The Ambassador of Nowhere Texas

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  “Dad, I need to tell you something.”

  * * *

  When I was finished filling him in, Dad told me to call Twig’s mom. Just as I went to pick up the receiver, the phone rang.

  Mrs. Wagner asked, “Rylee, is Twig there?”

  I spilled my guts, telling her the plan and where I last saw Twig. Mr. Wagner had moved to Amarillo, so five minutes later, Dad and I picked up Twig’s mom and headed down the old highway where, only a few hours before, Twig and I journeyed.

  Inside the truck, Mrs. Wagner didn’t bother to lower her rain jacket hood. It was as if she wanted to shut us out, or maybe just me.

  Lightning cracked the gray sky while the rain poured down. The sun was hidden behind low clouds, but I could see the beams casting a golden haze on the horizon. It was as beautiful as a painting, and I might have stared at it longer, watching it set, if I hadn’t been looking for Twig.

  We passed the cowshed where we waited out the storm, talking about our futures, my safe, boring one and her grand, adventurous one. When we reached the steep twist in the road, I spotted Twig’s bike. It was lying flat on the ground near the shoulder of the road like it had been abandoned in a hurry.

  “Stop!” I hollered, pointing it out.

  “Dear God,” Mrs. Wagner uttered, and covered her mouth.

  I was thinking the worst, too—struck by lightning, attacked by a coyote, picked up by some pervert. All the possibilities that made me turn around.

  Dad parked on the shoulder, switched on his caution lights, and told us to stay in the truck.

  My hand gripped the door handle, but I obeyed and stayed put. I stared at the floorboard, avoiding Mrs. Wagner, my heart thumping against my chest as Dad called Twig’s name.

  Mrs. Wagner jumped out of the truck and ran through the downpour frantically, crying out, “Twig!”

  I should have told Dad when he first got home. Minutes could make a difference.

  “She’s not here,” Dad hollered, motioning for Mrs. Wagner to head back with him to the truck.

  Inside the truck, Dad’s raincoat dripped on the seat. “That’s a pretty steep climb,” he said. “Cal bikes a lot, but I’ve only managed it myself once. She probably walked to the overlook from here.”

  Mrs. Wagner focused straight ahead as the windshield wipers swished back and forth.

  Dad glanced over at her. “There’s a shoulder along the road the whole way.”

  The road was empty except for us, but Dad kept his caution lights on and drove slowly up the incline. We looked from east to west and north to south, high and low as if she’d drop out of the sky.

  We reached the overlook. Someone was sitting on top of a picnic table, huddled with her arms hugging her knees. The sun, now on the horizon, had broken through the clouds and cast a pinky orange on her. Her hair and clothes were drenched, and she was shaking. It was Twig.

  She looked in our direction, and it seemed to take her a moment to realize who we were. When she did, she shifted her legs and turned away from us.

  Mrs. Wagner got out of the truck. I started to follow her, but Dad stopped me. “Stay put, Rylee.”

  I leaned back and watched her mom rush toward her. Mrs. Wagner took off her raincoat and tried to slip it on Twig, but Twig pushed it away. Finally she reluctantly got off the table and followed Mrs. Wagner to the truck.

  When Twig joined me in the back seat, I sent her a weak smile. She didn’t say a word, just sat as close to the door as possible, pressing her cheek against the window while raindrops raced down the glass.

  CHAPTER 12

  I didn’t try to call Twig all weekend. I thought about it, but what would I have said?

  “You probably saved her life,” Mom told me. “You have nothing to apologize about.”

  But why did it feel like I did? Why was squim the only word that I wished I could say to her?

  Saying sorry was easy for me. Besides, even though telling was for a good reason, I had betrayed her.

  * * *

  Monday I waited by our lockers before school. I was starting to get good at rearranging mine. Language arts book on top. History and pre-algebra next. Then I reversed the order—pre-algebra, history, language arts. Then the spiral notebooks—red, yellow, green, and blue.

