Momentous Events in the Life of a Cactus

by Dusti Bowling

  I’d gotten to know Zion’s parents pretty well over the summer. And I had to say, anyone who would prepare an entire slide show on the positive attributes of Magneto was so far beyond nerdy that I never had any worries about fitting in with Zion’s family. “When is it?”

  “In a few weeks. You want to go? Please go. You have to go.”

  I shrugged. “Sure, I’ll think about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Zion said. “I shouldn’t have phrased that in any way as a request. As my friend, you are morally obligated to go. I already asked Connor, and he’s going too.”

  “Cool,” I said. “I’m sure it will be fun. Do I need to dress up?”

  “Well, you don’t have to, but a lot of people do. It’s pretty much a requirement in my family so I guess you better come up with something. You can borrow one of our Darth Vader masks if you want.”

  “One of them? How many do you have?”

  “I think like eight.”

  I grinned. “What else do you have?”

  Zion took another bite of his apple and chewed thoughtfully. “I’ll have to go through the costume closet and see what I can find for you.”

  “Whoa. Costume closet? How come I’ve never seen it?”

  “Didn’t know you were interested.” Zion looked me over a moment.

  “What?”

  “I think we have a Kitty Pryde costume in there that might fit you.”

  I finally managed to tear open my granola bar and worked on peeling the wrapper down. “Who’s that? Is she awesome? Because I’m only capable of dressing up as super-awesome characters.”

  “She’s pretty cool.”

  “Well, what’s her superpower?”

  “Phasing.”

  I scowled and took a bite of my granola bar. “That sounds lame.”

  “No, it’s a good superpower. Basically she can quantum-tunnel through solid matter.”

  I stared at Zion, slowly chewing my granola bar. I gulped. “I’m sorry, but did you say you weren’t a geek?”

  Zion pursed his lips. “Basically it means she can make parts of herself intangible so she can pass through things.”

  “Like the Invisible Man.”

  Zion exhaled with impatience. “No, the Invisible Man is invisible; he’s not intangible. You can’t see him, but he still has a regular body.”

  I mulled this over. “Would you rather be invisible or intangible?”

  “Invisible,” Zion said without hesitation. “What about you?”

  “Probably invisible. Although, if I could make myself intangible I wouldn’t have to deal with door handles anymore. What are you going as?”

  “My ma’s making me a Batman costume.”

  “I thought maybe you’d go as Morpheus.” I snickered. “All bald and mysterious.”

  “My parents would love that,” Zion said. “But no thanks.”

  I resisted the urge to look around again to see if people were watching me eat. I knew they were. There was no need to keep checking. Even though I’d gotten used to eating in my old middle school cafeteria, this was a whole new world with a lot more kids. I knew I’d eventually get used to it here, too, but it was still a struggle.

  “You want to do a guitar lesson after school?” I asked. I’d been working with Zion and Connor for several months, but now it was mostly just Zion and me. Our little duo. Our LT without the B. Our lonely bicycle. I tried not to act too mopey about it.

  “I was going to watch Lando’s football practice. He wants me to try to get more involved and maybe try out next year. He says my size can be a good thing in football. Plus, you know, exercise.” Zion winced.

  “I’ll watch too if you can give me a ride home afterward.” It was still over a hundred degrees outside, and sitting on those metal bleachers in the afternoon sun sounded like torture. But it seemed like you should spend the afternoon of your first day of school with a friend.

  I saw some girls from the soccer team enter the cafeteria. Unfortunately Jessica had gone to another high school, and she had been my closest friend on the team. We had a few phone calls over the summer, but those had stopped. I’d been through this before with other friends. I knew all too well how it went.

  The girls from soccer didn’t seem to notice me. Soccer was over, and we would all have to try out again in the spring. Plus, this was high school. Everything was different. There were serious politics at work here. At least that’s what I’d heard.

  I glanced over and saw that Joshua kid still watching me. He mouthed some words, and I turned my head. “What is it?” Zion asked me.

  I didn’t want to know.

