Love Over Matter

by Maggie Bloom

  He shakes his head. “Maybe if this thing”—he gives the GPS’s screen a tap—“wasn’t older than you.”

  “It seems like it’s working okay,” I state with a shrug.

  “Sure, for the main roads. Highways and stuff. Those haven’t changed much in the past ten years. Other than that, it’s so outdated it’s useless—or worse. One time it tried to send me down the river. Literally.”

  I stifle a laugh. “What about over there?” I ask, squinting—and pointing—into the distance, where I’m sure I’ve spotted the signature blue-and-orange logo of a Cumberland Farms. “That might be something.”

  He wedges a bottle of water between his legs, uncaps it and takes a swig. “I hope so, because those, uh, ‘granola bars’ are doing a number on my stomach.”

  Part of me wants to chastise him for taking his hands off the wheel, but another part of me admires his dexterity. “Get in the slow lane,” I suggest. “So we don’t miss the exit.”

  “Man, my stomach,” he groans, giving the side-view mirror a glance before easing us over. He drives faster than he should, clutches at his abdomen and moans.

  I ask, “Are you okay?” (He’s starting to go green.)

  Through gritted teeth, he says, “I’ll be fine, if I can just . . .”

  Only a red light stands between us and the Cumberland Farms, a fact that doesn’t stop Ian from blowing through the intersection, the Love Machine narrowly escaping a sideswipe from an oncoming but (luckily) turning SUV.

  “What the . . . ?!” I yell, glancing back at the intersection, where I’m sure I’ve spied my own ghost. “You could’ve gotten us killed!”

  The van bounces to a cockeyed stop. Ian throws the shifter into park and, without a word, bolts for the store. For a moment, I think of sitting tight and pouting, so he’ll have no choice but to apologize when he gets back. But then my stomach starts doing a twist of its own. Great, I think. How do I love public restrooms? Let me count the ways . . .

  I make it into the store in time to spot Ian slipping into the men’s room. When I try the ladies’ room door, though, it’s locked. And now the attendant, an overly pretty twenty-year-old girl with a beach glow and sunlit hair, is giving me a pouty-mouthed stare down. I fumble through a rack of movie candy—Raisinets, Junior Mints, Goobers—as if I’m in the market for a sugar high. Finally, the ladies’ room door swings open and I rush in, barely clearing the seven-year-old who has just exited.

  When I’ve finished my business, I peruse the store for Ian, who may or may not still be holed up in the men’s room (the door remains closed, so I can’t be sure). As I’m winding my way through Potato Chip Land, something bizarre penetrates my ears: “Cass! Cassie! Hey!”

  I pivot on my heel for the entrance, where in struts Haley with Opal hot on her trail. And is that—I blink, stare, blink some more—Rosie bringing up the rear?

  What in the world?

  I cut my gaze toward the window, a giant pink bunny winking at me from the hood of Rosie’s car.

  Haley and Opal pin me kitty-corner to a display of Cool Ranch Doritos. In unison, they cross their arms over their chests like prison guards.

  I search my mind for a witty quip, but there’s only one thing for me to say: “What are you doing here?”

  Rosie marches right up to me and spits, “Are you crazy?!”

  “Wha— Uh, wha—” I stammer. “What?”

  Her nostrils flare. “Don’t play dumb,” she fumes. Her hand goes for my face, presumably to scratch my eyes out. But instead of her fingernails, my lashes bat up against the creamy white letterhead on which I’ve etched my alibi note.

  Over Rosie’s shoulder, Haley grins so maniacally she should hold the pose for a horror-movie poster (doesn’t she realize that black lipstick makes even healthy teeth look rotten?). “Calm down,” I say, my voice weak and unconvincing.

  Rosie rattles the note in my face. “Your parents would’ve had an aneurysm if they’d seen this. Is that what you want? After everything your mother’s been through? You blew it this time, Cassie.” She shakes her head. “Totally blew it.”

  She has a point, but I’m not sure what business it is of hers. I wiggle sideways, stutter-step around Opal and lurch for the exit. If my housekeeper is going to berate me, at least she can do it in the privacy of Ian’s van. But I hope she knows that, if push comes to shove, I will dredge up the subject of George’s hoodie, which she so callously destroyed (and I’m not nearly done being sore over).

