I reach for the door, but before I can close it, Emily throws Lyle’s arm off and sits up in the van. “Don’t bother, Drew, we should get up anyway.”
Her eyes are gray in the morning light. Last night, under the bus station’s fluorescent lights, they looked blue. She’s wearing a tissue-paper-thin white tank top, and I look away so I won’t stare at her nipples poking out the fabric.
“I’m hungry,” Emily comments. “Anyone want some oatmeal?”
“Me!” five voices, including my own, call out.
Emily pulls a thick wool sweater out from one of the duffel bags and slides out of the sleeping bag and into a pair of jeans that are more holes than fabric. She uses a green elastic band from around her wrist to lift her thick dreads off the back of her neck. “Ah, that’s better.”
I smile and look away, hoping she hasn’t seen me staring.
A camping stove emerges from underneath the passenger seat and she proceeds to assemble it in the parking lot. Slowly Lyle, Jesse, and G emerge from the van in various stages of undress. They pull on layers from what seems to be a communal clothing supply. I jump up and down wearing a thin fleece jacket—the only coat I had bothered to bring with me.
“Here, throw this on.” Jesse chucks a thick wool shirt my way: a button-up with green and black checks. It’s the kind of thing a lumberjack wears; a little itchy around the collar, but it’s warm. It smells like wood smoke and the spicy smell of the van. Lyle produces a soccer ball, and we all start to kick around while Emily makes the oatmeal. I can’t juggle, but I can pass the ball around without embarrassing myself too badly. Lyle can bounce the ball easily from one foot to another, on his knees and off his chest. In daylight I can see that even though he’s short, he’s pretty well built. Jesse and G seem pretty athletic too. Tim passes the ball along if it comes near him in kind of a disinterested way. His pants sag off his hips, and when he trots to get a missed ball he has to hold them up with one hand to avoid losing them altogether.
As we wait for the water to boil, the morning clouds begin to thin and breaks of blue sky are visible overhead. A few cars begin trickling into the parking lot, and Walmart workers in their bright blue smocks file into the store.
“Come and get it,” Emily yells. She is pouring the steaming oatmeal into an odd assortment of ceramic and plastic bowls. There are only four.
“You can share with me, Drew,” she says. “I always eat out of the pot.”
“It’s Andrew,” G says a bit forcefully.
Emily ignores her. “Do you mind?” she asks me.
“Not really,” I say truthfully. I look away to avoid catching G’s eyes.
Everyone grabs their share and finds a corner of the van to eat in. Emily thrusts the pot handle and two spoons into my hands and grabs a sleeping bag out of the van.
“Come on,” she says. I follow her around to the other side of the van, where she sits down next to the back tire and spreads the sleeping bag over her lap. The sun is shining brightly now, and on this side of the van it’s actually warm. I just stand there like an idiot, holding the pot of oatmeal.
Emily looks up shielding her eyes from the sun. “Put the pot down, Andrew, and come sit next to me.” She holds the sleeping bag up on one side like an invitation. I put the pot down on the ground and sit down next to her. She pats the sleeping bag over our laps, closes her eyes, and leans back against the bus. “The sun feels good.”
“Uh-huh,” I agree. It’s the only response I can manage. Our legs are touching under the sleeping bag. Actually, to be more specific, her knee is touching my thigh. I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face. If this is life on the road, I think I could get used to it.
We sit there like that for several minutes until Emily says, “It’s probably cool enough now.”
“What?”
“The oatmeal.” She giggles. “It’s probably cool enough to touch the pot.”
“Oh, right,” I say. I grab the pot by the handle and hand her one of the spoons. With my free hand I spoon warm oatmeal into my mouth. I always thought oatmeal had a bad, slimy texture, but this is incredible. It’s sweet and warm, and as it slides down my throat it seems like every painful moment of the past twenty-four hours is erased. I smile at Emily. “It’s really good.”
