Riding the Universe (4 page)

The winter night sky awaits.

T
he Murphys were a family I knew in elementary school who lived a few miles away. I used to hang out at their house and play with Irene Murphy, who was my age. She and her family were brutally murdered. All of them. And their ghosts still haunt the banks of this estuary…

Kidding.

Actually, they moved to Montana, because Mr. Murphy felt that Florida City—a sleepy migrant town that owes its existence to strawberries and tomatoes—was getting too “busy.” But I overheard him talking to his wife one time, and I think the real reason they left was that he was sick of all the “damned immigrants.” Considering that Papi's
parents were “damned immigrants,” I always felt defensive about that comment.

It's been years since they left, but I still think of the Murphys and their seven kids every time I hang out on their dock. Their house—a true fixer-upper that never sold—fell into ruin, which worked out great for me, because their backyard is now my private retreat. In fact, this dock, overlooking a stretch of mangrove estuary, is where I first saw a cat have kittens. It's also where I first spotted the rings of Saturn with Irene's rusty telescope. That was, and still is, one of the most awesome days of my life.

I don't know why everyone prefers city living, where you can't see a single star or planet. About five years ago, when Rock and I paid his mother an unusual visit in Kendall, we climbed to the roof one night to watch the stars, but it was like they had all gone into hiding. Then, Johany, her boyfriend's son, found us and started calling all the airplanes on the way to Miami International Airport shooting stars. Rock and I rolled our eyes. A ten-year-old who thought a burning meteorite had blinking red and white lights on it had to be a Gifted Child Extraordinaire. Soon after that, Rock's mom and GCE's father got married, turning GCE into Rock's stepbrother and the biggest reason why Rock rarely sees his mother anymore.

Why I'm thinking these things instead of studying is beyond me. Many things are beyond me lately. Like why Seth had to go and get leukemia at thirty. Like why he had to slip into a coma before a bone-marrow transplant might have helped him. Or, like Gordon
Spudoinky
. What is
up
with that guy? He's annoying but at the same time very
intriguing. I liked the way it seemed we were about to kill each other, but then he just grinned big, amused at how far we had let the whole thing escalate. It
was
sort of funny. And that smile made me forgive everything. Weird.

I close my eyes and listen to the swamp. The usual frogs and crickets fight for air time. There's also the occasional sound of something surfacing in the water—a fish or snake or maybe even an American crocodile. None of them mind that I'm here because I'm not posing a threat. I'm just one of them—at home, in my little slice of heaven. I don't bother them, they don't bother me.

I lie on my back and stretch across the wooden planks. A shooting star—a real one—streaks from the east all the way across the sky. That was big. I used to wish on them a long time ago. It stinks how you learn the scientific explanation behind something magical, and then it stops being extraordinary. But for old time's sake…

I wish life could stay this simple forever.

I know it's a naïve thing to wish for, but as evidenced by the way I almost couldn't handle visiting Rock's mom in Kendall, the idea of going off to college, and of course, Seth's death, I'm just not good with change.

T
he next Monday a cool front moves in, making every cat and dog in the neighborhood act frisky and every human wear sweaters more appropriate for skiing than fifty-five-degree weather. After a week of Rock's being missing in action I doubt I'll see him this morning, but as I open the front door, sure as shit, there he is. Asleep on my porch swing, arms folded over his chest, chocolate-chip granola bar at his head, courtesy of Mom.

“Don't you have a bed?” I ask, stepping out and closing the door behind me.

He mumbles something, like
nrwr.

I reach down and hold my cold orange juice against his forehead. He stirs around. “Where have you been for
a whole week?” I lock the door and walk over to the open garage. “Never showed up to talk last week. Never answered my calls. Amber trouble again?”

“Something like that,” he mutters in a way I've come to recognize as “there's more, but you wouldn't care.” Rock used to tell me everything, but lately, I think he's getting my vibe that I'm tired of hearing about it. “I'll tell you later. Right now, we're late.”

“Right. Because you care so much about getting to school on time. Way to avoid the subject.” I finish the juice, place the cup next to three other old cups on a shelf in the garage, then back Lolita out into the street. I close the garage door and start the engine.

Chewing his granola bar, Rock gets up, walks over to his car and gets in. With his door open, I can see jeans, shirts, underwear, and socks thrown in the passenger seat. He's been sleeping somewhere else.
Don't ask, don't tell
.

As we leave my street, he flashes his high beams—the signal that he's giving me a head start.
Ha!
I don't need one, but I'll play his game. As soon as we're on the Turnpike, I blast Lolita to eighty miles an hour, giving Rock a run for his money. When I look in my side mirror, I see he's gaining, so I speed up. Soon, he's neck and neck with me, thinking he's going to pass. How very optimistic and Libra of him. I slow down slightly to give him false hope.