  The sound of feet slapping pavement competes with the folk music drooling out of the Love Machine’s passenger window. “Can you believe this?” I shoot at Ian, who’s mellowing out behind the wheel, my hand slicing through the air at Haley and company. When I try the door handle, my wrist balks (this van is so old its internal whatchamacallits and thingamajigs are decaying). Ian leans over and unlatches the door from the inside. I get one foot on the floor before there’s a tug on George’s hoodie.

  It’s Rosie again. “Where on Earth are you going?”

  Has she gotten supremely, undeniably, out-of-control pushy, or what? “You read the note,” I say. “Figure it out.” I heave myself into the passenger seat, shoo her out of the way and slam the door (in my defense, though, that’s the only way the thing will close).

  It finally dawns on Ian to ask, “What’s going on?”

  I give a frustrated shrug. “I have no idea. Apparently, my sister and”—how can I refer to Opal and Rosie without coming off as an über jerk?—“her friends think they’re my babysitters. You’d better watch out. They’ll be after you next.”

  Rosie’s head pops into the window frame (is she balancing on the van’s holey running board?). “Oh, hey Ian,” she says nonchalantly.

  Ian beams the first true smile (other than the one he dusted off for Jeanette at graduation) to hit his face in a year. Maybe more. “Hey.”

  This might not warrant explaining at the moment given the current annoying circumstances, but here it is: Ian has a thing for Rosie. Or at least he did, last I knew. And who could blame him? She’s gorgeous, smart, friendly, and spirited. Heck, I’m even considering falling for her. “C’mon, Cassie,” she says, reaching inside the van and touching my arm. “We’ve gotta get back to Milbridge before . . . well, before your parents do.” She sighs. “Okay?”

  We’ve come too far to give up now. And I can’t let George down, regardless of the trouble this little jaunt may cause. But before I can argue further . . . “We’re kind of in the middle of something,” Ian explains cryptically. “Sorry.”

  Rosie pulls a mock-sad face, leaving me convinced Ian will crumble before Bob Dylan finishes crooning about Maggie’s farm (excuse the hippie song reference; the only entertainment we’ve got on this trip are Ian’s dad’s fossilized cassette tapes). “Just tell me what you’re doing,” prods Rosie. From the peanut gallery comes a chorus of yeahs. “Maybe I can help.”

  From anyone else, I’d assume this was a trap. But Rosie is too sincere for such shenanigans. Ian studies me and waits, leaving the decision to spill (or not to spill) the beans in my court. “Fine,” I say. I motion at the door behind me. “Get in.”

  * * *

  I guess everyone is a sucker for a mystery (or an act of love, depending on your view of Ian’s and my quest), because after five minutes of explanation through a freaky cop-cage grate (was the Love Machine a paddy wagon in a former life?), Rosie has not only agreed to let us continue the search for George’s biological parents, she’s also volunteered to help—oh, and to cover for us with Mom and Dad.

  The result? Now instead of a low-key pilgrimage to George’s birthplace by a couple of caring friends, we’ve got an all-out road-trip adventure.

  To give Opal and Rosie some breathing room, my sister has become our third wheel. “I’ve gotta pee,” she complains from the cargo area. “Just so you know.”

  “You’ll have to hold it,” I tell her.

  “Ian?” she cries. “Come on.”

  He shoots a gl
ance at the GPS. “Gimme twenty miles. You can last that long, right?”

  Haley makes an exaggerated huff. “I hope so, for your sake.”

  On that appetizing note, I crank the music up, lean back and shut my eyes. And think of George. What nobody knows, what I haven’t told another living soul, is that George and I were in the middle of a fight—our most serious ever—when he crossed that center line, clipped a charter bus and careened off the road into a monster oak tree. The doctors claimed he was knocked unconscious on impact, meaning he suffered little or no pain. But the way his body clung to life—needles and gauze, tubes and medical tape—pretending he was with us when he was already gone, left me more unsettled than assured.

  I don’t mean to doze off (and I probably shouldn’t, on the chance Ian needs me to splash cold water on his face or scream in his ear). But somehow I’ve drifted into dreamland, and that’s where I stay until someone—or something—taps my thigh. “Hmm?” I manage to purr, the fuzziness of the netherworld still enveloping me.

