Be Good Be Real Be Crazy

by Chelsey Philpot

  “I’m not flying. No way. The bus isn’t so bad. Sometimes you can even get two seats all to yourself.” Mia rolled so her back was again to Homer. “I’m gonna go to sleep now.”

  “Okay.” Homer didn’t trust himself to say much more, but after turning off the light and pulling the door nearly shut, he remembered something. “Mia?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “You never said what you’d do differently.”

  “Hmmm,” Mia hummed into her pillow. “I would have brought marshmallows.”

  Homer smiled and gently pulled the door all the way closed.

  “Aren’t you supposed to sleep until noon during your last high school winter break? You keep this up, I’ll have to ask Einstein to tutor you in Being a Teenager 101.”

  Homer lifted his forehead off the kitchen table just enough to be able to see D.B. leaning in the kitchen doorway. “It’s a little early for sarcasm, don’t you think?”

  “That depends. Are you being sarcastic?” D.B. stretched his arms above his head, reaching for the ceiling. Even when he rose to his tiptoes, he was a couple of inches shy of reaching it. “Ugh. You kids are making me shrink. I used—”

  “To be six feet tall and able to float like a feather. So you’ve said.” Homer folded his arms on the table and rested his cheek on them. “I made coffee.”

  “I know. I could smell it from down the hall.” D.B. shuffled toward the French press and the mugs Homer had set up on the counter. His brown-and-gray hair was flat on one side of his head, while on the other it stuck out at all angles. When he turned around, his expression had changed completely. “Wow. It took me until this moment to remember: Mia set her boat on fire. You slept on the sofa bed. Shit.” D.B. rubbed at his eyes. “The universe needs to give that kid a break.” He dropped his hands. “Please don’t tell your other dad I said ‘shit.’”

  “Oh, I won’t.” Homer wanted to say something more, but his sleep-deprived brain wouldn’t let him pull together the right words. Even when D.B. was stressed or angry or disappointed, he kept a hint of his regular smile in his eyes. Homer could count on two hands the number of times he’d seen his dad unhappy.

  “Want a cup?” D.B. held up the French press.

  “Sure,” Homer said. “Thanks.”

  D.B. slid a mug with a dancing plantain on one side and “Life Is Bonita on La Isla de Plátanos” on the other across the table to Homer, and followed that up with the carton of cream and the sugar bowl. Then he sat in the chair directly across from Homer and added cream and sugar to his own mug. D.B. was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the rings his overflowing mug had left across the table or the coffee that dripped off the mug’s handle onto his T-shirt. Or maybe he did notice and just didn’t care.

  “Mia fall asleep okay?”

  “I think so. We talked for a few minutes, but she started yawning, so I left her alone.” Homer reached for the sugar and added a spoonful to his mug. He didn’t normally drink sweet coffee, but he needed something to do with his hands.

  “Homes, has Mia mentioned anything to you about her plans?”

  Homer looked up from his twirling spoon. D.B. was leaning toward him, his arms crossed on the table, everything about his expression and posture demonstrating what a great dad he was. Warm, generous, and caring. How did I get so lucky? The thought should have filled Homer with gratitude, but that morning it flooded him with guilt. It’s not fair. Why did I get my dads and Mia didn’t get anyone?

  “Homes? Burn your tongue?”

  D.B.’s voice was so full of concern that Homer felt tempted to tell his dad what he’d been thinking ever since the day Mia found out she was pregnant. Maybe if I explain, D.B. could help. But then Christian walked into the kitchen and Homer was glad that he hadn’t said a thing.

  “Morning,” said Christian, moving toward the counter, one hand already reaching for the coffeepot. “Oh, gewd. Cue-feee.”

  Homer had woken from a fitful sleep to the sound of Christian video chatting with his brother and sisters in Cape Town. These hours-long conversations always left his dad with a refreshed accent. Normally, Homer would tease him about his funny vowels and clinking sounds, but at that moment, he didn’t have the energy.

  “It’s strong,” D.B. said, turning. “You’ve taught our firstborn well.”

