“I think a gap year can be very sensible for some students,” she said.
“Or two,” I said.
Mom sighed. “Yes, even two. You know this isn’t about what I want. It’s about having options.”
“I know I have options, mom. What I want is a little more direction.”
Mom looked a little stunned at my response and it took her a minute to gather her thoughts again. “Well there’s more,” she said. “Mima asked to be cremated.”
“Oh.”
“And she wanted you to decide what to do with her ashes.” Before I could respond to this Mom quickly continued speaking. “Personally I think that’s a bit of a ridiculous thing to ask a teenager. But she was very specific about it being your responsibility. I think she wanted you to go on some crazy adventure or something and leave them on top of a mountain. I don’t know, she wasn’t very specific. Just that you were to decide what to do with them and to be creative about it.”
“Well, I guess I kind of already had the adventure part,” I joked.
Mom grimaced. “You could say that.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. Whatever I do, I won’t miss any more school this year. Mima can wait. I need to think about it anyway. Where is she now?”
“Her ashes? In an urn on top of the washing machine.”
This was Mom’s place for an infinite number of things that didn’t seem to have any other set location: wrapping paper, phone books, VHS tapes for a VCR we no longer owned, and apparently ashes of the deceased.
One afternoon on my way home my stomach was growling more than usual. I stopped at Mr. Bagel in town to grab something to eat, but when I reached for the door handle I paused. Without really caring who was looking, I walked over to the side of the building and around the back to the alley, where there was a dark blue dumpster overstuffed with bags of trash. I lifted the lid and recoiled at the smell of rotting vegetables and sour dairy products. There was a brownish liquid pooling below the dumpster, and flies were buzzing around and landing in it. I grimaced and let the lid fall shut. I walked back around to the entrance, went inside, and mumbled my order to the cashier. She seemed overly sunny when giving me my change.
The experience reminded me of my really brief membership in the Boy Scouts. I went on exactly one scout outing. It was supposed to be a father-son trip, but at the last minute Dad bailed, and I had to get tacked on like a third wheel to some other father-son team. We hiked a little ways in to a shelter that was part of the Appalachian Trail and spent the afternoon clearing brush and tidying up the campsite as part of earning our community service badges. The best part of the whole trip was the beef stew we ate for dinner. Cooked in a pot over an open fire with the stars shining brightly above, every morsel tasted rich and delicious on my tongue. “What is this?” I remember asking my scout leader.
“Dinty Moore beef stew,” he answered and tossed me an empty can. I memorized the label and begged Mom to buy it for me when I got back from the trip. She gave me a funny look but tossed a couple cans in the cart the next time we were at the supermarket. I raced home after school the next day and carefully opened and reheated a can of stew. When I tasted it, I was crushed. It smelled and tasted like dog food. Under the bright fluorescent track lights of our kitchen, it even looked a bit like dog food. I poured the rest in a plastic bag and hid it in the trash. I was never so disappointed in a meal or a memory until that dumpster behind Mr. Bagel.
After about a month, G moved into the dorms, Mom went back to her regular schedule, and I just kind of slipped under the radar again. I still see G every day. She’s gotten super involved at St. Mary’s, playing lacrosse and tutoring kids at the elementary school across the way. She even started an astronomy club. I thought about joining; maybe I still will.
Around the same time G moved into the dorms I got a package in the mail. It was my Spidey sack with my clothes and the rest of my things stuffed inside. The whole thing was rolled up and tied inside a supermarket paper bag that looked like it wouldn’t have made it down the block in one piece, much less across the country. I couldn’t figure out how they tracked me down until I looked inside my spare glasses case, where Mom had taped my name and address the last summer I went to sleep-away camp. Tucked into a pair of my boxer shorts was a postcard showing a bunch of people in ’80s spandex lifting weights on the beach. “Venice Beach, California” was written in hot pink bubble letters across the bottom.
On the back Jesse had written the words Peace and love and simply signed his name. I looked the card over a few times, hoping there was something I had missed, some other detail that would tell me more about where they were and what they were doing, but that was it.