  Juan Leon stopped by. “Did you lose something?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  I must have really looked like a dork if Juan Leon came down to earth from Math Planet and noticed me shuffling through notebooks. The whole time I kept glancing back at the entrance, waiting for Twig. The first bell rang, and everyone made their way to their homerooms.

  Except me.

  Then she appeared, walking hand in hand toward the school with Vernon. They wore matching army jackets. When they entered the school, Vernon noticed me right off. He smirked my way and said, “Catch you later,” to Twig, who moved slowly in my direction, avoiding my eyes.

  She opened her locker, gathered her books, and started to walk away.

  I called her name.

  She stopped.

  “Twig, I only told because I was afraid for you.”

  “You’re always afraid,” she said. “Afraid to do anything wrong. Go ahead and live your perfect little life.”

  I forgot how to breathe. The last bell rang, and I stayed leaning against the locker, watching her walk away, her long legs moving at a carefree pace toward her homeroom.

  I was still there in the wide hallway by my locker, staring in at the trophy case glass, when I noticed Mr. Arlo’s reflection behind me.

  “Rylee, are you okay?” he gently asked.

  “Yes.” I snapped out of my daze. “Yes, sir.”

  “Better get to class.” Then, as if he remembered he was the principal, his tone changed. “You’re officially late. For the very first time, I might add.”

  * * *

  In history, the only class Twig and I had together, she settled at the back next to Vernon and never looked my way. At lunch she sat with him and his crony at what Twig had named the Jackass Table. She was laughing and twisting straws into animals like she used to do with me.

  The whole day I felt like I was swimming through a fog. Nothing seemed clear. After school I picked up the phone several times to call Twig, but changed my mind.

  Then Dad gave me some money and told me to go pick up burgers, since Mom was working late. I was relieved to have something to do.

  * * *

  At the Bowl-a-Rama, Ferris showed me the picture Miss Myrtie Mae left him of Dad and Uncle Cal as boys atop the café’s roof.

  “They thought I didn’t know, but I always did,” Ferris said. “Customers would tell me it sounded like I had giant squirrels scampering around up there.”

  By now I figured Dad didn’t mean we needed to keep the picture a secret, so I told Ferris.

  “Zachary Beaver? Yeah, I remember him. I baptized that boy in Gossimer Lake.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, your dad and Cal were there. Malcolm Clifton, too.”

  “Really?” I wanted to ask more, but our order was ready and no one liked cold fries.

  Before I made it out the door, Ferris said, “Zachary had a funny middle name, but for the life of me, I can’t remember it.”

  As soon as I stepped out of the Bowl-a-Rama Café, I saw her. Twig was making her way down the square. She lowered her head when she noticed me and slowed her pace, but I kept moving toward her.

  We reached each other in front of Earline’s Real Estate office. Twig started to brush past me. “Wait, Twig,” I said.

  She froze, but focused on the concrete at her feet.

  “Twig, why won’t you forgive me?” My question sounded pathetic, and part of me hated myself for asking it, but I didn’t know how to not be friends with her.

  She lifted her head and glared at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “About Friday.”

  “Friday was a long time ago.” She stared in the window of Earline’s office. Earline
was typing at a desk, and her back was to us.

  “What is it, then?” I asked.

  Earline turned around, smiled, and waved. We both fake smiled and waved back as if we were still best friends who had just run into each other.

  “What is it?” I repeated. “What did I do?”

  Twig took a big breath, then let it out. Her voice softened. “Sometimes things change. Things you never think will change. Look what happened in New York.”

  “It’s awful,” I said. “It doesn’t seem real.”

  “If you were at an airport when it happened, you’d know it was real.”

  I thought back to that night when Twig called me. She’d been so happy that I’d checked on her. How did everything drift so far from that moment?

  Twig continued. “Then I get home and find out my parents are splitting up. I know my dad has a temper, but he’s never laid a hand on Mom. She says what happened in New York made her think how short life was, and she doesn’t want to spend it with my dad. She doesn’t love him anymore.”

