Nothing Special Page 8

At least another two hours…

  Just talked to Jerri. She says she’ll drive down to Chicago right now to pick me up and take me home. I’m only supposed to be in Florida until Thursday at the ass cracker of dawn (to get Andrew).

  “Is it really worth this?” she asked me. “You could go to football practice the rest of the week so you’ll be ready for your game, and you know Andrew is fully capable of taking care of himself. He’s fine.”

  “No,” I told her. “I want to go to Florida.”

  Now I’m not exactly sure I’m making the right choice. I mean, in a lot of ways, I really don’t want to go to the Dangling Sack (Florida). Most ways, really. Okay…Okay…Calm, boy. I can’t just run away.

  Do not be reactionary, young Felton. You want to be there for your poor brother, Andrew.

  Reactionary. Monkeys fling their own poop, Aleah. Why? Because it’s there.

  • • •

  Gus and I spent that afternoon driving around trying to figure out what Andrew, aka Detective Randy Stone, was up to.

  “Is there any way the little dude is actually at camp and is pulling stuff just to mess with you? You know, asking Emily to spread rumors and then sending weird emails and grandparent links?” Gus asked.

  “No. I don’t think he’s into random torment. I think he has a real agenda. He always seems to, anyway.”

  “Such a weird kid, man. And you’re not telling Jerri because…? What? Her crazy breakdown last summer?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gus smoked cigarettes, which I don’t appreciate very much, but what was I going to say: “Please don’t smoke in your car while you try to help me even though you don’t like me anymore?” Then, when he ran out of cigarettes, we drove over to Maddie’s house to pick her up, because apparently she’s his supplier.

  “I don’t want Maddie to know about this.”

  “Uh. She already does. I called her before I picked you up,” Gus said.

  “Everyone’s going to find out!” I shouted at him.

  “Maddie is far more loyal and dependable than the people you know,” Gus said.

  Maddie smoked many, many cigarettes, especially after we purchased two more packs at this decrepit gas station out in Stitzer that didn’t even question her status as an eighteen-year-old. (She is fifteen.) I rode in the backseat. They cranked music. I thought about how I should be running, packing, getting ready for Michigan instead of sitting there gulping poison. Gus smoked even more cigarettes. I hacked and hacked in the gross Toyota backseat, while they smoked those freaking cigarettes and sang along to loud songs. Everything in the world smelled like their smoke.

  I like Gus, though. I do. He’s good. Maddie’s good too.

  We drove out to Belmont Mound Woods and climbed the old fire tower out there. Maddie talked a million miles a minute, even as we climbed up, which impressed me because how could Missy Smokes-so-much get enough air in her tarred and feathered lungs?

  “Let him live his life, Felton,” she said. “Andrew’s finding out the truth about your whole thing, right? Figuring out the family. It’s amazing. Let him do it, man.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know what he’s doing, and he could totally get killed or something.”

  “By who? His old grandpa?” she asked. “His grandpa’s going to kill him?”

  “No. By gangs, maybe. He’s alone and tiny. I don’t know that he’s with our grandfather. I’m pretty sure our grandpa hates us.”

  Gus piped in. “You should call your grandfather, man. He might be in on this, don’t you think? Where’s the money coming from? Trips to Florida aren’t free. He probably paid to get Andrew down there, but he really has to know that Andrew’s a slippery little bitch,” Gus said.

  “Please.” My chest ached when Gus said that. “Please. Stop calling him ‘bitch.’”

  “Sorry. He is slippery like a mossy rock.”

  “He’s awesome beautiful,” Maddie said. “Andrew’s like a French film.”

  “He’s crazy like a French film,” said Gus.

  I thought about calling my grandfather, and my stomach knotted up and I pretty much dry-heaved. I had no idea really who he was, and anything I knew was bad. (Grandma Berba said terrible things about him.)

  From up on top of Belmont Tower you can see a ton of rolling southwest Wisconsin. You can see the backside of the big mound with the M on it where you and me hung out, where I used to run, and where my dad used to run before me. You should be running, not hanging out with skinny jean smokers…

  Then Gus said, “We should go to Fort Myers.”

