The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  “There’s no price for these,” I told her.

  She peered through her glasses at the box, gave it a good look-over. “Where was it?”

  “In the parlor next to the camera.” I had five dollars in my pocket, so I was hoping it wasn’t a cent more.

  “You do know the film is already used, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “Did you know Miss Pruitt?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My dad mowed her lawn, and she’s our neighbor. I mean, was our neighbor. My mom is the lady who bought the camera.”

  She smiled. “I think it was supposed to go with the camera. So I guess it belongs to your mom.”

  “Thank you!”

  I hurried home with my prize, where Opa was waiting out front on the porch. I showed her the film.

  “Oh, I love a good mystery. Since it’s later than usual,” she said, “I thought we’d go to brunch.”

  “Can we drop the film off at a drugstore first?”

  “I’m counting on it!” Opa said. “I’ll bet they’ll be finished developing them by the time we’re done eating.”

  I couldn’t wait to see what the pictures would reveal. Maybe there’d be more of Zachary Beaver.

  Unfortunately all fourteen rolls revealed either items inside Miss Myrtie Mae’s bedroom or views outside of her window, probably taken when she was bedridden her last year. I shuffled through them quickly, but hairbrushes, bird feeders, and other things like that can be pretty boring stuff to look at. A self-portrait with Miss Myrtie Mae staring back in the mirror seemed to be the only interesting one.

  Remembering the drugstore’s film policy, I said, “Opa, we don’t have to pay for these if we don’t want them. Well, maybe I’ll keep the self-portrait.”

  “Keep them all,” she said. “They may mean something to you one day.”

  I didn’t see how, but I slipped the photos back into the bag.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was September 20. Twig arrived the day before, but she didn’t call me. “She’s probably catching up on sleep,” Dad said. “There’s a seven-hour time difference.”

  Still I was hurt, but then I remembered how she called me late on September 11. On the walk to school, I thought about everything she’d missed—finding the owner of Miss Myrtie Mae’s house, the new future library, the Bowl-a-Rama Café’s new look, and especially about Zachary Beaver. There was so much to tell her.

  At school, I waited for her by our lockers, rearranging my textbooks a million times, hearing the slams of other locker doors. I felt dumb standing there, so I decided to make a quick WELCOME BACK, TWIG sign and taped it to the front of her locker.

  Vernon and Boone came over and checked out the sign. Then Vernon dug a pen from his backpack and signed his name, but not before he wrote, Hey, Hot Stuff, Missed you! He handed the pen to Boone, who scribbled his signature.

  Jerks! I mouthed to the floor when they walked away. A few other kids stopped by to read the sign. They asked if they could add their names, too, and I told them sure, even handing them my own pen.

  A minute before the first bell was about to ring, kids were still signing, including the Garcia twins.

  Handing back my pen, Frederica nudged me and tilted her head toward the entrance. “There she is.”

  At first I didn’t recognize Twig. Her long hair had been cut into a pixie, and she wore black mascara and deep rose lipstick.

  Every girl in the main hall, except Frederica and me, rushed to Twig, squealing over her new appearance. They swarmed to her like little kids surrounding an ice cream truck.

  Frederica left for homeroom. “See you later.”

  I moved closer to Twig, waiting for my turn.

  Then the bell rang and everyone scattered off to homeroom, leaving the two of us. We hugged.

  “Hey,” Twig said, but her confident, upbeat tone was missing.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  She frowned. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” I thought about what Dad said about the seven-hour difference. She was probably sleepy.

  “Your locker is right next to mine,” I told her. “Mrs. Frank let me choose it.”

  Instead of saying, “Cool” or “Awesome,” like Twig would have, she followed me in silence.

  When she saw the paper, she muttered, “That was nice.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to sign it.”

  She pulled the sign off and stuck it inside her empty locker. We headed to our homerooms together, but it felt like I was walking alone.

