16 Things I Thought Were True

by Janet Gurtler

  “Oh my God,” I say as she checks over her shoulder for cars and pulls out. Jake is standing on the sidewalk, waving, and my mom appears to be freaking out and trying to run after the car. Jake is holding her back. “What the hell is wrong with my family?”

  Amy lifts her hand to wave as she pulls away and toots her horn. “Nothing at all,” she says. “They’re awesome.”

  I close my eyes and try to let my mom’s distress go. I don’t want to take it with me. It is not mine to own. Not now.

  Amy reaches across the console and pats my leg. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. I had a dream.” I stare at her to see if she’s joking, and she giggles. “Chaps,” she says. “You brother calls you Chaps?”

  I start to laugh. She’s sitting on a cushion to make her taller. It cracks me up.

  ***

  Adam lives in the newest suburban area on the outskirts of town. Amy’s got the address programmed into her GPS, and we find it without any trouble. As soon as we pull in front of a brown and black house nearly identical to all the others on the street, Adam comes running out the front door and up the drive. He’s wearing black jeans with a plain white T-shirt and a green plaid shirt flapping open. His hair looks kind of frantic, sticking up in all sorts of directions.

  “He’s cute,” Amy says as we watch him run to the car. I silently agree. “Like a nerdy band guy,” she says.

  “He looks like a young doctor,” I say.

  She tilts her head, watching him out the window. “Maybe a mad scientist.”

  He reaches the car and Amy pops the hatch, and he dumps in a small black bag, closes it, and then crawls into the backseat. He slides into the car. “Drive,” he yells to Amy with a trace of panic in his voice.

  She pulls out with a screech as he’s still putting a seat belt across him.

  I turn around. “Are you being chased by the cops or something?”

  “No.” He doesn’t smile or expand but he presses his mouth tight, so I turn around.

  “Should we be concerned about our safety?” Amy calls.

  “No. It’s fine,” Adam answers.

  Amy raises her eyebrows and shrugs, not seemingly having any problem with whatever is going on with Adam. “So how old is Jake?” she asks me.

  “Forty,” I tell her, sneaking a peek back at Adam. He’s frowning. “And he still lives at home with his mom.” I turn back to her profile as she squishes up her nose and her forehead wrinkles up.

  “He’s not forty,” she says, not playing along. “And he is pulchritudinous.”

  “Pulcra-whatinous?” I ask.

  “Delightful to the senses. Beautiful,” she clarifies.

  “You’re talking about Jake?” I pretend to stick my finger down my throat and gag.

  Oh God, I think, if Jake falls for Amy, they’ll probably marry right after she finishes high school. She’ll get pregnant and stall my imagined climb for him up the corporate ladder. I imagine her babbling at family dinners. “And what are you, a walking dictionary?”

  There’s a grunt from the backseat. “You mean you didn’t know what pulchritudinous means?” Adam asks.

  I glance over my shoulder. He looks less stressed out. “You did?”

  “No.” He laughs. “Sorry ’bout earlier. My dad and I had an argument and I wanted to get away before he ran outside to have the last word,” he says.

  “Her mom ran outside in her bathrobe,” Amy says.

  “Amy’s sitting on a cushion so she can reach the pedals,” I say.

  “Okay,” Adam says. “Weird parents behind us, cushions underneath us. Road trip—ahead!”

  All I can think about is the weird parent ahead of me, the one who left me behind.

  chapter nine

  Amy reaches over and pats my leg briefly again before returning it to the wheel. “I’m sure your dad isn’t that weird.”

  I pull my phone from my hoodie pocket and check my followers. Ten more since this morning. People have been RT’ing my call for followers.

  #Road trip! I tweet.

  There are immediate tweet backs from my friends.

  @Morgantor Send us your road trip playlist #roadtrip #envy

  I want to go on a road trip with my twitter best buds. #roadtrip #bucketlist, I tweet back.

  “Are you going to be on that thing the whole time?” Adam asks.

