Goodbye, Rebel Blue Page 18

  My fingers settle on the bulge in the center of the envelope. Choices. We all make them. My mom didn’t choose to die, but she did choose to drive on that road, one of the most dangerous in the world, in a rainstorm. She wanted to get post-storm pictures high on the mountain. She wanted to capture light and rainbows and slivers of silver peeking from retreating clouds. She should have waited. If I had been able to talk about my feelings after her death, I would have told Aunt Evelyn I was angry at Mom for leaving me and, underneath that, frightened. I wasn’t ready for her death; I wasn’t ready for the rest of the world.

  I tip the envelope, and photos tumble into my lap. Mom was a photographer, and I was her favorite subject. Photos of me smiling, posing at a Mayan pyramid and sitting on the beach in Costa Rica, spill across my clean floor. There are close-ups of my face, artistic shots of me in silhouette, pictures of my dirty toes. I dig through me until I find her. My mom rarely stepped in front of the camera. I snapped this photo a few months before she died. She’s sitting on the side of a mountain road in Argentina fixing a flat tire on the Jeep, sweaty, dirty, and smiling from ear to ear.

  “She looks happy.” I look up to see Aunt Evelyn standing in my doorway. Other than perfunctory hellos and Please pass the salt, we’ve talked very little this week. “Your mom’s happy place was always outdoors, on the beach, high on a mountain, or in a field of daisies under the open sky.” She points at the photo. “May I?” She takes the photo and tilts her head, the football helmet shifting. “It’s a good one. It would look great in one of your picture frames.”

  For six years I kept all reminders of my mother packed away because I didn’t want to be reminded of what I was missing. Family. “I was thinking about using the frame with the daisies or the one with the clouds.”

  Aunt Evelyn hands me back the photo. “Either would look lovely. You are a good artist, Rebel. I bet I could sell the frames for twenty or thirty dollars apiece to my clients with beach houses.”

  “That would buy some serious turtle adoptions.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.” I take comfort in The List, because Macey’s right. I haven’t failed at everything. And Nate and Uncle Bob are right. I’ll complete every item because I said I would. There’s no deadline, after all. As long as I keep trying.

  Aunt Evelyn sits on the window seat and slides her finger along the lip of a jar of sea glass. “I envy you.” She scoops a handful of glass into her palm and lets the shards fall back into the jar, a shower of sea tears. “When I was in high school, I desperately wanted to be an artist. I worked in watercolors and did some graphite sketches. One of my art teachers said I had an excellent handle on perspective and a good eye for composition. What I didn’t have was passion or faith.”

  The last word hangs in the air between us.

  “Now your mother, she had faith.”

  “My mother didn’t believe in God.”

  “No, but she had faith in herself. She barreled through life with passion and purpose, and she was a damned good photographer. Her work told stories; it spoke to people.”

  I’ve never heard Aunt Evelyn talk this way about my mom. She was always so critical of Mom and her parenting style, but it’s true. My mom had faith in her photographic talents. She had faith in her abilities to be a single parent. She had faith in me that I could lead my own 275-member marching band.

  “You have her spirit, her passion, her unwavering faith.” The final bit of glass slips between my aunt’s fingers. “I don’t have that. I never did. So instead of creating art, I create pretty rooms in pretty houses.” She raises her hands, motioning to the matched twin beds. “But you’ll never find yourself doing anything like this. I envy you, Rebel, because you will never work or live inside a box.”

  Breakfast the next morning is a mushroom quiche and grapefruit juice, fresh-squeezed. Aunt Evelyn stands at the counter toasting brioche. She doesn’t mention our little heart-to-heart. I don’t, either. But she looks different, or maybe it’s that I’m seeing her differently. Tiny lines spider out from her mouth. The skin under her eyes swells in puffs of gray. She doesn’t look unhappy, more resigned about her life and the choices she made.

  Outside, the recycling truck lumbers and lurches. A steady beep fills the air as the arm lifts our bin and dumps the contents. My life would have been so different if a month ago Uncle Bob had chosen to set out the recycling bin and this truck had whisked away Kennedy’s bucket list. I wouldn’t realize Aunt Evelyn is a frustrated artist and that I’m tired of being a loner.

