“Life goals,” I say.
She laughs and opens her eyes. “Or I can just enjoy the sunshine in beautiful downtown Argleton because I’m here with my bestie.”
I lift my iced coffee. “Cheers! Here’s to sunny days, killer footwear, and my best friend.”
Ken chose the film for our next Keeping It Reel screening. It’s a World War II movie that came out in 1970 called Catch-22. We’re over at his house watching it on Sunday afternoon while making campaign posters, and I am totally confused.
“Is it just me, or does it seem like everyone in this movie is dishonest or kind of out there?” I say, tapping the cap of my Sharpie.
“It’s a black comedy based on a satirical novel,” Ken replies. “What do you expect?”
“Okay. But still …”
“I think that’s the whole point, Stella,” Farida says. “That the situation doesn’t make sense. That’s the catch-twenty-two. If you want to get out of flying the dangerous mission, you’re sane, so you can’t get out of it. But if you want to fly it, you’re insane, but you’ll still end up flying it. So there’s no way out.”
“So basically, even if you’re a totally normal person to begin with, being in that catch-twenty-two situation all the time is enough to make you question your sanity,” I say slowly, watching Captain Yossarian, the main character, pretend to lose it on screen in a way that reminds me of Rob the other night. Or is he really losing it?
Maybe losing it is the only legit response when someone is trapped in a situation that makes no sense.
I wonder if this is some kind of clue to Rob.
That thought makes my brain hurt, so I go back to working on a poster. “Do you think Stella Walker: The Smart Solution is enough?” I ask. “Should we come up with some funny gimmicky ones like Amy and Chris did?”
“What, you want me to round up some hunky guys in Speedos?” Ken says, grinning.
“That would be a firm no way,” I say. “I’m thinking more like, You want something done? Stella’s the One, or something like that.”
“How about a picture of Marlon Brando from A Streetcar Named Desire shouting, STELLLLLLLAAAAAAA! for Class President,” Ken suggests.
“We’re probably the only ones who will get it, but I love it,” Farida says, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
I laugh and dial Ken’s phone, because he has Marlon Brando shouting “Stella” as his ringtone for me.
We all STELLLLLLLLLLA for a few minutes, but after we settle down and Ken finds a good Brando image to print out, I say, “Chris is still super pissed that we complained about his poster. He gives Farida and me the stink-eye every time we walk into AP Gov.”
“Chris’s dad is the mayor,” Ken says. “He’s not used to having to play by the rules like the rest of us mere mortals. If he steps out of bounds, Daddy makes it better. I couldn’t believe that Principal Hart actually made him take the poster down.”
“Me neither,” Farida says. “And that Mr. Hart stood by the decision when Mayor Abbott started up about ‘political correctness’ and ‘safe spaces’ in the press was amazing.”
“Can someone explain to me why boys need safe spaces from girls wearing skirts and shorts above their fingertips, but when we complain about Chris’s poster that’s political correctness?” I say.
“Probably not,” Ken says. “Because there’s no logical explanation except for hypocrisy.”
“Sometimes it feels like we live in a catch-twenty-two world, where there’s no such thing as logic,” I say.
“Right?” Farida says, swapping her marker for another handful of popcorn.
“That’s why you’re running for class president and we’re supporting you,” Ken says. “Wait, that gives me an idea! Picture of Mr. Spock and Stella Walker: The Logical Choice?”
Farida and I both laugh.
“Geeky, but funny,” Farida says, putting some partly popped kernels next to my poster. I flash her a grin as I scoop them up.
“Haley won’t approve,” I say, “but Rob would love it.”
Farida picks up her marker and taps it on the table like a gavel. “Subject change,” she announces, mock-seriously.
“Hear, hear,” I say, putting down my marker.
“So guess what I’m thinking of doing, if I can work it around helping out at the restaurant?”
I toss a few pieces of popcorn in my mouth to give me a few extra seconds to guess.
“Uh … learning karate?” Ken ventures.
“No, but that’s not a bad idea,” Farida says. “I can totally see myself doing some superhero moves.”
“Model UN?” I guess.
“You’re getting colder.”
“Colder?” I say. “Uh … can you give us a clue?”
“Yeah, because apparently we’re clueless,” Ken says.
Farida strikes a pose and starts singing: “‘It’s time to try defying gravity …’”
She stops and raises an eyebrow. “Still no guesses?”
“You want to be a witch?” Ken says.
Farida throws a piece of popcorn at him. “Freezing. But if I were a witch, I’d turn you into a newt for that.”
“Wait, are you going to try out for the musical?” I say.
“Yes!” she says. “Or at least I’m thinking about it—now that my parents won’t let me run for class president.”
“I can help you run lines if you want,” I say. “But if you make me sing, you know it’s not going to be pretty.”
