And then the woman spins and flees down 5th Avenue, the book in her hand, her old heavy wool jacket flapping behind her. People on the sidewalk shift out of her way.
Joey takes a couple of steps, like he’s about to follow the woman, but then he reels around toward me. “Mac!” He stomps his combat boot on the sidewalk.
“I—”
“I was talking to her!” He crosses his arms tightly, glaring at me.
“I didn’t know.” I pant. I’m no longer shivering. Now I’m sweating.
The Walk sign flashes and Joey soldiers across the street. I follow him.
“You should be more careful around the street people,” I say.
“The street people?” He leans toward me. “You say that like they’re rats.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I stammer.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re human beings, Mac. Like you and me.”
“Sorry,” I say, but it’s barely a whisper, and I’m not sure if Joey even hears me.
The MAX train slides forward and stops. The doors whoosh open.
“Is this your train?” Joey’s voice is icy.
“Yeah.” I step on and grab a handrail.
A few moments later, Joey gets on too. He passes me without a glance and steps to the upper section, sitting down next to a man who’s staring at his phone.
The train inches forward, and the MAX voice announces the next stop, first in English, then in Spanish.
Carefully, I creep to the upper section and sit down across the aisle from Joey. He just gazes ahead.
“Do you know that woman?” I finally ask.
Joey clutches his backpack. His combat boots are glued to the floor of the train.
“Sometimes,” he answers.
Chapter Eighteen
The Smoothie Cart
Joey and I are silent the whole rumbling train ride, and the silence is thick. It presses on me, squeezing across my chest like a coat that’s two sizes too small. I have so many questions for Joey, like what he was doing talking to that woman and why did he give her a book? But I also want to ask why he’s on this MAX train when he said he was going downtown. Is he following me? Does he think I will lead him to the next clue?
There’s no point in asking because the one thing I do know about Joey Marino is that he’s not much of a talker.
I try to focus on the smoothie cart and getting the next clue. I remind myself again that Joey’s my competition.
I get off the train at the zoo exit. Joey steps off right behind me. We both make our way out of the tunnel to the entrance. I find the shortest ticket line, and hand the clerk Coho’s thirteen dollars for admission, tucking my nickel change into my shoulder bag. Joey’s no longer near me, but I spy him at the Members Only line.
Keeping a keen eye on Joey, I step behind a group of people. Thankfully, it’s summer and the zoo’s busy. Little kids are running all over the place, dropping popcorn kernels on the pavement. Maybe I can be as stealthy and quiet as Joey is. Maybe I’ll blend into the crowd like he always manages to do.
Staying behind the group, I walk down the long pathway that leads to the animal exhibits. I’m not positive where the smoothie cart will be set up, so I pay close attention to all the little kiosks, always keeping Joey in my line of vision. He’s walking ahead of me now, very slowly. Too slowly. The group providing my camouflage passes him, but I hold back.
Then Joey turns around and spies me before I can duck out of the way. I speed up my pace to get in front of him. I pass a monkey exhibit and see a women’s bathroom ahead. Slipping through the door, I exhale. I’ll just wait here a bit while Joey moves on.
After a full five minutes, I peek out the doorway.
Joey Marino’s not around, but I double-check to be sure. One thing I’ve learned is just because I can’t see this boy, it doesn’t mean he isn’t there.
My best guess is that Smoothie Guy will be near the grassy amphitheater where they have bird shows and summer music concerts. I move along the path in that direction, sneaking constant glances all over. As I near the amphitheater, I see five food carts, and I can’t hold back my grin when I see Smoothie Guy’s bicycle trailer. He stands under a tall umbrella near a fold-up table covered with cups, spoons, and napkins. I’m buzzing with my good fortune and the nearness of my next clue, and the prize money, and my computer camp. I rub my palms together. It’s like I’ve executed a perfect computer program.
Smoothie Guy has his bicycle up on a stand to make it stationary, like an exercise bike. On the handle bars is a blender, rigged so that the blades rotate when the pedals of the bike turn.
