Alpaca My Bags

by Jenny Goebel

  I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I’d missed watching the seasons change. I’d experienced summer and fall and winter and spring in various places, but we hadn’t stayed in any one location long enough to witness the transformation. As the bus rambled on, I felt a wave of longing. I wanted to watch the tips of leaves turn red and golden in the fall, and bud with new life in the spring. I wanted to experience the scenery changing again, rather than a constant change of scenery.

  Lost in thought, I gazed at the trees outside my window. As they blurred by, it hit me that every grove looked alike in Winterland. Every exit off the state highway looked as though it could lead to the Stargazer RV Park. I couldn’t tell one mountain peak from another. And everything looked different coming from the opposite direction than the way I’d traveled with Mom and Dad that morning on the way to school.

  When I started seeing one building after another pop up outside my bus window, my heart leaped into my throat. The bus was nearing town. Oh no, I missed my stop! I thought, followed quickly by, What will my family think?

  Amundsens were supposed to be proficient at navigation. Over the past few years, I’d been taught how to pay attention to landmarks, and how to find my way out of the wilderness using a compass and a map. Finding your way around a new place was practically a game to my family. But I couldn’t even handle something as simple as riding a bus home.

  Dad especially wouldn’t understand how this could happen. I hated the look he got in his eyes and the way he shook his head in disbelief every time I proved a disappointment. An ache lodged itself inside my rib cage. I was already going to get that look for Ms. Horton’s note. I didn’t want to get it for missing my bus stop, too.

  As the bus neared the center of town (and the market where Dad was now a grocery bagger) one thing became clear—I needed to get off, and fast. If I could somehow find my way back to the Gnarly Banana before my parents got off work, they’d never have to know what a blunder I’d made of my first bus ride.

  I hopped out of my seat to exit the bus with a cluster of other middle schoolers. The boy with the wave-top hair—the one I’d bumped into at the start of the day—was directly in front of me. Since my nerves were hitting a crescendo, I was in a hurry to get off. In my haste, I crowded in too close.

  Wave-hair boy didn’t seem to like the way I stepped onto the pavement, right on his heels. He spun on me, then slowly measured my appearance. It was unnerving the way his gaze moved from my ratty tennis shoes up my body, until it lingered less than an inch above my eyes. Earlier that day, he’d brushed me off like someone swatting away a mosquito. That seemed far preferable to the attention he was paying me now.

  “Hey!” he said. His voice wasn’t friendly. It was the opposite of friendly. The group of kids who’d climbed off before us turned to look.

  The boy paused, as if mulling something over in his head. Then, noticing he had everyone’s attention, he said, “You have the thickest eyebrows I’ve ever seen on a girl.” One of the boys standing near him snorted and a girl off to the right broke into a fit of giggles. A third girl stepped into view, one with hair nearly as white as snow. Cat didn’t laugh.

  Seemingly encouraged by his audience’s reaction, he added, “Seriously, they’re hideous—like something furry living on your face. Maybe you are lost,” he said, referencing the Tolkien quote I’d recited that morning. But he hadn’t been in Mr. Roybal’s class. Who could’ve told him about it? Cat? That hurt almost more than his insults.

  I shrank inside myself, and for a second it seemed like my tormenter was having doubts, like he was going to back off. Then he glanced at Cat. His face steeled in a sneer and he returned his gaze to me. “You are lost, aren’t you? So, where did you come from, then? A zoo?”

  “Good one, Ryan,” said the boy who’d snorted earlier.

  My mouth suddenly felt dry, but I couldn’t speak, and I couldn’t swallow. Was my cousin behind this somehow? Did she really hate me that bad? I searched her eyes for some explanation. Her mouth was pinched tight. She was angry and annoyed and something I couldn’t quite read.

  I felt confused and scared, but in a different way than when I was staring down the side of a cliff. I had no idea how to react. I had no idea what to say.

