Aunt Evelyn blocks my exit with her cart, which is filled with tiny pots of yellow and purple flowers. “But what were you doing here?”
I don’t have time for a smart-ass answer. “I’m trying to get free trees so I can plant them in the north parking lot at school and save planet Earth.”
The smooth plane of Aunt Evelyn’s forehead creases. “Is this about drugs, Rebel? Because if you’ve turned to drugs, there are places and people—”
“I’m not doing drugs.” I explain about my tree-planting project.
“You’re serious?”
“No. I’m standing here so we can bond.”
Aunt Evelyn wears a chin-length bob, sleek and shiny, like a yellow football helmet. The entire helmet now tilts to the right. “That’s an interesting project.” The football helmet tilts to the other side. “And admirable.”
“It would be, if I could get someone to donate the trees,” I say more to myself than to her.
Aunt Evelyn clucks her tongue. “You’d have more luck getting donations if you dressed more professionally.”
“I need to go.” I try to push past her cart, but she jams it into a stack of fertilizer, cutting me off.
“I know you have your own unique and strong style, Rebecca, and I’m not suggesting you change. I actually think it works to your advantage. Your style makes you memorable.” She motions to me with rose-tipped fingers, a perfect match for the rosy pearls at her ears. “You don’t need to do much. Get rid of the shark teeth, and put on a clean shirt and nice sandals.”
“Right, like that’s going to get me trees.”
“First impressions are crucial. The Taylors’ place on Manzanita Way has a long driveway lined with brown bark. Now picture that same winding drive with these pansies greeting potential buyers as they drive to the front entrance. It’s all about curb appeal, and frankly, Rebecca, yours is lacking.”
“This is so wrong.” I leap over the mound of fertilizer.
“Try it,” Aunt Evelyn calls as she wheels after me.
“Toodles.” I waggle my fingers and—
“Dammit, for once would you do something I tell you!” The football helmet quakes, as if it’s coming undone. “Listen, Rebecca, I know about these things. I know about images and perceptions. I know about selling yourself and a concept.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
She smooths both sides of her hair. “Watch.”
I want to storm off, but I stay rooted in place. A sick part of me can’t wait for her to fail, but I desperately need trees, so I’m sort of rooting for her.
Aunt Evelyn walks back to the sunflower clerk at the register. She swishes her football helmet, starts chatting, and two minutes later, a woman in a green apron with mud splatters joins her at the register. Ten minutes later Aunt Evelyn and I are the proud owners of ten Red Rocket crepe myrtle trees donated by The Garden Spot.
As she wheels them to her van, Aunt Evelyn wears her I-told-you-so face, the one she dons when she demonstrates that I wear the wrong clothes, say the wrong words, and dream the wrong dreams. It’s been Aunt Evelyn’s MO for five years.
Look, Rebecca, you’re the only girl at the birthday party not wearing a dress. Don’t you feel out of place?
I told you, Rebecca, to study more. Now your summer is going to be ruined because you have to spend most of it in summer school retaking math.
See, Rebecca, if you get rid of your blue hair, shark teeth, and flip-flops, you’ll get yourself ten Red Rocket crepe myrtle trees.
On Friday afternoon I drive Nova to the Del Rey Nature Preserve. Pulling into the parking lot, I cut Nova’s engine, dig into my messenger bag, and pull out a cigarette. I light up and take a long draw as I wait for Nate.
You’re going on a date with him?
No, Macey, I’m not, because Nate doesn’t date girls with blue hair. He’s a baseball-team superstar and member of the football team, National Honor Society, 100 Club, student government, and crew. He was on last year’s homecoming and Mistletoe courts and dated a Cupcake. I know because I took out Pen’s yearbook from last year and looked.
Pretty creepy, huh?
No, Kennedy, I’m not a creeper. I want to know more about Nate because I will be spending an inordinate amount of time with him, possibly up to a hundred hours, and it’s best to know your enemies. I pull in another long, sweet breath of nicotine, the muscles in my neck relaxing. That’s not right. Nate Bolivar is not the enemy. He has looks and brains and is probably the proud owner of a Mr. Congeniality trophy or two. In all of Nate’s yearbook photos he’s smiling, confident, the picture of perfection. While I don’t care about racking up wins or starring on a team, the Nates of this world do, which makes us fundamentally different. People like me don’t work toward perfection in an imperfect world. We celebrate imperfection.
