Heaven Is Paved with Oreos (5 page)

Last year Dad had a conference in Canada and Z went with us—that's when we went on the water slide, and I had to get a passport (for Canada, not the water slide). On the way back we drove through Two Geese, her old town. All of a sudden Z's happy mood changed and she wouldn't even let Dad stop the car. She just kept staring out the window and saying, “This is a terrible place to grow up.”

“Z, it's not 1960 anymore,” Dad said. But I don't think she heard him. She couldn't understand that the time is different and the place is different and the people are different too.

That's why, even though I can talk to Z about proper Oreo technique and dancing in St. Peter's Square, I can't tell her about my baseball confusion or the Brilliant Outflanking Strategy. Because sometimes she can't always see me as me, but only me as her. And if I did tell her about the Brilliant Outflanking Strategy, she would probably write it in pink letters on a cake.

 

 

I would appreciate it if D.J. brought up Curtis once in a while. If you were riding with us and did not know the Schwenk family, you would not know she even has brothers. That is how little she mentions them.

“By the way, how was your weekend at Lake Superior?” I asked to make conversation.

“It was great. It was . . . great. But you know, boyfriends are hard.”

“Yes, they are,” I said. I did not add
Even when they're fake they're hard.
I was silent for that.

 

 

Today Mom and I went shopping for the trip. Mom wants me to get comfortable shoes so I can walk a lot, and I want to get shoes that do not make me look eighty years old. The shoes Mom likes make me look older than Z. Z's shoes are actually cool looking most of the time, especially for a grandmother. They are hip yoga-lady shoes.

Mom held up one pair, and I said, “Z would never wear those.”

“Z has bunions,” Mom said. Completely missing my point. “And besides, aren't pilgrims supposed to be plain?”

I was trying to explain that “plain” does not mean “dorky
”
when guess who walked into the shoe store at that exact moment: Emily. Of course. “Oooh,” she said, “those shoes are so you!”

“See?” Mom said. Again: completely missing the point.

“So what are you and Curtis up to tonight?” Emily asked with an expression of extraordinarily false innocence as Mom went searching for more old-lady shoes.

“He's coming over to play chess.” This is true. We set it up yesterday.

“Very exciting!” Emily leaned in closer. “What else are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” I said. I tried to sound icy.

Emily smiled knowingly. “I didn't think so . . . Oh, I've got to go. Bye, Mrs. Zorn. Very nice to see you.”

It will not surprise you that Mom then said how nice Emily was and did not notice how I was mad. Then she bought a pair of shoes for me that I hate. I hope I don't see anyone in Rome I know.

 

 

Curtis just left my house. We did not have fun. I could not stop thinking about Emily and how she asked if there was anything else we were doing. That is none of her business!

1. It is our relationship, and we can do whatever we like.
   
2. We are not actually going out, and therefore we should not be doing anything else even if we want to.
   
3. If we did want to do something else (which we do not), we could not do it in my house because of how much trouble we got in last fall during our desiccation science-fair project when Curtis and I stayed up all night working in our basement building Plexiglas containers to display dried rats in. Mom and Dad freaked about Curtis staying over because they thought we were doing something else, and Curtis's parents freaked too. And even though everyone now knows about the science fair, Curtis is not allowed in our basement anymore.
   
4. Speaking of science fairs, we have a calf to assemble. That is a good something else to be doing!
   

So that was one reason we didn't have fun, because I was so busy thinking those thoughts. But it was worse even than that, because it turns out that not only did Emily say that mean thing to me this afternoon, but a friend of hers also asked Curtis to the movies. He said no.

“Did you want to go?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Did you?”

“They didn't invite me.” I could not believe I had to explain this.

“Yeah . . . I didn't know what to say.”

You could say that they shouldn't invite you without inviting me,
I thought. Instead I said, “That would be hard, I guess.”

“Yeah. Because explaining everything . . . us, you know. It's not . . . easy.”

“Oh,” I said. We kept playing. But I wasn't paying attention anymore. I didn't even care when he took both my rooks. Normally I care a lot.

“I'm sleeping over at Peter's tonight,” Curtis said after a while.

“Oh. Okay.”

“You know, his mom and stuff . . . I don't want to be late . . .”

It was not late, but he left anyway. I didn't know what to say. I still don't.

 

 

D.J. had two basketball games today. On the way to Prophetstown she didn't talk at all because she was so nervous.

I walked Jack Russell George same as always (we now play actual fetch instead of just catch-and-run-away!) and guess who was in Z's apartment when we got back: Z! She was sitting at her kitchen table with a box of colored markers. “What do you think?” she asked, holding up a Dog Days of Prophetstown poster. On the back she had written
I SAY D.J.
!
in big bubble letters.

You would not think of my grandmother as a crazy sports fan, but you would be wrong. Z is actually quite a fan in her yoga hippie kind of way. She has been watching D.J. Schwenk play basketball for years—even before Curtis and I became friends. She says her Wisconsin heritage left her with a love of milk and a love of basketball. Especially girls' basketball. Especially good girls' basketball.

“Don't you have a sign made?” Z asked. “Oh, never mind, we're late already. Come on, darling! We need to envelop the court with our karma!”

I am glad I do not play basketball against D.J. Schwenk. Yes, this morning D.J. was so nervous in the car that she could not talk. But walking out from the locker room, she hid her nervousness extremely well. On the court she looked even more like a lion than she normally does. She looked like she had picked out one player for dinner and another one for dessert.