  Maddie said, “Yeah!”

  Gus said, “Just me and Felton, probably. We don’t want kidnapping charges, Mads. Your mom would totally press charges. Let me think.”

  I said, “What? What? Jesus. How?”

  “Let me think,” Gus said.

  • • •

  Damn it. They’re announcing something over the loudspeaker, but I can’t freaking understand a word of it. What a damn joke.

  August 16th, 10:25 a.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part XV

  The airline is offering vouchers for people not to fly. That means if I choose not to take this flight to Fort Myers I could get a later flight and then get a free ticket any place in the U.S. Great news, except I have no place else to fly. They aren’t even certain there will be a plane available to go to Fort Myers for this flight, Aleah. I really wish I were driving.

  Maybe I should call Jerri? Shit…

  • • •

  Okay. Jerri was sitting in the living room when Gus and Maddie dropped me off that night. It was 10 p.m., so she was pretty sleepy, because 10 p.m. is what she calls her “witching hour” (which I don’t understand because why would “witching” make you sleepy?). When I climbed the stairs she said, “Who were you with?”

  “Gus.”

  “I can smell that.”

  “Oh?”

  “I hope you don’t do things that Gus does.”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “Well…your dad, you know genetics…You should tell Gus to cut it out. I saw him smoking in front of the Piggly Wiggly the other day. He’s going to get himself addicted.”

  “Dad?”

  “Nothing, okay?” Jerri said. She was a little pale.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just Andrew didn’t call tonight,” she said. “I’m worried.”

  “He’s probably busy.”

  “I know. He said he wouldn’t call every night.”

  “Right,” I nodded.

  “Wish you hadn’t accused him of running away,” Jerri said.

  “Ha, ha, ha…I’m crazy,” I said.

  “I almost called the camp today to…”

  “No need to do that! I talked to Andrew. He’s fine. He’s doing great. I’m paranoid.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Good. Good. I’m actually glad you care about him, Felton. It’s not always clear.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. I’m going to bed,” Jerri said.

  That hurt. Shouldn’t have shocked me that she’d say that, of course.

  Later, I sat awake imagining Andrew alone in Florida, a little homeless boy panhandling on a beach.

  Here’s what’s weird: I couldn’t really be sure he was in Fort Myers, not from the freaking Randy Stone emails, you know? It could all be a smoke screen…But, actually, I knew. I knew it. I knew he was there. I also knew this: there was no way in hell I wanted to go to Florida.

  Possibly meet my dad’s dad?

  No way.

  But…I knew I could go. I knew I could work it out. I knew I maybe should go…

  There was only one place I wanted to go les
s than Florida: the Michigan technique camp.

  I texted Gus: I might have a plan.

  August 16th, 10:58 a.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part XVI

  My ass is killing me.

  Just checked. No word on the flight. I am very stressed out.

  Do you get stressed out, Aleah? The only time I’m not at least a little stressed is when I’m playing something (like football or Frisbee). Track is sort of stressful to me (not the practice part, but the actual events, because everything is riding on one shot—which I don’t react well to sometimes—like when I false-started and barfed at Regionals when I was a sophomore). Even with football, recruiters stress me out, so I don’t know if I’ll enjoy playing this year.

  Jesus, I really, really don’t want to spend my whole life feeling like that. I don’t want to stay awake half the nights of my freaking life sweating sweaty bullets, Aleah.

  Do you ever wonder if you’re not cut out for life? You probably don’t. I know you don’t. I wonder about my dad. Is this how he felt?

  • • •

  The morning Gus and I hatched our plan, I actually studied the one picture we have of Dad in the house. It’s the only one Jerri saved, remember? As part of Jerri’s new-style peacemaking with the past in February, she put the picture on the refrigerator. In it, I’m like a toddler, blurry big head in the front left-hand corner. Jerri and Dad are behind me, him behemoth and square-jawed and happy, with the same Jewfro hair that I have. Jerri looks young and pretty and happy (which I know wasn’t the case).