  I hear a symphony of doors opening and closing, followed by warm pressure on my knee (a hand?). “Wake up. We’re here.”

  My eyelids feel as if they’re made of granite. “George?”

  A voice (Haley?) whispers, “Oh, no. She’s doing it again.”

  I feel a tug of alertness, force my eyes open and focus on Ian and Haley, who are hovering over me like protective mama birds. After a lick of my parched lips, I murmur, “Where are we?” Through the water-splotched windshield, I notice Opal and Rosie loitering by what looks like the entrance of a fast food restaurant.

  “Surprise!” squeals Haley in a sarcastic tone.

  I lean toward the window, narrow my eyes and study the logo on the restaurant door. “White Castle?”

  Ian chuckles. “You can thank me later.”

  chapter 9

  The White Castle stop was useful in multiple ways: Haley got a crack at the restroom; I crossed mini hamburgers off my bucket list; Rosie put a call in to Mom and Dad, claiming a sleepover that would keep Haley and me away from home until tomorrow evening, at least; Ian studied a street-level map of NYC (where did he get that? I’ve got to start keeping better tabs on him!) for the best route to 66th Drive; and Opal?—well, as usual, she spent the break blending into the woodwork. (For the record, though, methinks the quiet ones are the ones to watch. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to learn that Opal Madden is a mousy Goth-in-training by day, kick-ass superheroine by night.)

  * * *

  “That’s it, I think,” I say as we prowl 66th Drive in search of number 77-21 1/2. We pass the building in question, a two-story row house mere inches from its neighbors. In the side-view mirror, I see the Bunny Mobile slowing behind us. “Pull over,” I suggest. “There’s a spot up ahead.”

  Ian gives an agreeable grunt, navigates the van into a space more suited for a compact car. Once we’re snuggled against the curb, I let out the tense breath I’ve been holding. “You think it’s too late?” I ask, referring to the fact that the sun is about to slip below the horizon. “I bet it’s too late.”

  “What?” He shakes his head. “Now that we’re here, you’re chickening out?”

  I ponder the block in front of us, where Rosie is pulling back into the street after a failed attempt at tucking the Bunny Mobile between two SUVs. “Well, I mean . . .” He’s right, of course: I’m not too warm and fuzzy over the idea of confronting a stranger and grilling her (assuming she even exists) about personal events of nearly two decades ago. Plus, if she does exist, we’re going to have to tell her that her son is dead. “It’s just that . . . it’s like eight o’clock. She’s probably getting ready for bed or something. We can’t just spring this on her out of nowhere.”

  “Should’ve thought of that six hours ago, don’t you think?” He kills the headlights and shuts the van down; meanwhile, Rosie and Opal shuffle along the sidewalk in our direction. I wave them toward the door behind me, which Haley could bother opening if she weren’t semicomatose. (Seriously, she’s snoring so loudly I’m thinking of reporting her to Mom, who will no doubt schedule an immediate sleep study.)

  “What’re you gonna say?” I ask Ian.

  “Me?”

  Rosie and Opal pile into the cargo hold. “Looks like we found it,” Rosie comments, sounding surprised.

  “Yeah,” I reply to Ian. “Don’t you want to rehearse or something?”

  His face morphs into an incredulous scowl. “Me?”

  This is not going as planned. “You’re the adult,” I try. “It’d sound better coming from you.”

  “I’m also a guy. A girl should do it. It’s less intimidating that way.”

  He sure does think highly of himself. I unbuckle and spin to face the cage. “What about you?” I ask Rosie, whom I can barely make out in the swiftly falling darkness.

  Ian reads my mind and triggers the interior light, which only helps so much since I’m stuck peering through a grid of two-inch holes. “What about me?” Rosie asks.

  “Can you talk to her?” I say. “Please?”

  She pulls a doubtful, squinty-eyed face. “I don’t know anything about this.”

  Maybe I should break out my puppy-dog eyes. “There’s nothing to know. Just ask if Ruth Dawson lives here.” I give a sideways nod at 77-21 1/2 66th Drive. “Okay?”

  Rosie says, “Then what?”

  Ian sighs. “Then Cassie gets to explain that we knew her son—what was his name?”

