Hello future me, p.13
Hello, Future Me, page 13
“And I can write anything? Even … a name?” The words tingled on my lips. I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. But why not? This was all his fault.
“That’s right, honey bunch! Easy as pie.” With the box packed, she pulled on a leopard-print poncho and waved toward the shelves. “Time to go, Winkie Poo! Say goodbye to your new friend.”
I stepped back as a pair of huge yellow eyes appeared from behind the fallen shelves. No way they belonged to the puff ball that was Mr. Winkles, except … a claw emerged, bearing the same orange-and-black-striped fur. But it was enormous, nearly the size of my face.
“Um … I should probably go find Calvin,” I said, backing into the door frame. “So you’re really leaving town?” I said, reminded again of our mission. It had all been so easy. “And everyone will go back to normal?”
Mag’s plump pink lips lifted into a friendly smile. “Like I said, we never like to overstay our welcome. Besides,” she said, taking out a compact and powdering her perfectly perky nose, “we got what we wanted, didn’t we, Mr. Winkie Pants?”
The fallen shelf tipped forward as a massive form emerged from the wreckage. I didn’t stick around to see Mag’s new-and-improved pet. I rushed out the door, stumbling straight into Calvin. “Time to go,” I said, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him up the alley, down the street, and all the way back to our bikes.
When I finally paused for a breath, I saw his eyes go directly to the candlestick still gripped in my hand. “You’re not seriously going to use that?”
“No, I just …” I knew he wouldn’t understand. I wasn’t even sure I did, but if there was any chance to put things right, even a tiny one, I had to try. Didn’t I? I knew what JUNIEPIE28 would say. That I couldn’t control other people’s lives. But Mom and Dad weren’t other people! And I was tired of everyone telling me that it was complicated and there was nothing I could do.
I looked down at the candlestick and then back up at Calvin. “I’m not like you,” I said. “I have to try.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I could see the hurt on Calvin’s face, but I kept going. This wasn’t about him. “I can’t just sit back and do nothing, that’s all.”
“Like me?”
Calvin’s words opened up the hollow again in my stomach, but I didn’t back down. I wasn’t trying to be mean. “No, that’s not what I said.”
“But that’s what you’re thinking, right?” He grabbed his handlebars and dragged his bike away from me. “Poor Calvin didn’t try hard enough, and now he only sees his dad at Christmas.”
“I didn’t say that. Wait!”
Calvin climbed on his bike, looking everywhere but at my face. “Whatever. If you think I’m such a failure, why do you even hang out with me?” He punched down the pedals, wobbling over the cobbled street. He’d only gone a few feet when he turned back. “Have fun not helping out at the ball.”
What was that supposed to mean?
“Calvin, come back!” I called, but it was too late. I watched him ride away, nearly falling on the uneven stones, but eventually bumping his way to the asphalt and speeding off.
Great.
I had one more chance to get Mom and Dad back together, but I’d lost my best friend in the process. Seriously, life. Why do you have to stink so much all the time?
With Calvin gone, I spent a few more minutes watching all the happy couples in The Friendly Bean. If Gavin had never come along, that would still be Mom and Dad. In a normal, not-forgetting-I-exist kind of way. I took a deep breath and dug my pocketknife from my backpack.
This was it.
Last chance.
I closed my eyes and pictured what it would be like if Gavin moved away. Or, better yet, if he’d never even existed. Mom and Dad dancing at the Bigfoot Ball, Dad’s hair all clean and smoothed back, Mom in her silky green dress with the tiny beads that sparkled like scales. The three of us sitting around a huge cake for my thirteenth birthday, bigfoot shaped of course, blowing out the candles and laughing. Maybe they’d win the lotto—not a lot, just enough for Mom to open a little art studio downtown, like she’d always wanted.
Everything would be perfect. The way it should be.
I unfolded the blade of my pocketknife and dug the tip into the wax. It cut through easily as I made the curve of the G, the slant of the A. Slivers of wax dropped onto my sneakers with each letter: V, I, and finally the jagged, razor-edged N.
When I was finished, I held the candle out at arm’s length and examined my work. A cloud of dread draped itself around my shoulders, all heavy and wet with rain. Whatever. I shook it off and shoved the candle into the bottom of my backpack.
