by Gae Polisner
The day is sunny and bright and, despite our cuckoo mission, I am content to be doing what I am doing. I mean, I’m happy to be away from home, away from Jeremy and Mom, on this mission with Jaycee. Even though I’m still not completely sure what it is.
Jaycee’s pretty quiet for Jaycee. I get the sense she’s still not feeling too well. I tap on her shoulder, figure it’s time to cheer her up.
“You know,” I say, “Reyland is a really rare name.”
“I guess so,” she says.
“Really rare, I mean.”
She turns to me. “Your point?” She thinks I’m serious.
“Nothing. Just saying. Are the Reylands really rare?”
She cocks her head sideways, like maybe now she knows I’m up to something. I make a face, then say, “I’m just wondering. Are the Reylands really rare, will we find them anywhere? Are the Reylands really rare in Rochester?” She punches me. I laugh and keep going.
“Are the Reylands really rare, do they wear their underwear, in Rochester?”
“You’re an idiot,” she says.
“So, you do not really care, if the Reylands are so rare, in Rochester?”
She slaps me again, so I cut it. We walk for a block or so, and then she says, “If you’re hungry, eat a pear, with the Reylands on a dare, but the Reylands never share, in Rochester.”
I smile. “Will they catch a polar bear, in Rochester?”
Jaycee shakes her head then buzzes me out, “Enhhh!” like it’s a game show. “No good,” she says. “You left out the Reylands. I mean that was the whole point of it, Lennie. There have to be Reylands in there.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s my poem. And it would be great if you’d actually stop calling me Lennie.”
We spend the rest of the walk rhyming with Reylands until we reach the corner of First Street. The British lady announces our arrival—“Turn right, First Street, you have reached your destination”—from inside Jaycee’s pocket. I glance at my cell. It’s nearly two-thirty. We’ve been walking for more than an hour.
“This is it,” she says. “You have the number?” I pull out the papers from my backpack.
“Yeah, I programmed it in, 3625.” I nod toward the GPS in her pocket, proud of my contribution, then double-check the paper just in case.
“We can turn this off then.” She reaches in to silence it, takes a deep breath, and looks up at me. “You’ve got the book, right?” I pat my backpack. She must be nervous—she handed it right to me, watched me put it in, back at the hotel. “Well then,” she says, but neither of us moves.
Now that I can tell Jaycee’s nervous, my heart pounds a little. I count on her to be the cool one. After all, this was her idea. I’m just an innocent bystander. Plus, I suddenly realize we haven’t even talked about what we’ll actually say if we do find Guy Reyland. Especially now that Scooter is dead.
“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out,” Jaycee says, even though I’m absolutely sure I didn’t say anything out loud. She nudges me and we start walking slowly down First Street.
“But what if he’s a total jerk who doesn’t give a crap about his kid? He did leave him in the first place. And never called, or came back to see how he did.”
“Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he wanted to, but didn’t know how.”
I snort. I want to believe her, that there can possibly be some good reason why Guy Reyland just up and disappeared. But even MaeLynn had said he was nothing but a coward and a jerk.
“You know, Nick, people grow up and change. Even adults. They improve themselves. Some people can change an awful lot in twelve years.” She stops mid-block, hands on hips, and stares at me. “So let’s just hope that he did.”
I shrug and look around. The house we’ve stopped in front of is number 3420. It’s a small, dumpy blue house with a rusted old Chevrolet parked in front. The yard is shabby and overgrown, and a bunch of kids’ toys litter the lawn. A purple Hot Wheels rider. A red trike. A bunch of Wiffle ball bats and balls. I look up and down the street. It’s not a great neighborhood, and the houses all look pretty much the same.
I think about what Jaycee has just said and wonder if it’s really true. I mean, if Guy Reyland had changed that much, wouldn’t he have come back looking for his son? But he hadn’t. Not once. At least as far as I knew. In more than twelve years, he had never even called or checked in on the Scoot. So how much could he have changed? And judging from the neighborhood, if he lives here, there isn’t much hope that he has.
