More Than Good Enough

by Crissa-Jean Chappell

  “I’m so freaked out right now. You have no idea,” she said. “There’re so many people here.”

  “Just imagine them in their underwear,” I said, hoisting myself onto the stage.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Check out the bald dude in the second row. What do you think? Boxers or briefs?”

  “Maybe he’s got Underoos.”

  “Hey. There’s your mom.” I flung out my arm and pointed, as if we’d floated out to sea like a couple of pirates.

  Pippa grabbed my arm and squeezed. “What if we totally humiliate ourselves?”

  “That’s okay. It’s one thing if you’re humiliated alone. But if you’re together, it’s not so humiliating.”

  “Nice logic,” she said. “I think I see your grandma. She’s sitting way in the back, right? The patchwork lady?”

  I laughed. “Man, I can’t wait for you guys to meet. Cookie’s got so many amazing stories.”

  I couldn’t wait. But in a way, I could. We had time to keep learning about each other. Drive around the neighborhood late at night and sing with the radio. Tell secrets in the dark, like we used to do back when we believed in monsters. There was time for everything, the old and new, along with all we hadn’t done.

  The screening lasted as long as a Hollywood movie. Two hours of Life Portraits. There was the usual “talking head” stuff, even though Mr. Bones had said it was off-limits. Most of the class just put an old person in a chair and filmed them, straight on. They asked the same boring questions:

  What’s your name?

  Where were you born?

  When did you get married?

  Blah, blah, blah.

  After a while, it all blended together. It felt like our existence was only a checklist. Or a series of things to do before you’re dead.

  When the Everglades swelled across the screen, a woman behind me sighed, ahhh. It startled me so bad, I didn’t recognize Pippa’s “establishing shot” of the gift shop on the Rez.

  Some people believe the Glades is just a swamp. They don’t understand that it has its own beauty, the kind that finds you instead of the other way around. The cypress trees and the vultures told this story. The missile base, the unpaved road where we’d walked, the fence where tourists hide from sunburns and sleeping gators. Pippa had also filmed a bunch of faces from the Rez: the kids playing basketball, the ladies stringing beads. It was all there, the old and new.

  I gave her a hug. “Good job, homeslice.”

  When I glanced behind us and searched for Cookie, perched at the top of the bleachers, she flashed the biggest grin. I wondered what she thought of the film. Did she recognize our world inside the frame? Mr. Bones said that everybody sees a different film in their minds. It’s all about the way our memories get mixed up with the truth. I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but it made a lot of sense to me.

  The soundtrack played over the credits. My bass guitar chords floated through the auditorium like smoke, reminding me that music captures time like a film. For a moment, it’s there with you. Then it’s gone.

  I nudged Pippa. “Where’d you get the music?”

  “The tape was in your car. Remember?”

  “Yeah, but I forgot that song was on there. I’m still working on it, you know? It’s not ready for public consumption.”

  “Too late now.”

  As the credits hovered over the screen, everybody burst into applause. I clapped, too. I didn’t stop until my palms tingled.

  “You’re next,” Pippa whispered.

  “So you’ve got psychic powers now?”

  “Not really,” she said, “but I can recite the alphabet. O comes after M.”

  This was it. The entire school was about to see her mom’s house. When I’d gone over to shoot the project, I’d told Pippa to wait outside. She had no clue what I filmed. It had taken the rest of the semester to edit it.

  While Pippa sat on the front porch, I’d been in the living room, talking to her mom. I filmed her in extreme close-up. You couldn’t see the Glad bags behind the couch. Or all the piles of magazines about Better Homes.

  “My daughter thinks it’s Halloween year-round,” said her mom-on-screen.

  Pippa sank down in her chair.

  “She wears the strangest things. But even with all the Goth makeup … is that what you call it? Goth? Or is that not hip anymore?”

  Behind us, a girl snorted.

  “Whatever,” said Mrs. McCormick. “I still think she’s the prettiest girl in the world.”

  Pippa turned and looked at her mom. A real mom.

  My film cut to a series of shots, a bunch of stills from Pippa’s family albums. They dissolved from elementary school pictures all the way up to the present, fast-forwarding through time.

  “You know, Pippa was beautiful as a baby,” her mom’s voiceover told us. “And she’s even more beautiful now. I don’t say it often enough, but I’m so proud of her. Sometimes I forget that she’s not little anymore. I just wish that I could hold onto her forever.”

  In the auditorium, Pippa’s mom was wiping her face. It was hard to see, but I could tell that she was crying.

  “My daughter has grown into her own person,” the voiceover went on. “That’s because she takes after me.”

  The auditorium exploded with giggles. Pippa’s mom was actually funny. Who knew?

  “You can stop filming now.” She blocked the lens with her hand. “Is that thing still recording? Where’s the off button?”

  “It doesn’t have one,” my voice mumbled off camera.

  After an awkward moment of silence, the film was back in focus. Pippa’s mom was still talking in the background, but she wasn’t on screen anymore. All you could see in the frame was their parrot, Holmes, his lizardy feet and prehistoric stare.

