The Colossus of Roads

by Christina Uss

  NOT JUST FOR DUCTS

  MOM UNLOCKED THEIR door and made a pit stop at the bathroom. Dad was already home, sitting at the kitchen table with a calculator and a binder full of papers. He stood up and started clearing things to the couch. “Hey, kiddo. Wash up and help set the table. A happy cabbage-roll-free dinner awaits us all. Mom and I went shopping, and we’re going to make spaghetti and meatballs.”

  Double hooray! said Rick’s stomach. Life is good. But Rick noticed Dad’s smile also wasn’t up to its usual level either. He looked as worn out as he had the night before.

  “Dad, what’s up? Why are you both home so early? Didn’t you have one of your dinner deliveries scheduled for today?” Mom and Dad sometimes served their food buffet-style but more often dropped it off. They regularly served two, sometimes three lunches a day and did a couple of dinner drop-offs per week. Since Rick’s brothers had moved out, they’d stopped doing weekend events or anything that could run late into the evening.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me I had mustard on my cheek?” he heard Mom calling from behind the bathroom door, then running water.

  “The dinner delivery canceled their contract earlier this week,” Dad said. Some places had standing contracts for food to be delivered on certain dates and times. “But since that means spaghetti and meatballs, it’s not the worst news.”

  Mom came back in and shushed Dad. “Let’s not talk contracts. Let’s enjoy a nice meal as a family.” She set a pot of water on the stove, sprinkled salt into it, and began chopping garlic and tomatoes.

  Rick washed his hands in the kitchen sink. It was a small kitchen, so he had to lean around his mom to get down three plates. He noticed something. “Mom, you might want to know, you have mustard on your ear.”

  “Must have missed that spot,” she said. “I suppose it’s my badge of successful-cooking honor. We got rave reviews at a lunch buffet we served today. Can you get it off? My hands are all tomatoey.”

  Rick ripped off a piece of paper towel and swiped the brownish-yellow blob off Mom’s earlobe.

  “What a good son,” she said. “Now please get the meat out of the fridge.”

  Rick handed her the package of ground beef and got the table set. When the meal was ready, they sat down and started passing bowls. Rick told them about the school visit from the ancient art professor, leaving out the naked statue part. Not an appropriate dinnertime image.

  When there was a pause in the conversation, Mom cleared her throat and said, “Sooooo. Dad says you did well with yesterday’s trial of Pre-Teen Responsibility. We were wondering if you might like to do a little more of that? Maybe spend afternoons over here alone instead of at the Herreras’?”

  His stomach made a noise of protest. “I really like it at the Herreras’, Mom. I’d rather stay there. Being home by myself would be boring.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged a long look. She jutted her chin at Dad as if prompting him. He said, “Your mom and I have been talking, and we don’t want you to miss opportunities to, er, explore and develop new skills.”

  Watch out, his stomach warned. Are they going to start driving us to activities again? Did we learn nothing from football practice?

  “Whoops, forgot to put out the salad.” Mom stood up and returned to the table with the salad bowl. She also handed Rick a spiral-bound book labeled Webelos Cub Scout Handbook. “What do you think about this? We called the local Cub Scout master and asked if there was a way for you to participate without having to drive to anything. He said if we sign off on your work and get it to him, he’d be happy to include you. He said you’d be welcome to attend meetings once a week virtually through Skype or FaceTime.”

  Rick looked at the cover of the handbook. It had a picture of uniformed boys setting up a tent in a forest. “What would I do, set up a tent in the living room on camera like I’m in quarantine?”

  “Not like you’re in quarantine, like you’re a smart kid who knows his limits!” Mom said indignantly, giving him another meatball. “You’d work on completing tasks at home to earn activity pins. Look, we know extra driving isn’t an option for this family, so we have to be creative. We’re trying to think of ways to use technology to help you connect with some new people and develop new skills.”

  Where is this coming from? Rick wondered. “Sorry, Mom, I don’t understand why you came up with this idea. I’d say changing schools is enough change for now.”