  My parents had spent the last five years literally trying to teach me not to run from my fears. Neil says FEAR can stand for one of two things: either Forget Everything And Run, or Face Everything And Respond.

  I could hear my big brother’s voice in my head: “Amundsens are responders, not runners.” Not this Amundsen. Without saying a word, I spun on my heel and ran. I ran before fear froze me in place and running was no longer an option. I ran and my eyes stung. I wanted to believe it was the wind blowing in my face that blurred my vision. But it wasn’t. As I ran away from the insults, and my disastrous first day, the dam broke and the tears flowed freely.

  The animals first appeared like fuzzy white dots in my distorted image of the field ahead. I thought they might be sheep. But as I drew near, I noticed their necks were too long, and their colors too varied. I stopped running. Using my bright orange T-shirt, I dabbed the wetness from my eyes so I could get a better look.

  One of the animals in particular grabbed my attention. He was creamy white. He was munching on hay, and he was looking right at me. His eyes were large, black, and watchful. I still wanted to make it back to the Gnarly Banana before the rest of my family, but both my fear and energy were waning. Now I just felt, I don’t know … sad, deflated, more than a little bruised on the inside.

  I left the side of the road I’d been following and approached the fence. “Hi there,” I said softly. The animal didn’t move. Up close, he looked even softer and fluffier than I’d imagined. I had an urge to reach through the rails and run fingers through his tufts of fur. Instead, I took off my backpack and rifled through it until I found a forgotten bag of baby carrots I’d packed for a snack.

  When my family had gone horseback riding in Montana, I’d learned how to hold the palm of my hand flat when feeding a horse. That way, no fingers would be nibbled along with the treat. I extended my arm through an opening in the fence and held the carrot the way I’d been taught.

  The sweet and fuzzy animal took it from me and munched appreciatively on the orange root. Two more adorable creatures joined us by the fence. One was a milky brown, the other the color of caramel. I gave them both carrots as well. Standing there, a peace washed over me that I hadn’t felt all day. The feelings of otherness and loneliness I’d been carrying around with me drained away.

  I didn’t know exactly what the animals were. They looked like llamas but were smaller and had cuter faces. And, unlike horses, their legs narrowed into dainty two-toed feet instead of hooves. While trying to get a better look, I noticed the milky-brown one had a piece of twine wrapped around one of his front legs. His weight was shifted to the opposite leg, like it was bothering him.

  I hunched over and stretched my hands through the fence. I tried to grab at the string, but the animal startled and reared back a few inches. “Whoa. It’s all right,” I said in my most soothing voice. “I just want to get you untangled.”

  I fished out another carrot, and he drew close once more. While he was distracted by the treat, I managed to gently lift his foot in my hand and work the twine free. “There,” I said triumphantly.

  It might’ve been my imagination, but the expression he gave me was something I didn’t experience often. Almost as though he could see a deeper part of me than what was on the surface. Like he saw more than an awkwardly tall and fearful girl with the wrong clothes and the wrong eyebrows and the wrong everything else. Like he saw into my heart and liked what he found there.

  “You’re good with them,” a voice broke through the quiet. I whirled around, and the first thing I noticed about the woman was her bold, flower-printed galoshes. She was wearing a floppy sun hat and glasses that hid most of her face, but I could tell by the wrinkly skin on her hands that she was old
er than my parents by at least a decade or two.

  “Um, thanks,” I said. “I just stopped because, well … Here.” I handed her the now balled-up piece of twine. “I’m on my way home. The Stargazer RV Park?” It came out like a question. Unfortunately, it was.

  A warm smile poured onto the woman’s face. “Are you lost?”

  I cringed at the memory of my Tolkien outburst and the way that boy—Ryan, was it?—used the quote to make fun of me. “Not all those who wander are lost” rang in my head, but I kept my lips sealed and nodded.

  “Continue on this road for about a quarter of a mile. Take the first left you come to, then carry on for another mile or so. The RV park will be on your right.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I started to leave, but I couldn’t go without one more glance at the animals behind the fence. “They’re so fluffy,” I said more to myself than the woman.

