by Gae Polisner
“Well, your dad just ditched you.”
“It’s temporary,” I shoot back. “And I’m normal. I’m not like the Scoot.” The minute I say it, I know how it sounds.
“Scooter’s normal,” she says.
“Give me a break, Jaycee, you know what I mean.” She rolls her eyes, pulls the book from my hands, puts it in its pouch, and returns it to her closet. When she’s done, she stays there, arms crossed, waiting.
“Look, yes or no? Are you going to help me or not?”
“To find a guy we never met, and have no idea where he is, or really where he might be? Carrying a fifteen-thousand-dollar book with us? Sure, why wouldn’t I, Jaycee? It’s a great idea. Have you even discussed this with the Scoot?”
“Well, sort of, but not exactly. He gave me the book for safekeeping. Said he’s still looking for his dad, but knows he has to face the fact that he’s not likely going to find him. And, that if he doesn’t, if his dad ever shows up here, then I should give this stuff to him. The book and a copy of his letter.” She sounds like she’s going to cry. “He may not have directly asked me to do it, Nick, but he’s secretly hoping I will. I know it. He needs this now. He needs me to do it. And I need you. I don’t want to do it alone.”
I take a deep breath. I still can’t believe we’re having this crazy conversation. I mean, how are we supposed to just go off and scour the globe for Scooter’s dad? I stand up to leave before I agree to something stupid.
“Scooter’s pretty sure he’s in Rochester,” she blurts. “It’s not that far.”
I stop at the bedroom door. “Jeremy’s probably here. I’d better get going.”
“So?” Her cool blue eyes stare into me.
“I gotta go,” I say.
She follows me downstairs, unlocks the front door, and walks out into the fresh air. Jeremy is just pulling around the corner in Dad’s blue car.
“Nick, yes or no? Are you in?”
I shake my head at how crazy it all is, but even as I do, I know.
“Jaycee, why are you even asking? Do I really have a choice?”
“No.” She smiles. “No choice at all.”
“Well then,” I call, heading down the walkway to my brother, “I guess that means I’m in.”
From: FatMan2
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Walking
Nick,
196 miles! New York City here I am!
Took me a little longer than expected. Sprained my ankle tripping over a pebble (I swear, it was no bigger than my thumb). Took me three-plus days to get back on the road. But I’m here. I made it. That’s all that matters.
It’s so good to be back in New York City. The place is humming and alive, just like it always was. You should have seen me, Nick, blubbering like a big old baby when I reached the West Side Highway.
I’m exhausted, but feel better than I have in years. Going to treat myself to a few days here, I’ve decided. Say hi to a few old colleagues. My friend Jack Miller from the Daily News—don’t know if you ever met him?—said I can stay downtown with him. Once I get settled, I’ll call you all and say hello. But too early now. As you can see from the note it’s barely 5:00 a.m. And I haven’t slept much these past few days.
Could use a shower bad, so once the hour is decent, I’ll head down to Jack’s apartment. In the meantime, just having a cup of Joe and taking in the sights and sounds of NYC.
New York City, Nick! The Big Apple never looked so good. I walked here, start to finish. I don’t know how.
I miss you and love you,
Dad
9
Now that I’ve agreed to help with her crazy plan, Jaycee and I meet almost daily, except for the days that one of us hangs out with the Scoot. We try to keep things the same as much as possible. She doesn’t tell him about us or our plan and, of course, neither do I. She doesn’t want him to try to talk us out of it, or worse, to get his hopes up too high, since so far we’ve found nothing further on his dad.
Although Guy Reyland continues to be a mystery, at least I find out how Jaycee and Scooter got to be such good friends.