  At lunch we sat by Frederica and Juan Leon. It wouldn’t have seemed right not to. I’d sat with them every day since the beginning of school. Juan Leon broke away from his math talk with Frederica to ask Twig about the flight.

  “Was there extra security?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” she said. “Yeah, there was.”

  “Were there long lines?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Suitcase searches?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Pat downs?”

  She sighed. “Yep. It was definitely different flying home than leaving.”

  “I heard there were undercover security as passengers. Did you see any?” Juan Leon asked.

  Frederica rolled her eyes. “Well, if they were undercover, she wouldn’t know, would she?”

  He lifted his thick eyebrows. “Well, she might have suspected.”

  “Stop interrogating her,” Frederica said. I was glad she’d said it.

  Juan Leon went on to defend his questions by explaining deductive reasoning, using a math problem to demonstrate his point.

  That’s when I zoned out. Twig had too and was breaking her potato chips into tiny pieces, none of them making their way to her mouth. She seemed to be more than sleepy. Something was bothering her. Probably September 11 or Juan Leon’s questions about it.

  * * *

  After school, Twig said, “I’ve been thinking. Let’s ride our bikes to the canyon overlook Friday.”

  “This Friday?” We were off Friday because of a teacher-in-service day, but she could have said any day. The canyon overlook was more than twenty miles away, and there was a steep, twisting incline to cycle up before reaching it.

  “I should have known,” Twig said. “You’re never going to do it, are you?”

  Even though I knew Mayzee was spending the night with Opa Thursday night and they were rehearsing Friday for Saturday’s opry, I said, “My parents might need me to watch Mayzee.”

  That wasn’t the first time Twig had asked me to ride with her to the canyon overlook. The last time was during last summer break when we were bored. But I’d made up some excuse then too.

  “You’re afraid,” she’d said.

  She was right. What would my parents say if I asked to pedal over twenty miles out of town? They’d never give me permission to go. I’d have to lie to them.

  “Next summer would be better,” I told her, secretly hoping she’d forget.

  “Sure,” she said, but her tone said it all. She hadn’t believed me.

  Now a big chunk of silence wedged between us as we waited for Mayzee. Kids exited the school like a stirred anthill, some heading to buses and cars, others to the road to walk home.

  “Well, I’m going,” Twig said.

  Mayzee ran out of the school and joined us.

  “Twig!”

  And for a split second Twig was her old self. A broad smile crossed her face, and she hugged Mayzee. “Hey, short stuff. Was first grade ready for you?”

  At home in the kitchen, Mom asked, “How’s Twig doing?”

  “Fine.” Then I added, “I don’t know. Something seems wrong.”

  “She didn’t tell you about her parents splitting up?”

  My body went numb. “What? How did you find out?”

  Mom gave me her you-should-know look but said it anyway. “We live in Antler.”

  At least now I understood why Twig was acting different. But knowing it ma
de me feel worse, because I thought since I was her best friend, she would have leaned on me, instead of building a wall between us.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised. Mr. Wagner had a bad temper. A couple of summers ago, I’d spent the night at Twig’s house. We were playing checkers in her bedroom when her father started yelling at her mother in the next room.

  A few seconds later, we heard the front door slam, followed by his pickup truck screeching out of the driveway, then puttering down the road.

  I peered at Twig across the checkerboard. Her eyes were empty, the way she looked when something happened that would cause most kids to break down.

  My parents had never fought beyond a small spat, but I wanted to make her feel better. “My parents argue sometimes, too.”

  She stared hard at me, frowning. Then with a flat tone, she tapped the checkerboard with her index finger and said, “Your turn.”

  Her dad came back an hour later with a gallon of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream. Her mother never came out of the bedroom, but we watched her dad fill up big bowls while we awkwardly laughed at his stupid jokes. I’d been so excited to finally be asked to spend the night at her house, but as her father spooned perfect round scoops of ice cream, I’d never felt so homesick. Maybe to Twig, riding to the canyon overlook was an escape from her parents’ breakup. Probably she just wanted to do something they wouldn’t approve of.