This would work.
This time would be different.
It had to be.
I wheeled my bike to the point where the cobbles turned to a black sheet of asphalt. I drew in a long breath, trying to slow my racing heart. Only one thing left to do now. I had to go back home and see if anything had happened.
Trees rushed past as I zoomed down the road, my nostrils filling with the scent of cows, sap, and freshly mown grass. I took the long way around, winding through Calvin’s neighborhood with its fancy houses and neatly trimmed lawns. No sign of his bike leaning against the garage where he normally left it.
I pedaled on without slowing, telling myself I didn’t care about Calvin. If he wanted to be mad at me, that was his problem, not mine. I took the next right out of the neighborhood and back onto the main road. A swaying wheat field flitted past on my left, overgrown trees on my right, their thin, drooping branches tangled up in clumps of weeds and vines.
I passed the back entrance to Tanglewood Village, the saggy chain-link fence, the line of green dumpsters crawling with raccoons and sun-baked bags of trash. My feet punched the pedals, racing onward. Part of me wanted to give the magic time to work. The other part? Okay, so maybe I was a little freaked. The annoying cloud was back again, pressing me down into my seat, wobbling on my shoulders and drenching me with teardrops of hot, sticky rain.
I’d wished that someone would go away, that they’d never existed. I’d carved his name into the candle and now … would he have to leave Mom alone? Would it be like he’d never been born? Who was I to decide what happened to a total stranger?
A wave of acid pushed its way up my throat, but I swallowed it back down again. No, this was different. It was Gavin. He’d tried to steal Mom away. He deserved whatever he got. Didn’t he?
I rounded the final corner and pulled to a stop at the entrance to the trailer park. I watched a crow pecking bits of paint from the sign that read TANGLEWOOD VILLAGE.
Deep breaths. You can do this.
I closed my eyes and pictured the future I wanted, going back through all the images I’d imagined when I was standing outside The Friendly Bean. Positive thinking. This would work.
Letting out my breath, I opened my eyes and pedaled for home.
I expected to find Dad outside working on Honey Pie, or maybe patching up the roof. The yard was empty apart from the dancing wind chimes and the clink, clink, clink of Dad’s beer bottle whirligig. I thought briefly of Gomo, all frozen and stony eyed, but pushed the image from my mind. I propped my bike against the side of the trailer and eased open the door.
“Dad? Are you here?”
The trailer was dark apart from the sunlight peeking in through the blinds and the glow from the TV set. “Is anyone here?” The living room smelled like dirty laundry, stale beer, and cigarette smoke. I moved toward the sickly halo cast by the TV, and there was Dad, lounging in his recliner, sitting alone in the dark in the middle of the afternoon.
“There you are, baby,” he said, turning to me with a smile, his eyes all shiny from drinking. He had the same shaggy hair and unshaved face, but he looked different somehow. I followed a trail of orange crumbs down his shirt. “Wanna watch Motorcycle Rehab? They got a real good one on today. A Harley-Davidson that they’re tricking out with a sound system and mini fridge. Should be sweet.”
“No, thanks,” I said, the inside of my mouth numb. I took a seat on the edge of the coffee table and studied Dad more closely. He looked so different. Like he hadn’t slept in weeks. He picked up a lit cigarette from an ashtray and brought it to his lips.
“You never smoke in the house,” I said, my voice coming out quieter than usual. My whole body felt small in the presence of this new, strange Dad.
He peeled the cigarette from his lips and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “Thought you were gone,” he said, giving my shoulder a squeeze and reaching over to turn on a fan. “What you get up to today, baby? Anything fun?”
“No, I … Why are you inside? Don’t you have any jobs today?”
“Jobs? Aw, man, not you too. Your mom won’t shut up about me getting a real job. Like she don’t work enough hours for the both of us?”
I froze, not liking the edge that crept into his voice at the mention of Mom. What was happening? This was all so … wrong. “Where is Mom anyway?”
Dad took another swig of beer and wiped his mouth. “Where you think she is? At work, like always. Couldn’t stand to spend an afternoon with me, so she had to go work another double shift.”
“Double shift?”