With G out of the house and everything else going back to normal, I was beginning to think my adventures with the Freegans had all been part of some strange dream. The whole thing seemed to be fading into memory until one extremely bitter day in mid-February when I got another postcard. I wouldn’t have even known it was from Emily except that it was addressed to Drew West and she had doodled swirly lines and curlicues around the address. My name and address were the only things written on it. The front was a city scene of downtown San Francisco, and I knew it was Emily’s way of saying hi. So I tacked it on my bulletin board, taking it down every once in a while when I felt like thinking about her.
That was when I started to hatch my plan. I knew I had to finish the school year, but if my grades were good enough Mom wouldn’t hassle me about my summer plans. For the first time in my life I tried to do well in school. I know no one would ever believe this, but school isn’t that hard if you listen in class and pay attention to a few basic rules. First off, always make sure your paper has your name, the date and a title on it. I swear, you could write ten pages of total BS, but if it has a nice header it will probably pass. Second, don’t just study the night before an exam. I know this seems obvious and teachers have been telling me this for years. But seriously, twenty minutes of studying each day for a few days before a test makes the difference between a failing grade and a passing one. Thirdly, talk to your teachers. If you don’t understand something, or even if you do, ask. Teachers will tell you pretty much exactly what they want to see on an assignment. They’re probably just so jazzed that someone is making an effort that they’ll practically write the thing for you.
Once I started doing these things, they just kind of became a habit. Third quarter I almost made the honor roll. Mom was so thrilled she took me and G out for a steak dinner. Well, steak for me and baked potato and salad for G. At dinner she talked herself blue about all the colleges I could get into if I kept up this kind of effort. I made a mental note to fail a couple things at the beginning of fourth quarter so she wouldn’t make it her personal project to see that I got straight A’s. I wasn’t thinking about college, I was thinking about how I could get back on the road again, and of course there was Emily. But here’s something else that I didn’t expect. It felt good to do well. My teachers looked me in the eye when they handed back my work, raised their eyebrows like they were impressed, and occasionally (mostly Ms. Tuttle) even smirked like they’d known I could do it all along.
The next postcard came from Seattle.
Dear Drew, I’m in Seattle and I’m working and trying to get my shit together. I think I’ll be here for a little while. I owe you more of an apology than can fit on this card. I think about you a lot. Your Emily
The last two words were the best part. It didn’t say “Yours comma Emily” it said “Your Emily”. Shortly after that card arrived I started researching airplane tickets to Seattle. The best part of my day every day was the approach to the mailbox. And the worst part was the walk up the driveway when it was empty.
The next card didn’t come until mid-May and I had almost given up on hearing from her again. The writing was small and cramped and described a camping trip she had taken with some friends in the San Juan Islands off Seattle. It ended with the words “You should come visit.” And a phone number.<
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That night I made dinner for Mom and me. When she got home from school she eyed the spaghetti in the strainer suspiciously. When we had both tucked in to a big plate of pasta I made my announcement. “I think I know where I’m going to scatter Mima’s ashes.”
“Really, where’s that?”
“The Pacific Ocean.”
“Hmm.” Mom finished chewing and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “May I ask why? I mean, the Atlantic Ocean is certainly a lot more convenient to New York.”
I was ready for this. “It came to me in a dream.”
Mom dabbed at her mouth again with the napkin even though her face was clean. She looked to me like she was gearing up for a fight. So I was surprised when she said, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Sure. It’s your money. If you want to spend it on a plane ticket out west, I think I’ve learned I can’t stop you.”
She didn’t mean it as a guilt trip, but immediately I felt bad. “That’s not all,” I said, deciding to come clean. “There’s a girl I want to see. She’s living in Seattle.” Mom looked up, and I was surprised by how interested and, well, happy she looked. So I told her about Emily—kind of an edited-for-parents version. She asked a lot of questions. Good questions; the kind someone asks when they’re really listening to you. So I kept going and I told her about Tim and Jesse and Lyle, about working for Gene in Hot Springs and living on Jeremiah’s farm. It wasn’t until Mom stifled a yawn with the back of her hand that I realized it was late and we’d been talking for a couple hours.
“I should go to bed,” I said.
“It’s late,” Mom agreed.