  “Homer made it?” Christian asked. “Up so early? Did I wake you with the video call? Your uncle Amahle is so loud and I forgot you were sleeping in the office. Did you sleep at all?” Christian slid into the chair nearest the door, his hands wrapped tightly around his green-and-white AmaZulu Football Club mug.

  Homer closed his eyes and let the steam from his coffee drift against his eyelids. The warmth felt amazing. “Can I finish this cup before we play Twenty Questions?” He opened his eyes and sat up straighter.

  “C.,” D.B. said before Christian could answer, “Homer and I were talking about Mia’s situation.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Christian looked from D.B. to Homer and back again. “David, you should make sure to tell her again that she’s welcome to stay. I think if she keeps hearing it from both of us, she might actually consider.”

  “I’ve told her. Many times.”

  Homer cleared his throat, sat up straighter, and then spoke. “Mia told me she was going to go stay with her foster sister, the one she’s always talking about.”

  “Dotty?” Christian asked.

  “Dotts,” Homer corrected. “She lives almost at the tip of Cape Cod now. Mia said she would take the bus, but I was thinking I could drive her.”

  For a moment, the only sounds in the kitchen were the noises that drifted in through the open window over the sink: the clank of metal storefront gates rising, the rattle of ice cream carts being pulled on the beach, and the screech of seagulls gearing up for another day of snatching unprotected food.

  D.B. was the first to speak. “That’s a long drive, Homes.”

  “I know, but I could make it up and back before Christmas if we leave in a couple of days. I could meet you guys at Grandma’s. Maybe even get to Mobile a little early.”

  “Homer.” D.B. pressed his palms flat against the table and leaned forward in such a way that Homer could see the patches of gray hair on the top of his head. “It’s out of the question. For starters, you’ve never traveled on your own.”

  “That’s more of an argument for why I should go.” Homer decided to play his final card. “What if I want to go to college out of state? Driving Mia to Massachusetts would give me the chance to see other parts of the country. The farthest north I’ve ever been is Alabama. That’s not the kind of traveling you can write about in an application essay.”

  “You have plenty to write about, Homer. You live on an island. You have two dads. Your brother’s a genius, albeit one who’s obsessed with the end of the world—”

  “D.B., none of that stuff is about me. It’s about geography and why my family’s interesting and I’m not.”

  “That’s not true. What about—”

  Christian interrupted. “David, this might not be a bad idea.”

  “Really?” Homer couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “This trip could be a good introduction to”—Christian paused, considering his words carefully—“places beyond the island. Plus, he’d be doing something nice for a young lady who we all care about deeply.”

  “Homes, you think you’re up for this?” The pause between “Homes” and the rest of D.B’s question was heavy with worry, love, and uncertainty.

  Homer nodded. Then he shook his head. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t know. But I want to find out.”

  “Wise words,” said Christian, wrapping his hands around D.B.’s. “Ali Isley’s wife takes salsa lessons from me. He’ll give me a deal on a car. Homer and Mia have phones. And it’ll be good for Homer and Einstein to do some bonding. Steiner spends way too much time taking classes with kids almost twice his age.”

  Homer’s heart sank, but before he
could protest, Einstein shambled into the room. “I’ll accept your proposition on one condition,” he said, stumbling when his left foot caught the bottom of his too-long pajama pants.

  “Did you know he was there?” D.B. asked, looking at Christian.

  “Of course. The perk of sitting by the door: you can see right to the end of the hall, and Einstein was much closer than that.” Christian leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. “All right, what’s the condition?”

  “That after Homer and I drop off Mia, we drive to the town of Grace Mountains, New Hampshire, and I get to attend the second annual I-9 Institute for the Study of Probable Doom, Existential Risks, and Apocalyptic Possibilities Conference on the Significant Dangers and Slim Rewards of the Giant Atom Accelerator.”

  Christian sat up. “Can you explain that in plain English?”