There’s a line of three people waiting to pedal their smoothies. I join them.
The woman at the front of the line orders a Strawberry Sensation smoothie and sits down on the bike seat. I watch her pedal while the clue churns in my head. Does your head ache, or is it your feet? The sunshine tropics will be felt in your seat.
There’s only two sizes of smoothies, regular and large. I figure I need to order large. It’s seven dollars. I open my bag and begin to pull out quarters and dimes, shoving them in my jeans pocket as I count.
“What kind are you getting?”
Poof! Joey Marino stands right beside me.
Again.
How does he always find me? And what am I supposed to do? I can’t get out of line and then come back. This computer program glitch is unexpected.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I lie.
“I’m thinking Paradise Beach,” he says.
I puzzle this, wondering whether Joey even has the clue for this cart. Maybe he’s trying to steer me in the wrong direction, or maybe he knows something I don’t know. I need to play this cautiously.
“Next!” Smoothie Guy hollers, wiping a clean blender container.
I step forward and whisper, “Large Sunshine Tropics.”
Smoothie Guy nods, a slight smile on his lips.
I peek over my shoulder. Joey Marino’s still there, but I don’t think he heard my order. I position myself directly in front of Smoothie Guy to block Joey’s view so he can’t see what ingredients are being added to the container.
When it’s filled, Smoothie Guy steps to the bicycle and attaches the container to the blender base on the handlebars. “Start pedaling.”
I climb on and pedal. Joey watches me the whole time, his gray eyes dulling. And that’s when I know for sure. He doesn’t have this clue. He’s been following me in hopes of finding this clue and then another. I study the menu choices as I pedal. Joey has a one-in-ten chance of guessing the correct smoothie.
I pedal faster until Smoothie Guy tells me to stop and get off. He unlatches the container and pours the fruit smoothie into a tall paper cup. A rush of satisfaction flows through my body.
Smoothie Guy hands me the cup. “Enjoy. Next!”
Joey steps forward without looking at me and says, “I’ll have what she ordered.”
I’m not sure how, but I refrain from screaming out loud. I sprint out of the amphitheater area. My lungs heave as I race up the hill to the exit. Now Joey Marino has another clue too. How is it possible for me to be so stupid and so unlucky? Now I know his game. He’s stalking me to get the hunt clues.
It’s not until I get on the MAX train that I unfold the napkin around the smoothie cup. Written in red ink is my fourth clue:
Green, gold, and purple spices might get your arm strong.
Shrimpy legs don’t let you dance, but you can sing a song.
Chapter Nineteen
Brie’s Crisis
The blankets on the futon across the room are in a heap when I wake up the following morning, and Hank and Coral aren’t there. I smell incense burning, the signal that they’re practicing yoga.
Today I have no seconds to waste. I need to meet up with Willa and Brie right away. We have some serious thinking and researching to do on the fourth clue.
As soon as I finish my hair, Willa texts me: My house. 9
a.m. Brie has a crisis.
I respond: What’s wrong?
But Willa doesn’t text back.
I click my flipper shut. In the kitchen I unhook the egg basket and head outside.
Hank, Coral, Coho, and two women I recognize from Hank’s drumming circle are all in downward dog on yoga mats in the backyard. Hank calmly gives directions. Ziggy, Marley, and Emmylou stand on Coral’s gardening table, watching them all.
I laugh to myself. Even the goats think goat yoga is weird. They want nothing to do with it. So much for enhancing the experience.
Inside the garage coop, Poppy sits in her nesting box, her eyes glowing at me. I sense another morning battle brewing, and my arm muscles tense. I’ll try quickness instead of slyness today. I shove my hand under her belly, feeling the warm egg. Just as I yank it out, she snaps her head down, pecking me sharply on the wrist.
“You are not a nice chicken.” I point my finger at her. “You’re an illegal intruder. Just like those goats.”