A bright red Mustang convertible pulls into the parking lot, but Nate is not at the wheel. Bronson hangs a sharp right and parks next to my scooter. Something in my stomach dips. Of course Bronson is here. This isn’t a date but a community-service project.
Nate climbs out of the passenger side of the sports car and lets out a wolf whistle. “Nice wheels.”
“Nate, meet Nova. Nova, this is Nate.”
“Does it run?” Bronson asks with a curl of his lip.
I return the snarl. “Only if I sing it sappy love songs from the eighties.”
Nate runs a hand along the Vespa’s case. “Start her up.”
I twist the ignition, and Nova coughs, sputters, and hums six out of every eight notes.
“Sounds like a carburetor issue,” Nate says.
“So you’re a straight-A student, Mr. Baseball, president of the Bleeding Hearts Club, and a scooter whisperer?”
“No, my dad’s a mechanic. He refuses to teach me anything about cars.” Nate’s lips twist in a devilish curve. “But I watch over his shoulder.”
I would have loved to have learned about art from my father. As for Mom, she tried to teach me about lenses and shutter speeds, but I never could wrap my head around the numbers and angles, not that she cared. She saw that I’d rather capture the world with a pencil or crayons. “Follow your passions, Reb, no one else’s,” Mom told me on more than one occasion.
“Let’s go.” Bronson takes out a canvas bag with the decoys and two shovels. “Some of us have lives. And can you put out that thing?” He aims a shovel at my cigarette. “You smell like an ashtray.”
I open my mouth and then snap it closed. Nate’s still standing at my shoulder, ogling Nova. My ashtray breath will clash with his fresh-out-of-the-shower scent. I stub out the cigarette on a rock wall and put the butt into the plastic bag tied to one of my belt loops.
Nate takes the shovels, and we trek along the boardwalk, past the dunes with sea grass to the rocky part of the beach. Bronson drones on about some special football camp he’s attending at the beginning of summer, and Nate asks the occasional question. Every so often I find a bottle cap or straw or cigarette butt and slip it into my trash bag.
When we reach a set of tide pools, Nate slows. “Look, there’s a limpet.” He squats and peers into a shallow pool. “And here’s a wooly sculpin fish.”
“And look there,” I say with a squeal. “It’s a gum wrapper.” I dislodge the paper wedged between a pair of rocks and tuck it into my trash bag. “Score!”
Nate laughs, a nice, rumbly sound much like the ocean rushing the rocky tide pools. He seems less intense out here, not so uptight.
Bronson balances on a pair of rocks. “No one thinks you’re funny, Rebel. Actually, the entire school thinks you’re a loser.”
I shouldn’t. Deep in my heart, I know I shouldn’t. “Maybe I should start an after-school club for losers, and you can be vice president.”
Nate shakes the water from his hands. “Let’s get to the mudflats.”
“No,” Bronson says. “I’m not going to put up with this crap all afternoon.” He drops the bag of bird decoys. “I’m tired of your snide comments.”
“I’d prefer you leave.”
And this, dear Kennedy, is why I don’t belong in your world. Most people don’t get me. I’m not a square peg in a round hole; I’m a trapezoid. “Nate invited me.”
“Because he felt sorry for you.”
I spot a beer-bottle cap and toss it into my bag. “Sorry? For me?”
Nate stands. “Bronson, knock it off.”
“Nope, I’m going to give it right back at her.” Bronson jabs a sausage finger at me. “You have no friends, and you’re always making stupid, snarky comments. Nate thinks you’re lonely and you mouth off to get attention.”
“Lonely? Your bicep is bigger than your brain. Just because I don’t aspire to hang out with the in-crowd doesn’t mean I’m lonely.”
“Oh yeah? Name one friend.”
Nate slicks back his hair, which is pointless because not a strand is out of place. “Bronson—”
I gesture to cut off Nate. “No, let Mr. Head-up-His-Ass speak.”
“You’re psychotic. And pathetic.”
