by Gae Polisner
“But what’s the point? He wants him to have the notebook? Besides, why do you have it, anyway, and why are you showing it to me?”
“Patience,” she says, “hold on.” She flips to another page and hands it back to me. “First this.” She points. “And no, not the whole notebook, just the letter. Trust me, there’s more.”
I obey, and focus again on Scooter’s tight print:
Information as to Dad’s Whereabouts:
• Google search, Guy Reyland. Results 0.
• Google search, Reyland + Rochester, one listing. W. Reyland. No info.
• Google search, White Pages, A. Reyland, Rochester. 414-555-0707. No answer. Repeated tries.
• Number disconnected.
• (!) Rochester White Pages (thank you Glenbrook Library). Reyland, A. 3625 First Street. 414-555-0707. Number still disconnected.
“So what?” I say when I’m finished.
Jaycee snatches the notebook again and carries it back to her closet. She feels around for something else, jumps back down, and walks over to the bed and sits down next to me, putting a small velvet pouch in my lap. She smells like strawberry. I hadn’t noticed it before.
“Go ahead,” she says, “open it.”
The pouch is purple with a gold braided closure and clearly holds a book. I sigh and undo it. At this point, I know better than to ask another question.
Inside is a musty hardcover book. Pale blue with an old-fashioned drawing of two men in hats, one big, the other small, walking down an orange road. In the background are some roughly sketched mountains. In bold black letters it reads Of Mice and Men, a Novel by John Steinbeck. It’s obviously one of those dumb classics the Scoot is always reading.
“Okay,” I say, turning it over, “now, so what?”
Jaycee takes it from me, studies it for a second like she’s thinking, then puts it back in its pouch and underneath her pillow.
“Never mind,” she says. “Let’s play some shuffleboard before it gets dark. I’ll kick your ass while I’m telling you.”
* * *
The backyard is huge. Like ten of ours. To the right is a tennis court, and next to that, as promised, an enormous trampoline. Not like the normal little round ones lots of people have. This is the huge, rectangular kind they use in gymnasiums. The netting must be fifteen feet high. I stop to stare, but Jaycee tugs my arm and drags me in the other direction. We pass a covered Olympic-size pool. I whistle and she says, “See, I told you.”
Beyond that is a garden area, mostly dying plants and shrubs now, with a pond and another running waterfall. And then, farther downhill, the shuffleboard court and the structure that Jaycee refers to as the shed. Which is hilarious because the thing is more like a small house, with windows and a fancy white-paneled door.
“Unbelievable,” I say.
“Insane.”
My mind spins. I mean, my dad was a newsman too, and we never had half of this stuff. And worse, J.P. isn’t even a real newsman, just the on-air talent. A no-brains talking head, as Dad would call him. Figures he gets paid so much more.
When we reach the shed, Jaycee says, “You’d better wait out here. It’s dangerous in there.” She ducks in, laughing, then bangs around and emerges with two long gold shuffleboard poles and a rack of red and blue disks. “Here, you take the cues. You can use them as crutches,” she says.
We walk to the courts, and I sit on a bench on the sidelines. “Okay, Gardner, blue or red?” She clangs the disk carrier down next to me.
“Blue.” I gather my four and head to the far side of the court.
I beat her two games to one without a single word about the Scoot being mentioned, before I demand we stop and sit again so she can fill me in. Besides, it’s starting to get dark. As if on cue, the lights surrounding the court switch on.
“Did you do that?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Sensors. Timers. Thousands of dollars of essential recreational electricity.”
“Right,” I laugh.
“So, you didn’t tell me you were a ringer.” She sits next to me, so close that her knee touches mine. I can’t stop looking at it there. I shove my hands in my pockets, and she pulls her hood up and her sleeves down over her fingers and shivers. It’s officially fall. You can feel the sudden chill in the air.
Up close like this in the bright, artificial lights, I can see Jaycee’s eyes and something I hadn’t noticed before. Her right eye has a pale gold ring around it, between the pupil and the ice blue iris, so that her eyes appear two different colors.