“Oh, that? Art club,” she says. She leans over me as we search on her computer, her Slinky Special Anniversary Edition bracelet jangling in my ear. “Hey, try this one.” She points to something on the screen, as if we haven’t already tried it or something like it nine thousand times before. We’ve plugged the name Reyland into every major search engine we can think of, not to mention Twitter, Facebook, and Myspace. We’re mostly interested in any Reylands we can find in Rochester, since he apparently grew up there, and that’s where Scooter thinks he’d be. We’ve come up with a ton of weird stuff, including some family tree with names dating back to the 1800s but no Guy, and some official business-looking thing with the Secretary of State in Albany. It gives a block and lot number on Front Street in Rochester, but once we search further, the only name that appears in connection with that is some corporation. And, of course, we find the A. Reyland on First Street that Scooter had written in his notebook, but we get a recording that the number is changed and the new one is unlisted. Still, I obey Jaycee and click on the link she points to. It turns up nothing helpful.
“You do know Scooter was in art club, right?” She sighs and flops onto the Kook’s checkerboard bedspread. “Mondays after school, with Mrs. Martinez? The dude can really draw.”
I know what she’s talking about, the after-school club. But I had no idea Scooter was in it.
“Scooter stays after? He’s barely in school these days.”
“Well, not this year. He only made it to the first one.”
“So, you hung out there?”
“There and here,” she says.
“Wait, Scooter’s been here?”
“Yeah. All summer. What’s with the shock, Gardner? He’s not too bad at shuffleboard.”
“You’re kidding me.” I turn to her.
“No. Why?”
“No reason. He just never mentioned it.”
She sits up, rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m sure you didn’t ask.”
* * *
As for the Scoot, he’s not doing so good. He’s caught a cold again, a nasty one he can’t seem to shake. It’s moved into his chest; you can hear it rattle around in there. The guy is suffering. You can tell it’s wearing him down. And as much as I know what’s coming—knew forever ago to prepare—it kills me to watch it happen.
Scooter’s good-natured about it though. I mean, that’s one thing you gotta know about the Scoot. He doesn’t complain. And he doesn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him. And he doesn’t feel sorry for himself.
In the meantime, Dad calls to tell us he’s made it to New York City. He speaks to Mom, but I’m not in the mood. I’m happy for him and all that, but something about it makes me sad in the pit of my stomach. When we finish what we need to do for the Scoot, maybe I’ll deal with it then.
Knowing that Jaycee isn’t around on Mondays after school, I make it a point to spend those afternoons with the Scoot. We mostly watch movies at his house. Of course, Scooter is still on a Star Wars kick, even more than he used to be. Both of us were crazy for it when we were little, but he never really grew out of his obsession. We watch them back-to-back, over and over again. He mouths the words, has all the lines memorized, especially anything Yoda says. I don’t complain, even if I’m slightly sick of them.
“You know, I finally get it, Scoot,” I say during one of our marathons. “Your Star Wars obsession, I mean. You look exactly like Yoda.” I punch his arm softly to let him know that I’m joking.
He turns to me all serious, like maybe I actually hurt his feelings, but then squints and smiles and bows his head. “When nine hundred years you reach, Nick Gardner, look as good, you will not.” Even on his deathbed he has me laughing.
As the second week of October arrives, Jaycee and I start to map out the actual logistics of our plan. Even though we have nothing concrete on Guy Reyland, we keep moving forward with
ideas. It’s clear that Jaycee won’t be deterred.
“We need to go there, Nick,” she says. “And we need to go soon. I’m not kidding. It’s not a big city. If we ask around we’ll find someone who knows him. Or knows someone who knows him.”
“Yeah, only 200,000 people,” I say. “That should be easy to narrow down in an hour or two.”
“Well, we’ll have a couple of days.”
I don’t try to argue with her anymore. I mean, Jaycee’s convinced that Guy Reyland is in Rochester and we’re going to get there and find him, and that, when we do, he’s going to give a rat’s ass and follow us back to Glenbrook to say one last goodbye to his son. So, at this point, there’s nothing to do but hope for the best and go with it.
Jaycee decides we should leave in two weeks, the last Thursday of October. My cast comes off before then, so my leg will be ready.
“Plus, that way, your mom will be in Philly,” Jaycee says. “So if we need it, we’ll have Thursday and Friday, too. That gives us four whole days to find him.”
