Eventually, he gets to “So what do you need my truck for?”
“Um.” The last time I involved anyone except for Sebastian in an Álvaro-based activity, things got so complicated. “To run an errand.”
“Could you be any more cryptic?”
“Yes. I have an errand . . . in the state of Florida.”
“Hardy har. You can’t take your bike?”
“Flat tire.”
“Or the bus?”
“Wrong route.”
“Oh my God, Linny, just spill it.”
Something about this conversation leaves me yearning for Zen. Cradling the phone with my neck, I pry the address from my jean pocket and start folding it into an origami crane. Swiftly my fingers create points and edges—two wings, a narrow beak.
“I have one condition,” I finally say, holding my crane up to the fading sun. “Under no circumstances can you get weird about it.”
The line goes silent for a moment as he considers this. “Deal. But that means I get a condition, too. It’s only fair.” His giddiness practically seeps through the phone. “I get to come.”
“You don’t even know where we’re going.”
“No. But if you don’t want me to get weird about it, it must be good.”
I tell him the details, pushing away a twinge of guilt for not telling Cass. If his muttering is anything to go by, he’s slightly disappointed we’re not A-list celebrities scouting or something cooler like that, but he says anyway, “I’m coming over right now.”
“I need to take Hector for a walk first.”
“You lead a sad, sad life.”
Half an hour later I scribble a note for MomandDad—At the library, be home in a few hours—as Ray honks his horn by my mailbox. Across the street, the Saresons are sipping white wine spritzers on their front porch and glaring at Ray’s painfully old truck. Over the chung-chung-chung of the engine, I almost miss Ray shouting across the lawn: “C’MON, WE’VE GOT SOME ROAD-TRIPPING TO DO!” Unsure if I heard, he sticks his shock of orange hair out the window and yells it again.
Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Sareson.
I heave open the truck door, slide across the hot leather interior, and pull out the map I just printed from Google. “I’d hardly call twelve miles a road trip.”
The map has two stops: one at Sebastian’s house (he said he had to go home and talk to his aunt before we left) and the other at 212 SeasHore Drive. The more I look at the paper, the more the strange capitalization is kind of throwing me. Did Álvaro mean Seahorse instead of Seashore? It’s only now occurring to me that I should have asked.
“How do you even know it’s in Miami?”
“What?” I say.
“The address. How do you know it’s not in, like, Texas or something?”
Oh boy. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
The only response I come up with is “He wouldn’t ask us to get chapter two of his manuscript if it wasn’t in Miami, right?” I don’t even manage to convince myself. That somersaulting sensation crawls into my belly. It doesn’t help that Ray’s swerving all over the road like we’re in Mario Kart and he’s trying to collect points. To calm myself down, I stick my hand out the window and feel the resistance, let my fingers rise and fall in waves.
“So,” Ray says at a stop sign. “I may or may not be dating someone.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Ray! That’s awesome.” I can’t control the grin spreading across my face. This is a huge deal. “Who is it?”
“Lawrence Scully.”
“No. Way.”
“I know, right?”
Last year, Lawrence was the captain of the track team and the junior class president. Due to his (I’ll just go ahead and say it) impressively muscular physique, at least a third of the girls in school have tried to date him. I say, “I didn’t know he—”
“Neither did I! Until a few days ago, when we bumped into each other running on the beach. We listen to the same music and like the same track events, and he wants to be a veterinarian. A veterinarian, Linny. The guy wants to cure sick kittens. What’s not to love?”
I nudge him very gently. “Love?”
A blush creeps up his neck. “Not really, not yet, but . . . it’s . . . Everything is so new, and it feels like anything is possible. You know what I mean?”
Um, no. Definitely not. Not at all.
Now it’s my turn to blush.
“Tell me,” Ray says, noticing my sudden change in demeanor. “Who’s this guy we’re picking up?”
“Just a friend.”
“And you wouldn’t happen to be—just taking a shot in the dark here—attracted to this friend, would you?”
“No,” I say too quickly, like a girl who’s covering her tracks. Am I attracted to him? He’s just . . . Sebastian. Weird, weirdly good-looking Sebastian.