I grab the eggs left by the leghorns and return to the kitchen. I’m not hungry for Coral’s dry muffins, so I pack my bag and set out to Willa’s house.
She’s sitting on the porch swing, her head down, staring at her phone, when I arrive, but she jumps up when she sees me. “Bad news. Brie has a shoulder sprain.”
For most people, this wouldn’t be a crisis of life proportions, but to Brie Vo and her parents, this is as close to near death as a person could get.
“No swimming for six weeks,” Willa says.
“Dang.”
Poor Brie.
“She’s a mess. We should go see her.”
“Yeah,” I say, “of course.”
As we walk, I talk nonstop and tell Willa all about yesterday, starting with the new goats and then the bus ride and Joey Marino and how he gave a book to this homeless woman, and then how I got the clue at the smoothie food cart.
Willa doesn’t respond at all, not even about the goats, which I figured would make her dance or at least laugh, but there’s no skip or twirl in her step today.
“Willa? Are you okay? You’re really quiet.”
“Just thinking about a lot of stuff that’s going on at my house.”
“Is it about the other day? Is your mom okay?”
We’re right in front of Brie’s house now, and Willa says, “I’ll tell you later. Let’s go see Brie.”
We knock on the front door, and Mrs. Vo lets us in. The lights are dimmed, and Brie is on the couch, flat on her back. Her silky black hair drapes neatly over her chest. Her eyes are closed, and her hands clasp together on her belly. It feels like we’re entering a funeral. The whole scene kind of creeps me out until Mrs. Vo brings in a plate of milk cakes, which Brie’s dad likely made.
Sugar deliciousness goes a long way to lift spirits—the live ones and the dead ones.
“Your friends are here, Brie.” Mrs. Vo touches Brie’s hands.
Brie opens her eyes. She lifts her legs off the couch and raises herself to a sitting position without using her arms.
“How’s your fin feel?” Willa asks.
“It hurts.” Then she adds, “This is the worst.”
“Sorry, Brie.” I sit on the floor near the coffee table, grab a milk cake, and let the sweetness melt on my tongue. It’s a thousand times better than any breakfast I could have eaten at home.
“At the meet last Saturday,” Brie says, “I had a personal record in the two hundred ’fly.”
“Because you’re three-quarters dolphin.” Willa sits down next to Brie on the couch.
Brie smiles just a little. “Then I swam the stupid two hundred IM, and I smacked my arm on the lane line during the backstroke. Totally tweaked my shoulder. I hate the backstroke.”
Brie’s voice cracks. Her eyes are watery. “My mom already found me a physical therapist. She’s even paying him to come to our house, beginning today.”
“That’s good,” I say. “You’ll heal quickly with good therapy.” That’s what Hank always says, anyway.
But Brie doesn’t answer, and now tears drip down her cheeks.
“Hey.” Willa puts her arm around Brie’s good shoulder. “You’ll fix the fin. You’ll hit another PR by the end of August.”
Brie shakes her head. “No. You guys don’t get it. I don’t care about personal records. I don’t even want to swim anymore.”
And now she sobs.
“Part of me”—Brie sniffs loudly—“was so happy when I hurt my shoulder.” She sniffs again. “I thought I could quit. I could be done.” More sniffing. “I could stop all the training, all the meets, all the”—she inhales deeply—“pressure.”
I set my third milk cake back on the plate. I didn’t know she hated swimming so much. She’s so good. I thought you loved things you were good at, like I love computers and writing programs.
“Brie, I’m sorry,” I say again. And I really am. “Have you told your parents you want to quit?”
“No.” Brie wipes her eyes. “They wouldn’t let me. They would spontaneously combust or something.”
“But you can’t keep doing something that makes you unhappy.” I know this is true. It’s exactly why I avoid Hank and Coral’s activities every moment I can. It’s why I find my own things to do. It’s why I want the prize money from the hunt so badly—to make me happy for a change.
