Ghost Time (38 page)

He called back two minutes later, catching me red-handed. Thea, you told me they’d been gone a few days, and the school secretary said it’s only been one day, he said. Listen, Knox, I just—I have a
hunch
, okay? A hunch about what? he said, and I said, A hunch that something’s wrong, Knox, and then, totally deadpan, he goes: You
think
? My mouth fell open, because it was so snap! and I didn’t know he had it in him. Then he goes, You’re a regular Nancy Drew, aren’t you? Anyhow, the secretary said the mother called to say they’d be out of town this week.

Did they say why? I asked. Family emergency, that’s all I know, he said. Why? And I was just like,
Where do I begin?
Nothing, I said, hanging up. I was standing behind the diner, near the Dumpsters. I don’t know why, really. Just that I like to stay away from the road now, because the last thing I needed was to see Foley driving by. I heard the bell of the front door open, and just as I turned, I saw this fresh black tag on the big blue Dumpster, and I froze, because it was my handwriting, and it said,
You’re no Che Guevara!
Right away, I knew what it was: it was from a note I’d written in a corner of one of Cam’s pages in Hubble. He was going on and on again about his hacking prowess, and then
I doodled, You’re no Che Guevara! And here it is, spray-painted on the trash Dumpster. I just reached for Hubble, about to pull it out, find the page, and then I almost jumped out of my skin, hearing footsteps, but it was just Sharon, I could tell. So I walked over, and we almost ran into each other, both turning the corner at the same time.

She said, Thea! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, darlin’, but I thought I saw you walk by, didn’t know what happened to you. Is everything okay? I said, trying to walk forward, get her away from the trash Dumpster. I just wanted to tell you something came for you. In the mail, she said. I said,
For me?
What is it? And she goes, I don’t know. It’s in a padded envelope. I go, Where is it? I put in the office, she said, heading back inside, so I followed her, and then I realized I’d never been in her office before. All this time, and I’d never been in the kitchen, and it felt… it felt sort of like a special privilege or something to be walking straight through the Silver Top kitchen.

In here, Thea, she said, and I walked in. The office was tiny, with fake wood paneling and some kitschy things, but I tried not to look around too much. Here it is, she said, handing me this large yellow padded envelope. It’s not marked, I said, studying the postage. I saw that, she said. You want to open here or wait? I don’t know, I said, looking at the handwriting, but it wasn’t Cam’s. Well, then, sit down, she said, nodding at a tiny couch on the opposite side of the office: I’ll let you have a little privacy, she said. Thank you, Sharon, I said, trying to smile. Get you something to drink? she asked, opening the door. No, thank you, I said, smiling. She was so kind. Well, then, I’ll be out front if you need me, she said.

I sat down on the couch, and I felt the envelope, and it was soft. So soft, too, I was just like,
What could it be? Clothing?
My hands were shaking, but I couldn’t wait until I got home, so I tore it open, peeking inside… the stars. I couldn’t tell what it was at first, and then I turned the envelope upside down, tried to shake it out, but it was stuck. So I reached inside—freaked me out, too, putting my hand in the envelope, like maybe there was something in it that might bite me or something or a white powder in the envelope, like Anthrax or I don’t know what. But I reached in and pulled out the padding, inside, whatever it was, and it fell to the ground, just this big white wad. Looked like the rag bag my mom saved for cleaning.

Took me a minute and then I realized what it was—it was the stars from the flag. It was all the stars that somebody cut out of the flag in front of the high school. They were all there, all fifty, and they were perfect, too, not one loose thread. But what really upset me was that I saw them on Cam’s ceiling—they were there. That night I stayed over, slept in his room, when I looked up, all fifty stars were on his ceiling—I touched them, with my own hands. I covered my mouth with both hands, because they were right there, last time I was at his house, so how could they be… ?

I heard Sharon walking through the kitchen, so I gathered the stars and shoved them back in the envelope. They didn’t quite fit, so I put the envelope in my bag, upside down. The funny thing is, I was a little nervous, carrying the stars around, because it’s a crime. I thought,
What if someone stops me, finds out I’m carrying the flag’s stars? Could I go to jail?
Seriously.