Ray’s left eyebrow arches halfway to the moon. “So on a scale from the Elephant Man to Leonardo DiCaprio, where would you rank him?”
“Can we drop it?” I say as the truck pulls up to a blue condo. The address Sebastian texted me matches the Sandstar Estates sign by the mailboxes.“This is it, I think.”
“I’m going to need your ranking, then.”
On the bottom floor, one of the condo doors swings open, and Sebastian jingles his keys, locks up.
As soon as I hiss to Ray, “We are not having this conversation,” he proceeds to sing in a stage whisper, “You two are gonna have sex and babies and sex and babies and—”
I clamp his mouth with my hand. “Not. Another. Word.”
“Am I interrupting something?” Sebastian says, all neon shirt and long limbs of him hovering outside the truck window. His hair’s whirlwinded around his head like a crown.
And he is not hot. Not hot . . .
Oh, who am I kidding?
Stomach pirouetting, I practically shout no in his face.
Ray grins, lips stretched so thin it’s a wonder he can say, “Don’t just sit there, Linny. Slide over and make some room.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Oh, I’m Ray. It’s really nice to meet you,” and then he winks at me. (Note to self: Ray is about as subtle as a hippopotamus. Never invite him to participate in activities with weirdly attractive boys.)
I end up sardined in the middle seat. Before, I reasoned that if Ray continued on the Sex and Babies brigade, I could stunt-roll from the vehicle like they do in movies. Now I’m stuck.
Ray plugs in his iPod and turns up the volume, swearing that this dubstep album will “change our lives.” A collection of syncopated drumbeats pings through the cab as Ray bursts, “This is the perfect song! Is this not the perfect song?” I bite my bottom lip to keep from screaming, because it’s exactly what Grace would say.
Beside me, Sebastian squirms like a netted squid. Maybe it’s because we’re smashed together from ankle to shoulder, the overwhelming scent of air freshener pine invading our breathing space. Okay, the smell is bad. But the closeness? Let’s just say I can feel every inch of my skin. Ray’s voice, the engine’s chugging, the music—they all evaporate as I step inside a silent movie in which Sebastian and I are the only actors.
How cheesy does that sound? God, I’m in so much trouble.
Focus, focus. Remember why you’re doing this. Remember it’s about Grace.
Grace.
A nighttime road trip to run a mysterious errand at a mysterious location? She would love this.
Ray drags me back to reality, yelling, “Aaaaaaahhhh, missed the exit again!” He has the navigational abilities of an artichoke. Twelve miles turn into twenty. By the time we jerk to a halt in front of 212 Seashore Drive, all the streetlamps are blazing.
Ray virtually trampolines in his seat, like he’s warming up for a race. “So what are we going to say?”
“I think it would be a really good idea if you stayed in the truck,” I tell him, and Sebastian adds, “It’ll only take a minute.” Ray pulls a face like we just kidnapped his puppy, bu
t we leave him in the truck to trudge up the long driveway of a ranch-style house in the middle of the suburbs. The porch light hurls spiky shadows over several Nerf guns that sprinkle the lawn. On the window ledges hang baskets of petunias.
This doesn’t seem like somewhere Álvaro would hide. I envisioned a secluded penthouse apartment or a castle with an iron gate. This is so average.
“Do we have a plan?” Sebastian whispers.
I freeze in the driveway. “Um—no.”
“No? You always have a plan.”
I whisper at him, “I’ve been a little distracted with all the other plans. Joe’s Stone Crab? That was all me. This was just sprung on us.”
“So what should we do?”
“Okay. Okay, think. We can just . . . make it quick. Tell them we’re here for Álvaro’s things and leave it at that.”
“That’s not exactly a plan. That’s just ringing a doorbell.”
“Well, it’s the best I’ve got.”
Little pink lights illuminate the path to the house. Palms sweating, I rap twice on the front door. A man wearing a Miami Dolphins T-shirt opens it a few moments later, his bloodhound jowls quivering as he says, “Yeah?” Everything about him is massive: massive frame, massive voice, massive glass of beer in his left hand.