“Or to not find him,” I remind her. I can’t help myself. Somebody’s gotta keep her hopes in check. She just gives me a look and continues.
“We can always come up with an excuse for the weekend. That should be easy. You’ll say you’re at Ryan’s, and I’ll say I’m anywhere. I’ll make up a girlfriend from school. My mom will be so pleased I’ve made one, she won’t even care who it is. I’ll check in periodically by cell.”
“That works for you, but what about Jeremy? We have school Friday. He’ll be watching me, you know.”
“I thought you said he wouldn’t even notice if you’re dead?”
“Good point,” I say.
Jaycee informs me there’s a Trailways bus weekdays from Albany to Rochester that leaves at 6:30 a.m. So all we need to do is get to Albany, which is about an hour away. Jaycee says she’ll pay for a taxi. We’ll have to leave around the same time Mom leaves for Philly, so if she asks why I’m up, I’ll tell her I’m going to extra help before school. I’ll spend the next two weeks building up the story, so I don’t really think she’ll question me, or care. She’s so crazed on those days trying to get everything prepped for the long work weekend. As long as I tie it to school, it should be okay.
As for the bus fare and other expenses, I’ve got a few bucks saved, but not really enough to help much. Jaycee says not to worry. She says she’s got a whole bunch of birthday money saved up, not to mention her own debit card, and that she’ll cover everything, even the hotel room.
“What hotel room?” I stammer. I realize in all our conversations it’s not something I even considered. Now I’m dizzy at the thought.
“We need to sleep somewhere, Nick. Don’t pee your pants, I’ll get us separate rooms.”
* * *
A week and a half before we’re set to leave, Scooter goes into the hospital. The siren wakes us in the middle of the night.
I stare out my bedroom window with Jeremy and watch Mom stand with MaeLynn in the red flashing glow of the ambulance lights, as they wheel Scooter out and lift him into the back. He’s sitting up, which is a good sign, an oxygen mask covering his face. Mom waits there while MaeLynn climbs inside and the doors close, and the siren starts up again, and it disappears, blaring through the night. Even when it’s gone and it’s dark and quiet again, she just stands there in MaeLynn’s driveway.
“I wish Dad was here,” I say.
“He’s a chickenshit,” Jeremy says, and I’m really too tired to argue.
When Mom comes back inside she tells us that Scooter had a small stroke, which is common for kids with progeria. This time, though, Scooter seemed lucky. It seemed he’d make it back home.
“Why did they take him then?” I ask.
“Precaution. Evaluation,” she says, nudging me back to bed.
* * *
When I wake up, the first thing I do is call Jaycee. I’m still in my pajamas. She listens in silence as I tell her the details; everything that Mom told me.
“Do you think we’ll have time?” she says.
“I hope so.”
“We gotta find him, Nick. Really. We just gotta find his dad for him.”
“We’ll try,” I say. “That’s all we can do.”
“Try not, or do not,” she says. I roll my eyes. She’s trying to quote Yoda. I just didn’t recognize it her way.
“That’s true, Jaycee. ‘Try not. Do. Or do not.’ There definitely is no try.”
By the time I get home from school, the Scoot is back home too. I’ve never been so happy to see him.
“Hey, Scooter? How about a movie?” I yell to him where he sits on the swing on his stoop.
“Episode Five,” he calls back.
I run up to my room and open my closet and start to dig around. I know what I need to find, and I’m pretty sure it’s somewhere inside. I unload practically the whole closet before my hand feels it wedged way in the back. I pull it out. My Master Replicas Yoda Force FX lightsaber. How badly I had wanted it when I got it. My tenth birthday. Now I haven’t touched it in years.
I press the switch and it powers on. The light whizzes up, making it glow an intense electric green. I stare at it for a minute, then close my eyes and pray.
I pray for Dad to come home and for Scooter to live, and for us to find his father. And for life to just go back to normal. Then I slash it about in the air for a bit in a halfhearted duel against evil. When I’m done, I grab a handful of Oreos and head on over to the Scoot’s.
