Sharing Sam

by Katherine Applegate

  “So why don’t you quit?”

  “I suppose because no one ever asked me to.”

  “I’m asking.”

  He smiled. It was a broad, smooth smile, the kind that curled up just a little at the edges. “Okay, then.”

  He was making fun of me again. “What, you’re going on the straight and narrow because some perfect stranger asked you to? What about doing it for you?”

  “I’m not what you’d call an interested party.”

  I sat up, frustrated, clutching a mound of grass. He was a mystery to me, as much a mystery now as when he’d been the object of hushed bathroom speculation.

  “You are really exasperating,” I said. “While I’m reforming you, why don’t you stop cutting school, too?”

  “I can’t. Sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “I see one, I think.” He sat up too. “There, by the dock. Big, ugly, round? Like a walrus?”

  “Sounds right. I don’t see one, though.”

  He nodded. “So. I’ve seen a manatee.”

  “Did not. You were just changing the subject.”

  “No, I saw it. Sort of like Fred Flintstone in a wet suit. Definitely a manatee. So why is it again I should care if there are only a few left?”

  “Because,” I said firmly, “we are the most intelligent species on the planet. And we’re the ones who are killing this one off.”

  “And what if it doesn’t work out in the end? What if you try and you end up failing? Why do it, then?”

  “Because we have to try.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. That I understand.”

  He surprised me then by touching my hand, warmth on warmth. We both looked off at the water, neither daring to meet the other’s eyes.

  We sat there for a long time like that. Holding hands, only not. The world fell still and became just us and the water and the sun. It was like that sweet stirring before a storm, when you sense something is about to change and all you can do is wait.

  We looked for the manatees, but they were swimming secretly in the dark grasses, waiting for a safe moment to appear. Waiting, I suppose, as we were, to see what the world had in store for them.

  Chapter 6

  AFTER A WHILE we rode over to a phone booth at a Texaco. He needed to make a call, Sam explained, checking his watch.

  I sat on the bike, watching him dial. He turned away from me furtively. I strained to listen. “Morgan …” I heard. Then “… police …” Smothered, angry sounds. “When were they there?… back soon. Thanks.”

  Police. The word sent a jolt of reality through me. The rumors resurfaced. What had I really found out about this guy, this guy whose hand I’d been holding, sort of, for the last half hour—this guy I was convinced I was falling in love with?

  When Sam rejoined me his expression was flat. “Something came up. I have to take you home.”

  “What came up?”

  He reached for his helmet. “Nothing.”

  “You have to take me home for nothing?”

  “It’s not your problem.”

  “Maybe if you tell me, I could help.”

  “It’s not your problem.”

  It was like trying to see through lead. He was not going to let me in.

  “Fine,” I said. “Forget it. Take me home.”

  He put on his helmet, climbed on, and revved the bike. Angrily, it seemed to me, but then, it was hard to tell with a Harley.

  I tapped his shoulder. “Just tell me this,” I yelled. “Did you or did you not rob a Get n’ Go?”

  Suddenly the bike fell silent and still. He looked over his shoulder.

  “What exactly is a Get n’ Go?”

  “No, I know. It’s the witness relocation program, right? Your dad’s some kind of drug kingpin and you turned state’s evidence.”

  Behind his clear mask his grin broadened. “Where are you getting this?”

  “School. Rumors. People talk, I listen.”

  “Why are you even here if that’s what you think? Why did you agree to come with me? Weren’t you afraid I’d drive you to the nearest 7-Eleven so we could pull a Slurpee heist, maybe zap a couple of burritos as we blasted our way out?”

  “I wasn’t afraid,” I said, suddenly shy. “Actually, I knew you weren’t any of those things.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. I concentrated on the dark hairs on his arms. “What did you base that on?” he asked.

  I looked past him. “You kissed my horse and you carry pocket Kleenex.”

  He stared at me, shaking his head. “You are one very interesting girl, Alison,” he said. “A little weird, but very interesting.”

  Again he revved the engine. He turned back and sat there for a long time, watching a gray Taurus rise up slowly on the garage’s lift.