“Yeah,” she says in between mouthfuls, “I got a way with the Quaker Oats Man. That, and maple syrup. Maple syrup makes everything taste better. Nature’s candy.”
“I thought raisins were nature’s candy,” I joke.
“What?”
“Never mind,” I say, embarrassed by my dorkiness. “So how did you meet these guys anyway?”
“Oh, you know,” she says, like this is a perfectly normal way to live. “I was hanging out in Burlington, and Jesse and G and Lyle were busking and doing their act. I can juggle and do the hoops, so I started working with them. When they decided to leave, I went with them.”
“So is that where you’re from? Burlington?”
“No, I’m from a little town called Kingfield. It’s near Burlington, but it shouldn’t even really be called a town. It’s like a town hall and a convenience store and a volunteer fire department. It’s the kind of place people go to get away from it all.” She holds up her fingers in quotations and rolls her eyes. “I had this boyfriend for a while and he lived in Burlington, so I started staying at his place a lot. Then we broke up, but he still let me crash there. It was all right, but I was ready to move on.”
There’s a mechanical way in which she recounts this information that makes me think there’s more to the story. “Do your parents know where you are?”
“Bird and Darryl?” Emily snorts. “Kind of.”
“Do they care?” I ask quietly. Suddenly I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I can’t really explain why. “Wait, your parents’ names are Bird and Darryl?”
“Bird’s my mom. I’ve never met my real dad. I don’t even think Bird really knows who he is. Darryl’s like her common-law husband. They met on a Phish tour. They had the twins and then they just had another baby. So yeah, they kind of know where I am. I’ll send them a postcard when I get around to it. They’ve got their hands full at home anyway.”
“What about school?” I’m guessing that Emily is close to my age.
“Neither of them is in any position to lecture me about dropping out,” she says. “School’s overrated anyway. I was going to this pretty amazing place called Milestone. It’s like this alternative school where you pick what you want to learn about and the teachers—well, they don’t call them teachers, they’re called facilitators—so the facilitators help you figure out how to access that knowledge. And that was all right. But then after Baby Lucille was born my mom had to quit her job. The healthcare system in this country is completely messed up. You know there are some places like in Europe where women get a year off from their job so they can raise their kids?”
I nod like this is something I might be even remotely aware of. Emily goes on, “They couldn’t swing the tuition, so I had to go back to public school. I can’t take the institutional bullshit of those places. So here I am. The school of life. Accessing the knowledge of the world.”
We lean back against the van, eating mostly in silence, enjoying the sweet oatmeal and the warm sun. After we scrape the pot clean, Emily sighs and rests her head on my shoulder. I always thought dreadlocks would be dirty and smelly, but Emily smells great—like really strong peppermint soap. I breathe little shallow breaths so I won’t move and end the moment. This could be me. Me and Emily and no institutional bullshit. I think I know what she means by that. Either way, this is definitely the closest a girl has ever been to me in my life, and I’m not going to break the spell for anything.
HELLMART
“Andrew!”
I jerk my head up at the sound of G’s voice and shield my eyes so I can see her. Emily doesn’t move. G’s eyes flick over to Emily and then back to me. She sighs loudly.
“Come on. we’re going in.”
> “In where?” I ask.
“Hellmart,” G says. “I wish there was some way around it, but you need your own sleeping bag. I shared with Jesse last night and either his feet were sticking out or my head was completely covered. It wasn’t fun.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know I was using his sleeping bag.”
“It’s not a big deal, but we need to get you your own for tonight. If you’re staying with us, that is,” she says.
“Yeah, okay.” Reluctantly I slide out from under Emily’s sleeping bag and walk away with G.
“You guys check out the back while we’re in there, okay?” G calls to Lyle, Tim, and Jesse. Before I can ask her what she means, the magical mechanical doors swing open and the smell of stale air and fake buttered popcorn assaults my nose. We both smile politely at the elderly gentleman assigned the task of greeting us.
“I hate this place,” G mutters as we study the blue-and-white signs hanging from the ceiling at the entrance to each aisle.
