by Gae Polisner
I miss you,
Dad
6
The Monday after the News 10 fiasco, I run into Jaycee in the Section C stairwell at school. Or, rather, she runs into me. Literally, I mean, which is unfortunate because I’m still in a cast and it’s my first day without crutches so I’m feeling unsteady to begin with.
It’s like five minutes before the official end-of-third-period bell rings, which makes sense as far as I’m concerned since it’s policy to give me a head start on account of my leg. Why Jaycee is roaming the halls early I don’t know. But anyway, she is.
She comes barreling down the steps like a lunatic as I’m hobbling up them. Which is how we collide, and I go flying down. Luckily, my backpack strap catches the railing and I fall only a few steps to the landing. I sit there feeling dumb and wait for her to apologize.
“Oh, hey, you’re the fat guy’s kid,” she says.
“Drive much?” I ask, sounding way more lame than I want to.
“Actually, no, but I wish. I’d get the heck out of this hellhole you guys see fit to call a town.” She watches me, thumbs hooked in her pockets, eyes cool and steady. “You remember me, right? I came with the hair gel dude the other day.” It’s obviously a reference to what my brother said.
“Yeah, I know who you are.” I haul myself up. “Sorry about Jeremy. He’s an ass. Raised by wolves and all that.”
“Doesn’t matter to me.” She shrugs. “Plus, he’s right. The guy is a total doofus.”
“Your dad?” I shift my weight. Voices drift down the halls. I’m using up my head start.
“He’s so not my dad,” she says. Which at least sort of starts to explain things.
“Oh. Well whatever. I’d better get going.” I walk past her up the stairs.
“Hey, Nick!” she calls after me.
“Yeah?” I say, a little surprised that she remembered my name.
“Next time, I’ll try harder not to kill you.”
* * *
I see her again that day in the cafeteria, which is weird because I’ve never really seen her there before. Two weeks into the school year and suddenly the girl is everywhere.
I’m sitting with Ryan and Dan telling them the whole stupid interview story—about how Jaycee showed up and how Jeremy gave J.P. the finger and walked out, and how the girl is somehow related to Amato—when in she walks and makes a beeline to our table.
I haven’t told the guys about the stairwell yet, or anything else about her. To tell the truth, I don’t actually know if I’m going to. I mean, Jaycee is a bit of an outcast, and I’m not sure they’d understand. Plus, for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about her.
She sits next to me and starts pulling things out of her lunch bag. Like it’s normal that she’s sitting here; like she does this every day. Dan and Ryan gape at her like gorillas.
“Hey,” she says, taking a big bite of apple then talking to me as she chews. “So, I had no idea you were such good friends with the Scoot.”
It’s not what I’m expecting, of all things, for her to bring up the Scoot. I feel my ears redden. I’m not sure if it’s Jaycee’s appearance alone that throws me, or the fact that she’s barreled in here and tied me to the Scoot. I mean, Dan and Ryan are different from me, and I told you that Scooter could be a mixed bag.
“Well, he’s my neighbor,” I say.
I don’t look at Jaycee after I say it. I already know I’m being a jerk. I’m sure that she can see right through me. I glance at Dan and Ryan instead, but they’re too busy shoveling in today’s Marshall J. Freeman mystery meat to give a crap about me. I stare at my ham and cheese sandwich instead.
“Poor guy,” I add so I sound a little more sympathetic. “It’s hard to imagine what he’s been through.”
“I know, right?” She twists a bracelet on her wrist. Her sleeve mostly covers it so it takes me a second to realize that it’s not really jewelry, but a Slinky. The classic silver kind. “I think he’s awesome. To go through life like that and still be able to do normal stuff, hang out. I really respect the guy. Plus, he’s a genius, I’m telling you…” She grabs at my sweatshirt sleeve but, thankfully, quickly lets go.