  “Maybe.” I punch out another message. Essential item for roadtrip? Earbuds.

  “No way,” Amy calls. “Front seat rule number one: you must keep the driver entertained. You’re responsible for changing CDs and navigating. My dad programmed the Lynden border crossing and ferry into the GPS already so that part won’t be hard.” She comes to a stop at a red light.

  “The Lynden crossing?” Adam calls from the backseat.

  “My dad said it takes a little longer to get there, but the wait times are shorter.”

  @5alive Your dad is rad, I type.

  The light changes and Amy drives forward, turns her signal on, and takes the ramp to the freeway. My heart skips as we leave Tadita behind. My text alarm rings and I glance at the text.

  Morgan? Text me, k? I need to tell you something.

  It’s from my mom.

  Instead of answering, I send a text to Jake.

  Is mom okay? Health-wise?

  A moment later, he texts back.

  She’s fine. Worried about you meeting your dad, but fine. Don’t stress.

  Let me know if she’s not feeling well. I really don’t want to talk to her, but I am worried.

  Yeah. I get it. I’ll let you know if anything changes. She’s good. This is about you.

  Since she’s hasn’t had a relapse or anything dire, I put the phone down. If I talk to her, she’ll make this all about her, but the truth is, this isn’t about her. I don’t want to hear what she has to say anymore, not until this meeting with my dad is done.

  “I went to Amy’s house and met her parents,” I turn and tell Adam. “Her dad told me they used to drive back and forth to Canada all the time.”

  Amy’s house was big but old fashioned. Everything looked expensive but kind of neglected, as if they’d bought it because they could but didn’t really want to. Her dad didn’t look like a software genius, with his big, protruding belly and wispy red hair, but he was sweet and nice, like a big teddy bear. It was obvious how close the two of them were. He listened to Amy like she was the most interesting person in the world and looked at her like she was the most beautiful. It made my heart hurt a little.

  Her mom was sweet too but quieter. She was writing a book, she told me, and born without housework genes. I met Mary, their live-in maid, who they treated like an old friend of the family. Amy said Mary did most of the work and cooking, and her mom laughed and agreed. We ate dinner and then her dad took us for ice cream before he drove me home. Later, when I was alone in my room, I cried a little over how lucky Amy was.

  “Amy’s dad was a little worried when I told him I’d booked us at a private dorm room in the Stingray Hostel,” I tell Adam.

  “He’s not a snob. He just wants me to be safe,” Amy says, lifting her chin. “Adam. There are some bags on the floor with snacks in them. I got popcorn twists for Morgan because they’re her favorite.” I glance at her profile. I told her that a few days ago when she quizzed me about things I liked to eat. I didn’t know she was going to buy them for me.

  “That is really sweet,” I tell her.

  “I also bought different flavors of chips, since Adam said he likes them all. And pretzels and candy bars and Skittles. And Cheezies. The Cheezies are for me.”

  “Whoa. Selfish much?” Adam says, and we laugh. Amy makes a face.

  “If anyone gets car sick, it will be rainbow colored,” I point out.

  Amy sits up taller. “There’s a cooler bag on the floor too, fil
led with sodas. I’d like a Mountain Dew. There’s water, Coke, and Gatorade.”

  “No root beer?” Adam says, but this time she glances at him in the rearview mirror and sticks out her tongue.

  “You are officially the Queen of the Snacks,” he tells her.

  “Quit sucking up and pass me a Mountain Dew,” she says.

  Adam passes a bottle forward and I take it, twist off the cap, and place it in the cup holder for her. “Here you go, bossy pants.”

  My phone dings, signaling I’ve received a text, and I pick up my phone and read.

  I like your hair like that.

  The text is from Adam. I glance back, but he doesn’t look up from his phone.

  I’m tempted to text back, Let’s send a photo to your girlfriend and see what she thinks. But that’s a little presumptuous. A boy can say he likes my hair without cheating on his girlfriend. Who do I think I am? Sexy pants. Ugh. As if she’d be threatened by me. As if she should be.