  Zion and I sat on the metal bleachers after school, but we may as well have been sitting on a barbecue. I didn’t have a hat or sunblock, and I knew I would pay the price. A terrible sun-scorched price.

  My phone buzzed in my bag. Now that I was a totally grown-up high schooler who, like, owned an entire theme park and all, my parents had finally allowed me to get a cell phone. I dug it out with my foot but didn’t manage to reach it in time before the call ended.

  Armless-girl problems.

  I set my phone on the bleacher below me, called the number back with my toes, then placed the phone between my ear and shoulder with my foot. “I got your text,” Mom said when she answered. “You need me to come pick you up in a couple of hours?”

  “No, Zion’s parents will drop me off after Lando’s done with football practice.”

  “Great. That works out well anyway because I’m stuck with this annoying lease paperwork for the new jewelry shop. You know, Dad would be appalled to find out you’re watching Man Smash.”

  Sweat dripped into my eye and stung. I was kind of appalled myself. “Well, soccer is out of season. Nothing I can do about it.”

  “Isn’t there like baseball or bocce ball or bowling or anything else you could watch?”

  Bowling would’ve been so nice. Indoors. “We’re watching because Lando plays, and Zion might play eventually, too. So you’d better get used to it.”

  “Enjoy the man smashing then,” she said. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” I put my phone back in my bag. I shook my head and sweat flew on Zion.

  “Gross!” he cried. “Keep your sweat to yourself. I have enough over here.” It was true—he had a waterfall of sweat pouring off him. I looked down at my already pink legs. I pushed them against Zion, trying to get in some of his shade.

  He squinted at our squished legs. “Why are you acting like a weirdo?”

  “I wish my skin wasn’t so pale. I’m going to fry. Lend me your arms.”

  “What for?”

  “For shade. Hold your arms over me like an umbrella the whole time we sit here. Is that too much to ask?”

  Zion removed the plaid button-down shirt he wore over his T-shirt and laid it over my legs like a blanket.

  “Such a gentleman.” I turned my attention back to the field. “So which position would you like to play?”

  “Lando says offensive lineman would be the best position for my size. Plus, he said he would feel good knowing I was protecting him.”

  “He’s a total jock, isn’t he?” I said.

  Zion looked offended. “No. Football’s not even his favorite thing.”

  “What is, then?”

  Zion folded his arms. “He’s an artist, I’ll have you know.”

  “What kind of artist?”

  “He draws.”

  I scanned the field and found Lando. “What does he draw?”

  Zion shrugged. “Just stuff.”

  “That’s specific.”

  “He just draws all kinds of stuff. Sometimes he draws me.”

  I watched as Lando pulled off his helmet and squirted a water bottle over his short black hair then shook his head. I had no idea how they could wear all that gear and play football in this heat. I fully expected someone to topple over face down on the field at any moment. “What position does he play again?”

  Zion rolled his eye
s. “I told you already—quarterback. I know it’s not soccer, but keep up.”

  I saw Joshua Baker run onto the field. “Hey, it’s that guy—the one who was staring at me in the cafeteria.”

  Zion scowled. “Yeah. It’s unfortunate we have to watch him if we ever want to watch Lando.”

  Joshua looked up and found Zion and me in the stands. He smiled and waved at us.

  Zion grunted. “What. In. The?” he said.

  “Maybe he’s nice now,” I said and smiled back down at him. He was cute.

  “No,” Zion said without hesitation. “That guy is the worst.”

  “You haven’t seen him since seventh grade.”

  “Trust me, Aven. He’s evil.”

  “Maybe—”

  “Lardon!” Zion stood and threw his arms up. “He called me Lardon!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to giggle at Zion’s outburst. “That is really mean.”

  Zion sat back down, picked up the corner of his shirt that was protecting my legs, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. It flopped back down against my leg with a wet smack. “Gross!” I cried, laughing and cringing at the same time as it stuck to my leg.

  “You want my shirt, you get my sweat. Especially if I have to sit here and watch you make moony eyes at my archnemesis.”