When I look into the Mustang, he glances over and blows me a kiss. As if that will distract me. I lower my body so that my head is even with the handlebars, as aerodynamic as I can get on a cruiser, and wait for the right moment. Then I blast it. The car ahead of me moves into the left lane just
as I do, so Rock has no choice but to swerve in behind me, following me past a line of traffic and onto the exit ramp, or else he's off to the Keys.

I check my mirror, eager to see him banging his steering wheel in frustration, the way he sometimes does. This time, his green eyes disappear into a bright, content smile. Did he just let me win?

I kick the clutch harder than is reasonably necessary.

 

A part of me keeps wishing I would bump into Gordon in the halls again, like I did last week, but Brain Boy and I run in different circles. I'll admit I'm looking forward to peer tutoring this afternoon, curious to see how we'll bounce off each other this time. From the way things ended last time, I already saw that he's not always uptight, that he can smile as well as return a sarcastic serve. I think my mother might be off in assuming he's a Scorpio. Gordon has a nice streak in him. More like a Leo.

Seven classes and two naps later, I stumble into the auditorium. Almost everyone is already studying with someone. But Gordon sits alone. I look at my cell. I'm only two minutes late. Excellent timing!

I plop my helmet down in the ass-bucket next to him. “What's your sign?”

He looks up, brushing his bangs aside with his pencil. “Excuse me?”

“My mother needs to know.”

Gordon squints in confusion. I must remember not to joke with him or else he loses track of everything. “Tell your mother I'm sure she's a great woman, but I'm too young for her.”

Ha!

“She's an astrologist, and I thought you weren't into funny.”

“I thought you
were
into changing your clothes.” He's looking at my black Hog's Breath baby T, getting a validated stare at my chest.
So I wore the same thing last Monday, big whoop.

“It's not the same shirt.”

“It looks like the same one.”

“Might you have anything constructive to say to me today?”

“Change your clothes?”

“I just told you…” I start to say, but then I see he's suppressing a cute, dimply smile. Aha! So that's his game—getting my blood to start boiling, then playing
gotcha
! “You're bipolar, you know that?”

He chuckles. “Obviously, you don't know what
bipolar
means, to be using the word so loosely. Having bipolar disorder is more than just mood swings.”

I roll my eyes. Before he launches into a hefty discussion straight from the annals of psychiatric medicine, I pull out my notebook and pen. “Don't get smart with me, Brain Boy.” I glance up and notice that Sabine's peer, Francine, isn't here yet, so she seems to be casually attempting to overhear our conversation while she arranges her notebook, pen, and paper clips in front of her.
What
is her deal?

“Why are you all chipper today anyway?” I ask, focusing back on him.

He pauses, probably trying to decide how much he
wants to share with me. “I was invited to attend a preview orientation at MIT.”

“MIT?” Impressive.

“It's a university,” he explains.

“I know what MIT is! I'm not a bonehead, for crissake, Gordon!”

“Sorry.”

“But you're not even a senior yet.”

“That would be why I'm excited.”

“Oh.”

Apparently, the point of peer tutoring is to make your peer feel as stupid as possible. In which case, Gordon is doing a
stupendicular
job.
Stellacular
even. “Well, congratulations then.”

“You sound so thrilled for me.”

“No, I am. That's fantastic, Brain Boy.”

He tilts his head at me, a genuine moment of interest in something I have to say. “Why do you call me Brain Boy anyway?”

“It was either that, or Mensa Man.”

“Hmph.” He looks at his watch then turns some equations to me. He's thrown in some new elements and extra symbols this time. “I'm not a member of Mensa. But my brother is.”

Whoa. Where was I when God handed out intelligence genes?

“He's at Harvard.” Scribble, scribble. “Medical school.”

“Wow. How threatening that must be for you.” I did not mean that as cruelly as it sounded.

But Gordon doesn't even blink twice. “You're not kidding. Try following in the footsteps of a brother who found a genetic
risk factor for African Americans with prostate cancer.”

“Ouch.”

“Exactly.”

I hit the nail on the head. He's entirely obsessed with his brother's success. But I guess if my older sibling paved a path of academic impossibility, I'd have an overly detailed organizer and weird sense of humor too. Come to think of it, it's kind of nice seeing Gordon this way. Who knew he had vulnerabilities of his own?

Gordon's eyes focus on a particle of dust suspended in midair for a moment before settling back on the notebook. Honestly, I don't know why he's excited about this orientation. Doesn't he want a life beyond professors, libraries, and highlighters? And academic clubs? Lots and lots of honor societies? He'll never know what it is to sit at the Murphys' dock and contemplate dark-energy theories and the vast immensity of the universe.