  “I’m trying to teach him a few words … ” My voice boomed across the auditorium. It was always strange, listening to myself outside my head. Did I really sound that lame?

  Holmes melted away, replaced by a montage of Pippa’s room and everything in it. Her collection of vintage cameras. All her Tim Burton movie posters, curled like treasure maps on the floor. I even filmed the Crayola scribble on her bedpost, the letters that spelled her name.

  My film was edited like a mixtape, sampling DJ-style and pasting moments in time. When I thought about it, this was an awesome way to make a “portrait.” Not one point of view, but many. It was all about telling the truth.

  Maybe there was more than one.

  After the screening, the whole class got together in the art room. Mr. Bones passed around a star-shaped balloon and told us to sign it. He said we should practice our autographs just in case we became famous. Usually I’d laugh at that sort of BS. Did he really think we would graduate and morph into Hollywood directors?

  Mr. Bones was high-fiving a bunch of seniors, telling them “Good job, guys” and all that crap. When he came to me, I expected him to say the same pre-recorded lines.

  “Real nice editing, Trent,” he said. “Did you use any ND filters?”

  “No. Was I supposed to?”

  He smiled. My mom would’ve gone off about the silver in his molars and how the metal leaks into your bloodstream. “Are you going to keep making films outside of class?” he asked.

  “Well, Pippa started this zombie screenplay,” I told him. “But now we’re thinking of doing a music video.”

  “Something a little less violent?”

  “Oh, there’s going to be violence,” I said, and he smiled again. “Maybe even ultra-violence.”

  “Viddy well then,” he said, like Alex DeLarge in A Clockwork Orange.

  Pippa grabbed a tray of paint and started mixing the colors. It was nothing but ultra violet for that girl.

  “What is this? Finger-painting?” I stole a couple of her brushes and d
id a little drum solo on the table.

  “I’m going to sign it with your blood.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said, squeezing a tube of Hooker Green. (What was Hooker Green, anyway?)

  She passed the balloon to me. It was soaked with signatures in all different shades. There was hardly any room left. I found a spot near the top and signed my initials like we used to do in elementary school, back when we sculpted ashtrays out of clay.

  “Your film was pretty awesome,” she told me.

  “For real?” I kept tapping my paintbrush on the table.

  “It was more than awesome. Seriously. You made my house look normal.”

  “Your house is normal.”

  “Actually, you made it look beautiful.”

  “I filmed it like I see it.”

  We started talking about music videos, our epic plans for the summer. Pippa was going to shoot it on Super-8 and I would edit the whole thing. I really wanted to film my new songs so we could post them online.

  “That’s how you build an audience,” I said.

  “Obviously you have it all figured out.”

  “With our skills combined, we could be a superforce.”

  “Unless we stop talking again.”

  I put my hand on her knee. “We’re never going to stop talking.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  “Listen. I refuse to let that happen. You understand? I mean, I can’t look into the future or whatever. But when I imagine it, I see both of us. That’s the way it has to be.”

  Pippa was staring at me so hard, I looked away. There was a poster of the Color Wheel behind her head, along with a map of Venice, a city I’d never visited in real life. I wanted to see it before it sank underwater. And at that moment, anything seemed possible.

  “Let’s hear what the spirits have to say.” Pippa reached into her bag and took out her phone. “I downloaded this app called Ghost Radar. It’s supposed to pick up supernatural voices.”

  “Does it ever talk to you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  I glanced around the art room. “Hey, Mr. Ghost. What’s shaking?”

  We waited.

  “Guess he doesn’t like me.”

  “He’s just shy,” Pippa said. “Hold on a second.” She put her phone on the table. Out of nowhere, a voice droned as the screen lit up:

  JAM

  “That’s because you’re sweet,” I said.

  “No, I’m not. And that’s been on there a while.”

  TRICKY

  “See? It’s definitely talking about you.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because you’re a tricky and complicated girl.”

  “Oh god, Trent. Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  “The spirits don’t lie.”

  Pippa scrolled down the list. “Most of these words don’t make sense.”

  “You have to make your own sense. That’s the secret to the universe. In other words, the answer to everything.”

  I was getting kind of deep tonight, even though we were sitting in the art room, drawing our names on a stupid balloon. Guess that’s what happens when school ends. You’re forced to deal with reality.

  The balloon reminded me of the For Sale sign at my mom’s place. Maybe she and Mr. Nameless had already moved away. I’d spent so much time wishing I could be somewhere else, it was pretty weird to think I wasn’t ever going back to my old house. Next year, me and Pippa would be seniors. We were almost free. At least, one step closer to freedom.

  When the class met outside on the football field, everybody drifted over to their parents. I couldn’t believe it when I saw Mom standing near the bleachers. She’d actually shown up. And she was talking to Pippa’s mom like they were old friends. Of course, that was the actual truth.

  My mom started walking across the field, sort of pecking her way in these strappy sandals. As a kid, I used to think she was glamorous. Now I wasn’t so sure.