  “Come on,” he said finally, reluctantly. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  When we rode up the lane to Sam’s place, the old man was sitting in the driver’s seat of the red Cadillac. The top was down. The parrot was sitting on his shoulder. Two petite white-haired women shared the front seat.

  It wasn’t until we pulled up alongside that I realized they weren’t petite women. They were giant poodles.

  “There you are, boy.” An older woman with a thick quilt of brown wrinkles appeared in the doorway of the trailer.

  Sam parked the bike. “I’ll be right back,” he told me.

  He and the woman spoke in hushed voices. I heard the word police again. The old man gripped the Cadillac’s steering wheel, spinning it like a captain would turn the wheel of a clipper ship. The poodles and parrot stared intently through the dirty window. I followed their eyes, but all I could see was the weedy paddock behind the trailer. Far off in the distance an old horse grazed, as dented and weary-looking as the Cadillac.

  I climbed off the bike and removed my helmet.

  “Nice caboose,” someone said, adding a wolf whistle for full effect. A shrieky voice, not quite a man’s. Not quite a woman’s, either.

  I spun around. No one was taking credit.

  “Need a lift?”

  This time it was definitely the old man. I looked to Sam for guidance, but he was deep in conversation.

  I approached the driver’s side slowly. The man was smaller close up, with deep, pocketed eyes the worn blue of old jeans. He was wearing a natty red bow tie and a green plaid flannel shirt that hung in drapes off his frail arms. On his head was a leather driving cap. He seemed very happy to see me.

  “Nice caboose.” It was the parrot, I realized, vaguely relieved.

  “How far you going?” the man asked.

  “Uh, well, I live on Fruitville—” I began.

  “I can take you as far as Vegas. Back, Forth, make room for the lady.”

  He snapped his fingers and the two poodles edged closer in perfect unison. Two more dogs, sweet little muttly types, sat in the backseat. One was wearing a little straw hat.

  I looked over at Sam. He was shaking the woman’s hand. He caught my eye and gave me a look that said he’d be there soon.

  “Hop in, hop in, let’s hit the road. You play keno?”

  I went to the other door and opened it obediently. “No.”

  “Ah, roulette, then. Thirty-two red, that’s the ticket.”

  I closed the door. The poodles eyed me suspiciously.

  “Kiss me, mama.” The parrot again.

  “Sam?” I called hopefully.

  The old man floored the gas pedal, despite the fact that there was no key in the ignition. He turned the wheel and leaned into the imaginary curve. Even the poodles swayed.

  “Hang on, sister, let’s see what this baby can do.”

  I don’t know why, but I fastened my seat belt.

  He changed direction, leaning the other way. Again, everyone swayed except me. He cast me a dirty look and I felt guilty, as if I were defying the laws of physics.

  Just then Sam appeared. I sighed with relief.

  “Morgan, this is A
lison. Alison, this is my grandfather, Morgan.”

  Oblivious, Morgan swerved again. Sam grabbed the wheel. “Jane told me what happened, Morgan. You found the keys, didn’t you?”

  Morgan stared straight ahead. “Let’s hit the road and see where it goes.”

  “You did hit the road,” Sam said. His voice was smoothly patient. “You hit it for six miles or thereabouts.”

  For the first time, Morgan seemed to hear Sam. “I got her up to forty-five.”

  “Too bad you were in the wrong lane at the time.” Sam held up a set of keys. “I hid these for a reason, Morgan. Now I’m going to have to take them out of the trailer altogether. You promised—no more joyrides.”

  “Nice caboose,” the parrot remarked to Sam.

  Sam opened the door and waited. “Let’s go make some burgers, huh?”

  The old man turned to me. Once again he seemed genuinely, freshly happy to see me. “You his girl?”

  “Uh, well, not—”

  “Kid needs one. Might as well be a monk.”

  He looked at Sam. “Kissed her yet?”

  “Kiss me, mama,” said the parrot.

  “Shut up, Cha-cha,” Sam said.

  “She’s a looker,” Morgan added.

  The parrot bobbed its head. “Nice—”

  “Shut up,” Sam said again, “or we’ll be eating parrotburgers tonight.”

