by Gae Polisner
“So, now that she’s better, you gonna bag her, bro? ;)”
Crap.
“My brother’s a jerk,” I say. My face burns bright red. “He’s just joking around.”
“I know,” she says, but I still feel awful. I don’t want her to think I’m that kind of guy. I blurt out, “Jaycee, I swear, I’ve barely even kissed a girl.” And, of course, the “barely even” is a lie.
“I know that too.” She laughs. “No biggie, Nick, really. So now what?”
“Um…”
“Not about that. I’m talking about Scooter. About finding his dad. We seriously only have like two days left.”
“Yeah. Best laid plans,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows, then smiles. But it’s not her usual “Ha-ha-you’re-an-idiot” smile. There’s something more to it this time, like she’s genuinely impressed that I made the reference, but something else too.
“What?” I ask. “Don’t look at me like that. I listen. I pay attention. I’m not just some dopey jerk, Jaycee. It’s not like I don’t care.” She stares at me, her amazing husky-dog eyes looking right into me. And then I know what the look is. It’s grateful. The girl is grateful. “Come on, sicko.” I hold my hand out to her. She looks at me and sighs, then gets up, puts her hand in mine, and, just like that—that simple—we’re holding hands. “Let’s go. We’ll go downstairs, get something to eat. Crackers or something light. And then we can see how you feel.”
We head down and through the lobby and into the brisk Rochester air. It’s the twenty-eighth of October, nearly four o’clock. Already a dusky gray out. This time of year always makes me melancholy. I hate when it’s dark before we’re barely even home from school.
As we walk, I feel groggy, like I’ve been in an endless tunnel or something. Or at least a long, dark hall. But outside I start to feel like me again, like life is a little more normal. Well, as normal as it can be with Jaycee walking next to me in Rochester. I look at her and she shivers a little, so I put my arm around her.
We return to our deli and get ourselves something to eat. Since yesterday, the deli has gone full-out on the Halloween decorations. I had forgotten about the holiday altogether. Orange and black streamers and paper ghosts hang everywhere, and a life-size cardboard witch stands in the corner. There’s a candy bowl at the cash register with a white rubber hand. The kind that reaches out and snatches when you go for it.
And for some reason, I remember the year Scooter and I were around eight or nine, and he dressed up as Yoda for Halloween. Everyone kept mistaking him for E.T. At first it pissed him off, but then we started joking and trying to come up with things to say that combined the two, E.T. and Yoda, like “Phone home, at nine hundred years you will,” until both of us were peeing in our pants.
I must be smiling, because Jaycee says, “What?”
“Nothing. Just all the Halloween stuff. It made me think of something.”
“I miss him too,” she says.
When it’s our turn to order, I choose a ham and Swiss cheese with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and bacon on a twelve-inch sub and Jaycee gets Saltines and ginger ale.
“Are you sure that’s enough?” I ask. She nods and says, “Better not push things too much.”
There’s a small park down the block, so we go and sit there and eat. By the time we’re done, Jaycee looks like crap again, and besides, she’s shivering nonstop.
“Come on, Jaycee. Let’s go back to the room. It’s dark anyway. We’ll start fresh tomorrow. We’ll rent a movie or something.”
She doesn’t argue, which really tells you something.
Which is why it’s no surprise that, by the time we get back to the room, she’s puking up her crackers, and her temp is back up to 102 degrees. I’m not as worried now though, because she’s been up and around, and it’s not nearly as bad as it was earlier. And I’m a fever expert, so I know how the whole cycle goes. She’ll maybe spike again tonight, but she’ll be much better by morning. Until then, you’ve just got to let it run its course.
I get her fresh ice and tuck her in, then sit on the edge of her bed with the Steinbeck book.
“Go to sleep. I’ll watch a movie. Or read this thing, maybe.” I wave the book at her. “Because I’m sure something hugely fun is about to happen in here since this story is chock-full of happy surprises.” I laugh at my sarcasm and settle myself in on my side on top of the bedspread, assuming she’ll want me to stay again.