  “That they are,” she said. “My name’s Rachel. I have a shop in town called Fleece on Earth. I’ll be there tomorrow. You should come by.”

  I nodded. “Maybe,” I said. I wanted to stay longer and find out more about her animals and her shop. But I wasn’t sure how much time I had before the rest of my family started trickling back to the Gnarly Banana. Carrying Ms. Horton’s note was like lugging a bowling ball around in my backpack. Giving it to my parents would be hard enough without first having to explain why I was late coming home.

  Luckily, the woman’s directions were easy to follow, and I made it to the Gnarly Banana before anyone else arrived. While I waited, I got myself a bowl of cereal for a snack since I’d given away all my carrots. I was smiling to myself, remembering how the sweet animals behind the fence had gingerly taken the carrots from my hand, when my parents walked in.

  “Looks like someone had a great first day!” Dad crowed when he saw the look on my face.

  “That makes two of us,” Mom said. “I got the job at the deli and my wallet is bulging with tips. I think we should celebrate. I bet we can find an ice cream shop after dinner.”

  “Did someone say ice cream?” Neil crowded in behind my parents. David entered a second later.

  “Uh …” My mouth hung open. I knew I should tell my parents about the note, maybe even about Cat, and how awful school had been. But there was so much commotion, and my brothers were in surprisingly good moods, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d suffered enough for one day. The last thing I wanted was to announce my failures when everyone else was finding success. Then Dad’s smile would transform into a disappointed frown. Ice cream would be canceled, and my brothers would go back to brooding. Besides, the note didn’t say my parents had to contact Ms. Horton immediately. It said at their “earliest convenience.” The note could wait.

  It took longer to find an open ice cream shop than we thought. We got to bed late and everyone overslept the next morning. We scrambled to get ready, and Dad griped all through breakfast about how hard it was to go back to using an alarm clock.

  There definitely wasn’t a “convenient” time to bring up Ms. Horton’s note before school. We barely made it out the door on time.

  Cat’s eyes flicked in my direction when I walked into first period. I smiled and her expression softened, but only for a second before frosting over again.

  “Here,” Mr. Roybal said, and handed me a worksheet. “Grab a laptop and get to work.”

  I did as he said, thankful there weren’t any awkward introductions today. Maybe I could learn to fit in, or at least not be such a spectacle. And I knew I’d slipped up with the library debacle, but if I proved to be a good student, Principal Stinger would have to let me stay.

  As soon as I was settled into my seat, I read the first question:

  Known as one of America’s most famous naturalists and conservationists, this man has also been called “the Father of the National Parks.”

  I perked up in my seat. I would ace this assignment. No doubt I’d been to more national parks than anyone else in the class, and my family had the stickers on our trailer to prove it. I even remembered Dad talking about this very man. I couldn’t remember his name, but no matter; that’s why I had a laptop. Three clicks later I filled in the blank with “John Muir” and moved on to question number two:

  In 1872, _____________became the first national park.

  I knew this one! Yellowstone—I didn’t even need the internet to back me up on it. But the question did get me thinking. I wanted to know when some of the other places I’d visited were given national park status, and what that meant exactly.

  Without giving it much thought, I spent the remainder of the class reading online articles about why national parks are important instead of googling and answering the remaining questions on the worksheet.

  My parents had always encouraged and rewarded learning that was interest driven. When a topic intrigued me, they gave me all the time I wanted to think about it and research it to my heart’s content. They lavished me with praise when I shared information I’d uncovered with the rest of my family.

  So, when the bell rang and Mr. Roybal told us to turn in our worksheets on our way out the door, it caught me by surprise. “I … I didn’t finish,” I stammered as I laid my paper on the growing pile atop his desk.

  “Two answers,” he said in disbelief. “I gave you fifty minutes of work time, and all you came up with was two answers?”

  “But—” I wanted to explain myself. He didn’t give me the chance.