“Good evening,” Sebastian says, like we’re in Victorian England. Beneath his steady voice I can sense an undercurrent of nerves. “Álvaro Herrera sent us to pick up a few things. Chapter two of the manuscript, the humidor? He said they were on his nightstand?”
The massive man adjusts his crotch region in response. “Very funny, kids.”
Sebastian says, “I know it’s kind of late, so sorry we’re bothering you, but if you can just give us the things, I promise we’ll—”
“What are you playing at?” the man says. “Joke’s over.”
It occurs to me that, in all likelihood, Álvaro never lived here, that this man thinks we’re just a couple of mischievous kids substituting Álvaro Herrera jokes for ding-dong-ditch. But this doesn’t occur to Sebastian. Obviously he hasn’t seen enough horror movies. Even as I’m grabbing his wrist, he presses on. “Please, if we can—”
“You’ve got until the count of ten to get off my property,” the man grunts.
Fear replaces all the blood in my body. We were way off the mark.
“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven . . .”
This sure went well.
We fly at a thousand frames per second, stumbling on the Nerf guns as we cut across the yard. Sebastian must’ve twisted his ankle on one of them, because he lets go of a string of obscenities and then says, “Linny! Help!”
“Oh-my-gosh-this-is-a-disaster.”
“Gee, Linny! Is it? I’m aware! Shit.”
I grab his left hand and place it on my shoulder, creating a crutch of sorts, and he fast-limps back to the truck like he’s fleeing a war zone.
Ray’s reading National Geographic magazine against the steering wheel.
“Go, go, go!” I shout once we’re safely inside the truck.
“Did you get the stuff?” Ray says. “Why are you guys so out of breath?”
“RAY!” Sebastian and I say in unison. “GO!”
He catches wind that we really mean it, so he floors the gas pedal, which moans on account of never going from zero to sixty before. Pressed against each other, Sebastian and I take deep breaths as one: inhale, exhale, inhale.
In my mind, Grace is laughing next to me—“Now that was fun,” she says—and I’m sucker-punched by a desire to reach out and touch her hand.
THE LEFT-BEHINDS (SCENE 8)
GRACE’S BEDROOM—LATE EVENING
Once again, we watch GRACE launch herself out of her window and up into the air, yellow wings carrying her away.
Fade to black and white.
CUT TO—
THE CARSON FAMILY’S STREET—SUNSET
There are long shadows from cardboard palm trees as the sun curves off to the left. Cardboard cutouts of Dolphin Egg Blue houses line the street in orderly rows. LINNY stands alone among them, hands cupped over her mouth.
LINNY
(yelling)
OLLY-OLLY-OXEN-FREE!
(louder, more forceful)
OLLY-OLLY-OXEN-FREE!
All of a sudden, the cardboard houses and cardboard trees fall flat—a world collapsing. Everything is colorless except for a single yellow feather, dancing across the empty street.
16.
Sebastian
“All scientists should attempt to defy physics. How else can we determine the bounds of what is possible?” A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, p. 2
“Was it Seahorse?” Linny says. The cafeteria lights dance in her curls.
I rip my Cuban sandwich in half with unnecessary aggression.
“Seahorse?” Álvaro repeats.
“The address you gave us yesterday,” Linny continues, “to go pick up your things? We tried to get them but—um—I think you gave us the wrong address. I was wondering if you meant Seahorse instead of Seashore.”
Shaking his head twice—“I am . . . mmm . . .” He bites into his sandwich, yellow mustard and Swiss cheese oozing out the sides of the bread. Chewing carefully, he appears to be thinking about the address, but when he swallows he says, “If this sandwich was a women, I would make love to her.”
Barf.
A jolt through the table as Álvaro slaps it. “Oh! Seahorse. Yes, Seahorse.” He laughs. “Lo siento.”
Linny jots it on the back of her hand with a blue pen. “212 Seahorse Drive. Got it. . . . So, this is where you lived when you disappeared, right?”
Álvaro smooths back his hair. “That is all in the past, mi amor.”
