Far Away

by Lisa Graff

  “Oh, Ceej,” Aunt Nic says, breathing deep into my hair. “Thank god you’re here. What the hell were you thinking?”

  As quickly as I became a cannonball, when I hear Aunt Nic’s voice, I morph right back into CJ Ames. And CJ Ames is mad.

  “I was thinking,” I say, pulling sharply out of the hug, “that I was leaving, to come live with my mom.” I wave my arm, trying to point to my mother, but I accidentally point to Lucia. I wave the other arm.

  That’s when my mom drapes her arms over my shoulders in a behind-hug. “We’re fine here, Nic,” she says. “No one needs you to swoop in and save the day.”

  “No one needs . . . ?” Aunt Nic’s eyes are bugged out bigger than the time that repair guy tried to charge us four hundred dollars just to rotate our tires. “Jennie June, do you know what I’ve been through the past few hours?” She turns her attention back to me. “The theater was a nightmare, CJ, and no one could find you. I thought something had happened. And then I realized your messenger bag was gone, and your backpack, too, and the police said to stay put, but then I saw you’d called your mom on my phone and I was praying I’d find you here and no one had murdered you.” She takes a breath. “Of course, then I saw you’d called Roger, and I wanted to murder you myself.” I think she’s joking. “Did you help him, with that stunt tonight?”

  I am cool as ice when I tell her, “It was my idea.”

  And I can’t say I feel bad when I see her face go all splotched-out rage. “Holy hell, CJ, I’m dead in this business now, you know that, right?” she cries, arms waving. Then she blinks at me, like she’s figuring out the answer to her own question. “Of course you know that. That’s why you did it.” She lets out a giant breath, and her whole body relaxes a little, like just holding on to that air was causing her so much pain. “That was pretty cruel, CJ.”

  I think she’s expecting me to apologize. But I don’t.

  But I don’t do exactly what I expected, either.

  “You called the police?” I ask her, my voice small.

  Aunt Nic just closes her eyes for a moment, her chest rising, then falling, under her coat. “Of course I called the police,” she tells me.

  My mom hugs my neck a little tighter. “Well, you didn’t need to do that. CJ was here with me, right?”

  I nod. But I can’t take my eyes off Aunt Nic.

  “Why don’t you answer your phone?” she growls at my mom. “I called you fifty times.”

  My mother only snorts. “I didn’t hear it, Nic, sheesh. CJ and I are busy celebrating. Now, if you’re done yelling at everyone, you’re welcome to take your coat off and stay for a while in my home.” She gives my shoulders a squeeze. “Our home.” Then she pulls away and gestures toward the kitchen. “Mini quiche?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later, Aunt Nic and I are sitting on the couch together in silence. My mom’s friends are pretending to mind their own business or are too busy with their own conversations to care about us, who knows. My mom is in the kitchen getting Aunt Nic some food, although I’m starting to doubt she plans on coming back.

  I’m looking at the floor. I’d bet Aunt Nic is, too.

  Finally, Aunt Nic says, “How did Roger do that tonight, with the octopus?” She shifts on the couch to face me and tucks one leg under her butt. “It looked so real. I was petrified—I thought that thing was gonna eat all of us!”

  She’s being funny, but I know she’s still mad at me. She’s using her words to lull me in, just to snap at me when I least expect it.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not sorry,” I tell her. “About helping Roger. You shouldn’t lie to people. You can be mad at me forever, and I won’t care. I’ll always know I did the right thing.”

  Aunt Nic just sighs, big and deep.

  “I am mad at you, CJ,” she says after a moment. “Furious, actually.” She takes another deep breath and lets this one out slow. “But I’m more relieved than anything. Because the nastiest trick you pulled tonight was running off without telling me where you were going. A million giant octopuses couldn’t scare me as bad as that.”

  I spend a long time adjusting my headband, even though my hair is just fine. I don’t want to be lulled in by her, not again.

  “I think it’s octopi,” I say at last.

  She does not respond.