  “Congrats. You guys were fab.” Mom swooped me into a hug. She smelled exactly the same, like the herbs at the health food store, all those dead plants to cure your problems. “I’m really impressed with your hard work. Especially the music in Pippa’s film. Was that you, love?”

  I nodded.

  Mom smoothed my hair with her long fingers. “It sounded a lot like your dad.”

  “He doesn’t play anymore,” I said flatly.

  “Well, that’s a shame.”

  She pulled me close and I sort of collapsed against her, like I was finally letting go.

  Cookie was talking to Pippa. “Hope to see you on the reservation. You’re always welcome there.” She tied a bracelet on Pippa’s wrist. It was strung with tiny plastic beads. “If it don’t fit, I can make another.”

  I knew that Pippa couldn’t deal with bracelets clacking up and down her arms. But the beads fit snug against her skin and stayed quiet and still.

  “It’s perfect,” she said.

  “See? You’re not totally allergic to jewelry. I knew it all along,” I said, making her laugh.

  We watched the balloon get passed around. Everybody wanted to hold it for some reason. And when it finally came to me, there was nobody else left.

  “Let it go,” Pippa whispered.

  “Isn’t that, like, bad for the environment?”

  “Probably. But I can think of worse things. Come on. You’re the last one.”

  “How did I get into this?”

  I shoved the balloon away from us. It sort of hovered in midair, then wobbled upwards, gaining speed the higher it got. The crowd cheered, as if I’d done a good job. Everybody raced toward it, like they could actually lift off the field and catch it. Or maybe it was more about running, just for the feel of it.

  I tugged Pippa into the parking lot. “Got a surprise for you.”

  “I’m not sure I can handle your surprises.”

  “Oh, you’ll like this one. It’s mine now,” I said.

  “What is?”

  “Take a guess.”

  The Kawasaki was gleaming under the fluorescent lamps. Dad had repainted it black, my favorite non-color. He’d even thrown in a pair of helmets.

  “This one’s yours,” I said. The helmet was decorated to look like a skull. It was totally badass.

  Pippa swung her leg over the seat. “So, where are we going?”

  “Anywhere you want, homeslice. You’re the boss.”

  “Does this mean I get to drive?”

  “It takes a little practice.”

  “I can learn.”

  “Of course you can.”

  From then on, we would take turns. Pippa learned to speed up, steer right or left, and cruise for long stretches like we did in the Everglades. We would learn other things, too, as we kissed under the mangrove trees and swam naked in water so shallow and warm, the seagrass curled around our legs. I could wait for it, like the egrets dotting the branches, watching us with their wings folded, never making a sound.

  seventeen

  The fire blazes for the Green Corn Dance. It cleanses as it burns. There’s no sense of “now.” Just the smoke threading the oaks, their branches thick with ferns that wither and play dead in the rain.

  I haven’t eaten for days. My head is empty and full at the same time. The medicine people are here. Uncle Seth is here, too. Everyone hunches around the fire—the boys from the skate park and me. We’ve put on our Big Shirts and jeans. Now it’s time to chant the old songs.

  One by one, they call us into the circle.

  They ask, “What is your clan?”

  I tell them I’m a panther.

  The medicine people are talking about someone who lived a long time ago. He was a good man who did many good things.

  They ask, “Do you want this name?”

/>   It’s not the “baby name” Dad gave me. The medicine people chose a man’s name for me to carry the rest my life. If I say yes, I will drink the assi and stay awake all night. No sleep. Nothing to eat. Only the music, telling stories about the Breathmaker, whose name means everything.

  I stare at the flames and think about the stuff I’ve done. Feels like it happened to a kid I used to know. I’d drive around, listening to static. Crank it up real loud. When that didn’t work, I drowned myself in beer. There was never enough. So I drove a little faster.

  It’s pretty obvious I was going nowhere.

  The smoke rises into the trees. We’re breathing it together. The medicine people know I’m taking it real seriously, this name. It’s a chance to keep the old ways, while also moving forward. If I say yes, I will leave the childish things in the past. Walk into the sunrise as a man.

  I’m wondering if I deserve it.

  There was a time when the Everglades was a “River of Grass.” We called it Pahayokee. We steered our boats through still water. The shape of the mangroves was a map we could follow. We moved south like the blue heron, looking for a safe place.

  The farmers tried to get rid of us. They drained the land and torched our houses. They stole our corn, but we didn’t starve. We never wanted to fight, but the anger was growing, and so was the blood.

  When you give something, it always comes back. The rules are in place for a reason. That’s why we face the east, watching the colors shift on the horizon. The morning sky is a fruit that ripens, then is gone.

  The medicine people wait for my answer. The man who carried this name was a hunter. He was different from me. During the war, he hid from the soldiers. They got lost, trying to find him in the maze of cypress and tall grass. He held his breath underwater, lying flat as they walked past him.

  I’ve been holding my breath, too. There’s a lot I need to get done, starting with the chickee hut, built by my muscle and sweat. I can do so much with my hands now. Play songs on my bass without a pick. Sharpen knives and tie the strongest knots, the kind that never slip loose. Hold the girl I love, her hands fitting into mine.