  “You can daydream on your own time. Not in my classroom.” Then he wrote an F in red on my paper and drew a circle around it. Apparently, the only thing deep thought would get me in middle school was a bad grade.

  I stood there for a minute holding up the line until Cat grabbed my arm. “C’mon,” she said. “You’re going to make us all late for second period today.” The way she said it, though, it wasn’t mean or impatient. Just matter-of-fact, if not a little sympathetic.

  Despite everything, Cat seemed to be taking her assignment as my seventh-grade “ambassador” seriously. She made herself available to answer any questions I had, as long as they were school related. At least, that’s what I assumed. The real, true questions simmering in my heart went unasked, and therefore unanswered.

  She was all business when I had to be shown to the school resource center so I could get help with math. It wasn’t that I couldn’t do the problems. The computer program was confusing. I kept entering my answers in the wrong format. Nobody else had trouble, though. They must’ve all used the program before.

  Several times as we’d walked down the hall between classes, Cat opened her mouth like she was going to say something before stopping herself. Something about my aunt being her mom? Something about the note my family left, or the birthday cards we sent each year? Something about Ryan and how awful he’d treated me? Who knows?

  Finally, on the way to the cafeteria for lunch, I got up the nerve to say, “Did I do something wrong? I mean, I know I’ve done a lot of things wrong since I got here, but you’ve seemed angry with me from the moment we met.”

  Cat stopped walking and turned to me. “No,” she said. “You didn’t do anything.” Then she took off and left me standing there to wonder why her answer had sounded so pointed.

  I sought her out inside the cafeteria. Maybe if I sat with her and her friends again, I could find a way to slowly bridge the gap between us. But when I saw Ryan at the end of her table, my insides clenched. I redirected myself to a near-empty table on the opposite side of the cafeteria.

  There were a few seventh graders at the table where I landed. I noticed they weren’t as polished and self-assured as some of the other students. Thinking they might not immediately reject me, I summoned the courage to say hi as I slid close to a girl with a baggy black T-shirt and silver high-top sneakers. She nodded at me and then went back to a conversation she was having with the boy across from her.

  I listened in, hoping I could interject something witty or humorous. Something—definitely not
a Tolkien quote—to make them pay attention to me, maybe even like me. But I gave up when I realized what they were talking about—gamer tags and Xbox Live memberships. I liked video games and electronics, but my knowledge was pretty much limited to the handheld gaming device my parents had given to me one Christmas. I was way out of my league with these two.

  So, I ate my sandwich in silence, and thought about my plans for after school. I wanted to drop by Fleece on Earth—whatever that was—and talk to the woman, Rachel, about her animals. I wanted to ask if it was okay to pet them and feed them carrots.

  When I climbed on the bus after school, Cat’s eyes skimmed my face. Her expression was unreadable in the few seconds before she shifted her gaze elsewhere.

  I wanted to be the type of person who could coolly plop down next to her and confront the issue head-on. Instead, ever the coward, I pretended not to see her and kept walking toward the back of the bus. I wondered if it would go on like this—neither of us talking about the things that should be said—until my family left Winterland. Then we’d be gone from her life again, probably forever. But … wouldn’t we always be connected in a way because we were related?

  Unfortunately, going to find the woman I’d met at the ranch meant getting off the bus at the same stop as the day before. I hung back when the bus rolled into town, this time putting as much space as possible between me and the group Ryan and Cat belonged to. The last thing I wanted was a repeat of yesterday’s humiliation.

  As I walked, my shorts’ pocket bulged with a wad of dollar bills. Mom had given me her remaining tips from the deli after we’d gone for ice cream the night before. I’d bought myself a little extra time today saying I’d use the money to shop for new clothes after school.

  When Ryan and Cat’s group disappeared into a coffee shop shaped like a train car, I hurried past it and into a round building next door. I thought I could ask for directions to Fleece on Earth. That was, until I saw what waited for me inside.