  Even though the room is filled with people and music, it feels much too quiet. So finally I ask, “Is everyone okay? Jax and Oscar and . . . ?” I pick at the skin around my thumbnail, not looking at Aunt Nic again. “I thought Roger would just say stuff. I didn’t think it would be scary. I didn’t want . . .” Someone could’ve gotten hurt, that’s what I haven’t been letting myself think about. That if that happened, it would’ve been my fault. Even if I was only doing what Spirit told me to, I still think it would’ve been my fault.

  “Oscar and Jax are on their way to Chula Vista,” Aunt Nic replies. “Or maybe they’re there now—I should call them. Oscar found an RV park that has vacancy for the tour bus tonight. I took a car here, to find you.”

  “Chula Vista?” I ask. That’s only ten miles from here. “Why are they staying there? We’re booked in Phoenix tomorrow.”

  At that, Aunt Nic laughs again. Only this laugh has a bitter ring to it. “We’re not booked anywhere, CJ. Wasn’t that your whole plan? Venues canceled, the whole rest of the tour.”

  “Oh.” That’s all I can think to say. I mean, I knew exposing Aunt Nic would ruin her career, obviously. I guess I just didn’t think about what things looked like, once it was ruined.

  “Anyway, Chula Vista seemed like a good place to hide out for a few days. Things got pretty ugly at the theater. We needed to get out of there.”

  “But Jax is okay?” I say. I didn’t think it was possible for my voice to sound so squeaky.

  “Jax is okay,” Aunt Nic assures me. “He’s pretty strong, that kid. Clumsy. But”—she scratches her cheek—“good head on his shoulders.”

  Just then, Harvey, the guy who made the rhubarb crumble, decides to lean over the back of the couch and interrupt. “Hey, this is you, isn’t it?” He shoves a phone under Aunt Nic’s nose. I can’t see the image playing on the screen, but I can hear the sounds of Roger’s voice calling out personal information like he did tonight in the theater, and shrieks and hollers as I’m assuming an octopus appears and disappears onstage.

  Aunt Nic darts her eyes at me. “Yep,” she tells Harvey. “That’s me.”

  “You’re totally going viral.” Harvey says this like it’s the greatest news a person could ever receive. “Half a million views in the past two hours. That’s more than the squirrel who can do the monkey bars. You’re famous!”

  “Goodie,” Aunt Nic replies. Then she leans into me. “Who is this guy?”

  “He makes a rhubarb crumble that’s to die for,” I explain, and she snorts.

  When Harvey leaves to show everyone else the video, Aunt Nic asks me, “What the heck is this party, anyway? Why are all these people here?”

  “It’s for me,” I say. “To celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  Suddenly I realize why Aunt Nic came here. It wasn’t just to make sure that I was okay, or to get mad about tonight, either. Of course it wasn’t. And when I realize that, I’m on fire all over again. “To celebrate me,” I tell her. “Because I live here now. This is my home, and I’m staying here, and you’re not going to take me away. I’m not going to boarding school. You can’t make me. You’re not my mom. That”—I point to the kitchen—“is my mom.”

  Aunt Nic doesn’t talk for a long time. She only scratches her cheek, looking at the floor.

  I wait.

  “I’m not going to make you go to boarding school, CJ,” she says at last. “And I won’t make you live with me, either. Not if you’d rather be here.”

&n
bsp; I feel like my heart should be lighter, hearing that, but it isn’t. I don’t know why.

  “Look, Ceej,” Aunt Nic says when I don’t respond. “All I want in the world is for you to be safe, and for you to be happy. I’ve screwed up in a lot of ways, and I know that. But if it’s best for you to be with your mom for a while, I get that. We can . . .” She blinks a few times, thinking. “You still have a lot of stuff, right, back at the tour bus? Tomorrow I’ll take you to pack up. Your mom can come, too, if she wants. I’ll pick you up first thing, and we’ll all go over together. How does that sound?”

  I guess I’m surprised. I guess I thought, after all this time keeping me to herself, Aunt Nic would fight harder before letting me go.

  “How do I know you’re not just lying again?” I say. And I’m not sure if I’m angry or sad when I ask it. Maybe I’m feeling some totally new emotion that humans haven’t named yet. “You lied about everything else.”