  I picked up the phone and dialed her number.

  “Okay. I’ll do it,” I told her.

  “Do what?” she asked.

  “I’ll ride to the overlook with you on Friday.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Do you think we’ll be back by dark?” I asked Twig the next day.

  “Of course we will. I figured it out. It’ll take us half a day to get there and half a day back. If we leave right after breakfast, we can pack a lunch and eat it at the overlook. Then we’ll turn back and arrive home before dinner.”

  Twig’s plan started to sound convincing. Besides, the long ride would give her a chance to finally open up to me about her parents, and I could tell her about Zachary Beaver.

  Friday, I told my parents Twig and I would be riding bikes all day. I didn’t say where. They didn’t question me either. It wasn’t a lie, but why did it feel like one? Riding bikes was really what we did most of the time together anyway.

  At eight that morning, we met at Allsup’s. Outside Twig handed me a bottle of water to add to my backpack. “Here, you’ll need this.”

  I was nervous and excited as we breezed past the town limits, heading south on the old highway. The road was quiet, but it wasn’t traveled much, mainly ranchers and cotton farmers heading to and from home. The sky was overcast, and the wind kicked at the prairie grasses.

  “Don’t look back,” Twig said. “You’ll turn into a pillar of salt.”

  After a while, I couldn’t help it. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Antler’s cotton gin. Aside from the water tower, it was our town’s tallest structure. Now it looked like a silver thimble on the horizon. The sky was getting darker too, just like it did before a huge summer storm.

  Thirty minutes into the ride, my legs already ached. They hurt more when I thought of the long journey ahead, the steep, winding road leading to the wall of the canyon we’d have to pedal up before reaching the overlook.

  An unfamiliar truck passed us, pulling over to the left side of the road to give us plenty of room. We raised our arms in a wave. After the truck disappeared, the only sound for a while was the clink-clunk of a nearby windmill.

  The sky kept getting darker, but I didn’t dare mention it. I’d protested enough. A mile down the road, tiny little pellets hit our bodies. It had started to hail.

  “Ping,” Twig said every time they hit her like bullets bouncing off Superman. She kept pedaling.

  Ping. Ping.

  The road looked as if it were covered in rock salt. We pedaled slower, making crunching sounds with our tires. There was no dodging them. I scanned the area and discovered a cowshed in an old cotton field. We rode over to the fence and carefully crawled through the barbed wire, abandoning our bikes on the other side as we hurried for shelter.

  The hail stopped, but was followed by sheets of rain that thumped loudly on the metal roof. We watched awhile in silence, then we shared our plans about what we would do when we grew up and graduated from Antler High.

  “I’m going to travel everywhere by backpack,” Twig yelled over the heavy rain.

  I cupped my hands together. “After college?”

  “The world will be my college. While you’re studying your old dusty textbooks, I’ll be learning from life.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You can come too,” she added.

  “Okay,” I lied. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Twig smiled, but the twitch in her eyes revealed that she didn’t believe me. Mom and Dad had brainwashed me about going to college since I could walk. I kind of wanted to go anyway.

  I wondered when she was going to tell me about her parents, but she didn’t. So I asked her about Madrid. She answered, but the excitement she showed in her postcards was missing. It was as if she’d only gone down the road to Childress.

  The hard rain slowed, turning into a gentle sprinkle, and Twig still hadn’t said anything about the breakup. Then I asked her, “Were your parents glad to see you back home?”

  She squinted at me. “Of course.”

  I quickly changed the subject. “You need to see the photograph Miss Myrtie Mae left my dad.”

  I went on, telling her all I knew about Zachary Beaver, how other people in town received pictures that had to do with the time he was here, and how I was determined to find out the importance of his visit and hoped she’d help.