Anyway, in my opinion, it wasn’t just Guy Reyland. It was everyone. People seemed to get worse, not better, like they went in the opposite direction. They got less happy and less hopeful as they got older. Until they were fat and depressed and didn’t give a crap about the world.
“I don’t know, Jaycee. My dad, I’m telling you, he was this happy-go-lucky guy. A good job, a successful journalist, and now…” I stop there because I really don’t know what my point was.
“And now what?”
“Well, you know. He just did pretty much nothing but lie on the couch anymore. I barely remember him the other way. The fun, not fat way, I mean.”
“But, see, Nick. You make my point. He’s changing things. He’s walking. So you can’t fault him now. He’s trying to get better.”
I shrug. “You know, my mom says he made it all the way to New York City. I didn’t think he would, but he did. He’s staying with some friend there who works for the Daily News. He’s doing some freelance for them.”
“See?” Jaycee says brightly. “People change. I bet everything gets better.”
“I don’t know.” I glance down the block again. “Jeremy keeps saying that he’s never coming back, that he misses the city and his freedom. What if he’s right, Jaycee?”
“He’s not.” She wraps her arms tightly around herself and shivers. The sun has gone behind clouds and the air has grown noticeably cool.
“Come on,” I say, tugging her sleeve. “Enough talk about stupid stuff, let’s get this crazy thing done.”
The house at 3625 First Avenue looks like all the others on the street. The yard’s overgrown and the outside is in need of a paint job. It’s supposed to be white, but it’s the color of cement. In the driveway there’s a beat-up red Dodge Ram and a baby blue Buick from another decade altogether. I look at Jaycee and she shrugs.
“If he lives here, he could use fifteen thousand dollars,” she says. “You ready?” I nod. “Okay then.”
She walks ahead to the front door, and I follow behind, my heart racing. On the stoop, to the right of the door, there’s a mailbox, a fake-gold rectangular thing with a black eagle on it. She opens it.
“What are you doing!” I pull on her, but she elbows me away.
“Looking for names,” she says. She reaches in. “Never mind. It’s empty. Guess somebody is home.” On cue, a figure passes through the living room, past a small TV and a bunch of plants in a curtained window. It’s a woman. I think she sees us. She heads toward the door.
“You’d better ring the bell,” I say.
Jaycee reaches out and presses. It makes a broken ring, and the woman peers out the narrow side window. Jaycee waves sweetly, and the door opens partway, and she eyes us through the screen.
“Yes?” She’s about my mom’s age, in jeans and a navy sweatshirt. Her hair is long and dark, streaked with blond, and pulled back in a ponytail. She has a cigarette in her hand. “Can I help you kids?” she says.
“We’re looking for A. Reyland,” Jaycee answers. “Or someone named Guy Reyland if he’s here. We’ve been asked to give him something.”
I don’t know if it’s because I’m nervous, or because Jaycee sounds like she’s spouting lines from some really bad detective movie, but I laugh a little. I can’t help it. The woman narrows her eyes at me and I turn my head to try to stop.
“I’m Arlene,” she says. “Who’s asking?” She takes a drag of her cigarette and blows smoke through the screen. “And give him what, why?”
“Just something for Guy. Do you know him, Guy Reyland? So we can give him the thing?” Now she’s totally stammering. It’s weird to hear her that way. Not that I could do better. “It’s from his son,” she tries adding. “His son asked us to deliver it to him.” I’m having a hard time not laughing now. I mean, I’m trying not to, but I can’t help it. Jaycee nudges me, and I put my head down.
A loud voice calls out, “What’s going on, Arlene?” A tall, white-haired man in an undershirt and black slacks appears. He’s an older guy, barrel-chested and red faced. And he has a freaking hunting rifle in his hand. “Damned troublemakers again?”
“Jesus,” I say. I pull Jaycee back from the door.
“Just some kids horsing around,” Arlene says to the man.
Jaycee glares at me. “Please,” she says. “We’re not horsing around or making trouble, I swear. We’re just trying to find Guy Reyland. It’s important. We’re being serious here.”
