Goodbye, Rebel Blue Hardcover (10 page)

BOOK: Goodbye, Rebel Blue Hardcover
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TREES ARE EVIL. SO ARE THE PEOPLE WHO SELL them.

I swallow my contempt for all things green and step up to the cash register at The Garden Spot.

“I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”

The clerk, who wears an apron covered with giant sunflowers, looks me up and down, from blue streaks to mud-caked flip-flops, which weren’t muddy until my trek through Mr. Green Thumb’s back lot.

“We’re not hiring,” the clerk says.

“I’m not here about a job. I need to talk to the manager about a school project. It’s about trees.”

After school today I started roaming the streets of downtown Tierra del Rey in search of trees to complete the next item on Kennedy’s bucket list:
Plant seedlings in Brazil to replenish our dwindling
rain forests.
I can’t travel to Brazil, but with a little creativity, I can complete this item in the
spirit
of what Kennedy wanted. Plant more trees. Save the planet.

The problem, thanks to my turtle shopping spree, is I have no money to buy trees, which leads to the inevitable question:
What would Kennedy do?
I swear I should have
WWKD
tattooed on my right forearm. I imagine Kennedy would craft toe rings out of recycled newspaper to earn money or go door-to-door with a juice can. In other words, she’d get others to pony up the cash for the trees. So I’ve spent the past two hours trying to get plant people to part with a few twigs. The arbor world has not been kind.

The Garden Spot clerk picks up the phone and fifteen seconds later gives me a too-bad-so-sad face. “The manager is busy. She asked me to help you.”

Story time. “I’m collecting trees to plant in the parking lot at the Del Rey School near our gym. A few years ago the old trees caught a fungus and died. Percy Cole, who heads our school’s maintenance program, wants to plant new trees, but there’s no money in the budget. Trees make sense in a school parking lot, combating all that exhaust and keeping young lungs healthy.” I show more teeth. Kennedy would love this. “So I’m looking for a plant nursery to donate the trees. We can even include a plaque acknowledging The Garden Spot’s donation.” And they all lived happily ever after.

“We love supporting our community, but we just gave a large donation to the senior center for their summer garden.”

“I don’t need a ton of trees.”

“I’m sorry.”

“One.” Kennedy mentioned nothing about quantity.

“Not today.”

“Please.” I’m begging.
Do you see this, Kennedy? I’m begging for you
.

“Try us around the holidays.”

Panic jolts my spine. The holidays are months from now. I can’t let this bucket-list thing drag on that long. I thank the unhelpful clerk and take out my phone. I’m hunting for another tree place when I hear, “Yoo-hoo, Rebecca. What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

My eyelids squeeze shut. I don’t need Aunt Evelyn. I need trees. Jamming my phone into my pocket, I open my eyes and wave. “Just leaving.”

Aunt Evelyn blocks my exit with her cart, which is filled with tiny pots of yellow and purple flowers. “But what were you doing here?”

I don’t have time for a smart-ass answer. “I’m trying to get free trees so I can plant them in the north parking lot at school and save planet Earth.”

The smooth plane of Aunt Evelyn’s forehead creases. “Is this about drugs, Rebel? Because if you’ve turned to drugs, there are places and people—”

“I’m not doing drugs.” I explain about my tree-planting project.

“You’re serious?”

“No. I’m standing here so we can bond.”

Aunt Evelyn wears a chin-length bob, sleek and shiny, like a yellow football helmet. The entire helmet now tilts to the right. “That’s an interesting project.” The football helmet tilts to the other side.

“And admirable.”

“It would be, if I could get someone to donate the trees,” I say more to myself than to her.

Aunt Evelyn clucks her tongue. “You’d have more luck getting donations if you dressed more professionally.”

“I need to go.” I try to push past her cart, but she jams it into a stack of fertilizer, cutting me off.

“I know you have your own unique and strong style, Rebecca, and I’m not suggesting you change.

I actually think it works to your advantage. Your style makes you memorable.” She motions to me with rose-tipped fingers, a perfect match for the rosy pearls at her ears. “You don’t need to do much.