Jaycee swats backward at me through the tangled mess of her sweatshirt sleeves and blankets and says, “Shut up, Gardner. And, yeah, please don’t go away.”
The swat isn’t forceful, but it’s comforting, because it seems more like the good old, less-sick Jaycee.
“Ouch,” I say. “Must you?”
“I must, Lennie,” she says.
15
The next morning we both sleep late, and then Jaycee, who is much better but also starving, insists on ordering room service, her treat.
Pancakes in me, and oatmeal and waffles in her, we’re finally out in the sunshine by 11:00 a.m. It’s Saturday morning, the twenty-ninth of October, but you might as well tell me it’s December. Or July. It’s like I’ve lost all track of time, and of my real life, and all there is now is Rochester, Jaycee, and me.
It’s as if we’ve slipped into a vortex and arrived in this town, and yet it’s the only place I remember, the only place I’ve ever known. Half the time, I barely think of Mom, or Dad, or even Jeremy for that matter.
I know we’re here for a reason—to find Scooter’s dad—but the truth is that that reason doesn’t really matter so much to me. Or maybe the real truth is it never did. At least not once Scooter died. It’s not that I don’t care about helping the Scoot because of course I do. I loved the guy. I guess I just can’t see how finding his father now will make any difference to him. Plus, in my heart, I think the book should stay with MaeLynn.
Of course, I don’t say any of this to Jaycee. It matters a lot to her. So I want to find Guy Reyland and deliver the book for her sake as much as I always did.
Jaycee whistles as we walk, the GPS chiming in periodically from her pocket. She’s her bouncy old self again. As if the fever never happened. I mean, I’m used to it. Fevers are just like that sometimes. At any rate, I’m happy to be walking and talking and laughing again, even if we’re back on our crazy mission.
I try to keep the pace slow, not wanting to push her too much, but once she’s set her mind to something she’s in fast motion; you really can’t hold her back. She’s three steps ahead of me most of the time.
We’ve decided to head downtown to the newsroom, the NBC affiliate in Rochester. Jaycee says newsmen know everyone and everything, so we’ll see if they know him there.
“Where better than a newsroom,” she asks, “to find a missing person?”
“A police station?” I suggest. “The county jail? The gutter? A graveyard? Especially if the missing guy is a scumbag.”
She punches me. “You’re such an upbeat companion. And, yes, maybe we should try all those too.”
“Speaking of upbeat,” I say, “I finished that dumb book of yours.”
“You did?” She slows down and grabs my arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? Isn’t it just brutal?”
I laugh. “Yeah, Jaycee, it’s brutal. So, um, thanks for that. Because there’s nothing better than reading a really sad book when one of your best friends is burning up with a fever and the other one has just died.”
She turns and looks at me. But I know what I’ve said, and I mean it. And I’m glad that she knows.
“Sorry, I guess it is sad,” she says, still holding on to my sweatshirt sleeve but picking up our pace again. “But beautiful too, right? How all they’ve got is each other?”
“I guess,” I say. “It just seemed sad to me, period. Plus, I don’t know how he could do what he did.”
“He needed to,” she says. “It was the ultimate act of friendship.” She drops my arm and grabs my hand
instead, lacing her fingers through mine.
“I guess,” I say again, because now that she’s holding my hand I’m having a hard time concentrating.
“I just like how the book shows how plans go wrong,” she says. “I mean, their dream was to buy a ranch and for Lennie to tend to the rabbits. But you know from the outset there’s going to be a problem, that something will get messed up. Like the Burns poem says, you know, ‘The best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.’”
“Yeah,” I say. “I totally get it now. Really. Best laid plans of mice and men. From the book’s title.” She rolls her eyes like she doesn’t believe me, but I’m not kidding. I do understand it. At least, I feel like I do.
“Yes. From the title. But of course the title comes from the English translation. The original Robert Burns poem is Scottish. So the poem doesn’t say ‘plans’ it says ‘schemes.’ And it doesn’t say ‘go oft awry,’ it says ‘gang aft agley.’ But trust me, you’ll learn all this soon enough.”