“My mom says I was born to swim.”
That’s kind of ridiculous, I think. Are people really born to do one thing? And if so, does that one thing have to be what your parents say it will be?
I’m not going to let that happen to me, and I don’t think Brie should either.
Willa sits there silently, keeping her arm around Brie. What could she say, though? Her parents don’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want. They support her fully in whatever she does, like perfect parents should.
Willa finally speaks. “Well, more time for dancing with me!” She stands up. “I know. We’ll do that Irish dancing where you keep your arms straight and don’t use them.” Willa makes two fists, locks her elbows, and glues them to her sides. Then she starts bouncing up and down, kicking her heels out side to side.
Willa has a dance for every occasion.
“And more time for the food cart hunt too,” I add. “I found the fourth clue yesterday.”
But Brie doesn’t seem very happy about my news. “Just six more to find,” I remind her.
“Mac.” Brie rubs her shoulder. “I’m out of the hunt.”
“What?”
“I’m going to be doing therapy every day, and when I’m not doing that, my parents will watch over me like I’m their inmate. So, yeah, I’m out.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve been counting on Brie. No one calms me down and reminds me to relax and let things go like she can, especially when it comes to Hank and Coral.
I don’t like that she’s out, but I think I understand. She doesn’t really have a choice.
At least I still have Willa.
Chapter Twenty
Willa’s Crisis
“Let’s hear about the clue you found yesterday,” Willa says. “Maybe Brie can help us get started.”
I pull out the napkin from my hunt folder and read aloud. “‘Green, gold, and purple spices might get your arm strong. Shrimpy legs don’t let you dance, but you can sing a song.’”
“I don’t like that part about not dancing,” Willa says.
“It’s just a clue. It’s not a command,” I say.
Willa and I each grab another milk cake and eat slowly.
“You definitely need to order shrimp,” Brie says.
“Right.” I pull out my list of carts and food types and set it on the table, so we can all see it. “There’s a lot we can rule out. It won’t be a coffee cart or a bakery cart.”
“And probably not breakfast or burgers either,” Brie says.
Willa points to the list. “What about Brazilian? Do they eat shrimp in Brazil?”
I shrug. “We could
look that up. Brie, can we use your laptop?”
She goes down the hallway and into another room and returns with her computer. Willa and I sit on each side of her on the couch as she logs in, then searches for popular Brazilian foods.
I read over her shoulder. “It looks like they mostly eat meats and fresh fruit, but here’s something about dried shrimp, so I guess we can’t rule it out. Go to the Portland Food Cart Association page,” I tell Brie.
She types it into the search bar and the site pops up. We all stare at the screen.
“It could be any of the Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, Cajun, Indian, or Indonesian carts,” Brie says.
“We’re not narrowing it down much,” Willa says. “I don’t have enough money or a big enough stomach to buy food at all those carts.”
“And we don’t have enough time.” I feel the immense weight of the remaining five days.
“What about those spices the clue mentions?” Willa asks. “Must be special shrimp spices.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Green spices could be almost anything—oregano, basil, sage, cilantro. Maybe gold spices are like curry?”
“And what are purple spices?” Brie asks.
“No idea,” I say.
Willa’s phone beeps, and she looks away from the computer to read a text.
Brie switches back to the tab listing all the carts and begins counting. “Mac, this is hundreds of carts. Some of them are as far away as Gresham and some are way out on the west side.”
“I know. Click on the news tab.”
Brie does, and I scan the list. It’s looks the same as last time—just short sentences about carts and changes and openings. Nothing about the hunt.
Willa’s phone beeps again. She reads the text but doesn’t respond. She sits still, gripping her phone.
“We should make a decision about where to go, Willa.” I’m not giving up. I need this prize money. “I like the idea of visiting some of these Indian food carts and reading some menus. There’s one on Foster Road we can start with. It wouldn’t take us very long to get there.”
Willa keeps staring at her phone.
Worse Than Weird Page 8