  Einstein took a deep breath. “I’d like to attend an educational two-day conference where the greatest scientist in the world will speak about the ways that a test run of a very, very big machine that is designed to make atoms go very, very fast could cause the destruction of life as we know it on December twentieth at eleven fifty-nine p.m.”

  “Not exactly an uplifting topic,” Christian said, frowning.

  Einstein crossed his arms. “My offer ensures that I will not spend the majority of my winter break either begging you for rides to the university labs or shutting myself in my room and listening to Apollo Aces’s new album at the highest possible volume on a stereo system that I have modified to achieve a decibel level of one hundred and fifteen, which is just five decibels shy of the sound level at a rock concert. Do you accept my terms?”

  “I accept.” Homer raised his hand. “If taking Einstein to a nerd convention means we can go, I accept.”

  D.B. hunched his shoulders. Homer thought he was trying not to laugh, but when he spoke it sounded more like he was trying not to cry. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” asked Homer.

  “Okay.” D.B. stood up and walked his dancer’s walk, heel to toe, across the kitchen. When he got to the doorframe, he rapped his knuckles against the bright-blue surface. Tap. Tap. Tap. “There’ll be rules. You’re going to call every day. I want an itinerary. And . . . I’ll think of the rest.”

  “Okay,” Homer said.

  “Okay,” D.B. said. “Now, I just need a minute to . . .” His voice trailed off as he disappeared down the hall.

  At the sound of the front door slapping shut, Christian turned around from watching D.B. leave and fixed his eyes on a deep scratch in the table. Any hint of the smile he’d had during Einstein’s presentation was gone. “Don’t worry. Your dad will be himself in a bit. He’s very protective. He has reasons to be.”

  “Like what?” said Einstein, “It’s not like Homer and I get in trouble—ever.”

  “Most places aren’t like the island. The real world”—Christian made air quotes on “real world”—“isn’t as accepting of people who don’t fit its models. Many people see ‘different’ as a danger. This scares them.” Christian pressed two fingers to the space between his eyes. “When people get scared, they do stupid things. Some get mean. Some angry. Some violent. Your dad experienced all three.” Christian sighed as he stood up. “But those are his stories to tell you someday.”

  “Okay.” Homer had more questions, but he held them in.

  Christian yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “Why don’t you two go tell Mia the plan, if she’s awake.”

  Einstein waited until Christian had walked beyond the kitchen and out of sight before he spoke. “You really think the way to get Mia to stay here is to drive her eighteen hundred miles away?”

  “How’d you—”

  Einstein held up his hands like he was surrendering a weapon. “Homes, you’re about as opaque as a beaker—and you left your list of ‘Ideas to Convince Mia’ open on the living room computer. You’ll need to add this one: ‘Take a very, very, very long road trip.’”

  Normally, Einstein’s egomaniac-professor voice would have made Homer laugh, but today he was too tired and nervous. “I’ve got to try something.”

  “To quote the great astrophysicist Stephen Hawking, ‘Things cannot make themselves impossible.’ Not even one-sided love.” Einstein patted his brother’s arm as he left the kitchen. “I added that last part. Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  Homer waited until he was alone to respond.

  “I know.”

  THE PARABLE OF THE ORDINARY GUY (WHO JUST WANTED SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN)

  THE ORDINARY GUY WAS a newspaper without cartoons. He was unflavored oatmeal and caffeine-free diet soda. He was an earth-toned T-shirt paired with stainproof khakis. The human equivalent of waiting in line at a post office or reading through the fine print of a terms-and-conditions agreement.

  In other words . . .

  He was uninteresting.

  He was boring.

  He was sheltered and naive.

  He was ordinary.

  Once upon a time, the Ordinary Guy hadn’t been aware of his unspectacular state. Indeed, he didn’t realize until ninth grade—when he hit his third growth spurt—how remarkably unremarkable he was. In high school, suddenly the same kids he’d been in classes with since kindergarten wanted to stick out instead of blend in. They were competing for superlatives while fighting the status quo.

  The Best soccer player!

  The Smartest class president!

  The Greatest artist!

  Even being The Worst! at something was considered a kind of achievement.