  The list. Such a flimsy piece of paper with so much power to change, and I’m not even done. I’ve completed about half the items, but I still have—

  I set my juice down so hard, liquid sunshine spills over the rim.

  “Is there something wrong with your breakfast?” Aunt Evelyn asks.

  I run to my room and shuffle through my nightstand drawer. I check under the bed and rifle through my dresser. I tear open the closet door and toss aside my shoes and Pen’s shoes and little boxes that organize.

  “Where is it?” I say. I didn’t see Kennedy’s bucket list during my cleaning tirade yesterday. I press my hands to either side of my head.

  I haven’t seen the list in a week, sometime before the day I failed to Just Show Up, the day Gabby burned off half her hair, and the day I threw muddy shoes at endangered sea swallows. I’d last seen the list on my nightstand. I pull the heavy piece of furniture from the wall, and the lamp topples to the hardwood floor with a thud. Behind it I find only a gum wrapper and a few popcorn kernels.

  In the attic, I dig through my sketch pads and check behind jars of glass. Downstairs I root under the couch and toss aside throw pillows. I dig through the kitchen garbage and nooks and crannies on the computer desk. When I get to the empty recycling bin, I remember pitching all the papers and junk from my cleaning tirade yesterday.

  “No.” My voice is a squeak.

  At school I rummage through my locker, pulling out books and half-used sketch pads and a pink detention slip from October.

  “What are you doing?” Macey asks.

  “I can’t find Kennedy’s bucket list. It’s gone. I checked every room in our house.”

  Macey leans against the locker next to mine. “Maybe the fates have intervened again.”

  I stick my fingers into my ears. “La-la-la-la. I can’t hear you.”

  Macey tugs my fingers from my ears. “I think you need to hear me.”

  “I need to get to biology.”

  “Stop being a smart-ass.” Macey is so loud, a teacher at the end of the hall makes a shush motion with her forefinger against her lips. “Think about it, Rebel. For days you tried to get rid of that list, and you couldn’t. So you decided to complete the tasks. Maybe you’ve completed the task or tasks you needed to complete, so the fates have released you.”

  “Stop. No more.”

  “Maybe it’s destiny.”

  “La-la-la-la-laaaaaa!”

  Every morning the sun pours buckets of light onto a three-foot square of earth on the east side of the bungalow. This tiny bit of real estate is nestled between the recycling bin and the large plastic storage cupboard where Aunt Evelyn keeps most of her gardening supplies. Aunt Evelyn never planted anything here, probably because no one sees it.

  Which makes it the perfect place for a secret garden.

  I checked my locker at school and the art room. I checked Percy’s office. Aunt Evelyn and I turned the house upside down. I can’t find Kennedy’s bucket list, but I do remember she wrote twenty items on the list, and so far I’ve remembered seventeen, including Host a tea party in a secret garden.

  With all my strength, I harpoon the shovel at the earth. The metal clanks and chips off a sliver of hard dirt. Thanks to running, my legs are strong. With my sneakered foot, I stomp on the shovel, and a bigger chunk of baked earth breaks off. I jab the tip on the clod until it forms medium-size clods. I stomp and jab, jab and stomp. Sweat beads on my forehead
and drips down my nose.

  A wet nose nuzzles my ankle. Tiberius, the rat terrier from next door, stands next to me, wagging his tail. “Sorry, Tib, no sweets for you today.” He cocks his head and thumps his butt onto the ground.

  I grab a pronged gardening tool and drop to my hands and knees, clawing at the ground to break the medium-size clods into smaller clods. Tiberius watches, his ratty head tilted as if he is confused. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t toss him something to eat or because I’m engaging in hand-to-hand combat with dirt.

  Less than halfway through the square, sweat soaks my tank, and silty dust coats my arms and legs. There must be an easier way to battle rock-hard dirt. I sit on the backs of my ankles and wipe sweat from my face. Water. If seawater has the power to smooth jagged glass, surely water can soften a secret garden.

