The Colossus of Roads

by Christina Uss

  The LA Unified School District ordered kids from districts without operational school buildings to attend the nearest open school, so Eleanor Roosevelt’s entrance was pretty crowded. Passing through the double doors, Rick heard a name he didn’t expect to hear.

  “Carsick Rick, is that you?” One of the kids from his old magnet school was standing under the Spike Lee poster in the entrance foyer.

  Rick froze.

  “Sure, that’s him. Hey, Carsick Rick!” said another kid from the magnet school.

  Rick could hear a murmur begin: What’d they call him? Who is that?

  Mila stood near the water fountain with a group of girls. She quietly said, “Don’t call him that. His name is Rick.” Rick didn’t think many people heard her, but he did. Then Liz’s voice rang out and dominated the foyer.

  “What are you talking about? That’s Rick. He’s hilarious, and he knows how to do things, amazing things!” Liz and Q.E. were part of the water-fountain group. “He helped get our Girl Scout troop home after the earthquake.” The girls around Liz smiled at Rick and glared at the boys from the magnet school.

  “Yeah, his name is Rick. Get it right!” Leon emerged from the crowd. “I hope he’ll have room at his lunch table for me today. I want to hear about how he helped people after the earthquake.”

  The murmurs in the foyer were now dominated by the words Rick and amazing things and helped people.

  Rick said to the magnet-school kids, “Hope that’s clear.”

  “Whatever,” the first kid said.

  “Okay,” mumbled the other. They disappeared into the throng.

  Rick didn’t have any trouble finding a welcoming table of kids to sit with and talk to in the cafeteria that day.

  That night, the Rusek family gathered around the television. A news tidbit showed the painted signs still set up on Sepulveda Pass. They’d weathered the disaster without any damage. Mom pointed. “Ooh! Rick helped make those signs!”

  Aleks said, “Him? He can paint now? I thought everything he drew ended up looking like a dog.”

  Rick tried to explain. “The parts I painted…not that you can tell, really…mainly what I did was tell them where to put the signs, so traffic would flow better.”

  “Going over the Pass once those signs were up was the best driving experience I can remember,” Dad said. “Then I had the worst driving experience I can remember right after, when the earthquake was bashing the delivery van around.”

  Thomas said, “Our brother, who can’t stand to be in traffic, fixing traffic like a boss.” He rubbed his knuckles on Rick’s head. “Roo-Roo the Mighty.”

  “He doesn’t want to be called that anymore.” Mom rescued Rick from the noogie and looked him in the eye. She said, “The details about those signs still confuse me. But I get that you’re amazing.” She kissed the top of his head. “A nice celebrational dinner is in order. Who picked up the groceries today?” No one responded. “Oh, no.” Mom put her hand over her eyes. “Don’t tell me the only thing we have in this house is leftover cabbage rolls.”

  The phone rang at the same time Rick’s stomach moaned. Dad answered. It was Mrs. Herrera. “Hello, Maridol! How are you?” He listened. “Too much food, you say. You’re wondering if we’d like to join you for dinner.” His face lit up. Mom shook her head, mouthing Let’s not bother them. Dad ignored her. “Tell you what—do you need any help with the cooking part? Because I have four people here who can chop, bake, and sauté with the best.” He listened again. “You’d love that? Won’t take no for an answer?” Aleks and Thomas were pulling Mom off the couch and toward her shoes. “Then we won’t give you no for an answer. We’re coming over right now.”

  Things already smelled amazing when they walked through the Herreras’ front door, on which Mila had taped her WE FALL TO RISE phoenix drawing. Rick’s stomach burbled SO! HAPPY! He went to join Mila, who was sitting at the table with her sister and her father, and let the rest of his family dive into cooking tasks with Abuelita and Mrs. Herrera.

  Mila stood up and beckoned him toward the stairs. “Can I show you something?”

  “Sure,” Rick said, following her to her room.