  Dad looked happy.

  He wasn’t happy. He couldn’t have been.

  I want to be happy, not look happy.

  Gus called while I sat at the table staring down at that thing.

  “So, you have an idea?” Gus asked.

  “Yeah, I think so,” I said. I wasn’t actually sure I wanted to say it. (I knew Gus would do something with it, start plan making.) I took a deep breath. “I’m supposed to go to a football camp at the University of Michigan this weekend. You want to drive me there, but not drive me there?”

  “Oh,” Gus said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. I could feel myself flush. Fear.

  “Oh hell, yeah.” I could hear Gus thinking. Gus’s gears turned. “I can work with that. Uh-huh. I think I need to make an academic visit to the University of Michigan,” he said.

  “Yeah. That makes sense,” I said.

  “Good school. Mama Teresa will like this…”

  “Mama Jerri might not,” I said.

  “Call you back in a bunny breath, dude.”

  It took Gus ten minutes to get back to me. (The whole time, I stared at my dad’s picture and got more and more hesitant to go to Florida and face my grandfather. Why is Andrew so interested in the family, I wondered. Why isn’t he scared?)

  “Okay,” Gus said. “Michigan is the fourth-ranked public university in the country. I used that. The parents are in.”

  “Oh shit,” I said.

  “They’re giving me a credit card for the gas and the Motel 6 I pretended to book, and a Triple A card, whatever the hell that is.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Only one hitch—my dad wants me to meet up with an acquaintance of his from grad school. I’ll figure a way around that.”

  “Why are they so easy?” I asked, really not believing it.

  “You get near perfect on the SAT, you get what you want,” Gus said.

  It’s true. He missed like one freaking question.

  “How about Jerri?” he asked.

  “She really wants to drive me. She wants to see Aleah’s dad for some reason.”

  “Let me talk to her. You’ll mumble and crap. You sound like a liar even when you’re not lying.”

  He’s right. I do sound like a liar. Also, isn’t it weird that I didn’t know about our parents’ affair in June? Did you know, Aleah?

  We decided Gus would come over before dinner to talk to Jerri. (He said flat out he wouldn’t stay for dinner because he wasn’t going to eat another shitbag, veggie-slop, Jerri-made meal ever again.)

  • • •

  Wait…

  Someone is saying my name on the loudspeaker?

  August 16th, 11:27 a.m.

  O’Hare Airport, Part XVII

  I’m at a new gate. I’m flying to Charlotte, North Carolina. We’re boarding in a few minutes. From there I’ll go to Fort Myers. Fine. Who cares? I want to go someplace.

  Cody just texted me to say Coach Johnson moved his son, Kirk—a stinking sophomore—from flanker to running back this morning.

  Aaaahhh…I’m so, so, so pissed!

  Jesus. Makes me want to kick something. It’s so freaking dumb. I’m the tailback, Aleah. I’m pretty good at it (duh). Why would Coach Johnson do that? Kirk is fast and super athletic (just like his brother Ken). If we have him opposite Karpinski in the passing game we’ll be great this year.

  When I wrote back WHAT???? Cody texted: Coach isnt sure you be back for game.

  Jesus.

  You know, nobody forced me to miss practice. I made the decision to not be in Bluffton today. I’m fine with that. I’m fine that I’m not there. It was totally my decision.

  Man, Aleah. I do worry. Am I destroying my football career?

  • • •

  Skipping Michigan hurt. After Gus asked his parents if he could take me to Michigan and they said yes, I emailed the offensive coordinator at Michigan to tell him I couldn’t go due to family reasons. He called me up right away—I’m serious, like ten seconds after I hit Send on the email—but I didn’t answer and I never got back to him. (I was lying on the floor on my stomach when he called.) A couple of weeks ago, Coach Johnson told me Michigan is no longer interested in me.

  I worry. I worry. I worry.

  Here’s what I worry about most: I was so damn relieved not to have to go to that camp. How am I going to choose a college and go play football there? Why was it so easy for you to go to Berlin?

