Rusty Summer (32 page)

“She sings too.”

“Well, this should be a treat,” says Usually-Snotty Judge. “Carry on!”

They perform the song that blew our minds in Canada, when she sang “Woodstock” and The Bomb yowled the chorus with her.

And, just like then, it's amazing.

The judges are impressed.

“That was beautiful, honey! And adorable!” says Nice but Sketchy.

“Wow! Little doggie got pipes!” says Guy in a Band.

“Have you any other songs? Without the little bowwow shtick, this time?” asks Usually Snotty.

Which of course she does. She brings The Bomb out to me. Her eyes are glittering with mad excitement. “Here, Rust, keep her!” And she's gone again.

I take Bommy and continue watching the monitor.

Lee sings a beautiful cover of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” that I've never even heard her practice before, and she kills it!

The judges freak out and she runs backstage to us . . . with her groovy passport to . . . Hollywood!!!!

We jump around shrieking till I remember we are being recorded. Then we stop.

Sedately, she answers all the odd little man's excited exit questions.

She already sounds like a pro.

 

Before I can tell Beau the breathless good news, he looks at me and I know he has something big on his mind too.

“What's up there, Mr. Mysterious?” I inquire. He can go first.

He smiles like the Mona Lisa, if she had beard stubble.

“I think I like someone.” Beau sounds shy.

I look over at him, wide-eyed, but I feel my heart sink. Oh, no . . . and I bet I know who . . . freaking Kurtis!

My racing thoughts are 100 percent negative. I flash on his snotty expression and get more torqued. Oh, no, not Mr. Whippet! Gross! He wore our kindly Beau down and now Beau's going out on a
pity
date! Omg! I LOATHE Kurtis!

But, neutrally, I say nothing and wait for him to continue.

“Do you remember Scott?” he asks.

Wait—what? Who?

“Scott?” Beau repeats. “That guy from school at my party? Tall, kind-of-long brown hair? He got there late and came in with your friends, the Derby girls, Karen Sumpin' Dean's List and Velociraptor—the girl with blue-and-pink hair.”

I let out a huge sigh of relief like a whale surfacing. Omg, I was so afraid he was going to say Kurtis!

“Yeah!” I yell, “I totally remember Scott! Your school pal! He was at the door with Karen and Lissa!
Yes!
Scottie—the hottie from the pa'ty! Hells to the yeah, Beau! Scott is cool! All right! In fact, this gets a two-Thumbs-Uphells-Yeah!”

“Yeah . . .” Beau says, pleased at my reaction. “He is pretty cool.”

“Beau, bro! I'm so glad for you!” I feel like jumping around. This has been a good day!

 

Later, after I've settled down and am thinking over events of the day more clearly, I wonder how this might change things, Beau having a boyfriend.

I hope he doesn't want to move
out
—that would suck! I hate partings. I totally want him to be happy, I just don't want him to leave anytime soon. Maybe at some point, I'll tell him Scott should move in with us instead. Not to assume or whatever. But that could be awesome.

One big happy family!

And, speaking of happy, everybody was thrilled when Leo told them the news about her ticket to Hollywood. Uncle Oscar offered to go with her because he says everyone needs a fan club in Hollywood. His job is mostly online so he can do it from any old place, which is very handy. He plans to fly with Leo to L.A. in a few weeks, when the contestants are supposed to meet, after the other cities are visited and all the contestants chosen.

 

I look at Leonie's revived and vital face and reflect on the truth of the messages in Raven's books. After hearing them read over eleven hundred thousand times recently, I have a renewed appreciation for
Stellaluna
and
Put Me in The Zoo,
stories about how you have to search for your own place and people, but if you do, when you find them everything that was failed and wrong about you will suddenly be exactly right.

And that is how it is with Leo. She's not just a pretty face, she's an entertainer! Who knew Raven's stories were talking about Leo?! Maybe the circus of Hollywood IS the place for her!

And when I remember how close we came to losing her, just a few weeks ago . . . I shudder.

 

The next day, after practice, where I am officially yelled at for still not having a name, though I do have a really good drill, I shower and head home.