“Weird, I know,” she says, winking the left eye shut, then the right one. “They’re totally different depending on the light.” I turn bright red. I didn’t know I was staring.
“They’re cool. I just never saw ones like that before.”
“They’re from my dad. My real dad. Not Mr. Perfect up there.” She motions toward the house and sighs.
“You really don’t like him,” I say. She shakes her head. “So how come you use his name?”
She shrugs. “It makes my mom happy. And there are perks. So, what’s the difference? Using my real name isn’t gonna bring my dad back.” She pulls her arms into her sleeves so that the empty ends hang over her hands, then wraps them tightly around her chest.
“What happened to your real dad?”
“Motorcycle.” She pauses, looks past me at the sky. “Or truck, I guess. I mean, it was more the truck than the motorcycle.” She laughs, but it’s not the funny kind of laugh, more the kind you force yourself to do because it’s either that or cry. “I barely remember him. I was only five.”
“That sucks,” I say, because I’m not sure what else there is. Then we both sit quietly for a minute, until Jaycee perks up again.
“Hey, so here’s a riddle for you.” She slaps my shoulder with the limp end of her sleeve. “What do Jaycee Amato, Nick Gardner, and Reginald Reyland all have in common?”
And then I get mad. Because if she really knew him, she’d know not to call him by his real name.
“The Scoot,” I say. “He hates it when people call him Reginald.”
“Sorry.” She nudges my leg with her knee. “I was just joking. So, what’s the answer? Give up?”
“Yeah, I give up,” I say.
“Now, none of them have their fathers around.”
“My father’s around!” I snap back defensively. I don’t think about it, just blurt it out, then feel bad because why don’t I just rub it in? But I’m getting kind of frustrated too. I mean, she shows me all this weird, important stuff, and now she’s just horsing around. I don’t even know why I’m here. I stand up and start gathering disks into the carrier.
She grabs my arm. “I know, Nick,” she says softly. “I was just kidding. I know with your dad it’s only a temporary thing. I was trying to make a point, that’s all.”
“Which is?”
“That it sucks not to have your dad around. Sucks for me, sucks for you, and sucks completely for the Scoot.”
“And?”
“And, that’s why I asked you to come.”
“Because…?”
“Come on,” she says, grabbing up the rest of the stuff. “Let’s put this away and go back in. I’ll tell you the rest up there.”
* * *
I follow her back through the yard, trying to be patient. What choice do I have? It’s clear she’s going to do things her way. As we walk toward the house, I pull out my cell phone and check the time. It’s nearly six o’clock. This section of yard is dark. The Doofus’s electricians didn’t wire this part for sound. My stomach rumbles.
“I’d better call home,” I say.
“Give me a half hour before you go.”
It rings four times and I get the machine, leave Mom a message telling her I’m at Ryan’s and that we’re working on a science lab. Then I text Jeremy’s cell.
“How come you lied?” Jaycee asks when I hang up. “Won’t Jeremy tell her where you are?”
“It was
just the machine. Didn’t feel like explaining. And my brother, you mean?”
“Yeah. He drove you here, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, “but I’m lucky if he’d tell her if I died.”
“Really?” She sounds surprised.
“You don’t have older siblings, do you?” I say.
She laughs. “Well, in that case, it might just help us with our plan.”
“Great,” I say. “If only I knew what that was.”
From: FatMan2
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Walking
Nick,
168 miles. Another blister, another waylaid day. But still, barely thirty miles from the tip of Manhattan.
My sweats are too big. I had to stop and buy new ones. A very good sign.
Honestly, I’m tired. And pretty much every part of me hurts. Maybe I’m pushing too hard.
Taking the day off today, holed up in a Days Inn. I just needed a real bed for a change. Only my third since I left.
I’ve spoken to Mom and MaeLynn. I hear Scooter isn’t doing too well. And that you’ve been a good friend. The kid is tough. I admire him.