  “He is not your archnemesis. You haven’t even seen him in over a year.”

  “A year isn’t long enough for someone like that to change.”

  “Maybe he had a near-death experience and his life flashed before his eyes and he realized he was a big jerk and that forced him to reevaluate his priorities.”

  Zion squinted down at the field. “Unless it involved a brain transplant, I seriously doubt it.”

  3

  Why do you have to grow up

  Because you age?

  Why do you have to grow up

  When life turns the page?

  —Llama Parade

  (Punk band, est. 2015, Los Angeles, CA)

  MR. AND MRS. HILL PICKED US UP after Lando’s practice. Mrs. Hill looked amazing, as usual, in a Spock T-shirt that read “Trek Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself” and a blue sparkly headband that matched her blue leggings. Mrs. Hill had the best collection of headbands I’d ever seen.

  “Aven’s going with us to Comic Con,” Zion announced from where we sat in the third row of the van on the way to Stagecoach Pass.

  “Great!” Mrs. Hill exclaimed.

  “What are you going to wear?” Mr. Hill eyed me seriously in the rearview mirror. “Choose wisely.”

  Lando turned around and grinned. “Choose wisely,” he mimicked his dad. “Seriously, though—you better.”

  “I was thinking of lending her Ma’s Kitty Pryde costume,” Zion said. “I think it will fit her.”

  “That’s a good idea, baby,” Mrs. Hill said.

  Zion sighed. “Ma, seriously, with the ‘baby.’”

  Mrs. Hill narrowed her eyes at Zion. “Oh, I see how it is. Gotten too good for my ‘babies.’ ” She turned around and stared ahead at the windshield. “All right, then.”

  Lando leaned back over me and shook his fist at Zion. “Stop being mean to Ma or I’ll kick your butt, baby.”

  Zion glared at his brother. “I’d like to see you try,” he grumbled.

  Mrs. Hill turned to Mr. Hill and acted like she was trying to hock up a loogie at him. Then he did it back to her. Then Mrs. Hill got into it, hacking and grunting and humphing. I suddenly realized they were actually talking to each other. Like, communicating. What language were they speaking? German? Dutch?

  I looked at Zion for answers. His eyes were bulging like they were about to burst out of his head. “That’s not fair! You guys can’t speak Klingon!” he cried. “I know you’re talking about me!”

  Mrs. Hill crossed her arms and grunted. “We can do whatever we please. It’s not our fault you don’t want to learn the romance languages.”

  “Klingon is not a romance language!” Zion said. “And neither is Elvish! French and Italian are the romance languages. I’ll never be able to put Klingon and Elvish on my résumé!”

  Lando and I looked at each other and cracked up. “I’ll never be able to put Klingon and Elvish on my résumé,” Lando mimicked him. “For what job? Pooper scooper?”

  Zion turned his fury on his brother. “Shut up!” Then he reached across me and smacked Lando’s arm. Lando reached over me and smacked Zion back. Then they were in a full-blown smack attack.

  I pushed myself against my seat, trying to stay out of the line of fire. “Yeah, I’m still here,” I told them from under their flying arms.

  “Keep your hands to yourselves,” Mrs. Hill ordered. “Stop torturing Aven.”

  The Hills dropped me off at the front entrance of Stagecoach Pass, and I decided to stop in to visit Trilby at the new smoothie place before I headed home. She often worked there with her parents in the late afternoons and on weekends. I figured the more friendly faces I got to see on my first day of high school, the better.

  I pushed my way into Sonoran Smoothies and waited while Trilby’s dad finished up with a customer. “Hi, Aven,” he said to me after the customer left.

  “Hi. Is Trilby around?”

  “No, she’s out with her mom. Do you want me to tell her you stopped by?”

  “Yes, please.” I read his T-shirt. “The Square Pegs?”

  He smiled and stretched out his T-shirt. “Oh, yeah. That was my band.”

  “You were in a band?”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “Before I had to grow up.”