“Aft gang agley?”
“Yeah. Well, the other way around. Gang aft agley. I think that’s Scottish for ‘go often awry.’ The real line is ‘The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.’”
“The o’ is a nice touch,” I say.
“Anyway, the bottom line is that George would have done anything to help Lennie. He wanted to do right by him.” She squeezes my hand tighter.
We walk the next few blocks quietly, listening to the GPS speak its robotic commands from inside her sweatshirt pocket: “Turn left on East Main, go point three miles, turn right at East Avenue, go point seven miles…” As we walk, I glance at her, wishing I could know what she’s thinking. Occasionally, she turns and smiles at me. When we finally reach the NBC building, we pause at the double revolving doors.
It looks mostly like a regular old office building, not nearly as exciting as the one in New York City with its block-long picture windows and giant photos of Matt Lauer and Al Roker in the lobby. I let go of Jaycee and wipe my hand on my jeans. I can’t believe how sweaty it is. What a dork I am.
“Okay,” she says, “cross your fingers something turns up here.” She spins the door and pushes me in, then slips into the quickly narrowing opening along with me.
“What will you say if it does?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I’ll figure something out. I was off my game Thursday. Too sick. But today I’ll be brilliant. Something will come to me. You know it always does.”
I nod in hopeful agreement, especially since, as we emerge into the large lobby, there’s a big, bald security guard who looks like a WWE wrestler headed in our direction. “Now’s your chance,” I say.
“Hey, Jim,” Jaycee says instantly, waving and smiling as he approaches. I’m stunned. She knows him. She flashes him a great big grin. “Goin’ up to the newsroom again.” He looks at her funny, like he’s not sure. “J.P.’s stepdaughter,” she says. “You remember. J.P. Amato? News 10, Albany. He’s doing work up there.” She turns her head a little toward the far wall. “He’s there with Phil Brenner, my uncle. They’re both expecting us, me and my brother, Nick.” She shoves me forward.
I have no idea what or who she’s talking about—other than J.P., of course—but the guard obviously does. He takes a big step backward, says, “Of course, Ms. Amato,” and ushers us in and points us toward the elevators.
“Second floor,” he calls, nodding.
“I know,” she yells back, waving.
“Okay, redeemed,” I say, marveling. “So, you know him?”
“Never saw him before in my life.”
“But you called him by his…”
“Name tag.” She pokes my chest where a tag would be pinned. I laugh, impressed. “You are such a noob,” she says.
“But still, he clearly knows J.P.? I mean, he didn’t argue or anything.”
She shrugs. “Who knows? You say it with authority, and they believe you. And they don’t want to get in trouble. TV people can be pretty obnoxious and haughty. I should know.” I laugh. “Or maybe he does,” she adds. “Maybe he’s heard his name tossed around. Like I said, he comes up here sometimes. For a story or something. A lot of people know J.P. I told you, the name does come with perks.”
We reach the elevator bank and Jaycee pushes the up button.
“Well, what about Phil Brenner?” I ask. “He’s not your uncle then?”
She turns my body around and nods. Staring from across the lobby is a huge framed poster of a man with glasses and a mustache, in a suit and tie, with a blond woman in a red dress. Across the top, it says Spend Your Mornings with Phil & Amy, and on the bottom, Phil Brenner & Amy Reed, The Phil & Amy Show, Weekdays at 10:00 a.m.
The girl is good.
When we reach the second floor, it’s not hard to find the newsroom. It takes up the whole entire place. Even on a Saturday, the place buzzes with activity. There’s a large double steel door to our left, and the rest of the wall is an enormous window, all glass, so you can see in. Above the window is an unlit ON-AIR sign, its red words not yet glowing.
The studio looks pretty much like what you’d expect: a green screen, a wood platform with an interview area that looks a little like a living room with a small round table and two chairs set up in front of a dark navy curtain, a bunch of cameras, and a large gray news desk where a male and female anchor sit, already in their places. They’re talking to each other, but you can tell it’s just horsing around, while the cameramen work to set up around them. Jaycee says, “Come on. Let’s see who we can talk to. It should only take a few minutes.”