Anyhow, I slipped out, while Sharon was talking on the phone, taking an order, and then I called back, Thank you, bye, and I ran outside, before she could say anything. I waited until I got to the parking lot, and then I called Karen. She didn’t answer, though, not at home or her cell, and I stopped, not knowing what to do. When I reached the road, I decided to go over to their house anyway.

(SIX MONTHS EARLIER)

4:34 PM

Cam loved it. I mean, we’re talking love at first sight, the day we drove over, after school, seeing his face as he looked up at the sign, the original sign, which was older than my mother, even, and read, Silver Top. It’s called Silver Top, he said, in awe, and I had to laugh. The diner’s called Silver Top and it has a silver top, he said, stunned. Tricky, huh? I said, walking past him. That’s
brilliant
, he said. Brilliant? I said, and he said, No, really, how often is what you see what you get in this world? he asked, beaming, as I opened the door, waving him in: Welcome to Fort Marshall, California boy, I said. He followed me in and I took the booth in the corner, farthest from the old men, who’d stopped talking to stare.

This all right? I asked, taking a seat, the seat with my back turned to the old men, of course. Perfect. This is perfect, Cam said, sliding in, cheeks flushed. Honestly, he was so enamored
with its what-you-see-is-what-you-get-Americanness. He bought it, hook, line, and sinker. These places where time stops every day. Look at this: this, this, here, is America, he said, all but pounding his fist on the table. And you’ve never seen America, before? I asked, trying not to laugh, but not having any luck. Not this one! He goes, Thea, this is the perfect, perfect first-date spot. And then I snapped, This is not a
date
, not even realizing I was bristling, right through my shoulders, too.

Yeah, whatever, he said, looking at the counter and his mouth falling open, seeing the glass pie case. That’s right: homemade lemon meringue pie. Every day. Lucky us.

How’s it going? he asked, leaning to the side, holding one hand up at the old men, the Elders, and I looked at him like,
What are you doing? No one new waves at the old men.
Trust me, the old men didn’t know what to make of it, either; all they could do was stare at the kid, trying to wrap their heads around it. But then, seeing he was genuine, like it or not, they couldn’t say he wasn’t real in his boyish enthusiasm.

One thing: I just wish she were wearing one of those old uniforms, he said, and I said, Who, Sharon? And he said, Sharon! Yes, that’s the one thing I’d change, but nothing else. Not one thing, he said, and the way he looked at me, grinning, I knew he meant more than Silver Top. He meant us, the two of us, together, that moment. Will you just look at this view, he said, turning his head, looking over his shoulder at the motel satellite dish, across the parking lot. He goes, Who needs Paris? And I said, Very funny, and he goes, I’m not kidding, Thea, then he folded his hands on top of the booth. Don’t move—don’t move!, I said, grabbing my
sketchbook, and I started drawing his hands. When I finished, I turned the book around, holding it just above his hands, so he could compare the two, and he looked at me. I couldn’t take it, ten, fifteen seconds, okay, but finally, I had to ask: What, already? And he goes, You’re amazing, and that’s when I blushed. Can I look? he asked, meaning my sketchbook, and I shrugged sure, pushing it toward him.

He looked at every single picture, and I just tried to stare out the window, pretend I didn’t care, and then, finally, like twenty minutes later, he sat back, shaking his head, and he goes, You should put these up—you got to put these up—I’ll help you set up a Flickr account tonight if you want, and I just looked at him, like, Drr. I said, I know how to set up a Flickr account, okay? Just because I’m not good at geometry doesn’t mean I’m a complete moron, and he goes, Then do it! I go, No. I don’t want to, or I would have by now, and he goes, You’re so good—these drawings are so fucking good, why don’t you show them? And I go, Because I don’t want to, that’s why. He goes, Thea, come on—I’m sorry, but you gotta show your work—you’re too good not to, and I said, Excuse me, but I don’t have to do anything. It’s mine, they’re mine, not yours, okay? All of a sudden, I was so angry, and I didn’t even know why.

So Cam sat back, and I could see in his eyes he knew he crossed a line. He goes, You’re right, nodding in agreement with me. It’s yours, your work. But can I ask why you don’t show it? If I could draw like that, Thea, and I go, Because. Because this, I said, touching my notebook, folding it up: this is private. This is the one place I have all to myself; it’s mine, and it’s… it’s
safe. When I’m here, I’m… I’m okay. So leave it alone, all right? He goes, I’m sorry, and he started leaning forward, pressing his hands on the tabletop, and for a second I thought he was going to grab my hands or something, and I was just like,
Dude. No moments: I’m not having a moment with you. Let’s just get that straight.
Sharon came over to check on us: How you kids doing? she said, and Cam gave her this big old smile and he goes, We’re perfect.