  I think Aunt Nic’s going to shout at me then, but she doesn’t. Instead she says, “Yeah.” Like I’ve said something that makes a lot of sense. “I’m really sorry, CJ.”

  It is then that a woman I haven’t met yet approaches the couch, dragging a man behind her who’s much shorter than she is. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” she says, even though she obviously does. She inches a little closer, smiling as she peers more closely at Aunt Nic. “It is you, isn’t it? I told my husband, I said, ‘That’s her! That’s the psychic!’ I’ve seen you at your shows. You’re amazing. Tell Brent.” She pushes her husband forward a little. “Does he have any spirits with him right now?” The woman swirls her hand over her husband’s head, like she thinks that’s where his loved ones probably hang out.

  If I had to guess, I’d say this woman has not seen Harvey’s phone.

  “You are her, right?” the woman asks, because Aunt Nic’s not saying anything. “The medium?”

  Aunt Nic clears her throat. “Sorry,” she tells the woman, shaking her head. And she looks at me before she says, very clearly, “I’m not a medium.”

  I’m surprised she says that. Really. Because I thought Aunt Nic didn’t know how to tell the truth.

  But still.

  It’s a chocolate-frosting sort of truth, isn’t it? It’s not a lie, but . . .

  I shrug at Aunt Nic like Say whatever you want. What do I care?

  “Oh,” the woman says. She blinks at Aunt Nic like she’s still unconvinced, but what’s she gonna do? “Well, sorry to bother you.”

  She’s tugging her husband away—until Aunt Nic reaches out for the woman’s arm.

  “Actually,” Aunt Nic says. She looks at me again. “The truth’s a little more . . . complicated.” And for the next five minutes, while I stare at the wall, the floor, the edge of the couch, Aunt Nic holds on to the poor woman’s arm and tells her everything. I mean, seriously, everything. Her acting troupe in college. Me being born. My mom not dying. Our busted-up motor home. The woman at the RV park. The tour bus. Cold reading. Roger and the octopus and all of it.

  “And that,” Aunt Nic finishes at last, “is why I can’t do a reading for your husband. Or anybody.”

  “Wow,” the woman says slowly. This was clearly more information than she was looking for. “Okay. Thanks.” And without another word, she tugs her husband away at last, making a face at him like That lady is SO WEIRD.

  Aunt Nic slouches into the couch when the couple leaves. I think she wants me to be impressed or something, that she finally grew a conscience.

  “You gonna explain all that to every person who recognizes you?” I ask her. Being honest for five minutes doesn’t make up for a whole lifetime of lying.

  “Maybe I should get it printed on a T-shirt,” Aunt Nic replies. “Save a lot of time that way.” Then she checks her phone. “Jeez, it’s late. I need to call the police, tell them you’re safe.” She looks up at me. “You must be tired. Does your mom have somewhere for you to sleep tonight? Like a bed or something?”

  “I have a whole bedroom,” I tell her, icy, because she thinks my mom doesn’t even know how to be a mom. “And anyway, I’m not tired. I’m at a party. My party.”

  Aunt Nic opens her mouth like she wants to argue with me, then closes it. She puts her hands on her knees and stands up. “I’m going to find a quiet place to make a phone call,” she says.

  And even though her being next to me on the couch made me mad, her walking away makes me madder.

  * * *

  • • •

  All right, so I actually am pretty tired.

  While Aunt Nic is letting the police know I’m not dead, I find my mom gabbing in the kitchen and tell her I’m going to bed. She swirls me around and calls me fabulous and tells me there’s sheets and pillows in the linen closet. I head to my new room, change into my pajamas, and clear all the stuff off the futon. Fold it out flat and make up the bed with the sheets. Tuck myself in.

  I’m fine.

  When the door opens, a soft, slow crack, I bolt upright. Then I toss myself back quick, before my mom can see how excited I am she came in to say good night. I’m twelve, for Pete’s sake.

  “CJ?”

  It’s not my mom. It’s Aunt Nic.

  “What do you want?” I ask. I don’t say it nicely.

  She sighs.

