Tween Hobo

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by Tween Hobo


  “I thought we were here to find your brother,” said Stumptown Jim rather sternly.

  “Yeah, yeah, we are. But also—JUSTIN!!!!!”

  Jim sighed. “You know, I’m beginning to doubt the sincerity of your mission.” And he gave me this look.

  It was all I could do not to say, Well, I’m beginning to doubt that you’re not closely related to my fifth-grade teacher!—but I restrained myself. And, on my phone, googled Bieber tix.

  SOLD OUT, shouted Google. And I noticed they still haven’t put up my SpongeBob peace-sign logo. Stupid Google. My throat started to hurt.

  Here I lie, on the cold, grimy tiles of this once-grand public restroom. My head throbs. Somewhere in a Magnificent Palace of Staples, Justin Bieber tosses his hair and a tidal wave of girls’ delight crashes upon the stage. Only one girl is missing. That is me. One More Lonely Girl.

  Knowing I’m so close, yet so far, from Justin Bieber is surely what triggered this episode of desperate affliction. I’ve had symptoms of the Fever before—like when Never Say Never 3D was playing but Tessa and I had already seen it twice so her mom made us go see We Bought a Zoo instead. I got hives. It was bad. But that was a minor flare-up. A common Bieber Cold, you might say. Not the full-blown virus. Not like this.

  In my delirium, I begin to see strange visions. I see the doorway to an enchanted wardrobe, and I’m not even clear on what a wardrobe is. I see an Indian in a cupboard—and right next to him, a tiny Kim Kardashian, also in the cupboard. I see a little cake that says Eat Me. I eat it, obvs.

  Suddenly I am transported to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Pink stars with historic names like Paula Abdul adorn the concrete. The air is thick with glamour, and bus fumes. Captain Jack Sparrow from the Pirates movie franchise sashays up to me and taps me on the shoulder. His eyeliner is sticky in the heat. He offers me a twenty percent discount on prescription glasses or contacts at Pearle Vision. “I don’t wear glasses,” I tell him. “Oi, but now you do,” he says in his fruity accent. “You got the Bieber Fever, me love. You’re goin’ blind.”

  Everything spins, and kaleidoscopes, and turns inside out like a reversible cardigan. In the haze, through strange rainbows, I catch a glimpse of Honig, my au pair, asking another tourist to take her picture as she pretends to eat Mickey Mouse’s butt. I yell to her but she does not hear me. Justin Bieber’s hair waves slowly in the breeze, like an amber wave of grain. I begin to cough up blood.

  The sad thing is, I might die before I even get to first. Playing Truth or Dare with the hobos the other night, I said I had gotten to first already, but I was lying. I’ve never been kissed. I mean Frenched™. One time a boy at my Hebrew school kissed me on the cheek, but that doesn’t count. And plus he moved to Florida.

  More spinning. Then a thud. I am plunked down on some incredibly bright-green lawn, like the cleanest lawn you’ve ever seen, and in front of me rises a mansion befitting the contestants of a dating reality show. “What is this place?” I whisper. Then I see a sign, with an arrow pointing toward the mansion, and the sign says CELEBRITY REHAB CENTER.

  I shake my head in wonder. So this is rehab!!! Could this be where my brother has been sent? The celebrity part is a little confusing because my brother’s not famous, but then again, he is pretty cool. But if he is here, how can I find him? I decide to take a walk around and scope out the joint.

  First thing I see is a giant swimming pool with a bunch of babes and hotties all hanging out around it. Everybody’s skin and boobs are glinting in the sun. There’s one girl just slowly pouring water over herself, shaking her hair from side to side under the cascade. It’s super-inappropriate, and I feel like I should change the channel before my mom walks in. So I kind of dodge into some bushes and out the other side, and I find myself in a little secret-garden-type area where a group of young adults are sitting in a circle.

  It takes me a second to I realize that I recognize every single face in the circle. There’s Beyoncé. And Taylor Swift. And Kanye. And Lady Gaga. And Lil Wayne. And Miley Cyrus. And Drake. And Katy Perry. And Rihanna. And Justin Timberlake. And—sitting right next to Demi Lovato—with a pretty sour expression on his face—is my brother. EVAN!!!!!