“How come?”
“On a corporate level, the pay sucks, they sell cheap plastic crap made by children with lead poisoning in China and that will probably end up in a landfill in less than six months. On a personal level, my Aunt Ginger used to work at one of these places. She hurt her back, and they hired a big lawyer to convince her she wasn’t entitled to worker’s comp. After that she couldn’t work for a while, and she and my Uncle Paul couldn’t afford to have me live at their house any more. So that’s how I ended up at foster home number one.”
“Oh,” I say. I had never really thought of Walmart as anything more than a big store that sold a lot of stuff. “I think camping gear is down here.” We make our way down the aisle filled with coolers, fishing gear, tents, and camping stoves. At the end there is a small section devoted to sleeping bags rolled up in neat spirals. The cheapest one is $49.99, about twenty dollars more than I have left. I could use Mom’s credit card, but I really don’t want to. I don’t want her to hold it over me that I was on my own for less than twenty-four hours before I was dependent on her again. I also don’t want G or anyone else to know I have it, for a couple reasons.
As we’re standing there, a blue-smocked employee with a tight ponytail lacquered to her head walks briskly past the end of the aisle.
“Excuse me,” G calls after her. “Are these the cheapest sleeping bags you have?”
“Yep, that’s it,” she says. “Except for the kids’ ones.” She eyes G up and down. “You might be able to fit. My son still uses one and he’s fourteen.”
“Where would we find those?” G asks.
“Around the corner.” The woman points to the next aisle over.
***
“Ooh,” G exclaims as she unties the knot and unrolls a Strawberry Shortcake themed bag. It’s covered with pink and green cupcakes, but it’s only a little bit smaller than an adult sleeping bag. “There’s this, Spiderman, or Superman.”
I try and imagine crawling underneath this thing with Emily, and thoughts of Analiese Gerber make my stomach turn. Who am I kidding? “I guess I’m more of a Spidey guy.”
“I can see that,” G says. “There’s definitely something a little secretive and nerdy about you.”
“Thanks.”
We pay for the sleeping bag and a large bag of Twizzlers at the register. I stuff the last of my money, all two dollars and seventy-two cents, back into my pocket.
Back in the parking lot I’m surprised to see the bus is running and everyone is packed inside. “Come on,” G says nervously, “Let’s run.”
“Okay, but it’s not like we stole this stuff or anything,” I joke.
“Right,” she agrees. But her eyes are scanning the parking lot.
We start running towards the van. Lyle is riding shotgun, and Jesse is driving again, so G and I jump in the back. As soon as we slam the van door Jesse burns a little rubber peeling out of the parking lot. I get up on my knees and look behind us. Two agitated-looking Walmart security guards are pointing at the van as we drive away.
I sit down, feeling a little bit thrilled but mostly confused. Emily is organizing a pile of stuff including a loaf of bread, two large containers of orange juice, a couple bags of Sun-Maid raisins, a family-size bag of baby carrots, several large bags of tortilla chips, and what looks like a child’s paint set.
“Where did all that come from?”
“The excesses of capitalism,” Emily answers without looking up.
“Did you guys steal that stuff from the store?”
“Hell no,” Lyle says. “I wouldn’t set foot in there if you paid me.”
“Well then where did all that come from?” I thought the question had been pretty clear the first time.
Lyle turns around in his seat and looks me straight on. “The dumpster,” he says simply. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
I can tell he’s waiting to gauge my reaction. I take a moment giving myself a little more time to process this information. “So you’re going to eat this stuff? Out of the trash?”
“Where do you think your peanut butter and bread came from last night?” Lyle asks. “Or this morning’s oatmeal?”
“A store?”
“It was in a store,” Emily explains. “They have to pull the stuff off the shelf before it expires. Most of it hasn’t even expired the day it goes in there, and in a big store like that it doesn’t sit there very long. Almost everything in there is perfectly good food.” I’m not totally horrified, but there must be some displeasure in my facial expression.