  “Why else would Miss Myrtie Mae give him that picture?” I asked.

  Twig didn’t answer. She didn’t even seem interested. Then she leaned back against the wall of the cowshed and said, “I got kissed in Madrid.”

  “Really?”

  “And again and again, and again. Two different guys, both friends of my cousin Paulo.”

  “On the same day?”

  She laughed. “No! Not on the same day.”

  Suddenly my whole talk about Zachary seemed silly and childish. I wished I’d never mentioned him. My gut had a gnawing feeling that had nothing to do with hunger. It wasn’t that I ever believed I’d be the first. Deep down I’d always figured that it would be Twig.

  The rain stopped, and for a moment we lingered, waiting to see if it would start again. When it didn’t, we went to get our bikes. Twig looked south, and I looked north.

  “Well, we almost made it.” I tried to sound disappointed.

  “What do you mean?” Twig asked. “Nothing’s changed. For me, anyway.”

  I stared at the spot where my bicycle tire touched the road.

  “I knew you wouldn’t finish,” she said, positioning her bike in the direction of the overlook.

  “It was hailing. It might start up again.” The clouds still made a thick charcoal cover above us. September was the time of the year when twisters could appear out of nowhere.

  “Go on,” Twig said. Then she hopped on her bike and pedaled in the direction of the overlook.

  The gray sky looked like it was pouting, ready to let loose again. She was right. I was afraid. I watched her for a long while, trying to find the courage to follow. Instead I turned and pedaled in the opposite direction, heading toward Antler, heading toward home.

  CHAPTER 11

  The clouds didn’t clear. At the square, I thought about turning on Main Street and stopping at the opry to see Opa. But she, Mayzee, and the other performers would be rehearsing for the next night’s show. All I really felt like doing anyway was being alone in my room. Things had changed between Twig and me. Maybe forever.

  When I arrived home, no one was there. My parents must have still been at school. At least I wouldn’t have to answer any questions about where I’d
been.

  A minute later, I heard Dad drop his keys down on the kitchen counter. He walked into the living area and smiled when he saw me, looking relieved.

  “There you are,” he said. “Nasty hailstorm. You weren’t out in it, were you?”

  “I found quick cover.”

  “Good. Hey, want to help me pick some new flavors for next year?”

  “Sure.”

  He handed me the catalogue. People wouldn’t believe how many snow cone syrup flavors there are to choose from. Some make me want to puke just reading them, like Honey Pickle Juice and Burnt Marshmallow. Little kids would probably love them, though.

  I continued reading down the page, but after a minute, the names wouldn’t sink in. My thoughts were on Twig. I kept an ear out for the phone. An hour passed, and I thought about calling Twig’s house, but if I did and her mom answered and Twig wasn’t there, she’d worry because she thought Twig was with me.

  After I made a list of my syrup choices for Dad, I went to my room. I tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate. Then I thought about working on my report for Dad’s class, but ended up cleaning out my closet instead. This was Dad’s bedroom growing up, and occasionally I was reminded of it when I discovered something like a toy soldier in the bottom drawer or the scribbled note on the back of the closet wall. In pencil, he’d written, Right Hand Man Muscle Wilson. I kept it there because it cracked me up and it reminded me that Dad was once my age.

  For a while tossing out shoes and jeans I’d outgrown kept me distracted, but then I quickly sank back into worrying. The afternoon dragged like a worm inching his way up the Eiffel Tower.

  Outside it had started to rain again. Twig didn’t have a jacket with her. The phone rang at six thirty, but it was Mom calling to tell us she was bringing home Mr. Pham’s chicken pho for dinner.

  After I hung up, I stared at the phone. “Ring. Ring,” I whispered. But it stayed silent. I walked over to the window. It was only a little drizzle. A few minutes later, a shot of lightning pierced the sky, followed by thunder. I hurried downstairs, where Dad was filling glasses with ice cubes.