  His hair has grown out on the sides where he shaved it, but unevenly, in patches. He’s skinnier too. He wears a couple beaded necklaces, and a T-shirt he stole from me that says DAD IS MY BFF. He’s obviously wearing this ironically because all he does is fight with our dad, and also, it’s way too small on him. Lil Wayne, who seems to be leading the group discussion, is holding some kind of conch shell and saying, “Life is like a box of chocolates. If you don’t slow down for a second, you could miss it. Talkin’ bout wee ooh wee ooh wee, okay, who’s next?” My brother, nudged on by Demi Lovato, grudgingly raises his hand. Lil Wayne passes him the shell. Evan takes it, hefts it in his thin fingers, and goes, “Life is pointless.” Okay—now I know that’s my brother.

  I come pirouetting out of the bushes and do a full-on body slam into the middle of the therapy session. Beyoncé is taken aback. Timberlake seems nonplussed. I don’t have time for them. “Evan!” I cry in happiness. “I found you!” Evan looks at me as if through some kind of haze. “Dude . . .,” he mutters. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at soccer?” All the celebrities roll their eyes at each other, light up electronic cigarettes, and the circle breaks up. I grab my brother’s sharp elbow and try to tell him everything.

  “I skipped town!” I tell him. “I been travelin’! A-wanderin’ and a-ramblin’. I took up with vagrants, revolutionaries—like, hallelujah, I’m a bum! But my tramping’s had a purpose—and the purpose was to find you. I’ve come all this way to find you, Brother—’cross the Great Lakes, ’cross the Mighty Mississip’, cross the plains and prairies and Badlands and bayous! I’ve dodged railroad bulls, slept outside in thunderstorms, heck, I’ve survived on nothin’ but crumbs and lip gloss! And sure as my bowl of mulligan stew, I knew I’d track you down. I knew we’d be together again, one fine day!”

  My brother picks at a tiny hole in his T-shirt and rolls his eyes, just like one of the celebrities. “Okay, freak,” he sighs. “Whatever.”

  “Evan,” I plead. “What’s wrong? Why did they send you away? And why aren’t you happy to see me?”

  “Stuff is going on that you wouldn’t understand,” he mumbles. “I’m seventeen now. You’re just a kid. You don’t get it.”

  “I’m not a kid,” I protest. “I’m a tween.”

  “Gross. Don’t use that word.”

  “But—Evan—listen!” I hear my voice start to get high and frantic. “I’m obviously old enough to get it. I’ve been traveling by myself for eight months! I slept in a cornfield! I ate squirrel—and I didn’t even care when it touched some cabbage on the plate! I survived in the woods using nothing but my wits and freaking Apple Maps, dude! Do you know how crappy Apple Maps is?! I did all this to save you, my brother. I did it so”—and here I falter. “I did so—you would think I was cool.”

  Behind my brother I see Katy Perry sneer. Taylor Swift does that thing where you put an L up to your forehead with your thumb and first finger to mean “loser.” Drake is like, “Yo, Evan, we bouncin’.” My brother signals back to them, like, wait one second—and then he says to me, “I’m your big brother. I’m never gonna think you’re cool. I’m like contractually obligated not to.”

  “But you used to,” I said. “You and I used to be good buds. Don’t you remember? I just want you to come home again—so things can go back to the way they were. Mom and Dad will snap out of their zombie trances, and you’ll be nice to me again.”

  Evan was already walking away. “Sorry. It’s just not that simple anymore. So stop following me around, okay? These are my friends and you’re not allowed to hang out with us. You need to leave me alone. Go home. But remember, my room is off-limits. And don’t touch my sneakers. Don’t even look at them.”

  The force of my brother’s total rejection knocked me flat on my back. I lay ther
e, stunned, on the manicured grass of the Celebrity Rehab Center, which slowly congealed into the cold tile floor of the public-restroom-turned-infirmary. I heard Evan’s footsteps, walking away. My head throbbed with pain and the bass line of Bieber’s “Boyfriend” remix by 2 Chainz. The cold tiled floor of the bathroom grew warm against my scarlet, hectic cheeks. What a sad way for a tween to go. Unloved. Unsung. Un-Frenched.