  “Things might be fine if we don’t do this,” Dad said to Mom. They exchanged a long, odd glance, battling about something via their eyeballs.

  Mom appeared to win, because she spoke next. “It’s something your father and I have talked about, and we’d really like you to give it a try.

  Rick grudgingly flipped through the Webelos handbook. “Anything in here about traffic patterns?”

  “Oh, hon, there’s so much good stuff,” said Mom. “For instance, in October, there’s a Duct Tape Regatta, where participants build a boat capable of floating while holding a piece of fruit. Try something new. You never know where your true talents might lie.”

  Aha, that was it. This had something to do with his mom’s concern that he spent too much time and energy on his Snarl Solutions. Rick wished he had a good way to defend what he was pretty sure was his one true talent. Mom took the handbook from him and flipped to a page that read Not Just for Ducts.

  “You can’t tell me this doesn’t sound fun!” She read aloud, “‘With enough duct tape on hand, a Scout can do practically anything: use it in first aid, emergency rescue, as a building tool, or to design an entertaining game,’” and added, “See, there are lots of projects you could work on after school, keeping your hands and mind busy.”

  Dad said, “I could pick up a boat’s worth of duct tape from the hardware store.”

  Rick sighed. “I guess I could think about it.”

  “That’s all we ask, kiddo,” Mom said, passing him back the Scout handbook. “Read this later! I bet it will get you excited.”

  Rick set the handbook next to his plate. He twirled a big knot of pasta onto his fork. If more change was in the cards, he needed more good things to be added to his life, not have already-good things like the Herreras’ replaced. He’d come up with a nice way to say no to his mom’s ideas.

  Hours later, Rick was supposed to be asleep. But the ROAD WORK sign, leaning up against the wall next to his computer, caught the light from the streetlamp outside and gleamed at him. It was so cool to have a real sign he could touch.

  He climbed quietly out of bed to start up his computer. He opened his email to send the two traffic Snarl Solutions he’d come up with this afternoon to the Los Angeles Department of Transportation. Maybe some new person would start reading the emails this week and get blown away by his ideas.

  To keep him company on his computer screen while he typed, Rick opened a digital map of the 210 Freeway, which ran behind his house. At this time of night, it was green. Most traffic-alert websites highlighted places without problems in green and places with problems in red. The green areas struck Rick as radiating an almost liquid peace, like pictures he’d seen of seaweed fronds billowing with the tide, while the glaring scarlet patches where cars were jammed up pulsed with misery, like bleeding scabs picked from a skateboarder’s knees.

  Ew, red like scabs? How about red like dried ketchup? his stomach said. And instead of green like seaweed, green like something tasty. Like mint ice cream, or lime lollipops, or guacamole. Rick let his stomach continue mulling over tasty green things.

  “Let’s just tell the boy,” he heard Dad say from his parents’ bedroom. Mom shushed him. Of course, Rick’s ears pricked up. He stopped typing and leaned his chair toward the wall between their bedrooms.

  “I think he’s old enough to understand our family finances,” Dad said in a slightly lower voice. “Learning to manage money is part of growing up.”

  “No. Parents take care of their children, not the other way around,” Mom said in a decisive tone. “Besides, I do
n’t want Rick to feel responsible for us losing money.”

  Rick frowned. How was he responsible for something like that?

  She went on. “Of our three sons, we certainly can’t expect Rick to help.”

  “That’s true,” Dad agreed.

  Rick listened even harder. What can’t I be expected to help with?

  Mom went on. “He doesn’t know how many contracts we lost last year taking the time to drive him to school and the Herreras’, or how much canceling weekend jobs has cost us. And I don’t want him to. Our poor little carsick Roo, life is hard enough for him.”

  Rick resisted the urge to call out, It’s Rick, Mom, not Roo!

  Dad said, “So we don’t tell him about that. We tell him the other half of the truth, that traffic has become so atrocious, we never know if we’ll be able to deliver food on time that our clients won’t find too cold, too dried out, tasting too much like exhaust fumes. We’re losing business because of it and need to cut back on expenses. Explaining that will make more sense to him than ‘you’re old enough to be by yourself after school.’ You saw his face at dinner. He thinks we’re nuts to suggest he stay home alone to work on Cub Scout projects.”