  I was the only one who could hear her, but it was as if she were saying the words to herself, trying to make sense of it all. I reached out and touched Twig’s arm.

  But she stepped back and tensed her jaw. “And you knew already, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said softly.

  “Go live your perfect life. You don’t need me. You have everything.”

  Then she moved along, leaving me standing alone. I stayed there a second, listening to the tap, tap of Earline’s typewriter. I’d done everything I could do. I’d apologized, practically begged for forgiveness, but it was no use. Then I moved away, clutching the bag of burgers and fries, picking up my pace. My walk became a run as I hurried home, making a big promise to myself every step of the way—that I would never ever care about Twig Wagner again.

  CHAPTER 13

  When she was alive, Miss Myrtie Mae’s home had been Antler’s best decorated house during the holidays. Even though Dad threw white lights on the bushes in front of our home every December, it wasn’t anywhere near as spectacular. After every Thanksgiving, Miss Myrtie Mae hired Mr. Pham to hang lights from the rooflines of her house and gazebo, and twist string lights around her naked cottonwood’s branches.

  Miss Myrtie Mae was partial to blinking lights until Eb Gambert, who lived across the street, claimed he got epileptic seizures just by looking in his bathroom mirror.

  Now the only festive thing on Miss Myrtie Mae’s house was the gaudy wreath Miss Earline hung on the door, hoping to attract a potential buyer. She’d only had one showing since the sign went up, and she called those people tire kickers, a nosy couple from Clarendon who wanted to see inside the house but had no intention to buy it.

  Since September I stopped walking by the house, because it reminded me of what had happened with Twig. Our friendship had once seemed so strong and unbreakable, but was now declining at such a rate it would never be the same.

  I’d always thought there was no better place to live than Antler, but these days, I found myself wondering what it would be like to call somewhere else home. I daydreamed of living in Paris with Aunt Scarlett.

  Mom didn’t mention Twig anymore. In her opinion, I didn’t deserve Twig’s treatment. Dad, on the other hand, spoke as if our broken friendship was a temporary thing.

  “Divorce is hard on kids,” he added. “I know.”

  He was talking about Opa and Grandpa. I often forgot about them being married or divorced, probably because Grandpa had died before Opa returned to Antler. I don’t ever remember seeing them together in the same room. It seemed one minute Grandpa was giving me horsey rides, and the next minute he was gone. Opa seemed to waltz into our lives right after that.

  Dad said not to give up on Twig. He told me that even he and Uncle Cal went through a bad patch.

  I wanted to ask, How about Zachary Beaver? Something must have not worked out with him.

  Mom’s Les Misérables poster still hadn’t been framed, and Miss Myrtie Mae’s photograph remained in the corner of our living room. Sometimes I pulled it away from the wall and stared into the boy’s eyes, asking, “Where did you go, Zachary Beaver?”

  On New Year’s Day, I decided to go ahead and ask Dad, “Why don’t you want to find him?”

  “Rylee,” he said, “to put it simply, 1971 was a tough summer, and Zachary’s visit was the best part of it.”

  “That’s what doesn’t make sense. Seems like you’d want to find him, then.”

  Dad looked away to the picture in the corner. “He was a really big guy.”

  It was interesting to me how Dad didn’t say the word that most people would use to describe Zachary.

  “Your mom is right. He could be dead. There’s a good chance of that. I want to remember him like he was that summer when the three of us became friends.”

  I thought of Twig and how, even though we weren’t friends anymore, I hoped one day she’d remember how we’d shared some great times together. Then I silently promised myself I’d never ask Dad about Zachary Beaver again.

  * * *

  At the end of February the last winter snow thawed, and the date for the new library’s groundbreaking was announced. It would be held the first Saturday in April. The day after the announcement, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun shone so bright it lifted my spirits. I hadn’t ridden since last summer, so I dragged my bike out and went around town, pedaling past places Twig and I used to visit. After being cooped up indoors for weeks, it felt good to be outside with the sunshine warming my back and the crisp air chilling my face.