  “Anatoly,” I murmur, a chill prickling my spine.

  “I’ll do it,” Opal blurts.

  Haley yawns and rolls over.

  “Wake her up, would ya?” I say to anyone willing to poke my sister in the gut.

  “Problem solved,” Ian declares.

  I want to argue, because 1) Opal is too young for such a grownup responsibility, and 2) she barely knew George. The problem is, if I nix her involvement, the task will fall to me; I can feel it. “All right,” I say. “Let’s get going then.”

  “I’m tired,” moans Haley.

  I should’ve known my sister would flake out on us. “Whatever,” I say. “Stay here if you want.”

  All at once, Opal, Rosie, Ian, and I clamber out of the van, then promptly freeze on the sidewalk. “Go ahead,” I say to spur Opal on. But she doesn’t need prodding. She strides for the cluster of cement steps, ascending with confidence. From the awning-covered porch, she rings the bell.

  I hang back in runner-up position on the walkway, Rosie and Ian lingering in a distant third-place tie by a sun-burnt hedge. The first ring is a dud, so I say, “Try again.”

  Opal shrugs, jams her thumb at the buzzer once more. And the response?

  Absolutely nada.

  Ian and Rosie twitter distractingly about something too light and trivial to be bothered with at the moment. “Shh!” I hiss at them. I close in on Opal, halting at the base of the steps. “Third time’s a charm, right?”

  She tries a third, fourth, and even fifth time, not eliciting as much as a ruffle of a curtain.

  “Just knock!” Ian calls ahead.

  “Or pound,” I mumble, because it’s starting to look like we’ll have to blow this house down. (Where is the Big Bad Wolf when you need him?)

  I slink up beside Opal, hold the screen door ajar so she can rap directly on the slab of steel separating us from George’s mysterious past. But it’s no use. If anyone is home, they’re none too keen on engaging a band of anonymous youths.

  Over my shoulder, I glance at the street, hoping to match a vehicle to the house and ensure that we’re not hammering away at a vacant building, at least. But it’s too dark, and I’d only be guessing anyway. “Once more, for old time’s sake?” I say, thumping the door with the butt of my fist until my wrist aches.

  Eventually, we’re forced to admit defeat. “That’s too bad,” says Rosie.

  Opal and I parade down the walk in full-pout mode. “Stupid waste of time,” I mutter.

  Ian hangs an arm over my shou
lder, a move that attracts Rosie’s (jealous?) eye. “We gave it our best shot,” he assures me. “George would be proud.”

  In a little knot, the four of us turn for the van. But then a shaky old man’s voice shouts, “Hey, you kids! What are you doing over there?”

  Oh, no, I think. Not another Crazy Shotgun Guy. In Queens.

  Dare I look?

  As if she’s been dropped from a passing spaceship, Haley appears on the sidewalk. “What the . . . ?” she says, sounding both dreamy and perturbed.

  “You kids get over here!” shouts the man.

  Why the hell not? I think. We might as well do something interesting on this trip.

  “Huh?” I say, escaping Ian’s embrace and heading two doors down, where a withered dude leans on a cane, the glow of a stubby light post highlighting his ski-slope nose before vanishing in the depths of his concave cheeks.

  The man squares up, his fingers curling tighter around the cane. “Who are you?” he asks tersely, once we’re nigh on his doorstep. “State your business, or . . . or I’ll buzz the coppers.”

  The coppers? As in the police? Really? “Uh . . .”

  Ian stiff-arms me to the background. “That won’t be necessary, sir. We’re not here to cause any trouble.” He gives the guy a congenial smile. “Do you know a woman by the name of Ruth Dawson? She’s, um, related to a friend of ours.”

  At the mention of George’s mother, the air seems to shift. “Miss Dawson? That’s who you’re here for?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I say. “Is she around?”

  “Are you with the government?”

  “The government?” Haley repeats.

  “No,” I say. “We don’t know anything about . . .”

  The man studies us for a moment with beady, bloodshot eyes. “What do you want with Miss Dawson?”

  “It’s kind of personal,” I hedge.

  “Like what kind of personal?”

  Is this guy nosy, or what? I don’t want to do it—I really don’t—but he’s left me no choice. “We need to talk to her about her son.”