“And you’re an idiot.”
“Yep, I am. Or at least I was on the day I agreed to do this project with you. Nate, I can’t deal with this today. I’m going to go destroy weeds.” He grabs one of the shovels and storms off.
I raise my hand to give him a wiggly send-off, but my fingers tremble. I tuck them into my back pockets instead. Above us a seagull cries, and something swishes in the tide pool.
Nate lowers himself to the pool. “I’m sorry he said those things.”
“You shouldn’t apologize.”
“His girlfriend dumped him this morning. He’s not mad at you. He’s mad at everyone with two X chromosomes.”
“You feel responsible for his boneheaded actions?”
“No, but I understand why he’s on edge. Still, his comments were out of line.” Nate points to the far edge of the pool. “Pink algae.”
I squat to get a closer look at pink slime. Instead I see my face, an odd, chalky white color reflected in the sunlit water. I shift from one foot to the other. “Do you agree with him?”
“I never called you psychotic and pathetic.” Nate nudges a submerged rock, and something scuttles through the water. “That’s an opaleye fish.”
The swish of the fish elongates my face, and my mouth distorts as if in midscream. “But you called me a loner.”
“I called you lonely.” He settles the rock back into place. “There’s a difference.”
“I’m not lonely. I’m not feeling little tugs on my heartstrings to swap friendship bracelets.” I have Macey and my fellow delinquents, but I shouldn’t have to list my friends to prove I have them. I dip my hand into the sun-soaked water and nudge a different rock. “Feeling lonely would indicate I have an unrealized need for people.”
“Everyone needs people, Reb.”
We all need friends.
I push harder on the rock. Heaven forbid I forget Kennedy for five minutes. “But I’m not everyone, am I?”
You, Rebel Blue, are anything but ordinary.
Nate rocks back on his heels. The sun glints off his shiny, blue-black hair. “No, Rebel, you’re not.”
I can’t tell if that’s a criticism or a compliment. Not that it matters what Nate thinks of me. I jump to my feet and shake off the water.
On our way to the sea swallows’ nesting site at the mudflats, we cross an outcrop of rocks. “This time of day, we may see a pod of dolphins straight ahead,” Nate says. He shades his eyes with one hand and scans the ocean. His eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed. I bet this is how I look flying down the hill on Nova.
“You love it out here, don’t you?” I ask.
“I need plenty of community-service hours if I’m going to get a full-ride scholarship to college.”
“Liar.”
He drops his hand to his side. “Not that again.”
“If you lie, I’m going to call you on it.” I motion to the sea and sky. “This isn’t just about helping endangered birds. You love being out here.”
“You don’t have a filter, do you?”
“I find them rather unnecessary.” I wiggle my toes. “Like shoes.”
He raises his face to the sky and takes a deep breath of the salty breeze, his faded Del Rey School baseball T-shirt stretching across his chest. “Okay, I love it out here.”
I cup my hand to my ear. “Excuse me, what’s that?”
Nate shakes his head, a reluctant smile snaking onto his mouth. “You’re right. There, I said it. Does that make you happy?”
“If I had pom-poms, I’d be shaking them.”
We stand side by side, watching the water and sky. “See that out there?” He points to the gentle swell of ocean to our right.
I squint at the deep blue waves dotted with tiny whitecaps. “What?”
“The sailboat. It’s a twenty-five-foot Hunter with a teak deck and bobblehead dolphin doll hanging from the captain’s wheel.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t see a boat and bobble-head.”
“You will next summer, and I’ll be behind the wheel, headed for the Baja.” His grin turns into a laugh as I thwack him on the shoulder, which is hard as a boulder but oddly warm.
I jab my hand into my pants pocket.
“Look!” Nate points to a different part of the ocean. “There’s a dolphin—two—no, three.”
I snort and head for the mudflats just past the rock. “Sure, Nate, right next to your sailboat.”
He takes my hand and drags me to the edge of the cliff. “Wait a minute and … and …” A seagull flies overhead, and somewhere in the mudflats a bird twitters. Nate nestles his arm against mine, moving our hands in a slow sweep. “… and … and … now!”