Get rid of the shark teeth, and put on a clean shirt and nice sandals.”

“Right, like that’s going to get me trees.”

“First impressions are crucial. The Taylors’ place on Manzanita Way has a long driveway lined with brown bark. Now picture that same winding drive with these pansies greeting potential buyers as they drive to the front entrance. It’s all about curb appeal, and frankly, Rebecca, yours is lacking.”

“This is so wrong.” I leap over the mound of fertilizer.

“Try it,” Aunt Evelyn calls as she wheels after me.

“Toodles.” I waggle my fingers and— “Dammit, for once would you do something I tell you!” The football helmet quakes, as if it’s coming undone. “Listen, Rebecca, I know about these things. I know about images and perceptions. I know about selling yourself and a concept.”

“I’m so happy for you.”

She smooths both sides of her hair. “Watch.”

I want to storm off, but I stay rooted in place. A sick part of me can’t wait for her to fail, but I desperately need trees, so I’m sort of rooting for her.

Aunt Evelyn walks back to the sunflower clerk at the register. She swishes her football helmet, starts chatting, and two minutes later, a woman in a green apron with mud splatters joins her at the register. Ten minutes later Aunt Evelyn and I are the proud owners of ten Red Rocket crepe myrtle trees donated by The Garden Spot.

As she wheels them to her van, Aunt Evelyn wears her I-told-you-so face, the one she dons when she demonstrates that I wear the wrong clothes, say the wrong words, and dream the wrong dreams.

It’s been Aunt Evelyn’s MO for five years.

Look, Rebecca, you’re the only girl at the birthday party
not
wearing a dress. Don’t you feel out
of place?

I told you, Rebecca, to study more. Now your summer is going to be ruined because you have to
spend most of it in summer school retaking math.

See, Rebecca, if you get rid of your blue hair, shark teeth, and flip-flops, you’ll get yourself ten
Red Rocket crepe myrtle trees.

On Friday afternoon I drive Nova to the Del Rey Nature Preserve. Pulling into the parking lot, I cut Nova’s engine, dig into my messenger bag, and pull out a cigarette. I light up and take a long draw as I wait for Nate.

You’re going on a date with him?

No, Macey, I’m not, because Nate doesn’t date girls with blue hair. He’s a baseball-team superstar and member of the football team, National Honor Society, 100 Club, student government, and crew. He was on last year’s homecoming and Mistletoe courts and dated a Cupcake. I know because I took out Pen’s yearbook from last year and looked.

Pretty creepy, huh?

No, Kennedy, I’m not a creeper
. I want to know more about Nate because I will be spending an inordinate amount of time with him, possibly up to a hundred hours, and it’s best to know your enemies. I pull in another long, sweet breath of nicotine, the muscles in my neck relaxing. That’s not right. Nate Bolivar is not the enemy. He has looks and brains and is probably the proud owner of a Mr.

Congeniality trophy or two. In all of Nate’s yearbook photos he’s smiling, confident, the picture of perfection. While I don’t care about racking up wins or starring on a team, the Nates of this world do, which makes us fundamentally different. People like me don’t work toward perfection in an imperfect world. We celebrate imperfection.

A bright red Mustang convertible pulls into the parking lot, but Nate is not at the wheel. Bronson hangs a sharp right and parks next to my scooter. Something in my stomach dips. Of course Bronson is here. This isn’t a date but a community-service project.

Nate climbs out of the passenger side of the sports car and lets out a wolf whistle. “Nice wheels.”

“Nate, meet Nova. Nova, this is Nate.”

“Does it run?” Bronson asks with a curl of his lip.

I return the snarl. “Only if I sing it sappy love songs from the eighties.”

Nate runs a hand along the Vespa’s case. “Start her up.”

I twist the ignition, and Nova coughs, sputters, and hums six out of every eight notes.

“Sounds like a carburetor issue,” Nate says.

“So you’re a straight-A student, Mr. Baseball, president of the Bleeding Hearts Club, and a scooter whisperer?”