She walks in like it’s nothing through the heavy steel doors. I hang back a few steps and watch her as she saunters up to one of the cameramen.
“We’re looking for a missing person,” she says. “My stepdad, J.P. Amato, News 10, Albany, he’s doing a feature on him.” She unzips the side pocket of her backpack and pulls something out. It’s a key chain with a tag on it. She holds it out to him, then hands it to me. It’s a laminated press pass with her photo on it, for News 10, Albany. She flashes a smile at me. “He’s following up a lead at the courthouse, so I’m helping out here today.” I think it’s pretty smooth, but the guy still questions her.
“You’re a little young to be helping out on your own, no?” He bends down to adjust something on the camera.
“Not on my own.” She tugs on my sleeve. “My brother is with me.”
The guy glances up at me from where he’s kneeling. “Well, who you looking for, someone who works around here?”
“Not sure,” Jaycee says. “The guy is missing. Figured someone here might know the name. Guy Reyland.”
“Reyland?” he repeats.
“Yeah, Guy Reyland.”
He shakes his head. “Never heard of him. Maybe you want to try the police station. Or City Hall.”
“We will. Next on the list.” She gives me a look. “But since my stepdad’s part of the News 10 team, we figured we’d snoop around here first.”
“Sorry, wish I could help you,” he says. “Try Linda and Mike. Maybe they’ve heard of him.” He points to the news desk. “Trust me, Linda pretty much knows everyone.”
“Thanks,” Jaycee says. “Will do.”
We walk over to the news desk, my eyes glued on Jaycee. It’s amazing to me how fearless she is; the old Jaycee is back, with all the confidence in the world.
“Hey,” she says when we reach the desk, then repeats her whole stupid story to the newscasters. The man is making notes on some blue index cards, barely looks up, just shrugs. Like he’s way too busy to even think about it.
“Guy Reyland,” I blurt out, because I want to contribute. “We really need to find him.” Jaycee shoots me a look like I shouldn’t have.
“For our stepdad,” she says, “for a story.”
Linda, a youngish-looking woman with short dark hair and one of those moles near her lip, scratches her head. “Reyland you said, right? Hold on a sec.”
She
taps across the newsroom floor in her high heels and green suit, to an old, metal file cabinet against the side wall. She opens and closes drawers, pulling folders out and stuffing them back in. Jaycee elbows me and gives me a look like “I told you so,” and I raise my eyebrows hopefully. Finally she heads back, holding a folded newspaper section in her hand.
“Funny,” she says, waving it, “I thought I remembered the name. Cute place too. I’ve been there a few times. But not lately. And of course this is from years ago, so who knows? Anyway, hope it helps you kids. Now, we’re about to go on air, so you have to clear out of here.”
“Can we take this?” Jaycee asks.
“Sure, I doubt we need it anymore.” Jaycee thanks her, and we head back out toward the elevators.
“Open it!” I say, reaching over as soon as we’re in the hall.
“Chill.” She hugs it to her chest and pushes the button. The doors open right away. Nobody but us. We step in and they close again, slowly. “Okay,” she finally says.
She unfolds the paper and holds it in front of us. It’s the Lifestyles section of the Rochester Times Union. June 2004. There’s a photo of a decent-looking guy with long dark hair, squinting in front of a large restaurant window. It’s just a photo with a caption under it, no article or anything to go with it. The caption says, “Local poet Guy R. Reyland opens Front Street burger joint / luncheonette. Says Reyland of his new venture, ‘Let’s hope burgers pay better than words.’”
“It’s him, right?” I say, touching my finger to the photo. Of course I don’t really recognize him, and there’s no resemblance to the Scoot. Then again, there wouldn’t be. But his name is right there: Guy Reyland. I mean, how many Guy Reylands can there be? It’s definitely him.
“It’s gotta be,” Jaycee says. “Did you see it?”
“The caption? Yeah. The dude writes poems. I mean, that’s totally weird.”
“No,” she says, moving my fingers away. “The name of the luncheonette.”
16