“Yeah, baby. She’s down at the Gas ’n’ Go, where else?” He leaned back in his chair, his head pressing into the grease-stained cushion. “Sometimes I think she can’t even stand to look at me.”
“But, Dad,” I said, putting a hand on the knee of his sweatpants. “She loves you. Aren’t you two going to the ball tonight?”
Dad snorted, spit flying from his mouth and landing on the coffee table. “You gotta be kidding me! Not like I didn’t ask her though. But you know your mom. She’s all about making money. And what’s she planning to spend it on anyway? It’s not like she ever does anything anymore besides work.”
Dad’s eyes trailed off, focusing on the TV, and he sank back farther into the folds of his recliner.
Shaken and at a loss for words, I walked straight back out the door and closed it softly behind me. This wasn’t my dad. It couldn’t be. And what did he mean about Mom? She’d always hated working at the Gas ’n’ Go. She only picked up a few shifts here and there for extra money. I tried to take a deep breath, to calm my nerves, but my heart had lodged itself inside my throat.
I had to find Mom. This wasn’t at all how I’d imagined it. How could getting rid of Gavin turn Dad into that?
Once I’d broken the last spell, some of my energy had returned, but now my legs were bricks of hardened Play-Doh. I lifted one leg over my bike with a grunt and settled my aching butt into the seat.
“You can do this,” I said aloud, sending my dead muscles some positive vibes. I had to do this. I turned the handlebars and pedaled over the grass. Each rotation was like wading through quicksand, but I pushed onward, sweat dribbling down my forehead and the back of my neck. I left Tanglewood Village behind, wheezing with the effort, and was soon on my way to Route 3.
The Gas ’n’ Go was on the outskirts of town, not far from Mom’s pond and Dino Land. When I reached Route 3, i.e., the highway that cut through town, I pulled onto the shoulder, narrowly avoiding a collision with a semitruck. Usually, I could cut across the two-lane road in no time, but today it was like swimming through wet concrete. The bright red semi blasted me with its horn and barreled past. I closed my eyes against the spray of smoke and sharp rocks that rose up in its wake.
My breath grew thinner as I forced my legs to keep moving up and down on the pedals, bringing me closer and closer to Mom. After what felt like hours, but was really only a few minutes, I passed the turnoff for Dino Land and the pond and kept on going till I came to a dirty white pavilion with six old-fashioned gas pumps. I slumped to a stop at the edge of the parking lot, and here’s what I saw: a bunch of shabby pickups and shiny semis; an ice machine that was always grinding and grumbling, sending up curls of white smoke; truckers cussing and spitting on the sidewalk; a smashed hot dog covered in flies; a shop with glass windows covered in ads and finger smudges.
I wheeled my bike across the parking lot, dragging air into my shriveled lungs. I leaned it up against the ice machine and pressed my face to the smudgy glass.
There was Mom.
She wore a grubby orange-and-green uniform with a long grease stain down the front. Usually, she’d bring her special name tag any time she had to work, the one that she and I had decorated together. We’d used about a million sequins and colored duct tape, and Dad had shown me how to twist the duct tape into flowers with delicate leaves. Mom said the name tag helped her get through the day, because it reminded her of home. Today she wore a cold, plastic tag with KATHERINE typed out in big block letters.
Katherine? Mom always went by Kat. She said Katherine was a name for an accountant or a banker, something boring like that. Kat was the name of a true artist.
I watched Mom hand some trucker lady her change, her expression empty, blank. Usually, Mom was all friendly words and quiet smiles. Whenever customers left, she’d whip out her sketchbook, and her eyes would go all dreamy and she’d turn the crusty slushy machine or the dirty ATM into something beautiful. She’d always show me her sketches when she got home from work, and I’d gape, amazed that she could make stuff that was so ugly look so unique and interesting.
The door jangled as trucker lady came outside, leaving the shop empty. Except for Mom. I waited for Mom to take out her sketchbook and start drawing, but she didn’t. Instead, she sat on a stool behind the register, frown lines weighing down her face, just staring out the opposite window. And it wasn’t the stare of an artist, searching for sparks of true beauty; it was a vacant, glassy-eyed stare. Like Mom was looking, but not seeing anything at all. And her hair was different too. It wasn’t pale pink anymore, like cotton candy, but a boring, dingy blond.