“No, my dad’s a mechanic. He refuses to teach me anything about cars.” Nate’s lips twist in a devilish curve. “But I watch over his shoulder.”

I would have loved to have learned about art from my father. As for Mom, she tried to teach me about lenses and shutter speeds, but I never could wrap my head around the numbers and angles, not that she cared. She saw that I’d rather capture the world with a pencil or crayons. “Follow your passions, Reb, no one else’s,” Mom told me on more than one occasion.

“Let’s go.” Bronson takes out a canvas bag with the decoys and two shovels. “Some of us have lives. And can you put out that thing?” He aims a shovel at my cigarette. “You smell like an ashtray.”

I open my mouth and then snap it closed. Nate’s still standing at my shoulder, ogling Nova. My ashtray breath will clash with his fresh-out-of-the-shower scent. I stub out the cigarette on a rock wall and put the butt into the plastic bag tied to one of my belt loops.

Nate takes the shovels, and we trek along the boardwalk, past the dunes with sea grass to the rocky part of the beach. Bronson drones on about some special football camp he’s attending at the beginning of summer, and Nate asks the occasional question. Every so often I find a bottle cap or straw or cigarette butt and slip it into my trash bag.

When we reach a set of tide pools, Nate slows. “Look, there’s a limpet.” He squats and peers into a shallow pool. “And here’s a wooly sculpin fish.”

“And look there,” I say with a squeal. “It’s a gum wrapper.” I dislodge the paper wedged between a pair of rocks and tuck it into my trash bag. “Score!”

Nate laughs, a nice, rumbly sound much like the ocean rushing the rocky tide pools. He seems less intense out here, not so uptight.

Bronson balances on a pair of rocks. “No one thinks you’re funny, Rebel. Actually, the entire school thinks you’re a loser.”

I shouldn’t. Deep in my heart, I know I shouldn’t. “Maybe I should start an after-school club for losers, and you can be vice president.”

Nate shakes the water from his hands. “Let’s get to the mudflats.”

“No,” Bronson says. “I’m not going to put up with this crap all afternoon.” He drops the bag of bird decoys. “I’m tired of your snide comments.”

“Would you prefer snarky over snide?” I ask with feigned politeness.

“I’d prefer you leave.”

And this, dear Kennedy, is why I don’t belong in your world.
Most people don’t get me. I’m not a square peg in a round hole; I’m a trapezoid. “Nate invited me.”

“Because he felt sorry for you.”

I spot a beer-bottle cap and toss it into my bag. “Sorry? For me?”

Nate stands. “Bronson, knock it off.”

“Nope, I’m going to give it right back at her.” Bronson jabs a sausage finger at me. “You have no friends, and you’re always making stupid, snarky comments. Nate thinks you’re lonely and you mouth off to get attention.”

“Lonely? Your bicep is bigger than your brain. Just because I don’t aspire to hang out with the in-crowd doesn’t mean I’m lonely.”

“Oh yeah? Name one friend.”

Nate slicks back his hair, which is pointless because not a strand is out of place. “Bronson—”

I gesture to cut off Nate. “No, let Mr. Head-up-His-Ass speak.”

“You’re psychotic. And pathetic.”

“And you’re an idiot.”

“Yep, I am. Or at least I was on the day I agreed to do this project with
you
. Nate, I can’t deal with this today. I’m going to go destroy weeds.” He grabs one of the shovels and storms off.

I raise my hand to give him a wiggly send-off, but my fingers tremble. I tuck them into my back pockets instead. Above us a seagull cries, and something swishes in the tide pool.

Nate lowers himself to the pool. “I’m sorry he said those things.”

“You shouldn’t apologize.”

“His girlfriend dumped him this morning. He’s not mad at you. He’s mad at everyone with two X

chromosomes.”

“You feel responsible for his boneheaded actions?”

“No, but I understand why he’s on edge. Still, his comments were out of line.” Nate points to the far edge of the pool. “Pink algae.”

BOOK: Goodbye, Rebel Blue Hardcover
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