Nobody is there when I arrive. There are the remains of a nice dinner on the dining room table, which we hardly ever use. A dinner for two.

In the kitchen I find a plate and a note:

 

 

I look the plate over. Yum! Copper River salmon!! And spuds! And new peas! Oh, Snap!

I get a glass of water and a napkin and sit down to eat and ponder:

Nobody home but us excellent leftovers. It's obvious they're on a date.

Wow . . . Beau and Scott.

It's kind of weird. I'm really glad and all, but, well, things will be different now. Scott will be around a lot, or Beau will be gone. Gratefully, I recall I really like Scott. It's fine if he's here. It's great.

But the whole “third wheel” thing, y'know? I don't want to be in the way. I mean, gay or straight, sometimes three's a crowd.

I'm just finishing when I hear them in the driveway. Frantically I bolt upstairs. I have no idea why. I stand in the doorway of my room, listening. Shamelessly eavesdropping. (I know what that word means—now!)

They come in laughing about the movie, though they don't say which one, and go into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open and figure they are having dessert or something. Their voices become indistinct and muffled.

I go inside and close the door of my room. I'll come down and say hi later, like I've been online or something. Give them some space.

 

The next morning we see the uncles off. They are taking light rail to the airport, though I said I would drive them. They said they want the adventure, so we drive downtown to say, “See ya.” They are staying at a posh hotel and they have their carry-on bags all good to go. Experienced travelers! We plop on the hotel room bed, waiting till they are ready. I'm feeling fidgety.

“What's up, lil' sugar beet?” Uncle Oscar asks.

I shrug. “Nothin'. Why?”

“You have a restless and unfinished look about you.”

“I do?” I look in the mirror as we leave to walk to the light rail.

“Yes. Doesn't she, Frank?”

Uncle Frankie leans in and peers at me. He has merry eyes. They have friendly crow's feet.

“Yes, definitely! You look like you could use a vacation.” He smiles. I make a face and smooch his cheek. We laugh.

“Well, I don't know why. I just got back from a trip,” I say as we arrive at the nearby station.

We enter the Westlake light rail and descend. Inside the wind blows fitfully, underground. We just miss a train, but oh, well. There's another one every ten minutes.... We wait . . .

“Well, maybe that wasn't
your
trip,” Uncle Frankie says with a shrug, resuming the conversation.

I look at him. Not my trip? It was
my
idea! Besides, I'm a caravan! All I do is trip!

“Just keep an open mind . . . that's all.” Frank puts his hand on my shoulder. A train pulls up.

We all hug quickly and they hop in. The doors close and we stand smiling and memorizing each other through the windows for an instant, and then they are whooshed away.

 

That night I have a dream. Actually it starts out as a nightmare.

I'm at the grocery store in Kodiak, shopping for pickled okra, and when I turn I see my uncle Riley. He's white as a sheet and doesn't have the back of his head and he's covered with blood. His brains are all down one side of him and I freak and try to run away, but the floor is made of Jell-O and all I can do is sink immediately up to my neck and flail slowly as he walks over to me, pausing to rest several times. Wherever he tarries leaves a little pool of blood. Terrified, I try to scream but I'm so stuck it's like screaming underwater.

“Hey, lil' Rylee!' ” he hollers at me, and suddenly, as horrible as he looks, I'm not afraid anymore—I remember when he actually used to call me that. And just like that, I'm calm.

“Hey, big Riley!” I call back, like I did when I was four. “Does it still hurt?”

“Nope!” he says. “It's okay! Turns out that was where I kept the Sad.”

He gets closer and sees me stuck. “You are in a lemon tar pit,” he explains. “Here's a rope.” He throws me one made of red licorice. It's strong and long and I climb out, vertical yet weirdly weightless, like on old
Batman
episodes.

He brushes me off and then licks his hand. “You are very sweet,” he proclaims solemnly. “Don't forget it . . . okay? And don't forget me—I'm everywhere. All of us are . . . ! Are you scared?”

“No. Yeah. Kind of.”

“Is that gonna stop you?” He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes.

“No,” I say, and mean it. “No, it won't.”