  “I don’t want him to worry, and I don’t want him to become one of those kids who does nothing but play video games alone after school. I don’t know what else to do.” Mom’s voice got even quieter as she moved toward the other side of the room. Rick strained to hear. She was saying something about how they wouldn’t be able to pay the Herreras for after-school care after the middle of next month. “I haven’t told Maridol yet,” he heard clearly as Mom opened the bedroom door and headed for the bathroom. “You know she’d insist on doing it for free, and that’s not right.”

  Dad called after her, “Pretty soon, that’s going to be the least of our worries.”

  “Shhh!” Mom replied.

  Rick ran his fingers through his hair. What did Dad mean that not being able to pay the Herreras anymore would soon be the least of their worries? What else wouldn’t they be able to pay for? That sounded like more already-good things might get replaced. And he really didn’t like hearing that they didn’t expect him to be of any help. He wasn’t some hopeless preteen kangaroo they still had to lug around in a pouch.

  You are not hopeless, his stomach said staunchly. You are very hopeful. Hopeful and helpful. In fact, you could be the helpingest helper who ever helped. Who else in this family has figured out how to fix traffic? Your Snarl Solutions could make everything smooth for Smotch.

  “Yeah, but…” Rick sighed. He scanned the maps on his walls, and the Snarl Solutions taped below them. He knew each one by heart. They did seem like good, solid ideas, with the potential to smooth out so much. “Who’s going to listen to me?” His eyes flicked back to the draft of his email. What could he write that would make a difference? That would get someone with the authority and the heavy-duty tools necessary to give his ideas a try?

  Green M&M’s! gurgled his stomach. That’s another tasty green thing! Sorry, I’ll focus now. How do we get your ideas set up on the streets?

  Rick thought and thought, then typed and typed.

  When he got to school the next day, Rick was in a grouchy mood. He’d sent last night’s email, which used every synonym for the word please he could find, but had no faith anyone at the Los Angeles Department of Transportation would pay it any attention. He needed a better idea. Maybe if he showed up in person and insisted at the top of his voice that he had valuable information that could save the city from itself? But the Department of Transportation was four freeway interchanges away. How did you get a powerful adult’s attention when you were eleven and couldn’t go anywhere?

  When he walked into the cafeteria, he heard a “Psst!” from the tray-return area. The kid who’d given him the head shake at lunch yesterday was motioning him over.

  “You’re new, right?” the kid asked.

  “Right,” Rick said. “Transferred here this year. My name’s Rick.” He stuck out his hand.

  The kid waved off the handshake. “You might not want to be seen getting friendly with me. You could end up with a dumb nickname as fallout. I moved here last year and I’m still trying to shed the nicknames I got saddled with.”

  Rick said, “I know exactly how much that stinks.”

  The kid nodded. “If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t’ve talked at lunch until I felt sure someone already liked the thing I wanted to talk about. Most of the names I’ve been called aren’t even imaginative, just mean. I’m grateful that one of them isn’t too bad. I can take it when they call me Tennis.” He twisted his lips in a not-so-grateful way. “But it’s the way they say it. Like I’m not from the same planet as they are. If you follow sports other than basketball, and any team other than the LA Lakers, this is not the school to mention it in. Basically, don’t talk about anything that might be seen as ‘out of the norm.’” He made air quotes around the last four words. “When I heard you say something about Ninja Smash Warriors, I knew I had to give you a heads-up. Ninja Smash Warriors is out. The new game is Beat Down.” The kid glanced around. “Okay, hope that helps you out, Rick. I know I wish someone had given me the scoop when I’d started here. Gotta go.”

  “Wait, what’s your real name?” Rick asked. But Tennis had slipped through the crowd and was gone. Rats. There was no way Mom would let Rick play the violent online multiplayer Beat Down, and their internet connection wasn’t fast enough anyway. He knew some basic stuff about the Lakers basketball team, but it sounded like he was going to have to watch their games religiously if he wanted to fit in.