  I felt a pair of hands on me. They were strong, smooth hands. Healing hands. Someone, I know not who, lifted my head up tenderly and nursed me with a few sweet, sweet drops of blue Gatorade. Onstage at the Staples Center, the Biebz sang my favorite line: “We could be starving, we could be homeless . . . as long as you love me . . .”

  For a second I dreamed they were Bieber’s hands. My eyelids softly fluttered open—or as softly as you can flutter your eyelids open when they’re half-stuck together with pinkeye crud and eight-month-old sparkly mascara. As I blinked in the light, one sparkly tear ran down my cheek. “Hey, now,” said the voice above me. “Don’t cry. I know life’s no picnic. But things’ll turn out all right. They always do.”

  I sniffled. “Yeah, but, but I didn’t get to go to the Bieber show. And my brother doesn’t think I’m cool. And my throat hurts. And I’ve never been kissed.”

  The voice above me kind of chuckled, softly. The healing hands held on to me, with a firmness. And then, before I can even take a breath, a face leans down toward mine. The face has long hair attached to it. And lips as beautiful as a supermodel’s. THE FACE IS THE FACE OF HOT JOHNNY FREAKING TWO-CAKES. AND GUESS WHAT.

  I SWEAR.

  HE KISSED ME.

  OKAY, FOLKS?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!!!?!?!?

  I HOPE YOU DAAAAAANNNCCCEEE!!?!?!?!?! RT IF YOU LOVE GOD?!?!?!!??!!?!?

  Instantaneously, as Hot Johnny’s lips touched mine, my throat healed up, my skin began to glow, and my fever broke. It was like the whole world got BeDazzled. My heart and soul formed an ice-dancing pair and performed a flamenco as their folk-dance original dance. I won six Oscars and eight Golden Globes and four Tonys and twenty-nine Caldecotts. Even the tooth fairy was jealous of me???!?!?!!!!!! It was BONKERS!!!!!!??!?!??!?!

  And just as soon as it happened, it was over. Hot Johnny Two-Cakes pulled away, quickly, as Stumptown Jim and Tin Cap Earl came barging in. “How ya feelin’, kid?” said Jim, his voice brimful of loyalty and decency (the kind of decency that would not be cool with a random dude secretly giving me a smooch). “Oh!” I cried, startled. “I’m feeling much, much better!” Hot Johnny had already jetted out of the bathroom. I sat up and started pounding my chest, like a vibrant and hopefully adorable baby gorilla. Stumptown Jim and Tin Cap Earl looked superrelieved. “Sakes alive, kid, ya gave us a scare!”

  I bounced up and fixed my ponytail. “You were talkin’ in your sleep,” said Jim. “Sayin’ things. Strange things. Things about your brother.”

  The raging blue skies of my happiness at once filled with clouds. “Yeah. My brother. I dreamed we found him.” The guys looked at me, curious.

  “We still might,” said Jim. “You said he went out West, right? Well, we’re just about as far west as you can git.”

  “Yeah . . .” I shook my head. A tear fell from my eye. And Jim nodded and put his arm around me, as if he understood.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/8

  Most Bratz dolls are staunch libertarians.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/9

  According to Klout, I’m influential about Unicorns, Digital Lifestyle Technologies, and Dip (aka Chaw).

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/10

  “Gangnam Style” hit one billion views—and here I am with a hankering to watch it again.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/11

  What’s so suspicious about a kid in a dirty bowler hat not registered in the local school system trying to sign herself up for karate class?

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/12

  I have always depended on the kindness of park rangers.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/13

  Nobody knows the bubbles I’ve blown.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/14

  Stoically packing my lip full of Big League Chew.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/15

  Ain’t no spell-check on the raod.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/16

  Wikipedia should have an entry about how long this spoon’s been stuck to my nose.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/17

  This hunchbacked pool-hall rotation shark is not invited to my bat mitzvah.

  You can probably guess the Hunger Games character I relate to most—it’s Haymitch.