  I text back and then smile to myself.

  You should comb yours.

  I hear him laugh.

  “Put your phone away,” Amy says to me.

  “You said what?” I lay my phone on my lap but don’t put it away. “My mom doesn’t even make me put my phone away.”

  “Yeah, well, obviously she’s not one of those parents who monitors her kid online.”

  I can’t decide whether to defend me or my mom.

  “Listen up, Chaps,” Amy says. “Car rule number two: no phone face the whole drive time.”

  “Phone face?” I ask.

  “Phone face: when one has their phone constantly in their face,” Adam says. “Obviously. Do you want a Coke?”

  “Is there diet?” I ask.

  “No, don’t you know all those chemicals are bad for you?” Amy says. “No aspartame.” She turns her head slightly but keeps her eyes on the road. “Can you hand me the Cheezies?” she says to Adam.

  “Because Cheezies are made with all natural ingredients?” I say. Then I turn to Adam. “Regular is fine.”

  He hands me the drink with an industrial-size bag of Cheezies. I pick up my phone. “My Twitter update from the Lynden border showed no lineup and only a ten-minute wait,” I announce to prove my phone facing can also involve helpful travel tips.

  I break open the bag of Cheezies and put them up on the console so Amy can reach it. “Just so you know, I’m all for you getting five thousand followers, but you don’t have to do it on the road trip.”

  “Thank you, Amy,” I say, but the sarcasm is potent.

  “Suck it up,” Amy says. “Try interacting with real people for a change. You might even like it.”

  “Amy, you’re far too little to be my mother. Besides, the one I have is bossy enough.”

  “My car, my rules,” she says and sounds happy.

  I glance back at Adam. “Trade me spots?”

  He raises his eyebrows and grins.

  “Ha ha,” Amy says, not at all offended. “You also have to arm pump all the truckers once we hit the highway.”

  “Clearly,” I say.

  “Wooooo,” calls Adam from the back. “Arm-pump girl.”

  “No one is allowed to sleep, and that includes you, Adam.” She glares at him with her rearview mirror. “I don’t care if we do get stuck in long lineups at the border or the ferry crossing to Vancouver Island. No sleeping.”

  “Bossy pants is right,” he says.

  “My car, I’m the boss,” she shouts happily. “This is not Tinkerpark. Shut up and hand us more snacks. Pass Morgan the popcorn twists. And I need Smarties.”

  It’s noisy with paper and plastic rustling.

  “You kind of take on a new personality behind the wheel,” I say to Amy, but she’s stuffing Cheezies in her mouth and ignores me.

  Adam throws a bag into the front seat and it hits me in the head. I open the twists and stick my hand inside. With my other hand, I reach for my phone.

  “Hey!” Amy shouts.

  “Just one more tweet,” I beg. “To sign out. I don’t want people to think I’m ignoring them.”

  Adam leans forward and puts his hand over the seat. “Hand it,” he says.

  “No way.” The thought of handing over my phone makes me hyperventilate a little. I hold it up so he can see and hold the power button down. “I powered it off. For now. See? I promise not to turn it on until….” I try and think how long I can hold out. “I’ll need to check it again before we cross the border. In case there’s any change with my mom.”

  Amy presses the volume button on the stereo and turns it up so loud that no one can hear my answer. It’s a new pop song, and Amy knows every word and sings along at the top of her voice.

  I turn and catch Adam’s eye. He’s munching on a bag of salt and vinegar chips, but he shrugs and starts singing too. I roll down my window, lift my foot up to the window ledge, and wiggle my toes in the wind. We’ve driven away from the clouds, and the breeze feels good.

  I love the outdoors of Washington and, despite my fantasies of escape, can’t imagine living anywhere else. Mountains and water are in my blood. I wonder if Victoria looks the same. I know that it’s similar to Washington in climate, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to like it.

