The Other Way Around (7 page)

I want to ask her about family; about how much she even likes her so-called family; about what even makes us family anymore. But I'm not going to get into it now. “I know it's
family time, Mom. That's why I left.” I take a deep breath. “I'm going to Mima's. I'm on the bus,” I improvise.

“You're on a bus?” she says quietly. This is surprising. I'm expecting more of a freak-out.

“Yes.”

“How did you get on a bus?”

“I walked to the bus station and got on a bus.”

“To Bloomington?”

“To Cleveland, actually. But I'll get the first bus to Bloomington in the morning.”

There is a long silence before she speaks. “Oh, sweetie,” she said. “You can't go to Mima's”

“I'm going, Mom. I'm already on my way.”

“Oh shit, Andrew, I'm so sorry. I don't know how to tell you this, sweetie. Mima's dead.”

No one close to me has ever died before, so I'm not sure how to react. When people in the movies die, their loved ones always cry and scream and roll around on the floor. But the only thing I'm aware of is that my feet start to sweat, like really sweat. In fact, my whole body seems to go up about a hundred degrees. Holding the cell phone in one hand, I wriggle out of my jacket and toss it on the chairs in back of me.

“She's
what?
” I finally say.

“Andrew, please tell me where you are. I don't want to explain this over the phone.”

“Well maybe you should have thought about that earlier? Besides, I told you, Mom. I'm on a bus to Cleveland. I can't see any road signs because it's dark outside. If I had to guess I would say we're somewhere outside Utica. Now please tell me what happened to Mima?” My voice breaks a little.

“She had a stroke, Andrew. She died peacefully in her sleep.”

“When?”

“Tuesday.”

“You've known since Tuesday, and you didn't tell me? I don't understand. What were you waiting for?”

“Andrew, I screwed up here and I'm so sorry,” Mom begins. “It was the day before vacation, and you know how that is at school—”

I cut her off. “You were busy? You couldn't tell me about Mima because you were busy?” My voice is getting higher and louder, but I don't care. “And what about Wednesday? Or sometime today perhaps? You were just too damn busy to tell me that my grandmother died?”

“I know, Andrew. You're right, you have every right to be upset. But honestly, I was hoping your father was going to call you. I thought you should really hear it from him. I loved Mima very much, but she wasn't my mother. Part of me didn't think it was my place to tell you.”

Her voice is sad and small. But whatever honesty is coming through is eclipsed by my rage that she is bringing her beef with Dad into this. “That's just perfect,” I hiss. “Blame him for this—and everything else—why don't you? His mother just died. He's probably making funeral arrangements and calling people, and he's grieving. He's probably in shock or something.”

“He's in the Bahamas.” Her voice is flat. “He called me from Nassau, from the hotel. He asked me to tell you. He asked me to tell you that the funeral will be postponed until he gets back from his vacation.”

I hear the words. I hear “Nassau” and “Bahamas” and “hotel.” Each one stacked up on the other. Stacked up on my eyelids like cinderblocks trying to squeeze the hot tears out of my head. Mima is lying cold and alone on a tray in some morgue somewhere while her only son cavorts on a beach with his girlfriend.

“Really shitty,” I finally say, when I think I can speak without crying.

“I know, sweetie. I really thought he would call you himself.”

The rage boils up in my gut again. “No, Mom,” I say between clenched teeth. “The both of you are really shitty. So thanks, thanks for being two shitty parents.” I hang up without another word. I walk back over to my seat and collapse into it. Emily has wandered off, but G is still sitting there, looking concerned.

She doesn't say anything for a while. She just sits there, which is okay. I don't want to talk about it, but I don't exactly want to be left alone. And somehow even the presence of someone I barely know is still comforting. After a few minutes my body temperature returns to normal and I can take a full breath without whistling through my teeth.

“So what are you going to do?” G asks a few minutes later.

“I don't know.” I don't really want to go to Cleveland only to have to turn around and take the bus back again. But without Mima, there really isn't anything for me in the Midwest. The thought of waiting here for Mom to come pick me makes the blood beat in my ears and my stomach churn. I don't really see what other choice I have. I flip open my phone to call her back, and that's when it hits me. Barry and Kris are still there.

