Just J (5 page)

“No, of course not,” my dad says.

He seems more relaxed when Aunt Guin is around too. In fact, the only one who doesn't is Fanny, which makes me like Aunt Guin even more.

“I'll go with Aunt Guin. That'd be okay with me.”

“It's not up to you,” Dad replies.

“No, why should it be? It's only
my
life.”

Dad shakes his head and lowers it with a
you're too
young to understand
sigh.

I hate it when he patronizes me. Aunt Guin puts her hand on my shoulder. Oh God, not her too. But her expres–sion is not patronizing at all. It says
leave it to me
.

“Guinevere, I couldn't ask you to…,” Dad begins.

“I offered, so you're not asking. I just bought a place in the country, and I need help fixing it up. It could be a summer job for J. Besides, it would give us a chance to get to know each other.”

Dad continues to ponder, and as he does, Fanny starts to get nervous. I can't even imagine what's in store for me at Camp Weep-we-do.

“You'd be doing me a favor,” Aunt Guin says. “Well…”

“The camp has already been booked.” The Devil has risen.

It must be some kind of brainwashing camp and that's why she wants me to go there. Maybe she's booked me in for a lobotomy.

“I don't know if we can get a refund,” she adds.

Dad's thinking—always a dangerous sign.

“I don't mean to be pushing my way in here.” (Aunt Guin, what are you saying? Push,
push
.) “If I'm adding to your stress…” (A lesson for all, never trust an adult no matter how nice they appear.) “I have another idea.” (It better be good.) “J goes to camp,” (Not good, not good.) “and I'll stay right here and help out. We have a lot of years to catch up on too, Gerald.” Aunt Guin reaches across the table and touches Dad's hand. “And you'll need all the support you can get at this difficult time.”

“What am I thinking?” The Demon cackles. “I know the owners, so of course we can get a refund. And what could be nicer for J than a chance to get to know her aunt. Family is so important at a time like this. Oh, Gerald, you have to let her go.”

“Okay,” he says, sounding as confused as I feel.

“It's settled then,” Aunt Guin says. “Come on, J. I'll help you pack.” She turns and starts to walk out of the room.

I'm not sure what just happened, but I wish I'd paid closer attention.

Chapter Nine

A
s soon as we enter my room, Aunt Guin starts to go through my stuff. I suppose I should mind, but she does it like a little kid, curious about her surroundings. Most adults look over a teenager's room like a cop going over a crime scene, giving an impromptu interrogation as they look for evidence. “What's
this
about?”

“
This
one says
explicit
lyrics!”

“Where did
you
get
this
?”

“
Who
got you
that
?”

There's none of that with Aunt Guin.

“Is this your favorite?” she asks, pulling out my
Wizard
of Oz
dvd.

“I guess,” I tell her.

“Mine too,” she says, returning it to its shelf.

“Oh, and this one's also my favorite,” she says, looking at my dvd of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
.

“How can you have two favorites?” I ask.

“You can have as many favorites as you like,” she tells me.

“So what shall we bring on our adventure, do you think?” she says cheerfully.

“I'm thirteen. I'm getting a little too old for adventures. A trip will be fine.” I want to make it clear to her that I'm much more mature than your average giggly teen. There's no need for her to act like Happy Barbie.

“Oh, how awful for you. So what should you take on your trip? That sounds so terribly boring, a trip. You're bound to end up landing on your face if you trip, and who wants that?” She talks while exploring, and it's hard to tell if she is actually talking to me or just rambling away to herself. She stops and looks at me. She must have asked me something, but I got so caught up in listening that I stopped hearing.

“What?” I ask.

“Who?”

I look around to see who she's talking about.

“Where?” I inquire.

“How?” she responds.

“How? Why…”

“Why? And that's all you need to become a journalist.”

My aunt's insane. I'm spending my summer with a crazy lady. Great, just great. Mourners' camp isn't sounding quite so bad.

