Breakfast with Neruda (15 page)

I guzzle a bottle of water and collapse onto the open tailgate of my car, wiping my face with yesterday's shirt. When Earl pulls up beside me, I sit up. He hands me a donut and a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” I say. “How did you know I'd be here?”

He snorts. “Kid, you're always here.”

“I'm waiting for Shelly,” I say. “We go out for breakfast.”

“Uh-huh.” I can tell from his tone he doesn't believe me. He glances at the boxes in the back of my car. Shit. He knows.

“Just be careful, kid.”

“With Shelly?”

“With everything.” He smacks me on the back. “See you inside, kid.” He shuffles back to his truck. I hold up the coffee and yell, “Thanks.”

I take a shower, head back to my car, and inhale the donut as I wait for Shelly. Just the sight of her loping toward me makes my insides smile. She sees me watching her and takes giant steps, swinging her arms like a gorilla. There is no one in the world like her.

“The gorilla of my heart,” I say. When she reaches me, I pull her close and we kiss.

“You have donut breath,” she says.

“Earl brought me a donut.”

“How did he know you'd be here?”

“I think he knows.”

“Oh shit.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Yeah, he's no dummy.” She kisses me again. “Let's really walk on the wild side today,” she says. “Starbucks.” She flashes a gift card. “My mom gave me a twenty-five-dollar gift card she won at the club. She hates their coffee.”

“Okay.” I'm no fan of Starbucks coffee either, so Shelly tells me to order a mocha latte. “It tastes like hot chocolate,” she says. We also get breakfast sandwiches and bananas. Shelly ends up with only a couple bucks left on the gift card. “No wonder I never come here,” I say. “That's half my paycheck.”

Shelly hands me a card for another free song. This one is for a tune called “Everybody's Hurting” by Jakob Dylan. “Good,” I say. “Now I'll have two decent songs on my iPod.”

We sit down and Shelly asks, “So how was your visit with your sister yesterday?”

“Good,” I say. I take a sip of the latte. It does taste like hot chocolate. “I also spent some time with my ex-stepfather. Separately, of course.”

“Anything interesting going on?”

“My sister is headed for band camp,” I say. “Oh yeah. Remind me to pick her up before we go back to school.” I nosh on the banana. “Oh, and the good news is we are less likely to die in my car.”

She raises her eyebrows at me. “Why's that?”

“Jeff's dad put some new tires on my car. They're retreads, but new to me. He's only charging me fifty bucks for all four.”

“That was nice of him.”

“He's a good guy.”

“It's too bad he doesn't know who your real dad is.”

I set my sandwich down. “The thing is, I think he does, but he doesn't want to betray a trust. I think he believes it's something my mom should tell me.”

Shelly leans in and says, “Did your mom ever keep a journal or a diary?”

“Maybe. I remember her writing a lot late at night when I was a kid. But that was when Bob was still alive. I think her writing died when he did.”

“By the way, I have something for you.” She reaches into her purse and hands me an Indiana driver's license with my picture on it. It's the picture she took of me the other day wearing one of her brother's shirts. “What's this?”

“You are now Michael Neruda of Terre Haute, Indiana,” she says. “You are a twenty-one-year-old biology major at Indiana State with a minor in literature.”

I chuckle. “Thanks. But why do I need a fake ID?”

“It will come in handy when you take me to Bar None in a couple weeks to hear Cello Madness.”

“Okay?” She may as well be speaking Greek, but I will find out more when the time comes. I slide the card in my wallet.

“I was going to get one for me with the name Michelle Kerouac, but that name might raise some eyebrows.”

“You could be Kara Wack,” I say.

“Ha ha.”

I hold one of her hands in mine. “I hope this doesn't sound dorky, but I'm really glad I know you,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says. “You're not too bad either, for an Amish alien.”

“Wouldn't it be weird if my father was Amish? Like if he and my mom hooked up on his Rumspringa?”

“Wouldn't it be funny if your name actually is Neruda?” Shelly says. “Like he's your illegitimate grandfather or something.”