As she talks, I try to figure her out without staring. She’s definitely odd. In addition to the Slinky, she has on a troll doll necklace like yesterday, but this one has neon-rainbow-colored hair. Up close, in the bright cafeteria lights, Jaycee’s hair is different too, the jet black streaked with bluish purple strands. And she has rings on most of her fingers, but the fake kind with the bright-colored gemstones like you’d get from a gumball machine or the treasure chest in a doctor’s office.
I look elsewhere and think of how to change the subject, because I don’t really want to talk more about the Scoot. But I can’t think of anything, so I pretend to focus on my lunch instead. I take a few bites, but she’s holding my sleeve again, and I realize Dan’s making a face at me. His eyes go all shifty like he needs to tell me something. I follow his gaze to where Jaycee has a hold of my sleeve with one hand, a Bic pen steadied in the other. She’s drawing on me, a small blue skull, not that I gave her permission.
I inspect it. At least it’s a decent drawing.
“Anyway, he’s seriously dying,” she says, pulling my arm back again, “but I take it you already know that.” She works at my sleeve some more with her pen, then pushes it back toward me to see. She’s added crossbones and a ribbon-type banner that says “R.I.P.” inside.
For some reason, it makes me really sad. I mean, there’s just been a lot lately, with my leg, and then Dad, and now the Scoot. I run my finger over her drawing, but she yanks it back again, says, “Okay, never mind, hold on.”
She leans over it this time, shielding her work from me. I glance helplessly at the guys, but they have looks on their faces that make me want to laugh. Like, Is this girl crazy, or what? I shrug and wait till she’s finished. Finally, she sits up and pushes my arm back again. The skull has giant ears, a handlebar mustache, and eyeglasses, so that it looks like a warped Mr. Potato Head. And, where the banner said “R.I.P.,” it now says “Get a GR.I.P.”
I laugh. I don’t know why. I’m completely taken with this girl.
* * *
That night, there’s an e-mail from Dad like there always is, which I transfer unopened to the FatMan2 folder, then scan through the rest of my e-mails. There are a few dumb forwards from Ryan, some Facebook notifications, and a bunch of junk mail. But I’m stuck on one toward the bottom, which I’m pretty sure is from Jaycee.
I close my bedroom door and open the e-mail.
From: JCA
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Shuffleboard
Hey, Nick. Sorry again about the stairs today. Hope I didn’t do any permanent damage. So, I was wondering if you ever play shuffleboard, and, if so, can you play with that gimp leg of yours?
Jaycee
* * *
From: Nick Gardner
To: JCA
Subject: Re: Shuffleboard
I’ve played at my grandma’s in Florida a few times. Why?
And, btw, what’s up with you and all the stuff about the Scoot?
* * *
From: JCA
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Re: Re: Shuffleboard
I know it’s crazy, but I have a shuffleboard court in my backyard. And, yes, I know nobody plays shuffleboard anymore. We also have a tennis court, a pool, and a trampoline. I mean, a real, serious, Olympic-grade trampoline. But I’m guessing that’s out of the question with your leg and all?
p.s. That’s what you get in return for your doofus of a stepdad humiliating you every night on the six o’clock news—fancy backyard toys. And, yes, trust me. It’s a big price to pay.
* * *
From: Nick Gardner
To: JCA
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Shuffleboard
Yeah, I can play. But why are you asking? And what about the Scoot?
And, come on—your dad’s not that bad?
* * *
From: JCA
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Shuffleboard
Step dad. And, yes, he is.
Re: The Scoot, I’ll tell you Friday. My house, 4:30 p.m. It’s the big white one on the southeast corner of Clancy. Tall hedges. Freaking Hummer in the driveway. Trust me. You can’t miss it. We’re #1. Hah. (That’s really the house number.)
* * *
From: Nick Gardner
To: JCA
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Shuffleboard
Ok. I’ll be there.
I hit send, then stare at the screen wondering if I just made a date with Jaycee Amato.
From: FatMan2
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Walking
Nick,
132 miles. It seems impossible, but it’s true. My sneakers prove it. Already on my second pair and you can see the wear on those …
Some days I walk 3–4 hours straight. Then rest and walk some more. I’ve done some reading, and jotted ideas for articles. Thank God for Internet cafes and my iPhone and Juice Pack.