  “Take her out. Ask her to a picture, ask her to a dance, then kiss her,” Morgan suggested. He eyed me doubtfully. “You cha-cha?”

  “No, I—”

  “Shame, that. Ask her anyway.”

  “Will you get out of the car, then, and promise not to pull this crap again?” Sam asked.

  “Listen to you, in front of a lady.”

  Sam took a deep breath. “Alison, we’ll go out sometime, okay?”

  The old man rolled his eyes. “A dance, something classy.”

  “People don’t do that kind of thing anymore, Morgan.”

  Morgan spun the wheel, pouting.

  Sam’s cheeks were tinged with pink. I thought it was very charming. “Fine. Alison, let’s go to a dance, somewhere, sometime in the unspecified future.”

  Morgan stared at me expectantly. So did all four dogs. “Okay,” I said meekly. “Sure.”

  Morgan got out of the car. Very slowly he came around to the other side and opened my door. When I got out, he kissed my hand. His lips were cool and dry.

  Sam took his arm. “I’m going to take Alison home, Morgan,” he said as he helped the old man inside. The four dogs trotted behind him.

  I leaned against the warm hood. A few minutes later Sam came out. He looked … not embarrassed, exactly. Almost relieved.

  “So,” he said. “Not exactly the Get n’ Go, huh?”

  “He’s really your grandfather?” I asked. “Where’s the rest of your family?”

  “Back in Detroit. I just came down to keep an eye on things for a while.” He smiled. “Guess I should have warned you. He’s kind of unpredictable.”

  “I like him. I’ve never had my hand kissed before. Come to think of it, I’ve never had a parrot come on to me either.”

  “He has good days and bad. Actually, today’s a real good day. He’s pretty lucid.”

  I wondered what a bad day was like. “Is he the reason you have to miss school sometimes?”

  Sam nodded impassively. “Yeah. That, or sometimes work.” He shrugged. “Sorry about all that dance stuff.”

  “That’s okay. You were coerced.”

  He hesitated. “There is some kind of dance thing coming up, isn’t there? I saw a poster, I think. Hearts or something.”

  “Valentine’s Day.”

  “I can’t dance,” he said.

  “Not even the cha-cha?”

  “Still, if you wanted, and things worked out, we could … you know. Go. And make fun of the other people dancing.”

  I looked over at the trailer. Morgan was standing behind the screen door, a gray shadow. The parrot was still on his shoulder.

  “I’d like that,” I said, and my voice quavered only a little bit.

  “Okay, then,” Sam said.

  “Okay.”

  He moved a little closer. I could see the steady throb of a vein in his temple. I could see the tiny quiver of his lower lip as he leaned toward me. I could see his pupils go wide and dark.

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see. I wanted to feel.

  “Kiss me, mama,” someone said. And I did.

  That night Izzy called. She was really jazzed about coming home and going right back to school. The doctors were all over her about not taking on too much too soon, but she couldn’t wait. I promised her we’d go out and buy lots of cool bandannas and scarves and turbans. We considered the merits of one of those curly pink taffy wigs. Funny to us, sure, but what if no one else got the joke?

  I wanted to tell her about Sam, I swear I did.

  I’d been kissed only twice before, once at a beach party (hyperactive tongue, excess saliva, Blistex aftertaste) and once by a guy at science camp who’d harbored a secret crush on me (no tongue, dry lips, raspberry Bubblicious aftertaste).

  But this, this had been a real kiss. Every time I thought about it, I got shuddery and woozy and somebody started trampolining off my stomach.

  Sounds awful, I know. It wasn’t.

  I felt like I’d traveled somewhere I had never been before. Like I’d finally been to camp, if you know what I mean.

  I should tell Izzy, I kept thinking as we talked about the dirty movies available on the hotel TV—did she dare order one?—and the tedious, terrifying mechanics of radiation therapy.

  I should have told her from the start. I should have said, “Izzy, something magical happened between Sam and me that day in the grove.” But I didn’t, because I knew it wasn’t what she wanted to hear right then.