I laugh, and am about to shove the last of my sandwich in my mouth when I look up and see my ex-best-friend Rick and my ex-girlfriend Ashley sit down at the table behind us. Rick glances at me and does a double take when he notices Shelly. Ashley has not yet seen me.

I set the rest of my breakfast sandwich down. My appetite is blown. Rick and I have not spoken since the hearing after I tried to detonate his car.

“You okay?” Shelly asks.

“Yeah. I'm just full.”

She gives me a quizzical look. “This isn't like you, Neruda.”

Ashley turns and glances our way. “Michael,” she says. She waves timidly. “How are you?”

“Great,” I say. “I'm better than great. Stupendous.”

Shelly crosses her eyes and puts a finger in her mouth to feign gagging. It makes me half smile in spite of the uncomfortable moment.

“How is your summer going?” Ashley says. Her buttery hair falls across her shoulder, but it no longer sets my engines running.

“Miraculous,” I glance at Shelly. “Ready to go, hon?”

“Sure, sweetie,” she says.

We slide out of our seats. I take Shelly's hand and we saunter toward the door.

“Hey, Michael,” Rick says from behind me. “Can we talk?”

“I think we've done our share of talking,” I say.

He glances at Shelly, who waves her cigarette pack and heads out the door.

“Seriously, man,” Rick says. “I need to talk to you.” His voice is anxious.

“So you can apologize for ripping my heart out and obliterating our friendship?”

“No. I mean yeah, I do feel bad about that.” He looks at the door. Shelly is outside, lighting up. Rick steers me away from the door.

“Listen, what's your relationship with her?” he asks.

“Are you shitting me? You already have Ashley.”

“No, it's not that,” he says.

“My relationship with Shelly is . . . well, it's none of your business.”

“Listen, man. We've known each other a long time, and I think you know I always have your back.”

“Yeah, just like you did on prom night,” I say.

“Yeah, I screwed up. But so did you.”

“What? By trusting you with my girlfriend?”

“By not really being there for Ashley.”

“You're freaking kidding me.”

“No?” he says. “How many times did she ask you to do things? Important things, like go see her in
The Wizard of Oz
or take her to the prom? And you always used work as an excuse.”

“It wasn't an excuse,” I say. “Unlike you, I have to work.”

“I know that, but still. She never felt you made much of an effort,” he says. “It's almost like you outsourced her to me.”

“I don't have to listen to your crap.” I step toward the door, but he grabs my arm.

“How much do you know about Shelly?” he asks.

I flip his hand away. “Whatever you think you know, it doesn't matter. I like her.”

“How long have you known her?”

“I've known her long enough to know she's the best person I have ever met.”

“So you know she ran away last year?” he says.

I had kind of guessed at that. “Yeah, sure.”

“And she told you about her getting arrested.”

My expression reveals I don't. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Jesus, Flynnstone, everyone knows it.”

Everyone but me.

“She was living in California with some guy,” Rick says. “She was high, and she rammed a car into a row of cars at sixty miles an hour.”

That explains why she's not allowed behind the wheel. “So? We all do stupid things when we're drunk,” I say.

“It wasn't an accident.”

The breakfast sandwich leapfrogs inside my stomach. I recall the remark she made about not caring if I drove her father's car into a wall.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry, Flynn. I know we have our issues, and I was wrong. But just be careful is all I'm saying. She's got a history. Ask her. It's common knowledge.”

I want to punch him, yell that he's a liar, but deep inside, a kernel of truth exists there. Other than the Ashley debacle, Rick always did have my back. He always accepted everything about me. And he's the only person I have ever allowed to mangle my name. Flynnstone, or Mikester. Everyone else calls me Michael. Except Shelly, who now calls me Neruda. Rick may be a scumbag girlfriend thief, but he is not a liar, nor is he a gossip, so whatever he knows about Shelly just might be true. Still, I feel the need to defend Shelly. “Listen, asshole, I don't know what your deal is, or what kind of gossip you heard, but I think you've done enough damage to my life.”