  Tween Hobo TV Show Pitch

  If they ever make a TV show out of my story, I think the show should be streaming on Hulu and I think this should be Episode 3:

  Episode 3: “Bat Mitzvah”

  The train pulls into a Colorado station just outside Aspen, where a billionaire Wall Street tycoon has rented out an entire hotel for his daughter’s bat mitzvah. The theme of this lavish affair is “The Hunger Games,” and when the guests see the ragged, dirt-streaked Tween Hobo loitering outside, they assume she is a child actor dressed up for their entertainment as one of Katniss’s less well-known rivals (and, by the same token, assume that Stumptown Jim is meant to be Haymitch). TH and Jim are forced to compete in a terrifying dance-off and piñata battle for the amusement of the wealthy guests. When TH, infuriated, rebels against the powerful family by stealing some cake, Stumptown Jim accuses her of just being jealous. Tween Hobo has to confront the possibility that her own materialism and corruption have not been entirely eradicated by her decision to break free of the chains of capitalist society—and she also has to face the fact that, as a hobo, she will probably never get to have the vampire-themed bat mitzvah of her dreams.

  TEAM HAYMITCH

  Tween Hobo

  8/19

  That empty oil drum is my office, and you, sir, just set fire to my fax machine.

  #StuffTweenHoboNeverSays

  Still chuckling over that last Shouts & Murmurs piece, what a deft skewering.

  I have a feeling that a real unicorn might ultimately be a disappointment.

  No thanks, I’ve had enough Pixy Stix dust for one day.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/22

  Boulder looks like the kinda town where a gal could redeem a coupon she won for a free roller-skating pizza party.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/23

  Ice climbing. Picks or it didn’t happen.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/24

  Going to see a horse about a guy :/

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/25

  I’ll tell you how we could get the housing market back on track: build more secret passageways.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/26

  My Snapchats come and go so fast the government can barely get two screenshots of ’em. #privacy

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/27

  Life on the road has taught me hard lessons, but I still suck at fractions :(

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/28

  I like to give it a solid fifteen seconds between times that I say, “Are we there yet?”

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/29

  Cain’t get a lick a’ Wi-Fi in these jerk-water towns.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/30

  Hot Johnny Two-Cakes’ tweets are protected. Like I care.

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  8/31

  Time to catch “old dirty face” again. #Mondays

  Tween Hobo @TweenHobo

  9/1

  Have you been living under a rock? Because I have.

  My Guidance Counselor

  This was the look on my guidance counselor’s face when I asked h
im if he ever had any problems with peer pressure:

  He says nothing, but his eyes are clearly hinting I need more extracurriculars.

  Teachers should never infringe upon my gum rights.

  September 2

  * * *

  Denver, Colorado

  As Stumptown Jim said, you can’t go any farther west than California, so when we left there, we just turned back around. I was still reeling from my bad encounter with my brother. Fever dream or not, it was a punch in the gut. Not to mention that ever since kissing me, Hot Johnny Two-Cakes has been acting like if he even looks at me, he’ll get arrested. Yep, things are tougher than ever. I’d be lying if I said my Tuesday underpants weren’t ever so slightly in a bunch. And wait—it gets worse.

  We pulled into Denver just as the aftermath of a school shooting was settling down. This school shooting was considered pretty minor, cuz only a couple kids got shot. Adults yelled at each other on the news, a few funerals were held with mini- coffins, they put the killer’s face on the cover of Rolling Stone, and people more or less moved on.

  Well, not me. I didn’t move on. I felt sad and terrified.

  But it seemed like even grown-ups didn’t know what to do about it. The head of the NRA went on TV and made some fair points, such as, “The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun.” Then he went ahead and blamed something called Mortal Kombat for the violence of society, which, I had to check with some old hobos to find out what that was (some ancient video game, IDK). He said all elementary- school teachers ought to be equipped with military-grade rifles and instructed to take out any odd-looking teenagers with extreme prejudice. (As a side note, I find it can be hard to tell the difference between a shy, troubled white boy who might murder my whole class, and one who I might just have a painful crush on.)

 

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