I know I can probably suck it up and forgive my mother for yet another botched episode of parenting. But having to share my grief over Mima with Kris and his troglodyte bed-wetting son—that just isn't an option. I can just picture Kris actually wanting to talk about Mima and how I
feel
about the whole thing. I flip the phone closed again and stare at the digital time display, hoping for some answers.

“You should come with us,” G says.

“Where?”

“Rochester, or maybe Syracuse. Well, that's for tonight anyway. We'll be able to make some money there tomorrow and then we'll head south.”

“What's south?”

“Burdock,” G says. “It's a big festival in New Mexico for people like us.”

“Street performers?”

“Sort of.”

At this moment I have no intention of going anywhere with G or her strange friends. But the conversation is a good distraction. “So if the money's so good in Syracuse, what are you guys doing hanging out in the Glens Falls bus station?” For the first time in our conversation G looks a little bit uncomfortable.

“We're broke,” she says simply. But I can tell she hates saying it. Her face is flat, tough, like she's waiting for someone else to throw the first punch. She sighs. “We had a pretty good thing going in Burlington for a while. But it's a small town, and pretty soon the police were on us every time we tried to set up. You can get a license to perform there, but it wasn't worth the money. Anyway, we stayed at a friend of Jesse's place for about a week, camping in the backyard, but I guess they got kinda sick of us coming in and out to use the bathroom and all. So now we're here. The gas light came on about fifteen miles north of here, and it seemed like this was the first decent-sized town for a while so we decided to stop. Obviously it's pretty bad timing, being Thanksgiving and all. But don't worry,” she adds. “We'll figure something out in the morning. We always do.”

I look down at the bus ticket in my hand. I don't need it anymore. I don't even really need the sixty-three dollars. It
feels like what Mima would have wanted me to do. She liked people with a sense of adventure. “You should take this,” I say and hand the ticket to G. “They'll give you a refund, and you guys can use it for gas.”

“We can't take your money.”

I look at her skeptically. “Yes you can. I mean isn't that the point?”

“We
earn
our money,” she says indignantly. “Look, you should come with us and then it's an exchange. You give us gas money, and we provide a vehicle for a weekend of parent-free rebellion. When you're ready to go home, we'll drop you at the nearest bus station and you can call your mom. I'm sure she'll send you money for a ticket. You look pretty well taken care of. Unless of course I'm wrong and you're ready to go home right now.”

There's something in the way she looks me up and down. Like she knows my whole life. I'm not sure whether to be offended by her judgment or follow her to find out what she knows that I don't know. But I do know I'm not ready to ride home next to Mom like a chastened fourth-grader who made some bad choice out of the cartoon frog book. I'm not. But am I really ready to just head off with these people, three of whom I haven't even met yet? G stands up and I stand up next to her.

“Okay,” I say, moving quickly before I can think this through any further.

“Okay, then. Let's go cash that ticket in.”

G goes up to the ticket counter with me and uses the same “talking to adults” voice that worked with the man behind the counter before. I don't even really know what she says to him this time. I'm not really listening because my mind is jumping back and forth from fury at Mom, to sadness about Mima, and the whole time there is a high-pitched buzzing noise in my ears, like suddenly I can hear the hum of fluorescent lights above everything else. Whatever she says, it works, and pretty soon I have sixty-three dollars back in my hand and the man behind the counter goes back to his soap opera. With my money and my backpack in hand, I follow G over to meet the rest of her friends.

I have low expectations. I've been the new student four different times at four different schools, and meeting new people just never seems to go that well. The school I was at before St. Mary's was a public middle school On the first day of seventh grade I wore this black T-shirt with some band logo on it. It was Fall Out Boy or something—I don't even remember. But somehow this rumor got started that I was a goth. Later that week I got dragged into the guidance counselor's office for a talk about how my personal appearance could be off-putting to
others. He asked me a lot of questions about whether I thought about death a lot or hurting myself or others. It sounded to me like he was reading out of a manual on how to talk to kids. I managed to convince him that I was not a danger to myself or others, but somehow the goth label stuck. I didn't have many friends at that school either.