Also hear your leg is healing nicely. I’ll bet you’ll be happy to get that cast off soon.
Miss you.
Dad
8
The smell of good food hits me as soon as Jaycee opens the back door. We walk toward the kitchen where a woman I assume is Jaycee’s mom is cooking something at the stove. Sautéed garlic, onions, and meat sauce fill my nose. My stomach grumbles loudly.
“Hi, Mom!” Jaycee calls. The woman whips her head around.
“Oh, hey, sweetie,” she says.
She’s not what I expected, not that I gave it much thought. I mean, she’s pretty, but except for that and her long, dark hair, she doesn’t look much like Jaycee. Maybe because she’s so preppy-looking. She’s in tennis clothes—a short white skirt and white polo shirt with pearls around her neck and a ponytail, like she totally belongs at a country club. Which makes sense, I guess, given the Doofus and all. Except for her feet, that is. Because when she walks to the fridge, I see she’s got on these giant blue, fuzzy bedroom slippers. So at least I see where Jaycee gets that from.
“You must be Nick,” she says. “I’m making spaghetti and meatballs. I hope you’ll stay?”
Jaycee gives me bug eyes which I take as a sign to decline.
“Thanks,” I say, “but I probably have to get home.”
* * *
Jaycee uses my science lab excuse, and we head back up to her room where she closes the door behind us.
“Won’t your mom mind?” I glance nervously at the closed door. She shakes her head.
“Go ahead, sit. We’ve only got a few minutes.” She points to the bed again. My leg throbs from all the walking and standing, so I’m happy enough to give in.
“So,” she says, backing up and leaning against the Kook’s pink wall, “the plan is, you and me, Nick, we’re gonna find Scooter’s dad.”
I hear her, but I don’t. Or at least I hope I don’t, because what I think I hear is crazy. And yet the minute she says it, I know something else. That whatever she wants, she’s going to make it happen, and it doesn’t matter what I have to say or how I argue, because I’m already at her mercy. My gut knows this, but my brain doesn’t want to believe.
“Seriously, you’re cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Cocoa Puffs. You’re cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, Jaycee.”
“Like the cereal?” She rolls her eyes.
It’s dumb. I don’t know why I say it. It’s what Jeremy always says to me. I pull up the bottom of my jeans and slide my fingers into the top of my cast to try to reach an itch, but I’m really stalling for time. I feel her staring and waiting.
“Okay, why?” I finally manage.
“Because he wants us to. And he’s dying. Isn’t that enough?” I roll my eyes at her melodrama.
“How do you know?”
“Because he told me. And he gave me his stuff.” She reaches under her pillow and pulls out the purple pouch.
“Right,” I say, “and what does the magic book have to do with everything again?”
I know I sound like a jerk, but a few days ago, I didn’t even know this girl and her crazy-fountained house, and I still don’t get the connection between her and the Scoot. Until the news crew showed up, I didn’t even know that she knew him so well. Or that Scooter knew her. Now, suddenly, she’s his best friend—make that his fairy godmother—trying to grant him some ridiculous dying wish! And, worse, trying to drag me in.
“He wants us to give it to him. To his dad. Guy Reyland. He’s been trying to find him for years. I mean, he’s looked for him, not that hard I guess, but Googled him and stuff. But not much luck, as you saw. And now he needs us to do this for him. He wants us to.”
“Us?”
“Okay, me. But he talks about you. He hinted that you might help me.”
“Great,” I say.
“He’s dying, Nick.”
“I know that, Jaycee.” My voice cracks. “I know the guy a lot longer than you. I know he’s dying.”
“I know you do,” she says, “at least when you’re not in denial.”
“A river in Egypt,” I say.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
I get that I’m being annoying, but I can’t get my thoughts straight. Jaycee’s got me upset, and I don’t even know why. I need more information.
“Okay,” I say, “then why doesn’t he just ask MaeLynn?”
“He has. Well, sort of. Here and there. She tells him she doesn’t know. And doesn’t want to know. And he doesn’t want to push her and make her more upset. It’s not really a happy subject for her. He’s already worried about her. You know, how she’ll be when he’s gone.”