By the time I get there, he already has the movie on. He knows it doesn’t matter if he starts without me—we’ve seen them all like four hundred times. He’s on the living room couch, his feet sticking out, covered in an old crocheted blanket. He looks up and smiles when I come in.
He doesn’t look great, which, for Scooter, is really saying something.
“How are you doing?” I ask, the lightsaber held behind my back.
“Okay,” he says. “Small stroke. It’s to be expected. Better that it wasn’t my heart, though that will be next, I’m sure. But for now, it was a good thing.”
“I’m sorry, Scooter,” I say. “I’m worried for you.”
“Don’t be.” He mutes the sound on the TV. “You know, Nick, ‘always in motion is the future.’” He nods at Yoda, whose face is frozen on the screen.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “Speaking of which, I have something for you.” I pull out the lightsaber and hold it out to him. “I want you to have it.” I press the switch to make it glow. “May the force be with you, Scooter.”
He laughs. “Wow, that’s corny,” he says.
But he takes it and rests it in his lap, closes his eyes, and runs his small hands up and down its blade. “Thanks, Nick, that’s nice. It means a lot to me.”
“Sure,” I say.
“‘A Jedi’s strength flows from the Force,’ right?”
“Right, Scooter.”
He smiles. “Equally corny,” he says.
10
On the bus to Rochester, Jaycee announces she’s reading Of Mice and Men to me.
“Seriously, Nick,” she says, slipping the book from its purple pouch and resting it in her lap, “it’s the saddest, most beautiful story. Poor Lennie, wait till you see.” I nod. “You’ll have to read it in English lit this year anyway,” she adds, “so I’m just saving you the trouble.”
I don’t argue, even though having a fifteen-thousand-dollar book out in the open on a bus makes me nervous. Plus, I’m not really in the mood for sad. She wants to do it, so I don’t say that either.
We’ve been on the bus for a half hour. Neither of us has said too much since the Trailways station, so I’m cool with her reading. She turns to the first page and says, “Okay, here we go,” and starts from the beginning. While she reads, I watch scenery go by out my window.
“‘A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green.’” She pauses, says, “Soledad—that�
��s in California. It’s like the 1930s during the time of the Great Depression.” Suddenly, she swats at my back. “You’re not even listening to me, Nick.”
“Yes, I am,” I answer. “The banks are deep and green.”
“Okay, well, then you are, sort of. So let me give you a little background. Lennie and George, the main characters, are these poor migrant farmworkers. They’re looking for work on a ranch. They’re on the road, like us.” She perks up and adds, “And Lennie’s retarded, like you are.” She laughs at her own joke.
I smile despite myself. I love Jaycee. I’m glad to be with her. I mean this mostly in a “friend” way. What I really mean is, I’m not so happy at the moment, but I’m happier to be here with Jaycee.
“Just so you know,” she continues, “the whole story takes place pretty much over one weekend, which is weird when you think about it because you feel like you know Lennie and George so well by the end.
“Anyway, George and Lennie are going to look for new work. But Lennie’s hard to manage. He’s really big and strong and doesn’t know his own strength, so he’s always accidentally hurting things, or killing them, with his bare hands. Like the small field mice he likes to pick up and stroke, because they’re soft and furry and he’s slow and all.”
“Is that why it’s called Of Mice and Men?” I ask.
“Oh, sort of,” she answers. “I mean, not really. I’ll tell you all that later. So anyway, Lennie is clumsy and unintentionally dangerous, so George tries to protect him, but he can’t. And Lennie is always trying to get a hold of small, fluffy things.”
“Like mice,” I say, so she knows I’m paying attention.
“Yeah, like mice and rabbits and puppies. He wants a puppy really bad. Well, you’ll see. You’re going to meet them soon.”
“Okay,” I answer. I lean my head back against the window and listen.
“‘The water is warm too, for it has slipped twinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool.’ Isn’t that beautiful?” she says.
I think it’s a little boring, but I nod anyway, so she doesn’t hit me. The truth is, even if it is boring, I don’t mind listening because I’m not really in the mood to talk.