The guy gets a look on his face, cocks the rifle, aims it at the screen. “It’s not even Halloween yet and you’re all up to your pranks. I should shoot you now. Shut the door, Arlene.”
“Wait!” Jaycee pleads. She yanks at my backpack frantically, like she’s going to take the book out and show it to him.
“Are you crazy!” I push her hand away and grab her sleeve. “Let’s just get out of here.” I start to walk, pulling her with me, so the dude is clear that we’re leaving. Jaycee looks back at the woman with pleading eyes.
“His kid just died. Really!”
“Ain’t no one here named Guy, anyway,” the woman says. She starts to close the door.
“Damned kids,” the man yells, then slams it shut behind us.
* * *
We walk quietly back along First Street, the way we came. I get the feeling Jaycee’s mad at me, and I feel bad, but I don’t know what to say. We got what we came for. They told us there was no one named Guy Reyland there. And they didn’t seem to know who he was. I wasn’t about to get shot for it.
“He wasn’t going to shoot us,” Jaycee says. “And who even knows if they were telling the truth. Did you see how she looked at him? They were lying. It felt like they knew who he is.”
“It’s not a detective movie, Jaycee, with everyone hiding things,” I say, wondering how she always knows exactly what I’m thinking. “If they knew, they would have said so. But maybe we should go back there. I mean, he only had a shotgun aimed at us. Maybe he’ll invite us in for cookies.”
She punches me, but the gesture doesn’t carry any of her usual enthusiasm.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Just disappointed,” she says.
“You know, even if they do know him and were lying for some reason, they didn’t really seem like the best kind of relations. If those are his friends and family, maybe we don’t want to find him. Or give him a fifteen-thousand-dollar book. Maybe we should just give it back to MaeLynn.”
Jaycee stops and glares at me. “Scooter wanted this,” she says. We walk another few blocks in silence before Jaycee speaks to me again.
“So, I know what Jeremy thinks, but what about you? Do you think your dad will come back?”
I look at her. “What?”
“Your dad. Do you think he’s coming back?”
I think for a minute. Obviously, we’re done talking about Guy Reyland.
“I don’t know. He sends me notes. E-mails. But I don’t open them.” I don’t know why I tell her this now, but I do. Maybe so she knows that I trust her. I figure I’ll just let her lecture me about how idiotic I am.
“Really?” is all she says.
“Yeah. Pretty much every day since he left. But I haven’t read them.”
“Why not?”
“Not sure. I think I’m mad. Or maybe I’m afraid what they’ll say.”
She turns and gives me sad, puppy-dog eyes. Only suddenly I realize that they’re all red and glassy and she actually doesn’t look too good. Plus, she’s shivering.
I reach out and touch her forehead on impulse, like my mom’s done to me a thousand times. She’s burning up; it hurts when I touch her skin.
“Jaycee, you’re freaking hot!” Her cheeks are bright red. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.
“I am?” She wraps her arms around herself. “I was thinking I didn’t feel too well.”
“Jeez,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ll get us a cab. Come on.”
It takes me a few blocks, but I manage to flag down a taxi and push her in first, and we ride in silence, Jaycee leaning against me, shivering, all the way back to the hotel.
13
By the time we get up to the room, Jaycee is puking her brains out. Well actually, even before then. She pukes on the sidewalk when we get out of the cab; she pukes in the hotel lobby bathroom. And then she pukes in the wastebasket in my room before we make it into hers, which I’m sort of wishing she hadn’t.
“Sorry,” she squeaks.
“No problem,” I say.
She spends another twenty minutes puking in the bathroom in her room. When she finally comes out, she gets into her bed and pulls the covers up.
“Man, I’m sick,” she says. She looks terrible.
“I’ll get you some ice,” I say.
When I get back to the room, I wrap the ice in a washcloth and put it on the desk and bang it with the iron I find on a shelf in the closet. When it’s crushed up sufficiently, I put it in a water glass and bring it to her. She’s lying curled up on her side.
“Here.” I hold out the glass to her.
“I can’t,” she says.