Shelly is leaning up against the rear quarter panel of my car. I don't know how to look at her. She hasn't lied to me that I know of, nor has she told me the truth. I've always sensed a dark secret about her, but it didn't seem to matter.

“What did he want?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Are you two friends again?”

“Doubtful.” I dig for my keys. “Let's go.”

I drive down Rocket Road, headed toward school. Shelly rolls down the window and lets the wind whip through her hair. She is one freaking-ass mystery.

“He and I were friends for six years,” I say, “and I miss him every day, but I don't think we can ever be friends again.”

She sighs. “It's hard when your friends abandon you.”

We're a few minutes late getting to school, but Earl doesn't mention it.

“Oh crap,” I say. “I forgot to pick up my sister.”

Earl has no problem with me going to pick up Annie. I offer to stay late, but he waves it off.

• • •

Earl and I are set to clean the other art room today. When I get back from collecting my sister, I hear Earl grumbling loudly inside the art room. I am shocked when I go inside; the classroom almost looks like my mother's living room. The counters are littered with stacks of drawings, paintings, ceramic projects, and other pieces of art. Mounds of drawing paper, watercolor paper, canvases, and art books cover the tabletops. Teachers were supposed to have everything packed up for summer, but Mrs. Davis's room looks like a tornado hit it.

“Damn it all,” Earl says. “We gotta pack all this crap up before we can clean.” He looks at me. “Go get Hess and Shelly. And bring some boxes.”

I return carrying an armload of flattened boxes and notice Shelly standing in the center of the room, breathing in the waxy paint smell. She expels her breath and smiles.

“The smell of joy,” she says.

“I take it art is your favorite class.”

“Not so much the class, but the act of creating art.”

We start to construct the boxes. Earl grumbles under his breath, “You send out the e-mail, telling teachers to clear all the crap from their rooms.” He shakes his head and picks up a stack of drawing paper. Half of it slides onto the floor. “Damn it to hell!” He dumps another load of papers onto the floor and storms out of the room. He comes back into the room with a large wheeled container.

“Change of plans.” Earl crosses his arms and scowls. “Throw it all out.”

“Really?” Hess asks. “Won't you catch hell?”

“Probably. But I'll give her my brand of hell right back.” He waves at Shelly and me. “Go get two more trash bins.”

We wheel in two more containers. They're big enough to hold a couple people. “Where do we start?” I ask.

“You two kids take the counter on this side, and Hess and I will begin with the window ledges.”

“Do we keep anything at all?” Shelly asks.

“Only keep unopened paint, paper still in wrappers, and clean brushes.” He picks up a stack of loose papers and heaves it inside his bin. “Otherwise, it goes in the trash.”

At first I feel kind of bad throwing away perfectly good art supplies. We toss out brushes, sketchpads, half-jars of paint, and student projects. After a while, though, it feels good to toss things out. I wish I could do this at my mother's house.

When I drive Shelly home, she invites me to come in, but I tell her I have some business to attend to.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. Some things I have do on my own,” I say. I lie and tell her I am going to confront my mom again. “My mom's likely to be pissed. I don't want the first time you meet her to involve you seeing her yelling at me.” Shelly kisses me and tells me to call her later. I promise I will.

Since running into Rick, I feel odd about Shelly, and I need to talk to someone about it. Ironically, Shelly is the person I can talk to when shit bugs me, but I can't talk to her about this yet. If I ask her outright, it may just scare her off. She will tell me when she thinks I need to know.

But mystery and uncertainty rattle around in my head like old bones.

Who else can I talk to? Jeff. He's sane.

I text him.

-Wuz up?

-At TH

-How late do you work?

-5:30

-Can I come by?

-OK. Have a break in 15.

I drive over to Tim Hortons, buy a cup of coffee, and sit in the corner booth, trying to wrap my head around the day. Just a few hours ago I was an ordinary guy, living in his car and dating the best girl he has ever known. Now I'm the detritus of an unnatural disaster.

Jeff sits down across from me and slides me a bag of goodies. I open up the bag and see a bran muffin and a cake donut. “Thanks,” I say.