Meeting G's friends is different. For one thing, they all shake my hand like adults. Jesse, the guy who made the peanut butter sandwiches, stands up, smiles, and looks me in the eyes like he's really genuinely happy to meet me. His eyes are a deep blue and seem like they're also smiling, if that's even possible. He's wearing a velvety-looking shirt that just barely meets the waistband of his pants: purple corduroys with a stripe of multicolored patches going down the outside of his leg. Lyle, the kid with the anarchist vest, hops up and shakes my hand too, but he isn't quite as friendly. The Asian kid wearing the headphones doesn't get up. He pulls the headphones down around his neck and holds his hand up from his place on the floor.

“Tim's always like that,” G says.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Lazy.”

“Hey,” Tim says from down on the floor, “It's a medical condition.” He pulls somewhat self-consciously at his sweatshirt so it's not so snug around his stomach pudge.

G smiles. “No adrenaline,” she explains. “
He claims
his body doesn't make it so he has to take medication to substitute. I like to give him crap about it though.” I nod, wondering if I'm being put on. “And you already met Emily,” G says, gesturing down at the dreadlocked girl, who is perched cross-legged on one of the duffel bags. Emily is swaying back and forth as though she's
listening to music that no one else can hear. She gives a little wave, and a smile that makes my stomach flip-flop, without interrupting her rhythm.

“So, Andrew,” Jesse says, “I hear you're going to be joining us on our magical mystery tour?” He smiles at me again like I'm a fuzzy kitten or a big-eyed puppy.

“Uh, yeah, I guess I am.” Is this guy messing with me? Or is he on something? I guess if I were broke I'd be psyched to see sixty bucks walk through the door in any form. But his eyes are clear and his smile seems genuine.

Jesse stretches his arms over his head; his already short shirt rides up and reveals a hairy belly. “Well, gang, what do you say? Should we hit it? Andrew here is going to front us some cash until we get to the next big thing.”

I smile an awkward, closed-lip smile, swing my backpack over one shoulder, and follow as Tim, Emily, Lyle, and G gather up their belongings and traipse out of the bus station. I focus hard on putting one foot in front of the other while ignoring the voice in my head that's screaming at me to reconsider.

Out in the parking lot Jesse stands next to an old orange VW camper van. “This is Shirley,” he says proudly.

“Hi, Shirley,” I say.

Jesse grins and runs around to unlock the driver's door. “You buy, you fly, man. You want to ride shotgun?”

“It doesn't matter.” Being an only child, I never really fought with anyone over that kind of stuff. But Jesse looks a little disappointed by my indifference. “I mean, sure, if you don't think anyone would mind.”

“No way, man; it's all yours,” he says.

I open the passenger-side door and climb inside, sticking
my backpack at my feet. Shirley's mustard-yellow seats are cracked and patched with duct tape. The van smells like spices. Cinnamon and garlic powder were the two that I could identify. The rest just melds into a funk that drifts somewhere between pumpkin pie and bad body odor.

The remaining bags and people sort themselves out behind me, and then the metal door slides shut with a resounding thud. I'm still trying to ignore the part of my brain shouting for a reassessment of my decision-making process. It reminds me of bungee jumping, which I did at camp the summer we lived with Mom's parents. I didn't even really want to, but Norma said it was what everyone did in the summertime. Anyway, once you got up on the platform, wearing the harness and the helmet and all that, there really wasn't any other choice but to jump.

Jesse turns the key and the van starts on the first try. Everyone else bursts into applause.

“It's tradition,” G shouts from the back of the bus.

Behind the driver's seat is a small sink filled with bags of bulk macaroni, rice, and a gravelly-looking grain I don't recognize. There are smaller bags of spices, boxes of instant oatmeal and instant mashed potatoes, some darkening bananas, and the bread and peanut butter from the bus station. Underneath the sink is a wood-paneled cabinet, which is overflowing with more foodstuff.