I shake it a little and make the ice chips rattle. “They’re tiny. Take one little piece. Trust me. Seriously. I’m a fever expert.”
She reaches out and takes a chip with her fingers. It melts away before she gets it to her mouth.
“Come on,” I say. “Take another. Years of practice have finally led me to this moment.” I’m trying to be funny—to reassure her—but I’m a little worried too. I mean, nobody knows better than I do that a little fever doesn’t kill you. Then again, that’s me. And I am not Jaycee. And she’s been puking for at least a half hour and is really burning up. I hand her another ice chip, but she’s tucked her arm back under the blanket. She looks at me with her bloodshot, husky-dog eyes, then opens her mouth like a baby bird. I’m self-conscious, but I drop it in.
“Thanks,” she mumbles.
I watch her huddled under the blankets, shaking, for another few minutes, and try to decide what to do. “Hey, Jaycee, do you want me to call your mom?”
“No,” she says. “God, no … She’ll kill me.” I can barely hear her.
“Are you sure?”
I wait, but she doesn’t answer. She’s out cold.
I sit on the edge of her bed, turn the TV on, and put the volume on mute. I flip channels a few times but there’s really nothing on. I’m kind of hungry. I ate only half my sandwich earlier. I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s nearly five. I think about ordering room service, but I don’t want to wake Jaycee. Plus I’m guessing it’s expensive.
I go to my room to get my wallet and am met by a nasty stench, then remember that Jaycee puked in my wastebasket. I pull the bag from it and tie it tightly with a knot. Good thing I’m used to puking. I find another plastic bag in the closet and put it inside that and tie it even tighter. I walk out into the hallway and find a garbage can near the elevators and dump it. By the time I get back to the room I’m not really hungry anymore.
I look in on Jaycee again. She’s sound asleep, breath shallow and rapid. I can feel the heat radiate from her body through the blankets. I wonder vaguely if the hotel has a doctor but then decide it wouldn’t. It’s not a cruise ship, I mean. If I need to, I guess I can find a hospital. If I need to. I just really can’t take anything happening to Jaycee. The Scoot was enough for me.
I lie on my back next to her, my legs hanging over the side, feet touching the floor. I pull
out my cell phone. The background is a photo of Yoda that the Scoot put there weeks ago. It’s so cheesy, I smile. I can’t bring myself to change it. I look over at Jaycee again. It’s just a fever, I reassure myself, and I know a few things about fevers. They come and they go. They’re usually not a big deal. She’ll be okay. She’ll probably feel better in the morning. I hold the phone above my head and stare at Yoda and breathe.
By six-thirty, Jaycee is still burning up. I’ve been lying here forever just thinking about Scooter and everything, and listening to Jaycee sleep.
I get up from the bed and start to dial home. Jeremy should be there, although I don’t know why I’m calling him. I make sure the door is unlocked and cross to my side of the room.
It rings four times before he picks up.
“Yeah?”
“Jeremy, it’s Nick.”
“I can see that,” he says.
“Hey.”
“Hey, what? I’m watching something here. What do you want?”
“Nothing. I’m just checking in.”
“Where are you?” he asks. I wonder if he really cares or just knows he should ask. It is a school night, and I haven’t come home all afternoon. Of course, for me it feels like a million years since I left. To him, it’s probably nothing. I bet he hasn’t even noticed.
“I’m at Ryan’s,” I say. “Doing homework. I think I’m just gonna sleep here.”
“It’s a school night,” he says, which impresses me.
“So?”
“Okay then.” He hangs up. So much for impressive. I throw my cell phone on the bed.
I walk around the room in circles, then sit and dig through my backpack for something, but there’s really nothing in there. I don’t even have a Slinky or yo-yo like Jaycee does.
I pick up my phone and dial Jeremy again.
“Jesus, what?” he answers.
“What?” I say.
“You just called me.”
“I know,” I say. I can’t believe my brother. He’s such a jerk. He doesn’t give a crap about me. I should just hang up. Suddenly I feel like crying. “Jeremy, I’m not at Ryan’s,” I say.
“No? Where? The rich girl’s?”