  • • •

  Okay. There it is. There’s the call. I’m boarding a plane for freaking Charlotte, North Carolina. This is now. I’m on my way.

  August 16th, 12:30 p.m.

  On the Way to Charlotte

  Uh…Okay…

  I’m sitting next to a very large man who is very unhappy to be stuck in the middle of two teens. (There’s a girl in black reading a zombie book on the aisle). The man is wheezing and is very gross. He just ordered a tiny bottle of wine.

  Go to Florida instead of practice football? This is where my good intentions get me: jammed against the airplane wall by a giant wine-sucking wheezer man. Huff, huff, huff. (Sound of him breathing while he stares at the side of my head.)

  • • •

  Okay, so Gus’s parents were on board with the drive to Michigan. Right?

  There was just the Jerri question left.

  It was a big question too, Aleah. First, Jerri was stung that Andrew had requested a solo bus trip to his orchestra camp (although Jerri knew not the entirety of the situation). Second, Jerri had made plans with your dad to stop in Chicago on Saturday on our drive to Ann Arbor. I sure as crap didn’t want to be at your apartment, but Jerri was very excited. (“I haven’t seen Ronald in four months!”) I didn’t think there was anyway she’d let Gus drive me.

  When Gus arrived, Jerri was in the kitchen making us some ugly looking hippie hummus and bean sprout sandwiches. (I like hummus, but I don’t like sprouts—they get stuck in my teeth and then people make crap of me—at least Abby Sauter did one time in fifth grade—“booger tooth.”) Jerri didn’t act like a nice hippie, though. When Gus and I entered the kitchen, she smiled really fake and said, “If it isn’t my favorite nicotine addict! Has your girlfriend gotten any tweens drunk lately?”

 
Gus stood there with his mouth open, his face turning red. “Um. Not that I’m aware of, Jerri.”

  “Great. Great to hear, Gus.”

  “That’s not why we’re here, Jerri,” I said.

  “Really?” Jerri asked. “Why are you here? Is it because you live here, Felton?”

  “What’s with the sarcasm?”

  “I’m just a little angry with your little friend, I suppose,” Jerri said, glaring at Gus.

  “Jerri,” Gus whispered. “I quit smoking. It’s bad for me. I got a hacking cough. And Maddie? She’s really crazy, you know? But she tries hard. And she’s got a good heart. She’s really a sweet person. I’m serious.”

  Gus was working Jerri. Jerri grew up a townie girl like Maddie. She couldn’t not feel for her. Gus’s lies actually made me feel kind of bad. He still smoked! Maddie did not try hard!

  Maybe she does try hard?

  Maybe she’s like me who isn’t Peyton Manning because her family (my family) is screwed up? Complicated.

  Jerri nodded. She swallowed. She stared at Gus for a moment. Then she said, “Tell her not to get eighth graders drunk, okay? It really upsets me. It’s also dangerous. Emily Cook can’t weigh more than eighty pounds, you know?”

  “I know, Jerri. Maddie feels bad about what happened,” Gus nodded.

  “That’s not why we’re here, though, Jerri,” I said.

  “Okay, then. Why are you here, Felton?”

  Gus jumped in. “Something pretty cool happened today. My dad’s friend at U Mich, Hector Johns—he’s a professor there—invited me to take a campus tour while Felton’s at football camp.”

  I nodded.

  Jerri said, “Oh? That’s nice…You’re welcome to ride with us, if you’d like.”

  “That’d be great, but I actually need to have my own transportation because I’ll be going back and forth from campus to the Motel 6 where I’m staying all week. So, I’ll be driving.”

  “Yeah! Pretty great, huh, Jerri?” I piped in. Gus sort of kneed me in the thigh.

  “I’ll be driving, so really Felton should just catch a ride with me,” Gus said. “No reason for us to pump double the carbon dioxide into the air. I guess more like quadruple, really, since you’ll be driving back to Bluffton, then returning to Ann Arbor to pick Felton up.”