The bell over the door clanged as I stepped inside.
“June?” Mom said, confusion in her glassy eyes. “What are you doing here?” A flicker of a smile appeared on Mom’s face, but it might as well have been a ghost. It faded almost instantly. She looked tired. Exhausted actually. She looked the way I felt.
I stood there by the counter, not knowing what to do with my hands. Inside, my brain was sending up a panic signal, but I had to stay calm. This could still all work out. I stared at the grease stain on Mom’s shirt, avoiding her vacant eyes. “I wanted to see you. How are you feeling?”
“Fine, hon. Just fine,” Mom said. Once again, that ghost of a smile. Her eyes trailed off to a roach motel partially hidden under the register. She studied it for long seconds, before blinking, as if she’d just remembered I was there. “How are you? Do anything fun today?” Her voice was so sad, like someone had drained out any hint of happiness.
“I’m … fine. But I’m worried about you. Dad said you’re working all the time.”
A darkness passed behind Mom’s eyes, but then it was gone, just like her ghost of a smile. “Why don’t you come sit down for a while,” Mom said in her heavy, wooden voice. “Let’s talk.” I followed Mom behind the counter. I had always wondered what it looked like back there, especially when I was younger. It was … less awesome than I’d expected. Candy wrappers and empty soda cans littered the floor next to two overflowing trash bins. Flies buzzed around Mom’s ankles, but it was like she hardly noticed them. And she wasn’t wearing her usual army boots either, the ones with rainbow beads woven into the laces, but a pair of white orthopedic shoes. A fly settled in between the Velcro straps, rubbing its spindly black legs.
“Sit over here,” Mom said. She cleared off two dusty cardboard boxes, and we each took a seat. “Now, tell me what’s the matter. Is it your dad? Is he smoking in the house again?”
The words cut into me. Not just because she was right, he had been smoking, but because something had clearly gone horribly wrong. Getting rid of Gavin was supposed to put Mom and Dad back to normal, not change them into totally different people. People who didn’t even like each other.
I watched the dark circles under Mom’s eyes, her drooping shoulders, the deep lines at the sides of her mouth, trying to figure out how to begin. “Mom?”
“Yeah, sweetie?” she said, looking at the overflowing trash bin and not at me. “What is it?”
“Do you still have your sketchbook?” I searched the grimy shelves under the counter, packed full of receipt paper and more roach motels.
Mom laughed. A single sharp burst that ended with her clearing her throat. “Hon, where’d that come from? What would I need with a sketchbook? You know I can’t draw anything but stick figures.” She gave me a strange look, like she was trying to work out what was going on inside my head. “Besides, I don’t have time for that. Carl finally gave me those extra shifts I wanted, did I tell you? Now I’ll be making almost double the money. This time next year we can finally get out of that dump of a trailer and buy a real house.”
“A real house?” I said, each word coming out slowly, like pulling a tooth. “But we have a real house. I love our trailer. It’s home.”
Mom finally swatted at one of the flies on her shoe.
“You know what? Sometimes you’re just like your dad.” She puckered up her lips for a second, as if being like Dad was the worst thing in the world, then her lips settled back into a thin, pale line.
“But you love to draw. Remember? What about art school? Don’t you ever miss it?”
Mom laughed again. “Where are you getting all this, June? From your dad? I never liked to draw. Waste of time. One of us actually has to work unless we want to get kicked out on the street.” The anger built up in Mom’s voice, then drained away again.
She looked at me, apology written in her ragged features. “I guess there was that one summer,” she said, eyes drifting toward the window, distant. “I was eight or nine, and my dad tried to send me to some art camp in the woods. I said no. It was all this hippie-dippie, finding-beauty-in-nature crap. Not for me at all.” Her eyes shifted to the moldy ceiling tiles, remembering. “I mean, if any of my friends had been going it might have been different. There was this one boy.” For a moment, Mom’s lips lifted into an actual smile. “Gavin. I had the biggest crush on him, and he was really into art. He even drew me a picture once of our wedding day. Now, if he’d been going …”