Three silver arcs fly from the water in front of our nestled arms. I stumble back. My bare foot lands in a small hole. I lunge forward to keep from falling. Frothy water churns and pounds the rocks twenty feet below the cliff. A scream tears up my throat. Hands tighten around my waist and pull.
Nate and I tumble backward, his body curling around mine. The sky cartwheels. Nate lands on a patch of earth covered in purple and white wildflowers. I land on him. No more cliff. Just Nate.
My chest rises and falls with his. We share a breath. The sweet smell of crushed flowers rises, overpowering the salt sea.
“Am I interrupting something?” Bronson asks.
“No!” I jump off Nate as if I’d touched an electric eel.
Nate’s slower. He stands, swatting crushed leaves and sand from his shorts. “Rebel got too close to the edge. I pulled her back. We lost our balance.”
“That’s right,” I say. “We lost our balance.”
DOWNSTAIRS, THE MUSIC BLASTS, AND THE GLASS frames rattle on the back wall of my attic studio. I cram Percy’s earplugs into my ears and try to do math.
Attorney fees + IRS application fees > cost of adopting four leatherback turtles.
I rub at my temples and wonder how I’m going to get the money for the next item on Kennedy Green’s bucket list: Start my own 501(c)(3) charity.
As I thumb through the papers and read about bylaws, boards of directors, tax ID numbers, and IRS guidelines, I realize Kennedy Green is more annoying dead than alive.
On the floor below, someone shrieks, and then something clanks and crashes. It’s probably one of Aunt Evelyn’s ceramic roosters. Uncle Bob and Aunt Evelyn drove to San Diego for the night because Aunt Evelyn has an early-morning open house there tomorrow. It’s Saturday night, and Pen and the Cupcakes are having a party.
I read about mission statements and visions, but the words shimmy and shake in time with the music. Tiberius, the next-door neighbor’s rat terrier, starts to bark.
I pull the plugs from my ears because I’m not going to be able to get anything done tonight. And, honestly, I’ve had enough of Kennedy’s bucket list today. The latest stumbling block: School administration
threw a fit when I brought the Red Rocket trees to school this morning. Apparently I hadn’t acquired them through an approved vendor, nor did I fill out the proper paperwork for “supply acquisition.”
“I just want to do something good,” I told the principal.
Percy stepped in and said he’d take care of the paperwork. On Monday I plan to give Percy one of Macey’s pies. Yoo-hoo, Bronson, another friend.
Downstairs in the land of Cupcakes, I duck past a boisterous group playing Twister and weave through another half dozen of Penelope’s friends lounging in the kitchen eating pizza and jelly beans. I stop at the counter and grab a piece of pizza. After downing it, I dig through the jelly beans, picking out the black ones. No one says a word. With jelly beans in hand, I walk out the back door onto the porch.
Tiberius pokes his head through a new hole under the fence. His ears tilt forward, and his crooked teeth flash in his version of a smile. I hop over the porch railing and toss him the jelly beans. He lunges, snapping up the sugary treats with gnashing teeth.
Then I follow the sound of waves.
Tonight bonfires dot the beach. Tongues of flames lick the inky sky, and in the back of my head a new design takes shape, a mosaic with elongated bits of amber and yellow sea glass, maybe on a black frame. I stroll along the boardwalk, past the sand, past the people. At the back of the grassy dunes a lone man reclines on a piece of cardboard. He smells of ripe sweat and rich earth. With his matted hair and scarecrow arms, he’s probably homeless, but he must find solace in this place of shifting sea. He rocks back and forth to the music of the ocean.
I pick my way past the tide pools and climb toward the out-crop of rocks. I try not to picture Nate putting his arm around me and pointing out the dolphins. I try not to remember falling through the air and landing in his arms. I try not to feel the brush of his breath on my skin. Slipping through the craggy rocks, I search the sea. Maybe I’ll see dolphins or whales or glow-in-the-dark algae, because now would be a good time to stop obsessing about Nate. As I near the point, one of the boulders shifts. It’s not a rock but a person. In profile I make out neat hair, a square chin, and chiseled nose. And if the moon were brighter, I’d spot two curving dimples.
Goodbye, Rebel Blue Page 7