“Yes, but . . .” She raps the pen twice on the table, like she’s deciding whether or not to speak. “Álvaro, who is Joe?”
Álvaro casually picks up the sandwich again. “We play dominoes together.”
“On Saturdays,” Linny says. “I know, but you haven’t exactly—”
“Mmmm,” he says, pointing at the napkin container next to my elbow. “Can you pass me una servilleta?”
I slide a napkin across the table and say, “I need to get some air or something.” My ankle’s swollen, so I limp into the hall. Like I’m a zombie in a video game. A nurse’s aide by the vending machine throws me a concerned look. The last thing I want is a hug, I tell her in my mind.
Hands, on knees. I bend over and breathe. This is just so screwed up. Was Álvaro messing with us yesterday? Did he give us the wrong address on purpose?
And what’s up with Ray? Are he and Linny together?
Behind me is the squeak of rubber against tile. All of a sudden Linny’s at my side, fingers pressed against her lips so her speech comes out muffled. “Are you okay?”
I wheeze out an answer. “Oh. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Is it your ankle? I heard a pop.”
Shaking my head until I feel something spring loose—“This is stupid,” I burst. “What’s finding where he went going to prove? I’m all about mysteries, but—”
“More’s at stake now,” she says. “It’s like we have this chance to help gift his new novel to the world. So what if we waste a few days knocking on people’s doors?”
“Well . . .,” I begin.
She’s becoming more animated. The most enthusiastic I’ve ever seen her. “And I know you’re curious, maybe even more curious than I am. Can’t we just see where this goes? How we can be a part of it?”
Ha. I’m already 50 percent his DNA. How much more a part of it can I be?
Still bent over, I have a good view of her shoes. The stars—she hasn’t washed them away. Maybe that’s why I tell her—because from what I know, she’s got a messed-up family, too.
And if I don’t talk to someone about this—someone who knows Álvaro, knows this mystery—then I’m going to flip.
Wiping the corners of my mouth, I straighten up and meet her eyes. One gulp. T
wo gulps. Then out with it: “He’s my dad.” That combination of words—said out loud—feels just as wonderful and as horrible as I’d imagined.
Linny blinks. “Who’s your dad?”
“Álvaro. Álvaro’s my dad.”
Her eyes pop. I can almost hear the click of pieces as she slots them together. “You’re serious?”
I frown at her. “Why would I lie about something like that?”
“I don’t know! It’s just”—throwing her hands up in the air—“why didn’t you say anything? This is baffling. I mean, he’s so old.”
There are too many people in the hall. Three residents slow-walk past and give us a uniform once-over. Whoosh—the flush of a toilet as I realize we’re standing right outside a bathroom. Anyone can hear us. I gently grab her arm and pull her into one of the adjacent hallways. Her skin is so damn soft I almost forget about everything else. “Can we maybe talk about this someplace private?”
“Sure,” she says, looking at my fingers on her arm. I snap back my hand and quickly pocket it. “Where were you thinking?”
“Just somewhere . . . outside. I don’t know.”
She nervously tugs at her earlobe. “Okay.” Turning on her heels back to the cafeteria—“Let me just let Álvaro know we’re leaving.”
Outside, my lungs work again. My feet act independently of my mind. I don’t know where I’m leading her until we arrive at a playground two blocks south of Silver Springs. It’s relatively quiet, other than a mom shoving her kid down the slide and a dachshund taking a leak on the bushes. I open the gate. Breathing = easier. Even my limp has improved. Maybe I just needed to be someplace where everyone isn’t dying.
It wears on you, Silver Springs. Sometimes I catch whiffs of urine in the halls. People chew with or without their teeth. Almost everyone is sick. Or getting over being sick. Or about to be sick.
It’s hard to stomach that my dad’s elderly like them. Harder to stomach that one day I will be, too. I’m not opposed to growing up, but I have come to realize that I’m opposed to growing old. It’s like looking down a long, dark tunnel, and I can see the black hole at the end.
“You’re doing that quiet thing again,” Linny says.
If Birds Fly Back Page 11