  “Why can’t you be in a band after you grow up?”

  He scratched at his stubbly cheek. “That’s a good question. I guess we all didn’t have the time for it anymore.”

  “That stinks,” I said.

  His face grew serious. “It does stink.”

  “What kind of band was it?”

  “Punk band.”

  “Cool,” I said. “Did you guys ever make any albums?”

  “Yep. You can still download our songs.”

  “I’ll look for them,” I told him. “I’ve never listened to punk before.”

  His eyes grew huge like what I said was shocking. “You must remedy that immediately.”

  “I will.”

  I left Sonoran Smoothies and made my way to the soda shop to visit Henry, opening the door with my chin and shoulder. “Hi, Aven. You want some ice cream?” Henry said from behind the counter.

  “No, just ice water, please. Mom gets annoyed when I eat ice cream right before dinner.” Which was all the time. Seriously, I had probably eaten hundreds of gallons of ice cream since moving to Stagecoach Pass. Possibly thousands.

  Henry placed a plastic cup of ice water on one of the little metal bistro tables and dropped a straw into it. I sat down and sipped. “How can anyone go to school in this heat?” I said. “I wish I could hibernate until November.”

  “I don’t think Joe would approve of that,” Henry said.

  “Joe’s at the retirement center, Henry. Remember? My mom is Laura.”

  He rubbed at his head. “Right. Sorry.” He sat down at the table with me. He leaned forward, his elbow on the metal table, still rubbing his temples.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  He shrugged. “I feel foggy. And I’m tired. Always tired.”

  “Maybe it’s this heat,” I said. “You’ll feel better when it cools down. I think we all will.” I watched Henry as he stared down at the table. “Henry?”

  He didn’t seem to hear me. He’d been going in and out like this a lot. He would be here with me one minute, and the next minute, his mind was off somewhere else entirely. Sometimes he remembered who I was. Sometimes he mistook me for my mother. And sometimes he was so confused he couldn’t remember my name at all. I never knew what to expect.

  And then I realized I wouldn’t know how to get in touch with his family if he got really sick or something happened to him. Did Josephine? Did my parents? He
was getting more confused all the time. Older. Weaker.

  “Henry, don’t you have any family?”

  He smiled a little down at the table, traced the metal flower design with his shaky finger, hummed something to himself. Eventually he looked up at me like he was just noticing I was there. “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi. Did you ask me something?”

  “I asked if you have any family.”

  Henry shook his head slowly and continued tracing the flowers. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “No brothers or sisters?”

  “I suppose I could.”

  “You mean you can’t remember?” I had a hard time believing he was so confused he couldn’t even remember if he had any family at all. Denise, the woman who worked in the petting zoo, once told me he had trouble remembering recent things, but that he was better at remembering things from the past.

  “No, it’s not that.” Henry tapped on the metal table, making a tinging sound.

  “I don’t understand then. What is it?”

  “You should understand, Aven. You know, you and I have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  He stopped tracing the flowers. “We were both orphans.”

  Mom already had dinner on the table when I walked in the door so it was a good thing I didn’t fill up on ice cream. I stared at the glass casserole dish of macaroni and cheese sitting on the table. I knew she would never make macaroni and cheese under normal circumstances.

  “So, Sheebs, how was your first day as a high schooler?” Dad asked through a bite of cheesy goodness.

  “Apparently Mom doesn’t think it went well since she made comfort food for dinner.” I eyed her suspiciously across our tiny kitchen table. “Why are you trying to comfort me, huh?”

  She scoffed and flung her long dark hair over her shoulder. “I happen to enjoy macaroni and cheese, I’ll have you know.”

  “No, you do not. You call it toddler food.”

  “It’s a special day so I made you a special dinner.” She waved a hand in the air. “That’s all. I should not have to defend my dinner choices.” She took a bite and made exaggerated pleasure sounds. “It’s so delicious and sophisticated and not at all like toddler food. I elevate macaroni and cheese to a whole other level. I am a world class macaroni and cheese cooker.”