  She opened the door and sang, “Ta-da!” The ART WORK: BEST IS MILA road sign was now nailed to her wall. “Papi helped me do that.”

  “Aren’t you going to peel the duct tape off and paint it?”

  “No, it’s perfect just the way it is. It’s an original Colossus of Roads piece. Who else has one of those?”

  Rick very softly punched her shoulder while his stomach said Awww. “I feel like I still owe you a sign, though. I know—I’ll email Mrs. Torres about getting you back your dragon painting. I’m going to be sending her lots of emails.” Now that he knew they’d end up in her in-box instead of in some complaints recycling bin, he couldn’t wait to share his ideas.

  Mila shook her head. “Don’t worry about asking for my sign back. I decided I’m okay with it staying where it is. My family loves it. And I know it won’t be my last chance to make impressive art. Ms. Diamond called my Scout leader to say we should be able to come back and finish our project next week. I’ve been getting ready.” She opened a pad of paper and thumbed through it to show Rick a drawing of a Cadillac El Dorado with rainbow-colored wings and a smiley lady waving out the window.

  “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of low-flying grandmothers,” Rick said solemnly.

  “No, no.” Mila flipped to the next page, a drawing of a unicorn wearing a helmet on a double-pedaled bicycle riding up the 405 Freeway. She pursed her lips and raised her voice to a falsetto. “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of bicycling unicorns.” They both cracked up.

  Mila passed Rick his own pad and pencil. “Want to draw until it’s time for dinner?”

  “Sure.” They sat in contented silence, sketching maps and myths, until their families called them to come down for the feast.

  AUTHOR’S FOOD NOTE

  If you visit the San Fernando Valley area of Los Angeles, you can (and should) eat burgers at In-N-Out, a nonfictional and tasty place. However, if you’re looking to get an apple fritter at my fictional Yum Num Donut shop, I direct you instead to any branch of Yum Yum Donuts, or the walk-up counter at the Burbank Doughn-t Hut (What’s Missing? U). It’s open twenty-four hours a day.

  Also, if you get the chance to eat Polish food, try a cabbage roll—known in Polish as Gołąbki (pronounced “go-wump-ki”). They are super delicious.

  AUTHOR’S ROAD SIGN NOTE

  Before the 1920s, road signs came in more colors than today, including green, red, yellow, blue, purple, black, even silver. They were produced in different shapes and sizes too. I wonder if any early drivers admired them as art.

  Rick and Mila aren’t the only ones to see the potential for art and good deeds in modern road signs. An artist named Clet Abraham uses stickers to turn road signs in Florence, Italy, into comical cartoons. Another artist, Richard Ankrom, secretly made part of the 110 Freeway in Los Angeles safer by painting his own giant freeway sign.

  Since writing this story, I’ve been seeing art everywhere I look when I travel the roads. Keep your eyes peeled. Maybe you will too.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Big, warm hugs of gratitude to the following talented people:

  My editor, Margaret Ferguson, and every wonderful person at Holiday House.

  My agent, Ammi-Joan Paquette, and the longing pangolins of EMLA.

  My family members, who insist I’m doing a good job even when I won’t let them read anything I’m writing. A special thanks to my mom and dad, who’ve fed me good Polish food my whole life. I’m lucky you’re my parents for so many reasons. Your ability to hand-sell my books is second to none.

  My steadfast friends, some of whom lent me their names for characters (especially Maridol Linares, whose unique first name came from combining her grandmother Maria Dolores’ two names), and some of whom lent me their houses as writing retreats while t
hey kindly went on vacation (or kindly ignored me in the basement). This is what I was doing that whole time. Plus napping.

  My fabulous readers, who take the time to let me know they care about my stories. You are the reason I write.

  A salute to the LADOT for making LA streets function as well as they can, and to the LA County Bicycle Coalition, who showed me how to carve out a car-free existence in the city.

  A sincere apology to the Traffic Calming Division for blowing your cover—maybe you can stop pulling out in front of me when I really need to get somewhere? Please?