“See, I told you he was going to freak out,” Lyle says.
“Shut up,” Tim unexpectedly chimes in. “I thought it was a little weird at first too. But it’s really all perfectly good food, and sometimes you find other cool stuff.”
I look curiously at the bread, carrots, and tortilla chips. They seem okay. “Isn’t it kind of sloppy and gross in there?”
“Sometimes,” G says. “But most stuff is in bags. We can pull the bags out and see what’s in them before we even open them up. We live in a really sanitized world. Even our garbage is pretty clean.”
“It’s not just about getting food out of the trash,” Emily says. “It’s a movement, an anticapitalist movement. It’s Freeganism.”
“Freeganism?” I look up in time to see Jesse and G meeting eyes in the mirror. G is rolling hers. “So does that make you Freegans?”
“Yes,” says Emily definitively.
“If you like labels,” Jesse says. “I just like getting stuff for free.” He smiles at me in the mirror. “It fits my budget.”
I think about the two dollars and seventy cents left in my pocket. Who was I to be complaining about the origins of a perfectly good peanut butter sandwich? “Okay with me, I guess,” I say.
“See!” Emily says triumphantly. “I told you he wouldn’t be weird about it. Andrew is open-minded. He’s a highly evolved male of the species.” She leans over, wraps her arms around my neck, and kisses me on the cheek. My face flashes bright red, and Lyle looks annoyed as he turns around to face front again.
Emily continues putting away the food, and Tim puts his headphones back on. G starts arranging the bags behind her into a little nest. I grab a couple of duffel bags and lean them up against the side of the van. The last time I was intentionally in a car without my seatbelt on was when I was seven and our neighbor used to let me and his son stick our heads out the sunroof of his Porsche on the way home from soccer practice. Somehow Mom found out and forbade me from ever getting a ride with them again. It’s an odd feeling to be hurtling down the highway at sixty or so miles an hour with no restraint, when my whole life had been belted in and buckled down. I kind of like it. “So where are we going?” I ask.
“Rochester,” Jesse says from the driver’s seat.
“How come?”
“College town, lots of young people around,” he says.
“On Thanksgiving break?”
“Yeah, there won’t be a lot of students. But it’s got a little downt
own area. People will be out and about today and tomorrow.”
“Biggest shopping day of the year,” I say offhand.
“You know, today is actually International Buy Nothing Day,” Emily chimes in.
“Wait, let me guess,” I say. “Is that a day when everyone is supposed to buy nothing?” As soon as I say it I wish I could take it back. Emily ignores my sarcasm and keeps talking. “International Buy Nothing Day was created in response to Black Friday. You know the day after Thanksgiving when they have all those sales and people line up and get crushed to death in order to get the new Tickle Me Elmo for their precious little kid?”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“Well International Buy Nothing Day is all about showing corporations that they don’t have power over us and they can’t tell us what’s going to make us happy.”
“I don’t know,” I say, “That Elmo is a pretty funny little guy.” I’m only kidding and trying to lighten the mood in the van. But Emily just glares at me. G gives a little snort, and Jesse stifles a grin with the back of his hand. It’s the second time in an hour that I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I want to prove I can think for myself. “All I’m saying is people like buying stuff. Some people clip their coupons for that day like a month ahead of time. They love the idea that they’re getting something for nothing, or something for really cheap. Why rain on their parade?” Now I’m just playing devil’s advocate. I don’t want Emily to be mad at me, so why can’t I shut up when she’s talking about something that’s obviously really important to her?
She looks at me fiercely. “They’re raining on Earth’s parade,” she growls with a clenched jaw.
That’s all G can take. She snorts loudly and doubles over laughing. Emily glares at her and retreats into a corner of the van. It’s quite awkward, since there really isn’t anywhere to go. She turns her face toward the wall and tries her best to look dignified.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not trying to make fun of you. I just don’t really get how getting people to buy nothing for a single day will really make any difference?”
The Other Way Around Page 7