I get it if you’re mad at me, Nick, but I needed to do this. I could really use your support. I’ve done a lot of thinking and we all have lots to talk about when I get home. But first, to finish this.
I miss you and love you,
Dad
* * *
From: FatMan2
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Walking
Nick,
160 miles. 2½ pairs of sneakers.
At least 10 e-mails from Scooter and even a text or two from Jeremy. And not a word from my other son. I expect this crap from your brother, but you?
Dad
7
As instructed, that Friday I show up at Jaycee’s house promptly at 4:30 p.m.
Jeremy drives me. With Dad gone, he gets free use of Dad’s car, but as part of the deal he has to take me where I need to go. Especially now, while I can’t bike or walk that far. Although the good news is, my leg is way better. Still casted and all, but at least I can get around.
Jeremy’s pretty good-natured about the chore. He actually says a few words to me as we drive, which is more than he usually does, but neither of us mentions Dad. We’ve been pretty careful not to do that since I chucked the spoon at him. Finally, I point out the huge white house on the corner of Clancy Street.
“Holy crap! Look at this place,” he says. “I think you may have scored, kid.” I laugh even though he calls me kid. I mean, big deal that he’s a senior and next year he’s out of here to some college in either Boston or Manhattan. I get out of the car and tell him that I’ll text him when I’m done.
As for the house, Jeremy’s right. The thing is enormous. The girl was not exaggerating. I gimp up the sprawling lawn and brick steps to the front entrance, which is framed by two huge stone columns. It feels like I’m about to walk into a museum.
I reach for the bell, but the door opens. Jaycee stands there smiling. “Gardner,” she says, “very punctual. Come on in, nobody’s here, but my mom will be home soon.”
Inside, it’s not what I’m expecting. Right behind Jaycee there’s a gigantic, gold-framed mirror above a small fountain, with actual running water. In the middle of the fountain, there’s a green statue of a cherub. Like Cupid, only this one’s holding a fish. Water spouts out of its mouth. And above us hangs an enormous chandelier.
“Cool,” I say, looking from one to the other.
“Completely hideous,” Jaycee says, pulling me to lead me up the stairs. Halfway up, she stops and looks back at me. “Hey, can you make it up all of these?”
“Yeah, I can,” I say, nudging her.
As I follow her, I wonder what on earth I’m doing inside Jaycee Amato’s house. I mean, a few days ago I didn’t even know her. Not that I do now.
I watch her as she climbs the stairs. She’s dressed pretty normal for Jaycee. A green Marshall J. Freeman hoodie, jeans, her orange high-tops and her black hair in pigtails. Except I noticed at the door that she’s replaced her troll doll necklace with a Hello Kitty figurine, one of those little plastic white cats with a red bow on its head that looks like a Japanese cartoon? It’s tied to black string and hangs crooked by its neck like it’s committed suicide or something.
At the top of the stairs, we turn left and pass a fancy bathroom and a master bedroom—both spotless and huge—before we reach Jaycee’s room. I don’t think I’ve been inside a girl’s bedroom, at least not since I was little. It surprises me how pink it is. Girly, fairy-princessy pink. Which seems nothing like Jaycee.
“No comment,” she says, reading my thoughts. “I didn’t pick the color.”
“No?”
“Are you nuts?” She plops on the bed, which is made up with a frilly pink and lavender checkerboard bedspread, but I stay put in the doorway. “This whole atrocity belongs to the Doofus,” she says, motioning around. “My mom and I just moved in last year. And this was the Kook’s room. Before she went to college.”
“Oh,” I say, trying to keep it all straight, “the Kook?”
“His daughter. An-ge-li-ka.” She breaks up the name into separate syllables and makes a crazy sign at her ear. I decide this isn’t the best subject to keep asking about.
“At least he’s rich,” I try.