  With the hose in hand, I spray the plot of earth, transforming the dirt into chunks of dark chocolate. I shovel, but the mud is heavy and clings to the metal. My arm muscles burn. I could get Macey, but then the secret garden would cease to be a secret. Taking off my shoes, I roll up my pants and jump. Mud squishes between my toes and sucks at my calves. I march and squish.

  When at last the entire plot is soaked, I climb out, scraping the mud from my legs. I reach for my box of seeds, but they’re gone. Tiberius sits near my bag, two seed packets, empty but for teeth marks, between his paws.

  “You ate my seeds.”

  He nuzzles my hand.

  “You ate my seeds!” Mud covers every inch of skin to my knees. Speckles of brown dot my shirt, my face, my hair. “This is so wrong.” I settle my back against the recycling bin and slide to the ground. Tiberius lies next to me. “Or maybe it’s fate.” I scratch Tiberius’s head, and he closes his eyes. “Maybe you ate the seeds because I’m not meant to plant those seeds. Instead of daisies, maybe I’m supposed to plant petunias or snapdragons.”

  Now my brain hurts.

  “Or maybe this is a sign that I’m supposed to make another choice. Maybe it’s time to give up the whole thing.” But I’m not ready to give up Kennedy’s list. The list brought me Nate, and it brought me closer to Macey and Percy and Uncle Bob and Aunt Evelyn.

  Of course I could always perform the acts on my own list. I laugh so loudly, Tiberius cracks an eyelid. I hadn’t taken the assignment seriously, not like Kennedy and Macey. I wrote about surfing naked and riding in a shopping cart yelling, “The British are coming! The British are coming!” The detention assignment was a joke. I wiggle my toes, clumps of mud falling to the ground.

  Well, not all of it was a joke.

  Like Kennedy, I’d written a page of bucket-list items. But it was only in those final minutes in the detention room when I’d been thinking about death and dying and heaven that I dug into my heart. The last two items on my list were very much about connecting with others.

  What now, Kennedy? You love to talk and haven’t been shy about sharing advice before.

  Silence.

  I’m waiting.

  More silence. I toe the mud on the top of my foot. It’s been days since I’ve heard her voice—not since that day at the mudflats when I welcomed the sea swallows and swore at her. If people and situations are truly put into our lives when we need them, is it possible I just don’t need Kennedy anymore? An uncomfortable shiver rocks my spine. I turn to the sky and hear only birds and the far-off crash of the ocean.

  “What do you think, Tib? Is it time to give up the bone?”

  Tiberius snores.

  I picture those final two items, two lines faintly scratched, two lines that caused an unexpected ache in the center of my chest. I pretended they didn’t matter, and I quickly tossed those words into the trash. But as I think of those two lines now, I realize they do matter. With Kennedy’s list gone, mine is the only one I have left.

  With the hose, I wash my feet and take the first steps toward completing my bucket list.

  I AIM MY PENCIL STUB LIKE A PISTOL AT MY notebook. Find My Father sounds way too normal. I lick the tip of my pencil and write,

  That’s it. Five pathetic lines. All I know about my father. All my mother knew about him. They’d both been on assignment in Buenos Aires, the Paris of South America. My father was covering some art installation, and Mom was shooting the Iguazu Falls. She called my father the Gift Giver. “Because he gave me the best gift of my entire life. You.”

  Growing up, I occasionally wondered about him. Was he an artist? Was he short? Did he hate shoes? After my mom’s death, when it became clear I didn’t belong in the bungalow, I imagined running away and finding my father. As with Mom, we’d travel the world, and I’d tag along on his assignments. I’d shake hands with world-famous artists, and we’d talk about color and composition. On my imaginary dad’s days off, we’d explore the world’s finest museums and hunt for shark teeth.

  I’m curious about my father and figure he must be quite extraordinary for my mom to have taken an interest in him. When Uncle Bob and Aunt Evelyn get home, I’ll ask them about him. I’ll also try to track down some of my mom’s journalist friends and see if they know anything. And if I’m really desperate, I can thumb through art magazines and newspapers to track down journalists writing about museums in Buenos Aires the year I was born.