“Okay! I'll see you on the road!” Riley says. He is becoming translucent . . . kind of ghostly . . .

And I wake up.

I lie in bed for a few minutes before I shake it off, shower, and dress.

I call my mom. She's not thrilled but she's okay. I spend the morning preparing. I am very efficient. Then I am ready.

It's time.

 

I look over at The Bomb.

Her car window is down partway and she's looking out with her tongue blowing in the breeze. She's riding shotgun. It's just her and me—

We're in The Deer Hunter, which is whippin' like butter! Again!

Blast off!! We are going on a trip! Mine, all mine!!

We are heading east. I got the plan from my dream.

The Plan: Nothing is Written in Stone.

That's the official one, but I'm open to suggestions, which have come in the form of several invitations from awesome Facebook people that I have been cyber-tight with for years.

I'm thinking about all the places these folks are and all the places in the Lower 48 that I've never seen. I can hear the romance of the road—America, with her wide spaces and open roads and her battered, unbreakable dream—she's calling me.

And I can't think of a single reason not to answer, and go visit.

The sheer scope of the possibilities suddenly engulfs me! I am FREE!

I'll start north and work east—unless I don't!

At this point, my tentative plan includes I-90 to Chicago, unless I go rogue and totally shitcan civilization, as Gramcracker puts it—in which case the sky's the limit! So many choices!

Should I go to New York, the most amazing place I've never been, aka The Big Apple—or maybe go be a fan girl of Prince for a day in Minneapolis, aka The Mini Apple? Or hit the East Coast, and head immediately down the eastern seaboard. I always wanted to see Athens, GA, hometown of rock stars and artists and pugs dressed like Winston Churchill. I might just go there.

Or not . . .

I could go to Vegas, baby—Vegas! Or the Grand Canyon! Or I could head into the Deep South, see the hanging moss of the swamps, actually see a bayou—I could follow Sherman's March to the Sea and then turn right and keep going till I get to that long-ass bridge in the Keys, in Florida—Oh! I'd totally love to see a manatee! But maybe I'll stay down by the bayou and meet Uncle Oscar's friends, The Gorgeous Queens of New Orleans—I'll check out the French Quarter, which I have always wanted to explore—I've seen the movies with the crazy aboveground graveyards and hopefully only non-sparkly vampires.

So
many unmade choices!

I get all hopped up just imagining all these places in our amazing, free-to-go anywhere country. I can hardly wait. My only firm plan is keeping an eye on time so I can eventually hook up with Leo and Uncle Oscar in L.A. for her thing.

 

I roll down my window an inch and sniff the warm, dry wind.

My phone rings. I answer without taking my eyes from the empty road. It's Bashy.

“What is your name?!” It sounds so funny I laugh. “All's you have to do is tell me the name and then we don't have anything else for Derby till September!”

“It's The Guy Going East!” I joke. Though I actually am headed east.

“
Now
what are you talking about?!”

“I bounced!” I say simply. “I'm on a walkabout!”

“A what?!” she asks, perplexed.

“A journey to find myself! A magical mystery tour! Listen.” I put the phone to my speakers. It's my '60s antiwar music—all she can hear is “FREEEEEEEE!”—which is booming out into the phone; 'cuz those are pretty much the lyrics for every song from the '60s.

“I'm going on a pilgrimage, Bashy. I want to see America, just like they used to do in the olden days! Maybe I'll meet some Facebook friends, but maybe I'll just go on a walkabout all by myself—oh, and The Bomb. She's here too,” I add. “Also, I decided I am going to the Veterans Hospital in every city I stay in and see what I can do for an hour or two in the afternoon, to show my awareness of their existence . . . no big, just for the day; hear their stories, read out loud if someone's bored, whatever. Right? I mean, whether or not I agree with the politics that messed them up doesn't mean they're not courageous, 'cuz they are! And they have been
messed up!
So I'm going to go meet some vets and try to say thanks with actions instead of words. Maybe I'll learn something important—for
sure
I will. I don't know, Bashy; it came to me in a dream.” I say lightly, but I am serious. I'm goofing because I start to feel myself getting too preachy again.