  On the way home, the yappy dog launched a surprise attack from a whole different yard. Or it might have been a different dog. Either way, Rick sprinted out of its territory. He was sweating when Mila opened the door for him. He dropped his backpack on the kitchen table and slumped in a chair. Mila sat down and started doodling unicorns on her math notebook.

  “Mom’s giving Baby Daniela a bath,” Mila said. “She said to tell you to help yourself to Abuelita’s pound cake.”

  “Whatever,” he said in a dull voice. Mila raised her eyebrows at him but said nothing.

  He unzipped his backpack and pulled out some graph paper. The Webelos handbook spilled out too, open to the page celebrating the miraculous powers of duct tape.

  Mila pointed to the page. “Hey,” she said. She disappeared into her room, then came out carrying a pink-and-green wallet. She handed it to Rick.

  “Thanks?” he said, continuing his grouch, turning it over in his hands. It was woven from alternative colors out of some thick shiny stuff.

  “You know how I started Girl Scouts last week? Our troop leader is teaching us ways to turn ordinary materials into art. It’s made out of duct tape.”

  “There’s pink and green duct tape?” Rick asked, slightly ungrouchified. He really shouldn’t waste what might be his final weeks at the Herreras’ in a bad mood.

  “We had green, pink, blue, red, silver glitter, and purple. I wanted to try weaving a multi-color bag, but I didn’t have time at the meeting since Abuelita dropped me off late. She drove so slowly, there was a mom with a stroller on the sidewalk who was going the same speed as we were. Abuelita kept waving to her. I probably could have gotten there faster on my scooter.”

  Rick shook his head, picturing Abuelita sailing her giant boat of a car down the street with her window down, chatting with the stroller-striding mom as she held up traffic for blocks behind her. Maybe there were some things his traffic solutions couldn’t fix. Thank goodness there was only one Abuelita.

  He opened the wallet. There was a one-dollar bill inside, and a handmade ID card with a unicorn on it that said Mila Herrera, Artist.

  Mrs. Herrera and Abuelita walked into the room together, cheerfully arguing in Spanish. “Hola, Rick,” Mrs. Herrera said. “Abuelita, you had better leave in a couple of minutes so you can get Mila to her Scout meeting on time. You know how you drive.”

  Ab
uelita tucked an errant strand of gray hair back into her bun and made a Phsst! noise. “Trust me, I’m the best driver in Los Angeles. I’ll deliver her safe and on time.”

  Mila rolled her eyes at Rick and mouthed the words so slow.

  Abuelita untied her red chili pepper-patterned apron, slipped it over her head, and hung it on a hook near the stove. “Ricardo,” she said to Rick, “the cake I made will give you energy to run around and have fun. Not that you can run around in this neighborhood. Too many cars are going too fast. If only everyone would drive nice and slow, take their time, this city would be safer for all the children. Kids playing outside, that’s more important than going fast.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Oopsy-doodle. Mila, we’d better get going.”

  “Okay,” said Mila, getting up and pushing in her chair. She said to Rick, “I forgot to tell you, my Girl Scout meeting is at an artist’s house today. You know that house near Yum Num Donuts with the metal sculptures in front?”

  Rick said, “I haven’t been to Yum Num Donuts before.”

  “Oh. If you try it sometime, look for the house with giant metal chickens and flags down the street,” she said, shrugging into her shamrock-green Junior Girl Scout vest. “See you later.”

  “See you later,” Rick echoed.

  Mrs. Herrera put a thick slice of pound cake down in front of him. “You look like you’re a million miles away, in a place you don’t want to be. They working you too hard at school?”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Herrera. No, school’s okay. It’s other stuff I can’t figure out. Stuff that might as well be a million miles away.”

  “You’ll get there,” she answered, patting his back. “Kids aren’t supposed to figure everything out. You’re supposed to try things, mess up, then try other things. And you’re supposed to eat good cake! And maybe a smoothie, too? Let me see what I can whip up for you.”

  I love it here, his stomach sighed. Please figure out a way we still get to come.