“Yeah, but not too late.”
***
G and I talked about my trip a few weeks before I left. “I heard you’re going out west this summer,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I heard there’s this crazy hippie college out there called Evergreen State where you can basically study whatever you want and make up your own major.”
G laughed. “Watch out for those hippies,” she said. “You never know when they’ll kidnap you and drag you around the country in some dirty van.”
“And I guess the University of Washington has a pretty intense philosophy department that might be worth checking out.”
Now G looked a bit more surprised. “You’re serious,” she said.
I nodded. “Don’t tell Nancy. She thinks it’s all about some girl.”
“Well, there’ll always be a girl,” G said.
“If I’m lucky.”
G shook her head, “You’re a lot more than lucky, Andrew West.”
***
When Mom dropped me off at the airport in June, we said our good-byes at the curbside. I had a plane to catch, and she had a meeting with the board of trustees. All I had for luggage was a hiking pack I bought with Mima’s money and my Spidey sack strapped to the bottom. I promised to return in three weeks to the summer job I had lined up at the mini-golf place, but when I went to close the car door Mom threw the car into park and jumped out, nearly decapitating herself with the seatbelt strap. She ran around the front of the car and wrapped me in a huge hug. My cheek came just to her chin, and she pressed her lips to my forehead before getting back in the car without another word. I watched as she gave me a stilted headmistress-type wave and then pulled into traffic, cutting off a cab in the process.
I slept for most of the flight, and when I was awake I ignored the second-rate action movie flashing above my head and stared out the window at the changing landscape below. I flipped through the divorce diary, reading bits and pieces of my adventures. Certain moments, like running through the suburbs covered in finger paint, or kissing Emily’s neck at the farm, made my pulse race. But I didn’t want to just rehash the good stuff. I wanted to remember the ways I wanted to be different. As a symbolic act I ripped out the original pages of the notebook with their stupid lists, crumpled them up, and stuffed them in the tiny lavatory trash can.
Emily and I had talked only briefly when I told her I was coming out. She sounded excited and said she would try to meet me at the airport. If she wasn’t there, she told me to call the house and someone would tell me which bus to get on. When I walked off the plane I peeked over shoulders and around heads, hoping I could see her before she saw me. When at last I came through the gate, I scanned the crowd and let out a disappointed sigh. A skinny boy with glasses was grinning excitedly at someone behind me. I moved to one side and then looked at him again. It was Emily. Her dreads were gone, and her hair was cropped short and pixie-like. When I got closer I saw her glasses were thick purple frames with no lenses. Everything else was pretty much the same. She was wearing baggy jeans and two or three sweaters layered on top. I dropped my carry-on and rubbed my eyes like I was seeing things. She threw back her head and laughed at my reaction. Then she jumped towards me and threw her arms around my neck. “Drew!” she screamed delightedly.
I pulled away and stuck my hand out, smiling but serious. “It’s Andrew,” I said.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There is the journey in the book and the journey of the book. In both cases I have had invaluable encouragement and collaboration from many people in bringing this story to the page. Kris White and Megan Frazer Blakemore lent a fantastic critical eye to early drafts. My super agent Lauren MacLeod helped me find The Other Way Around while showing endless patience and unflagging support. I am eternally grateful that this book found its home with the brilliant Andrew Karre; both for his editorial wizardry and dedication to telling the stories of adolescence.
To my fellow teachers and students both past and present—you are all in here. You are all a part of the story.
Thanks to Tara for the constant ear. You are my level. And to Carrie who is on whatever side I’m on. Thanks to all my friends who have shared with me their excitement, curiosity, and interest every step of the way.
To Mom and Dad, you were the first to hear my words. It is with you and because of you, that so many more are possible. With Noah and Ali, you are my Kaufmans. Thank you for loving and reading, sharing and eating.
Finally, thanks to Lance and Eliana for granting me time in “the cave.” Lance, thank you for your unconditional love and support of my crazy monkey brain and the stories it spins. I know you think I did it without you, but you are wrong.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sashi Kaufman is a middle-school teacher and an author. She lives in Portland, Maine, with her husband and daughter. Visit her online at www.sashikaufman.com.
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