  “Do you mind if I crash in here tonight?” she asks. “I can’t get a car, and your mom said I can sleep on the couch, but . . .” She darts her eyes toward the living room. “I don’t think those artists ever plan on leaving.” I don’t say anything. “I’ll sleep way over here on the floor, okay?”

  I still don’t talk. She can do whatever she wants. I’m fine.

  She’s shoving aside a box of art supplies to make room when I tell her, “There’s blankets in the hall closet.” I don’t ask why she can’t get a car. Aunt Nic once got a car to pick us up in an actual swamp. “And an extra pillow, too.”

  “Thanks, CJ.”

  I guess I’m not too mad she’ll be sleeping in this room with me, just for tonight. The owl painting above the futon is kind of creeping me out.

  “What’s going to happen to Jax and Oscar?” I ask after Aunt Nic returns with the bedding. Just enough moonlight is seeping through the shades that I can see her stretched out on the floor, ten feet from where I’m lying on the futon. “Since the rest of the tour is canceled, I mean? Where are they gonna go?”

  I hear Aunt Nic shift under the blanket. “Oscar’s a pro. He’ll land at a theater somewhere. With Cyrus, I bet. Those two go way back. It might be good for them, staying in one spot for a while. Jax . . .” She lets out a breath. “I guess he’ll go back to Miami. Back to his old school.”

  I curl up tight on the futon, wrapping my arms around my knees. But I can’t squeeze the squirminess out of my stomach. I wonder if Spirit is watching me right now. I wonder if they’re thinking this all turned out just how they planned.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  The room is filled with silence. I lift my head off my pillow to check if Aunt Nic’s asleep. She’s not. She’s lying on her back, staring straight up at the ceiling as she talks. I can see the whites of her eyes.

  Finally she turns to look at me in the dark. “Don’t worry about me, CJ. That’s not your job. Just worry about what’s best for you, okay?”

  I curl up my legs a little tighter. I want her to be madder at me. It would make it so much easier for me to stay mad at her.

  “I can’t go with you to the tour bus tomorrow morning,” I tell Aunt Nic. Because as long as I’m pressing her for the truth, I should probably be honest, too. “I’ll go with you, to get my stuff, only I can’t go tomorrow morning. I have to go to this television studio and do an interview, about what happened last night, how I helped . . . expose you.”

  “Oh, CJ . . .” Aunt Nic sits up.

  “I’m going to do it, no matter what you
say.” I forgot to tell my mom that I need a ride, but I’m sure she’ll drive me, when she knows what it’s for. “I have to do the interview so I’ll have the money I need to live here. You can’t stop me.”

  I see Aunt Nic’s eyes, blinking in the dark.

  “Do you want me to stop you?” she asks at last.

  I don’t answer.

  She stays still for a long time, and I do, too, as we look-but-don’t-look at each other in the black room. Then she rises to her feet, and I think she’s going to try to hug me or something, but she doesn’t. “You go to sleep, okay, Ceej? I need some water.” And she softly opens and closes the door.

  * * *

  • • •

  “ . . . asking your daughter for rent money now?”

  That’s what I hear that pulls me out of bed. It’s Aunt Nic, and she is loud. And angry. I make my way to the door, then down the dark hall, to hear more.

  “ . . . not fair at all,” my mom is saying back. I inch closer to the living room, pressing against the weird portrait of myself to listen. “I didn’t ask CJ for money. Of course I didn’t. She said she wanted to help pay for her own things. Was I supposed to turn her down? Food’s expensive. And furniture. And, I don’t know, school stuff. She probably needs school stuff.”

  “She’s a kid, Jennie. You don’t take money from a kid. You need money to help keep her here? You ask me. Or you get a better job.” There are still people at the party, but they’re starting to make their way to the door now. “You can’t use CJ like this. She’s your daughter.”

  I poke my head around the corner just in time to see my mom death-glare at Aunt Nic. They’re so wrapped up in fighting they don’t notice me in the shadows of the hallway.

  “Are you really mad CJ wants to help out with her own expenses?” my mom spits at Aunt Nic. “Or are you just upset anyone would pick me over you?”

  Aunt Nic starts rubbing her face then, like she’s so exhausted. I get the feeling they’ve been fighting this argument for a long, long time.