  It wasn’t like I didn’t know that waiting might make things worse. I’d sat through two sweaty hand-holdings, that bubble gum wisp of a kiss, and a breathy, confessional mash note before I’d gotten up the nerve to explain to the science camp guy that I was already involved. (I couldn’t just say I wasn’t interested, could I?) Why hadn’t I just told him? he’d moaned. Camp was only six weeks long, and he’d wasted two and a half seducing me—all the good ones would be taken.

  While Izzy went on about an orderly who’d told her he liked bald chicks, I heard a soft rap on the window by my bed. I peeled back the shade. There, just visible in a veil of orange moonlight, was Sam.

  His bike was behind him. I knew he must have turned it off and wheeled it across the lawn, or else my dad would have been already cross-examining him. Sam pointed to the helmet he was obediently wearing, then took it off and grinned, a little sheepishly.

  “The thing is,” Izzy was saying, “this orderly is coming on to me because I’m hairless. I mean, talk about your basic sick weasel.”

  I laughed even as I pulled up the window. The warm, flowery air billowed the shade. Sam put his hand to the screen. I put my hand over his. It fit inside it nicely.

  “What a jerk,” I said into the receiver.

  “Hi,” Sam whispered.

  “Hi,” I mouthed back.

  “I just wanted to see you before I went to sleep,” he said. We stood there like that for long seconds. Our fingers were separated by the cool mesh screen, but I could still feel the heat of his palm.

  After a while he put on his helmet, turned his bike around, and wheeled it silently across the lawn.

  I thought about how he’d said he was good at watching out for people. And I thought my instincts had been right, very right, that day in the grove.

  “Guys,” Izzy said. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever find one. Especially now.”

  “You will,” I said softly.

  “You think?” Izzy sighed.

  “We both will,” I said, watching as Sam slipped away into the warm, black night.

  Chapter 7

  I DECIDED TO have a welcome-bac
k nonparty for Iz. Nonparty because her aunt was adamant that we hooligans not cause her to overdo anything. I liked Rosa, but I think she felt I was a bad influence on her niece. Rosa was devoutly religious, and she knew my family spent Sunday mornings with the New York Times crossword puzzle, Charles Osgood on the tube, and a bag of warm turnovers from Publix bakery. Izzy didn’t go to church either, but I think Rosa held me responsible. Once I heard Izzy try to explain to Rosa that she did belong to a religion, one called science. The next day, Rosa gave her a neatly wrapped little box with a rosary inside. Apparently she hadn’t gotten the message. Or maybe she had.

  Izzy was due to arrive on Tuesday afternoon. After school a bunch of us rode over to the condo on Siesta Key, loaded down with balloons, crepe paper, and dorky hats. I’d invited Sam to come. He said he had to check on Morgan, then he’d see. It seemed like a natural way to ease him into the picture, just one guy among many, a casual friend, “Oh, by the way, Izzy, remember Sam?”

  Somebody turned on the CD player, loud Pearl Jam to blast away our anxieties about what we would say to Iz and how we would say it. Rosa, a heavy woman in her forties, hovered in the corner like a nervous shadow. She’d lived with Izzy’s family since leaving Cuba, and although she had a fulltime job as an administrator at a nursing home, she seemed to me to be as much a permanent fixture in the condo as the baby grand in the living room.

  “Like the balloons, Rosa?” asked Gail, one of Izzy’s former teammates on the girls’ basketball team. Izzy had quit a year earlier to spend more time on her science projects.

  “Very nice, yes,” Rosa said, not convincingly. She eyed the silver sentiments: Get Well Soon, Welcome Back, Atta Girl. There was also a Beavis and Butt-head balloon, sentiment-free.

  “Nothing was quite right,” I explained as I tied a balloon to a chair.

  “Yes,” Rosa agreed, black eyes flitting over our disruptive flurry.

  “Hats, everyone,” added Carla, another basketball friend who topped six-one.

  Steve, Izzy’s physics partner of the freckled, sincere, platonic variety, climbed onto the piano bench to hang crepe paper. “I thought about shaving my head,” he said, accepting a pink paper hat from Carla. “You know, in solidarity with Iz. I’ve heard of people doing that.”