, and was moving toward Jet Park.
In the distance, but coming closer, Ginger’s motorbike came barreling down Lincoln Drive. I whipped my head in all directions, looking for the white-haired boy on the skateboard—the boy who almost got creamed by this very motorbike just days ago.
The bike came to a quick, noisy stop just feet away from me. The driver tossed me a helmet and motioned toward the sidecar. Then flicked up the goggles and smiled at me.
“Come on! Let’s go!”
I just stood there staring at him, my mouth the perfect flytrap.
“Get IN, or I’m leaving without you!” he shouted.
“YOU— You— You!” I could only sputter.
He revved the motor. “Okay, I’m leaving! And I’ve got all your cash, remember?”
Like a zombie, I pulled on the helmet. Stepped down into the small seat.
“Los Robles, here we come!” Switch whooped, gunning the gas.
And off we flew, looking exactly like my mother’s worst nightmare.
CHAPTER TEN
If you ever find yourself being bounced and blown out of town in the sidecar of an old vintage motorcycle, you’ll find out quick that the driver can’t hear anything you are screaming at him. Especially important questions like—
“Are you OUT OF YOUR MIND?”
And “Do you REALLY think I am going to go ALL the way to Los Robles in THIS thing?”
Even my threats were lost to the wind. Like “If YOU don’t pull over RIGHT now, I’m going to go up there and RIP your eyeballs right out of their SOCKETS!” Which I punctuated with a very, very bad cussword.
I continued to yell at him until my throat was ground meat. Just to make sure he wasn’t
just ignoring the hard questions, I tried screaming something else.
“YOU HAVE A GIANT HOLE IN YOUR JEANS AND I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERPANTS!”
But he just turned around, smiled, gave me a thumbs-up. Switch was having a swell time.
The only upside to this nightmare journey was that I was outside. I could breathe. I wasn’t trapped inside an old, smelly bus. I was trapped outside an old, smelly bike.
Mile after mile the wind pounded me, parting my eyelashes and blowing my nostril hairs backward into my sinus cavity. After a while I couldn’t yell anymore, and my eyes were too dry to keep open. My head started bobbing and weaving. I’d never sleep, though, not while my life was in the hands of Robin the Teenage Hood.
Miles later the smell of gasoline dragged me back. My head popped up, my neck stiff and sore. I shifted my helmet back onto my head, where it had slipped over my eyes. Licking sandpaper lips, I looked for Switch. He stood next to the gas pump, chowing down on a corn dog.
“Man, you were out!” He pointed his dog over at me. “Bite?”
I gave him a poisonous look and unfolded myself from the sidecar. Punched him hard in the arm and headed toward the bathroom.
“You might want to get some gratitude!” he called after me. “You’re the one who wanted to go to Los Robles.”
I turned on my heel and marched back to the bike. “I do want to go, but I’d like to get there alive!” I balled up my fist, punched him again, right in the same spot. It had to hurt.
Switch winced and rubbed his bicep. “Lighten up! We’ll get there fine. Go— If you gotta use the restroom, get on it. I don’t want to hang out here all day.”
The bathroom was disgusting, and the mirror was no better than an aluminum cookie sheet. I pulled off my helmet to wash my face. I looked terrible. Not exactly how I’d hope to look on the day I was seeing my dad.
I sighed and wished Twee were here. She always made me feel better about everything. She could find the upside to nuclear disaster. I heard Switch gunning the bike outside, so I quickly splashed more water on my face. Hurried outside and pulled my helmet back on.
Switch handed me a giant grape Icee and smiled. “Better?”