“So is it all right?” she asks.

“What?” I say without thinking.

“Who?” she says playfully.

“No, no, no. What I meant was…is what all right?”

“To call it a voyage instead of a trip?” she says.

“Doesn't a voyage have to be by water?” I ask.

“A voyage is an expedition, especially by water or in air or in space
.
And really, how far can one get without water or air, and the whole planet is in space and so are we.”

Some of us more than others.

“I suppose so,” I agree, too confused to do otherwise.

“So a voyage it will be then?”

“You know what?” I say. “I think an adventure would be just fine.”

“Ah, an adventure! Now, that's the reckless spirit that got us over the Rockies.”

“Okay then.” I have no idea what she's talking about. None.

“You might want to look through the bag to see if there's anything else you'll need. Oh wait, the bathroom.”

As she disappears into the bathroom, I look at my bed, where my backpack sits, already packed. I walk over and look in. My clothes are neatly folded and she has packed my favorite cds and books. Aunt Guin comes out of the bathroom carrying my makeup bag. My expression reveals my shock.

“What's the matter? Have I overstepped the boundaries? I do that sometimes,” she says sincerely.

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Pack my bag.”

“Opened the bag up and put the stuff in. It wasn't that tricky, really. Have you never packed a bag before?”

What is most baffling is that there never seems to be even a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“That's not what I mean and you know it.”

“No, I really don't.” She almost seems startled by my abruptness, and as I look her over, I realize that she genu–inely doesn't get it.

“How did you do it without me seeing you?”

“You didn't see me pack it?”

“No.”

“But you were standing there the whole time.”

“And I was watching you the whole time.”

“Really? Ah well, it's done now. No worries,” she says and puts my makeup bag into my backpack.

“There are worries. I'm worried! Quite worried actu–ally.”

“About what?” Again, completely genuine.

“About what?” I point to the bag. She looks at it as if she's already forgotten about it.

“Are you still on about that?”

Oh, that weepy camp is looking really good now.

“My eyes never left you.”

“Were you listening to me the whole time too?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you asked me to repeat myself. If you can listen without hearing, you can certainly look without seeing. It's all right, you've got a lot going on.” She turns and walks out of the room.

I look around the room. The bed has been made and all the clothes picked up. Either there's more to this than she's telling me or I'm the most unobservant person in the world. And right now, either (or both) is entirely possible.

Chapter Ten

D
ad insists on us staying for lunch so he can talk with Aunt Guin—like he really cares about what I'm going to be doing this summer. Then he decides to give me some advice: Wear sunscreen; Wait an hour after eating before swimming; Neither a borrower nor a lender be. It's so obvious that he doesn't have a clue what to say. The only thing he says that's at all helpful is: Always go before you leave.

“That reminds me,” I say, using the bathroom as an excuse to get away from him.

It's four o'clock before we're finally at the front door saying our good-byes.

“Let me go!” Billy says to me after I've been holding on to him for what he thinks is far too long.

It's not that I'm going to miss him that much. I mean, I love him and all that, but there's a limit. It's just that I don't want to say good-bye to Dad. I'd rather just walk away, but I know that isn't a possibility, so I hold on to Billy as long as I can. He's probably going to be the only one who misses me.

I try to will Dad's pager to go off so I can avoid the whole soon-to-be-ugly scene. While I'm holding Billy, it occurs to me that he hadn't known Mom for very long before she got sick, not long enough to remember what she was like when she was healthy. I wonder how much he will remember. The thought of him knowing The Creature better than Mom makes me shiver, and when I do, Billy stops squirming and rubs my back to warm me. I really am going to miss the little guy.

Mom was so different before the disease. Not as flighty as Aunt Guin—that wouldn't be possible—but she had her own energy. I remember that, but it's so vague, so distant. The cancer infected her body and my mind. It buried the good memories so deeply that, unless I'm dreaming, I need a photograph to remind myself of what she looked like before her skin turned gray. Most of the time I can't even remember farther back than the hospital. It hurts too much to remember her happy.