  Mr. Pham was making his way down my street, and he tipped his green fedora at me when I passed by. He walked every morning, no matter the weather, always wearing his finest clothes. That day he had on a trench coat and a plaid scarf around his neck. As usual, he carried two bags, one for litter and the other for soda cans. Ferris said he’d turned them in to the recycling plant for years and that there was no telling how much money he had.

  I moved along the streets of Antler, trying to push away any memory I had about the days Twig and I rode together. I avoided Allsup’s, but decided to make the corner onto Miss Myrtie Mae’s street. When I passed her house, I could tell something was different. It took a moment before I realized the sign was missing. Either a Jerk had taken it as a prank or someone had bought Miss Myrtie Mae’s house. By sundown, we learned that it was neither. The new owner from Brooklyn had decided to move to Antler.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Toscani family was due to move into Miss Myrtie Mae’s old house during spring break. Their last name was all we knew about them, but everyone figured they must have kids since they chose that week.

  Spring break week also meant Mom, Dad, and I would take turns at the snow cone stand. Usually I hated having to spend my break working because that robbed me of time hanging out with Twig, but now I looked forward to it. Selling snow cones would give me something to do.

  That first morning, I started for my shift and saw an unfamiliar burgundy SUV with a Vermont license plate easing down our street. Twig and I could finally cross Vermont off our list. But what would she care now? It was a dumb game anyway.

  When the SUV turned at our corner onto Cottonwood Street, pulling into Miss Myrtie Mae’s driveway, I realized the car must belong to the Toscanis. Before I took off for the stand, I told Mom that I thought the new neighbors had arrived.

  Mayzee slid down the banister. “I want to see them!”

  She’d been told a million times not to do that, but never got into real trouble.

  “Mayzee Wilson,” Mom said, “what did I tell you, young lady?” She turned back to me. “I’ll make a carrot cake for them. Don’t worry, I’ll make one for us, too.”

  Mom’s carrot cake was her specialty. Double cream cheese frosting, cake so moist it melted in your mouth. No one knew the recipe. Ferris had begged to have it for years. After the hundredth time that he asked and she declined, he took a stab at it.
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  When Mom tasted his attempt, she told him, “Nope, that’s not it.”

  “Yeah,” Ferris said, “I reckoned that.”

  He even promised to put her name on the menu if she’d give the recipe to him. “I’ll call it Tara Wilson’s 24k Carrot Cake.”

  “Nope,” Mom had told him. “That recipe’s going with me to the grave. How do you think I got my husband? That cake is guaranteed man bait.”

  If another year went by without getting my first kiss, I might need that recipe. Although I was pretty sure the cake didn’t have anything to do with Mom plucking Dad’s heartstrings. The story I’d been told was that Mom had been crazy for Dad most of her life, but she was seven years younger and he’d never paid much attention to her.

  They only lived a few blocks apart, and would see each other often around town. But years later they bumped into each other at the Dallas–Fort Worth Airport. Dad was traveling home from a history teachers’ conference, and Mom had celebrated graduating from college by visiting Aunt Scarlett, who was living in New York at the time. When Mom spotted Dad at the departure gate, she plopped herself next to him, starting a conversation. Because of bad weather, their flight time to Amarillo kept being postponed. They waited it out, making their way around the airport, eating nachos for dinner, drinking coffee later, and sharing an ice cream sundae.

  Their flight was officially canceled at midnight, and they were rescheduled the next morning. When the airlines brought out cots for the passengers, Mom and Dad put theirs side by side.

  Dad insisted he didn’t get a wink of sleep because he wanted to make sure Mom’s purse and bag didn’t get stolen, but Mom claimed she didn’t dare blink the entire night, staring at Dad as he slept, thinking how lucky she was to have spent an entire day with Toby Wilson. They were married three months later. That may not sound like a fairy tale to most people, but to me, it was pretty romantic.