  Ahead of us, a semitruck approaches. I scramble to sit up and stick my arm out the window and pretend to pull a horn. When he honks at us, we all howl with delight.

  ***

  Over an hour later, we’re out of radio-signal range and the CD is on its second cycle, turned to low. The bags of popcorn twists and Cheezies are half gone, and we’ve polished off a monster-size box of Smarties. After a short bout of singing at the top of her lungs, Amy started talking. I think she’d saved up. She can talk about anything and does. I don’t mind, really. She doesn’t require much interaction, and it’s about what my brain needs. Every once in a while, I grab my phone for an update and she ignores it.

  “You’re a good listener,” she tells me.

  I smile, but people always say that to me. I ask her about homeschooling, something I seriously considered when the video went viral.

  “My dad and mom both taught me. Mom works on her book and Dad works on software projects in the home office. We had the best field trips. Plus, for one class project, I opened a shop on Etsy.”

  And then she squeals.

  “What?” Adam sits up straighter in his seat.

  “In my pocket.” She points to her hoodie. “Adam’s bracelet.”

  “I thought you hit a deer,” he calls from the back. “What are you talking about?”

  I lift my wrist and show him mine. “She made a bracelet for my mom too. And my brothers.”

  “What a suck-up,” Adam says, but he smiles.

  I dig inside her hoodie and pull out a couple of bracelets. “The orange one,” she says. “That’s the one for Adam.”

  It’s braided with yellow and brown strings. It’s cool. I hand it back to Adam. “Put it on,” I tell him and tuck the other bracelets back in her pocket.

  “I can’t tie it myself,” Adam says.

  I turn around, and he holds out his arm and I tie the bracelet on his wrist for him. His skin is dark, smooth. I turn quickly back to the front window when it’s done.

  “My bracelets have magical powers,” Amy says.

  “Good to know,” I tell her. She high-fives me as we pass a sign that tells us we’re twenty-five miles outside of Lynden.

  “Lynden once held the record for the most churches per square mile,” Amy says. I don’t know how she knows this stuff, but I’m too afraid of a long explanation to ask.

  “Cool,” says Adam from the back. They share a love of trivia apparently. I’ve learned all sorts of things listening to the two of them geek out, mostly about geography.

  “Did you know the border betw
een Canada and the United States is the world’s longest border between two nations?”

  I think hard. “Juno was filmed in Vancouver,” I burst out. My favorite film of all time.

  I’m met with silence.

  “I never saw it,” Adam says finally says.

  “Me either,” Amy says.

  “Come on. You never saw it? Juno is the greatest movie ever made,” I say. “I’m ashamed for both of you.”

  “Ever made? What about the classics?” Amy asks.

  “Juno is far superior,” I assure her.

  “Did you know eighty percent of pictures on the Internet are of naked women? Think about that for a moment,” Amy says.

  The car is quiet as we all wrap our brains around that random fact.

  “We’re almost at the border. Are you afraid?” Amy asks.

  I glance over. Her lips are orange. I look at the steering wheel and see that the fingers on her right hand are also orange.

  “About crossing the border?” I ask. “Do I look like it? God, I have such a guilty conscience. Josh said they’ll probably harass us at the border because we’re young.”

  “Josh, the other twin? Does he look like Jake?” she asks.

  “No. They’re opposites in looks and personality. Jake is kind of introverted. Except with you apparently.” She has the same effect on both of us.

  “Well, my dad says I overcompensate—as in talk too much.”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry. It’s kind of your thing.”

  She nods. “I’ve crossed the border lots of times.” She taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “Of course, that was with my parents. My dad said to take it seriously. Give short answers to their questions.” She glances at me. “You should resist trying to crack a joke because you’re nervous.”

  “Five miles.” Adam points outside at a sign.

  I reach for my phone but discover we’re in a dead zone, out of Wi-Fi range. It makes me kind of twitchy. I’m edgy without Wi-Fi but yawn, suddenly tired. I glance at my phone.