(NINE WEEKS LATER)

9:21 PM

You know, it had gotten to where I couldn’t go outside, and I couldn’t answer my phone, and I couldn’t check my e-mail—Mom neither—neither one of us. Our life had become a circus, it really had. We’d become prisoners, and let me tell you, you don’t need an island to get lost. Anyhow, we were sitting at the table, eating dinner—I was trying to eat dinner, and mom was drinking—and she brought it up again, saying Dad called. He keeps calling, I guess, but right away, I go, Mom, it’s my life, and it’s my dad, not yours, okay? She let out this heavy sigh, putting down her glass, then she got up and left the room, and she came right back, carrying a stack of three shoe boxes.

She put them on the table, and she goes, These are for you, and I go, Are they yours? Because if they were from my dad, I wasn’t touching them. They were mine, she said, but I’ve been saving them. Go on, open them, she said. So I pulled the boxes
over and took off the lids, and they were full of hundreds of mixed tapes of all these old bands from the eighties and nineties. All these punk bands, new wave, hardcore, and the inserts had been doodled on, designed in markers, all these colors of ink.

I didn’t know what to say, it was such a goldmine. She’d never mentioned it to me, either, and I was just like,
Wow, this is so cool!
Then she goes, I wish you could’ve known him—I don’t know, when we were younger. I don’t how to explain, really, except that I wish you had known him at his best. I’m sorry you didn’t, but you see these? He made half of these for me, and I made the other half for him, she said, but I didn’t know what to say. Then Mom smiled and said, You know he was in a band when I met him? I just looked at her, stunned, and she goes, See? You didn’t know that, did you? I go, No one ever told me, and before I could ask why not, she said, They were called the Tesla Coils, and then her head fell to the side and she started laughing.
Ewe
, I said, wincing. Yeah, she said, they called themselves synth punks, and I go, Mom. Please, stop.

She goes, They wore matching leather jackets—. I go, Okay, now I’m losing my appetite, but she wouldn’t listen, oh, no. She goes, They did this cover of the Stranglers’ “Peaches,” and I just about swooned, she said. Don’t know it, I said, nodding, relieved. Yes, you do:
peaches on beaches
, Thee? And I was just like,
Oh
, is that what they’re saying? I thought it was,
bitches on beaches
. She started laughing, and she goes, They wore eyeliner, and I go, Ohmygod: stop, Mom. You have to stop, I said, getting up, about to take my plate with me, and she grabbed my hand, not letting me go. So I sat down again. She goes, But the tapes he made me,
that was as close as your dad ever got to writing me poetry, and I go, Mom, are you drunk? She goes, It’s called survival, Thea—I’m a survivor. I said, Okay, but that’s, that’s just
disgusting
. So unless you’re offering me a drink, I said, standing again. Oh, sit down, and eat your dinner, young lady, she said, and I sat down, still shivering,
ugh
.

It gets better, or worse, she said, and I was just like, No. I go, No, Mom, please don’t, because I knew it was going to be really, really bad, and I said it again, No, and then she said it. The Cod Pieces, that was his other band, she said, and I screeched,
Ew, ew, ew!
It was so gross, you know, like all I could do was shake my hands, it was so gross, and then I blushed, and Ohmygod, no wonder, you know? No wonder I am the way I am: I never had a chance.

Now, she said, and I knew she was going to start in again about me and my dad, and I cut her off. I go, Mom, after all he’s done, how can you forgive him? She leaned forward, and grabbed my hand, and she goes, Because I don’t see it as a choice. The way I see it, forgiveness isn’t a choice, it’s a necessity—not for him, for
me
. Because it’s the only way I will ever truly be able to get him out of my life, she said, and I knew she was about to talk about me, too, why I needed to forgive him, but fortunately or unfortunately, her cell rang. I go, Saved by the dumbbell, knowing it was Rain Man, and I thought she’d go get her phone, but she just let it ring. Because we were talking, and honestly, I was so grateful she stayed with me, that we came first, that I came first.