“You're going to miss me when I'm gone,” I say to Billy as I let him go.

“Uh-uh,” he says.

“Uh-huh.”

“No, 'cause I'm coming with you.”

“No, Billy. You're staying here with us,” Dad says, quickly moving forward and gently but firmly putting his hands on Billy's shoulders.

“But I want to go with J!”

“I know, but I want you here with me.”

Gee, Dad, can you tell me who your favorite is? I mean, don't hold back or sugarcoat it, just come right out and say it. Oh wait, let me.

“Yeah, Billy, he
wants
you.” I pick up my backpack and turn to walk out.

“Jenevieve,” Dad calls after me, leaving out the
you're
being ridiculous
part of the sentence.

I turn around with a look that could rip through rock, and it does. I can see by the look on his face that he actually gets it! And there's no rock more solid than his head. How can a doctor be so stupid?

“Have a good summer,” he says, almost apologetically.

“Oh, I'm sure it'll be peachy. Toodles!” I say with my biggest smile as I do a cheerleader twirl and get out of the house. Once out the door, I duck to the side and lean against the outer wall, wanting to be out of sight, but not out of earshot.

“She can be quite a handful,” The Beast explains with fake sympathy.

“I guess that would depend on what else you're holding onto,” Aunt Guin replies. “It was good seeing you again, Gerald, and meeting you, Fanny. Billy, I am eternally charmed.”

“What's that mean?”

“That I think you're cool and next time you're coming with us.”

“Promise?”

“Never trust anyone who makes a promise. Life has too many curves to guarantee a destination. But I'll do what I can and that's quite a bit. You okay with that?”

“Yeah,” Billy replies, sounding confused.

“I'll see you on Labor Day.”

“See you then, Aunt Dibilybop,” Billy says.

And before Dad or Fanny can say anything, Aunt Guin closes the door and walks past me.

“Well, come on,” she says without looking at me. Her stride is strong and purposeful, and I have to jog to catch up and speed-walk to keep up. This goes on for a few blocks before I finally ask, “Where's your car?”

“What car?”

“The one we're taking to your cabin?”

“Oh, it's not a cabin, it's a house, and it's on a beach.”

“I don't care…it's on a beach?”

“White sand.”

“I'm too pale and skinny for a beach.” I hate my body or lack of it.

“Tall and thin is in.”

“Oh yeah, all teenage guys want to be with someone who's taller than they are.”

“You don't strike me as the guy-chasing type.”

“I'm not—at all.”

“Okay.”

“I'm not!”

“All right.”

This is just infuriating. You say one thing—agghhh.

“So, where's your car?”

“What makes you think I have a car?”

She's joking. She has to be joking.

“How are we going to get to your house?”

“Hitch a ride,” she says.

I stop. I think about the black veil camp. I think about spending my summer with an insane aunt. I think about my sore legs and about getting murdered by a psycho who drives around all day looking for hitchhikers. I think there must be another choice.

“I'm not hitchhiking.”

“Why not?”

“Because we could get killed, raped, end up in the slave trade or get cut up into little pieces and sold as gourmet cat food.”

“It's perfectly safe to hitch a ride as long as you know who's picking you up. It's a calculated risk that way, espe–cially if you've arranged a time for said pickup.” She looks at her watch and then up the road. “Right on time.”

Chapter Eleven

I
follow Aunt Guin's gaze to a vw van turning onto the street we're on. The van's seen better days. It's mostly silver but only because most of the paint is gone and the steel has been polished, except above the wheels where it's flesh toned—I think it's called body filler. The roof is cream colored, and I can only guess that's what the rest of it used to be. The sun reflects in waves off the van's side as it moves toward us like a steel caterpillar. Aunt Guin sticks her thumb out and the van pulls to a stop.