  At first, the Ordinary Guy aspired to be interesting. He tried on different selves as though they were T-shirts from a sales rack—but none of them quite fit. Freshman year, he joined (and left) almost every club at Plátanos High: debate, poetry, robotics, et cetera. Sophomore year, he really put an effort into liking sports—soccer and baseball, specifically—but realized that being just good enough to make JV meant he spent most of his time sitting on a bench or shading his eyes in the outfield. By the spring of the Ordinary Guy’s junior year, he just about gave up on “interesting.”

  And then a very interesting girl with an amazing face and a generous heart came into his life, and due to a crack in the cosmos, a wobble in the Earth’s rotation, divine pity raining from the heavens, or some similarly fantastical reason, she thought the Ordinary Guy was a lot of things he wasn’t: funny, smart, talented, and (possibly) charming.

  Unfortunately, the fact that this extraordinary girl made the Ordinary Guy feel better than ordinary—special, even—didn’t solve all his problems. Rather, this friendship created a new complication. For it should be recognized as a natural law that the difficulty of making decisions about the future is directly proportional to the amount of internal entropy created by love.

  The Ordinary Guy concluded that what he needed was a change of place. A shake-up of geography. Of the predictable. The routine.

  Save for his heart—as the saying goes—the Ordinary Guy had nothing to lose.

  ON THE ROAD TO GLORY OR DISASTER

  WHEN HOMER WOKE UP THE morning of December twelfth, the weak ribbons of daylight that slipped between the window blinds were still two feet away from reaching the office carpet. He had hours before anyone else in the house would be awake, but falling back asleep was impossible.

  Homer stared at the water stain on the ceiling and tried to think about logistics. Did I pack enough T-shirts? Should I get more deodorant? Do the red sneakers smell better than my running shoes? It wasn’t long, however, before his mind turned to Mia.

  Sometimes, he thought about random things, like how her smile stretched across her whole face in a way that made it impossible not to smile back and how amazing her hair looked when thick clouds pressed the humidity against the earth and the dense air made all the strands around her face curl. How the muscles in her legs popped when she walked in sand. How smooth the skin in the dip between her shoulder blades would feel under his fingertips.


  Other times, his thoughts led him to places he didn’t like to go. To remembering how much he liked her and how sometimes liking her hurt even more than being caught in a riptide.

  Homer picked up a throw pillow and pressed it to his face, silently repeating, She’s pregnant. She doesn’t feel the same. She’s pregnant. She doesn’t feel the same. Soon the sentences became garbled: She feel pregnant. Same doesn’t she’s.

  The fact that Homer hadn’t gotten much sleep the past three nights was definitely not helping him control his brain.

  The morning light was still over a foot from reaching the office carpet, but Homer couldn’t lie on the lumpy mattress any longer. He got to his feet and pulled on a T-shirt, thinking as he folded the bed back into a sofa, Holy shit. We’re leaving. Today.

  Mia and Einstein were already outside when Homer heard tires crunching on the gravel driveway, followed by a horn that sounded like a flock of mournful ducks quacking.

  Time’s up. Homer didn’t bother trying to zip up his overstuffed bag. He flung the straps over his shoulder, took one final look around his room, and then pounded down the steps and out to the porch, where he found Mia and Einstein staring straight ahead with their mouths slightly open.

  “Hey, what are you— Oh, wow.” Homer stopped by the front railing. “So that’s it?”

  “Indeed,” Einstein said, his expression puzzled, like he’d heard the punch line but missed the joke.

  “Well,” Mia said, turning her head to the side as though she was trying to get a better angle. “It’s certainly . . . yellow.”

  “Yup,” said Homer.

  “That it is,” said Einstein.

  All three of them stared, silently watching Christian as he used an old T-shirt to polish the dashboard, the steering wheel, and any other place he could reach from the driver’s seat.

  “The banana . . . hood ornament thingie . . . ,” Mia continued haltingly. “I think it could grow on me. On us. If we try really, really hard.”

  “It will be hard,” said Homer.