“Big deal. We already had money. And where did it get me? Stuck in this place with these wackos, that’s where.” She picks up a small pink pillow and holds it out toward me. It’s embroidered with a black crown covered in colorful rhinestones and says DADDY’S PRINCESS on the front. She rolls her eyes and tosses it on the floor.
“Can’t you paint it?” I know it’s not really her point, but I’m not sure what else to say.
“Can’t be bothered. Besides, I keep hoping we’re not staying.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Where were you before?”
“New York City. I love it there. And I hate it here.”
I think about Dad suddenly, and what Jeremy had said about how Dad hasn’t been happy since he left Manhattan. It makes me want to argue with her about how the city’s not so great. But I don’t, because I don’t want her to think I’m some sheltered kid who doesn’t know what it’s like there, since I do. Even though I’ve only been there a few times. I’ve seen enough to know I don’t get the big deal. I mean, what’s so bad about Glenbrook?
“Come on. Never mind about that,” she says, as if she knows what I’m thinking. “Don’t stand there. Come in, sit down.” She pats the bed. I feel weird, but I sit next to her. Thankfully, she pops up again. “Here, you stay, I’ll show you what I called you here for, then we’ll go play some shuffleboard.”
Jaycee walks to her closet and slides out a step stool. She pulls something down from the top shelf and jumps back to the floor.
“Here,” she says, walking over, but I can already tell what she has. I recognize it immediately, or at least I think I do. It’s a black and white marble notebook. Scooter’s notebook.
“What the heck?” I say.
Jaycee hands it to me. “Go ahead, open it.” I look at her suspiciously, as if she’s telling me to do something illegal.
“Why do you have this, Jaycee?”
“He gave it to me. I promise. It’s easier if you read first. I’ll explain more after. Just let me do this my way.” She pulls the book from me, opens to the first page, and places it on the bed in front of me.
The top of the page has a date from like two years ago. I read.
Dear Dad,
No matter what anyone says, I don’t think you’re a bad person.
I stop reading and glance up at Jaycee, confused.
“He never sent it,” she says. “It’s just a draft. Keep going.”
She nods at it, but it’s uncomfortable reading Scooter’s private words, especially these. It feels wrong. Then again, she has the notebook, and she says Scooter gave it to her, so it must b
e at least sort of okay.
“Then stop watching me. It’s weird.”
She rolls her eyes but walks away, plops herself down on the floor against her closet door. I force my eyes back to his notebook.
I get it, why you left, I truly do. Who can sit around and watch this happen to their kid? See him get teased and ostracized, then get sick and die? I’m sure that’s too much for most mortal people.
I look over at Jaycee again, I can’t help it. She smiles in this sweet, sad way, so I keep going.
But that’s not my truth. Actually, my life is pretty normal and happy and good. I go to school. I write. I read. I have a great mom and a few good friends. So, I really don’t suffer too much. And I don’t want you to lose me for good thinking that my life was only sad.
My throat gets a lump in it and tears well in my eyes. I don’t look at Jaycee anymore. I just want to finish the page.
And as for dying, well, I guess I just don’t get why everybody is so freaked out by it. We’re all going to die sooner or later. I’ll just do it sooner. As someone wise once said, “Death is a natural part of life.”
I laugh, because I know he’s quoting Yoda like he always does. Revenge of the Sith, Episode III.
“What?” Jaycee asks.
“Nothing.”
So, anyway, I hope I can find you and get to know you a little while I still have some decent time left. I’m guessing I don’t have too much.
I feel Jaycee’s eyes on me, checking for my reaction, or maybe to see if I’m done. I skim down. There’s only a little left to read.
If I don’t find you in time, I’ll leave this letter for you, and the book, which I really wanted to give back. Maybe one day you’ll get them and know me for who I am.
With love from your son,
Reginald “the Scoot” Reyland
I push the notebook away and look up at Jaycee. “Jeez,” I say. It’s pretty much all I can manage.
“I know, right?” She walks over and scoops the notebook from the bed.