  The world feels so big.

  When Penelope gets home, I join her at the kitchen table to start on the final item on my bucket list. Taking a deep breath, I hand Cousin Pen a bag from Target, the plastic crinkling and crunching.

  “What’s this?” Pen holds the bag far from her body, as if something alive lurks inside and might bite.

  I lounge with one elbow resting on the kitchen counter, trying to appear relaxed, trying to pretend that what I’m about to ask isn’t gnawing at my gut. “Something for you. A present.”

  She shakes it and sniffs.

  “Come on, Pen. Open the stupid bag.”

  My cousin pushes aside her calc book, sets the bag on the table, and reaches in, but her hand freezes.

  I leap across the kitchen, pull out the box, and set the Polly Pocket doll directly in front of her. “It’s supposed to be a bribe.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  I plunk onto the chair next to Pen. “I went to the store to buy you something that would bring you great joy and give you warm, fuzzy feelings for me so you’d do me a favor.”

  “And this is what you came up with?”

  “It made sense at the time.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I jam my hands through my hair. “So I’m walking down an aisle at Target and see this display of Polly Pockets. The display includes cars and bakeries and pet shops. Then I see you and your friends. I see you playing with the dolls and all the little things that go with them. You used to make up these elaborate games and stories.” I rake my fingers down the back of my skull to my neck. “Then I see me. I’m sitting on my bed and watching you all, and I remember feeling hurt that no one invited me to play. And then I thought of pie.”

  “Rebel, you are so screwed up.”

  “I know, but at least I know why. When I broke the heads off your Polly Pocket dolls, everyone, including me, thought I was angry because you threw away all my sea glass. But I don’t have attachments to things, because things aren’t important to me. I wasn’t angered by the missing glass. I was hurt because you and your friends were ignoring me. I wanted to be part of your game.”

  Pen studies the front of the box, the back of the box, and both sides of the box.

  “Yeah, it’s getting deep,” I say. “So let’s both forget about my epiphany in the Target toy aisle and think of the doll as a bribe.”

  Pen sets the doll on her math book and leans back in her chair. “Spill. What do you want?”

  “I need a prom ticket.”

  The front legs of Pen’s chair clatter to the floor, and she looks relieved. “Impossible. Prom is this Saturday. The committee isn’t selling tickets anymore.”

  “I know, but I figured at least one
of the Cupcakes is on the prom committee.”

  Pen tilts her head. “So if you need a prom ticket, is it correct to assume that you’ll be going to prom?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if you’re going to prom, is it correct to assume you may act in a manner that is far from normal?”

  “Yes.”

  Pen presses her palms to the sides of her head, as if she’s trying to keep it from exploding. “Is this about Kennedy Green’s bucket list?”

  “No.”

  Pen’s stare sharpens.

  I tilt my chair back, wobble, and settle all four legs back on the floor. “It’s about my bucket list.”

  She laughs so hard, her ponytail swings. “One of the items on your bucket list is ‘Go to prom’?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She drums her fingers on the table. I sit patiently, thinking of peaches.

  “And if I don’t get you a ticket?” Penelope asks.

  “I’ll crash prom.”

  “Why do I not doubt that?” Pen sighs and pulls her cell phone from her pocket. “Let me talk to Sandy. She’s on the committee.”

  The next day after school Macey stands in her tiny kitchen in the FACS building while a member of the school newspaper takes her picture. She’s holding a green ribbon with gold lettering in one hand, a peach pie in the other.

  The newspaper staffer settles her camera around her neck and takes out a long, skinny notepad from the back pocket of her shorts. “Are you disappointed you didn’t win the local round of the Great American Bake-Off?”

  Macey tosses the ribbon onto the counter. “Of course not.”

  “But you didn’t win any prize money and didn’t move on to the next round.”

  “My goal wasn’t to win the bake-off, just enter it.”

  Now the staffer looks confused. “So you’re happy with a ribbon of participation?”

  “I’m happy with my pie.” Macey hands the newspaper photographer the pie and shoos her out of the FACS kitchen.