We had an amazingly good time, Z and I. Z waved her
I SAY D.J.!
sign, and she kept asking the man in front of us why the umpire was blowing his whistle. I think she was flirting. It was nice to see other people in the stands cheering for D.J. too. D.J. has a lot more fans than she realizes, I think. I was proud to know her. And Z was tickled that D.J. had visited her apartment and liked it so much. “That girl ate my Oreos!” Z said to the man in front of us. Somehow it did not sound crazy when she said it. It just made us laugh.

I had a question for Z, though, and during halftime I worked up the courage to ask it: “How bad is the air in Rome?” I cannot stop worrying about this. Seriously: Miss Hesselgrave talks about bad Roman air all the time.

“Oh, darling!” Z laughed. “I should have told you!” It turns out Rome actually did used to have
bad air
—or, as they say in Italian,
mal'aria
—but the real problem was mosquitoes. Mosquitoes flew around at night and bit people and made them sick with malaria, only at the time no one figured out it was the bugs. They all just thought it was the air. Isn't that fascinating? I feel so much better now.

I wish I could tell Curtis about Roman malaria and paranoid Miss Hesselgrave and how even she didn't figure out it was mosquitoes. He would find it fascinating too. But he and I have not communicated since last week. I think something is wrong.

 

 

Curtis and I have broken up. I know: how can we break up when we were never going out? But we did.

It started because he came over to get ice cream. We didn't say much. We just walked over to Jorgensens' for our chocolate and vanilla. We didn't even talk about Boris. I wanted to talk about the malaria bad-air business, but it didn't seem like the right time.

“I don't like what we do,” he said finally.

“What do you mean? Boris? Chess? Ice cream?”

“I don't like having a fake girlfriend.”

“Oh.” I did not know what else to say.
What about our Brilliant Outflanking Strategy?

Curtis stared at the ground. “I want a real girlfriend.” He would not even look at me.

“Oh,” I said again. “Emily.”

There was a long silence. “Emily doesn't lie to people. I like that.”

We sat there for a long time not saying anything. I no longer had any interest in my vanilla.

“We're not lying,” I said finally; “we're outflanking. What's wrong with that?”

“Everything,” Curtis said. “And if you don't see that, maybe we shouldn't be doing this anymore. This whole . . . thing.”

I was shocked. “But what about Boris?”

Curtis shook his head. “I don't feel much like Boris at the moment.”

I thought about pointing out that this was good because Boris is dead. But it would be a terrible joke. Also at that moment I felt exactly like Boris. Except Boris never had to break up with someone. And Boris never had to go to high school.

 

 

I am all packed. Tomorrow we go to Minneapolis, then Chicago, then Rome.

I told Z about breaking up with Curtis. I couldn't help it. That was how I phrased it too: “We broke up.” Not
We stopped fake-going-out with our Brilliant Outflanking Strategy.

Z sighed and said she wasn't surprised. “Sometimes there's just not a spark.”

I tried to agree with her, but I may have been crying. Even fake relationships can hurt, no matter how much sparking there might not be.

“Listen, darling,” she said. “Forget about boys. Tomorrow we begin an enormous adventure. We are going to the Eternal City! We're going to be two girls on the town!”

“Just like Miss Hesselgrave and her companion,” I said. Trying to cheer myself up.

“Well, yes . . . But I will not wear a corset. Do you hear me?”

That made me smile, the image of Z with a corset.

“We are pilgrims—pilgrims of adventure! We are adventurers to the great beyond!”

Z is exactly right. I have the rest of my life for men—I don't need them gumming things up now. I will go to Rome. I will show Curtis I don't need a fake boyfriend to have a real life.

 

 

 

 

Z and I are on the plane to Chicago! We have an exceedingly tight connection to the plane to Rome—we may have to run!

Did you notice that I'm writing in a new journal? I don't think Z would find the cover of this journal quite as “glorious.” But the old journal was already half-filled, and I did not want to run out of space, especially on my first
real
adventure. Also I do not want to carry around memories of Curtis. I can remember him without a book. I don't want to remember these last few weeks anyway. I have put that journal away so that someday I can read it again. Someday that is not anytime close to today.

Mom and Paul drove Z and me to the airport. Mom cried when we said goodbye, but I didn't. Paul waved, but I do not believe he will even notice I'm gone. He will only notice when he has to ride alone with D.J. Even then I think he will still be on Planet Paul.

Curtis did not wave because he was not there. Obviously. He did not say goodbye. I had not meant to point all this out, but I cannot help it. I do not think saying goodbye is what an ex–fake boyfriend is expected to do, but I think a real friend-friend is.

We are about to land. I have to put this away before the flight attendant says something to me.

 

 

We didn't miss our flight to Rome! I think we were the last people to board—the man next to Z had already spread his stuff out onto her seat. He was not pleased when she showed up.

Z and I are not sitting together. I guess the tickets she bought were the right price because they're in different rows. But I can still hear her laugh. I think she made up with the man next to her. I, on the other hand, am sitting next to a nun—a real nun! Who is dressed in black with a headdress! I feel like I'm already in Rome! I think she is from another country, because she was reading a magazine in a different language—I think maybe Spanish. It didn't have any pictures in it. Also her English is not terribly good.