I swallow. I don’t want to talk about that. “Okay, why you, then? Why did he ask you?”
She stares hard at me. “Because he couldn’t ask you,” she says.
“What does that mean?”
She gives me a wiseass look, but smiles too. “It means you’re you,” she says.
“Jeez, what is that supposed to mean?”
She twists her Hello Kitty necklace then chews on its head thoughtfully for a second. “Nothing really, I guess. Mostly, it means you’re a guy. That’s all. I mean, here you are, you’ve known the kid his whole life. And I’ve known him a few months. Yet, somehow, I know him better than you. You gotta admit it’s the tiniest bit pathetic.”
“Be careful,” I say, nodding toward her necklace, “I bet that’s made in China and you’re sucking on deadly levels of lead.”
She inspects it, then drops it. “You’re probably right,” she says.
“So then I’m not a total asshole.”
She laughs and sits down on her bed and faces me. I smell the strawberries again.
“I didn’t say that, Nick. Come on. I just feel bad for the Scoot, that’s all. He’s my friend. And he’s been your friend even longer. I just want to help him.” She looks away for a second then turns back. Her gray-blue eyes have filled with tears. “And I don’t think he has too much time.”
“Fine,” I say. “What do you need from me?”
“Your help. I don’t think I can do it alone.”
I sigh, because it’s clear there’s no turning back from here.
“So then, how exactly does the book come in?”
“Oh yeah,” she says. She swipes at a tear and pulls the book from its pouch and studies it like she needs to be reminded. “If we find him but he won’t come back with us, he wants us to give it to his dad.”
She places the book in my lap. I stare at its bland blue cover with the illustration of the men. It looks boring. Why does Scooter care if we get some dumb old book to his dad? My stomach growls again, embarrassingly loud. I glance at my cell. 6:30 p.m. I text Jeremy, remind him to pick me up in ten.
“It’s a first editi
on,” Jaycee says while I finish typing. She flips it open in my lap to the title page and points. “Signed by the author, see?” Under her finger, in large black script, is his name, John Steinbeck.
“Cool,” I say, “but so what?”
“It’s worth a ton of money, Nick.”
“Really?”
“Like fifteen thousand dollars, really,” she says.
“Fifteen hundred, you mean.”
“No, Nick. You heard me. Fifteen thousand. At least.”
“You’re kidding. Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. Scoot and I Googled it. We found three others like it. Two were worth around twelve thousand and one was worth fifteen. Because they have the original dust jacket and some important typo on page 9 they call the ‘pendula.’ But those were in good condition, and this one is in perfectly mint condition. So, this one could be worth even more.”
“Wow,” I say. I don’t have a clue what she means, but she sounds like she does. I close the book and study the cover again. There they are, the two men in hats, one big, one small, walking down the boring orange road.
“But if it’s so valuable, why doesn’t he leave it with MaeLynn? Because, no offense, but his dad is a lowlife nobody. His dad ditched him, Jaycee. He should keep it and give it to MaeLynn.”
I’m riled up, suddenly. I mean, MaeLynn worships the kid. His dad never did a thing for him his whole entire life.
“Except give him the book,” Jaycee says, even though I know I haven’t spoken that last part aloud. I look at her, surprised. “Yeah, I know. I was surprised too. But it’s true. The book was from his dad. Apparently Guy Reyland loved literature, go figure. He found that edition before Scooter was born. Left it for him when he took off. Maybe so he’d have something worth anything.”
“Really? I don’t picture the dude even reading. More like some drunken dumbass.”
“Convenient,” she says, “but it’s not always that simple.” I give her a look, but as always she gives it right back. “You want it to be that simple, Nick. Right or wrong. Good or bad. But sometimes it just isn’t. Maybe it’s possible that his dad was messed up, but that he was also a smart, decent guy.”
“Who ditched his kid. His dying, freak-of-a-mess kid. And never checked back in.”