I think about his goal-oriented lifestyle and a wave of
melancholiosity
comes over me. Poor Gordon. It must suck to rush through the best years of your life, hurrying to graduate, hurrying to get a job, hurrying to join the workforce, all before you're even old enough to legally drink. This is serious. Gordon needs an intervention.

“What do you do on weekends?” I ask, even though he is now so absorbed in an orientation packet pulled from his backpack that he probably didn't even hear me.

He looks up at me. “What do you mean?”

“What. Do. You. Do. On. Weekends.” I stare at him. “Do you surf? Do you read? Do you bake rugelach? Do you—”

“I get it.” He cuts me off, eyelids at half-mast.

“It was a simple question.”

“There is no such thing,” he says, all serious, and I can't help but notice that his boyish face makes my stomach crunch up. So do his smooth hands. I wonder if Sabine felt the same way when they were together.
Were
, a word I try to send her telepathically, but she doesn't look up from her seat, so she must not have heard me.

“Yes, there is,” I say, shaking off the thought. “And? What's the answer? You must do something with your time. Even doing nothing is doing something.”

He waves his pencil around, hesitating. “I…I play computer games. I read. Actually, I…play more games than I read…whatever. Why are you asking?”

Hold up.
Yeah, why
am
I asking? Why do I care about Gordon
Spadanky
anyway?

“Look,” I say, waiting for voices of reason to pop into my head and tell me how dimples and cuteness should not override cockiness when it comes to liking certain boys. Nope. No voices today. I play with my pencil. “Why don't you take a break from your tests, college prep, and all that for a while? I know an awesome place where you can relax and not think about anything. You'll love it, I swear. There's a whole world out there.”

The words are out of my mouth before I realize that I've never invited anyone to the Murphys' dock before besides Rock. It's my private sanctuary…yet I've just invited Gordon there. What is wrong with me?

“There's a whole world out there,” he repeats slowly. “Did a fortune cookie tell you that? Or a cartoon princess?”

I throw up my hands. Why do I bother? “Forget I said
anything. From now on, we will only speak about atomic mass and nuclei.”

“Sorry.” He taps his pencil on the desk. “It's just…why do you assume I've been missing things?”

I face him. “Because you said you play games all weekend, and well…I'm sorry, but there's more to life than that.”

He ponders this. “Maybe for you. Not for me.”

I should've expected that answer. I shrug. “Whatever. I was just trying to be nice.”

We're quiet for a minute and I think the subject is closed, but then, “You realize it's counterintuitive, right? How I'm supposed to let a girl who rides a motorcycle to school and is failing chemistry teach me about the things I've been missing?”

“Gordon,” I say, raising my eyebrows, “you said you weren't going to judge me.”

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, you did. Last week. You said I shouldn't judge you any more than you should me, blah, blah, blah.”

“No, I didn't.”

“Would you—” I grunt. Does he have to go and challenge everything? “Just call me this week and we'll hang out.” I write my number down on the corner of the notebook page, rip it off, and hand it to him. “If you want. If not, it's fine. I don't care.”

He sits there looking at the scrap of paper in my hand. “You don't have to give me something in return for helping you, you know,” he says, smirking. “I do this for free.”

“
Pfft
. I know why you do it. Your transcripts. And we both know that nothing in life is free.”

“Was that from the same fortune cookie or a different one?”

I glare at him. Nice. You try to be friendly with someone and they mock you. “You're impossible.”

“I was kidding.” He smiles.

I smirk back.

“Maybe I'll call. But I'm just letting you know now, you don't want to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Get involved with me. I'm not the type to just hang around. And I have three tests on Monday to study for.” He sighs so big, you'd think I was asking him to give up his life for all eternity.

“Well, I hope you'll take me up on it, but if not, it's cool.” Then I focus my energy back to the strange world of electrons and neutrons. How anybody ever studied stuff smaller than dust is just batty.

Ms. Rath announces the end of today's session, tells us to have a pleasant week and to study hard. She doesn't say what to study though, so I'm in accordance no matter what.

Gordon and I look at each other and grin, packing away all our stuff. “So call me,” I say, “if you get tired and want a change of scenery.”

He nods, even though he still looks unsure. “If it means you'll leave me alone.” He laughs.

“Oh, and…” I think about the best way to ask him this without sounding cheesy.

“Leo,” he blurts. I was going to ask him about the tarp over my bike last week, but he's zipping up his mightily stuffed backpack with such a cute smile, that I can't bring myself to interrupt him. “Tell your mom I'm a Leo.”