“That’s an understatement,” Ken mutters.
“Look who’s talking!” I say. “Dogs howl along when you sing.”
Farida laughs. “Let’s be real—neither of you are ready for The Voice,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter when it comes to help running lines.”
We sing a rousing and somewhat out of tune chorus of “Defying Gravity,” then discuss potential song options for Farida’s audition. Ken keeps insisting on singing his suggestions, which results in Farida and me bombarding him with popcorn because his singing is really that bad. It takes us a while to clean up.
By the time Farida drives me home, she’s got five possible songs she’s happy with, and I’ve got twenty new posters. I’m pretty sure there’s a kernel of popcorn somewhere in my shirt and my hands are stained with Sharpie ink. Democracy really is a messy business.
Roadrunner—
Why, man? Why did you do it?
It’s one thing to be warned about vets and suicide. It’s one thing to hear about it on the news. But now it’s you and it’s real. I mean, real to me.
I guess it’s like Spock said, “You find it easier to understand the death of one than the death of a million.”
Now I’m just here at 3 a.m. again, watching the minutes go by on the clock, as slow as ketchup coming out of a brand-new bottle.
If it weren’t for Peggy’s soft dog snores, I’d think I was the only one alive, and I’d keep coming back to the question: Why?
Why am I still here and you aren’t?
Why am I still here and Reyes isn’t?
What was it all for? Did any of it change anything?
I can’t see that it made a difference in the long run. Sure, we might have gained some short-term ground, but now I look at what’s happening and I wonder what it was all for. Did we make things better or worse?
Here’s another Spockism: “In critical moments, men sometimes see exactly what they wish to see.”
So how does that work here?
What do I want to see?
I want to see that we made a difference.
But I don’t.
I want to think that I deserve to be here when you and Reyes aren’t.
But I don’t.
I want to feel like my life is worth something, that I make my family proud.
But I don’t.
So now what?
That’s the problem.
I don’t know.
And I don’t know where to start to find out.
I guess
that’s why I’m doing nothing.
Because that’s all I seem to be able to do right now.
ThunderGeek out.
I’ve got to get my brother out of the house before he turns into a hermit. He skipped class twice last week. He’s getting lazy about showering and shaving, too. I can live with the not shaving, but the not showering? That’s another story. Plus, his room is starting to smell pretty rank. I have to hold my breath on the way to the bathroom so I don’t inhale Eau d’Stinky Bro.
“Can’t you do something?” I complained to Mom. “It’s so gross. His room smells like a cross between an armpit and a gym sock.”
Mom laughed, but her sense of humor was short-lived.
“He’s my son, Stella, but he’s also a grown-up,” she said. “I can’t force him to do things the way I could when he was a little kid.”
“But it’s not fair,” I complained. “He’s not the only one who lives in this house.”
“I have to pick my battles,” Mom said. “And right now, I’ve got bigger problems to worry about.”
Easy for her to say. Her bedroom isn’t right across the hall and she doesn’t have to share a bathroom with him.
Well, I’m picking my battles, and I’m going to get that smelly lump of a brother out of the house if it kills me. Since Jason died, the only time he’s willingly gone outside is for college—when he’s not skipping class, that is—or to walk Peggy. That’s only because he won’t let her suffer.
Too bad he doesn’t seem to care about making me suffer. If only he cared as much about the rest of us as much as he cares about the dog.
Doesn’t he see the dark circles under Mom’s eyes, because she’s so worried about him? Doesn’t he understand how freaked out we all are? Doesn’t he realize that I feel sick to my stomach every time I open the front door after school, because I’m afraid I’ll find him like Jason?
Still, as angry as I am at him for putting us all through this, I keep reminding myself that he’s hurting. That I need to be there for my brother.
So that’s what I’m going to do. They’re having a special showing of the director’s cut of Alien at the mall. It’s not really my thing, but I know it’s one of Rob’s favorite movies. 1979 isn’t as old as I usually go for, but it still counts as a classic, and Ken said it’s awesome. Best of all, for a few hours Rob will be out of the house and hopefully out of his head, too.
Going on the premise that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, I buy the tickets online and then go to tell Rob that he’s coming.
“Hey, I got us tickets to see Alien. It’s the director’s cut. Four thirty show at the mall. C’mon, go get dressed so we don’t miss the previews.”
He doesn’t even look up from the video game he’s playing. “Did you think of asking if I wanted to go? Because the answer is no.”
“The answer is always no with you these days,” I say. “That’s why I didn’t ask. It’s time to say yes for a change. The running time is one hour and fifty-seven minutes. You can handle being out of the house for that long. We’ll come straight home after.”
“No.”
“Come ooooooon, Rob! You love the movie. You always tell me what a cultural heathen I am because I’ve never watched this movie about a gross face-hugging space monster. I’m ready and willing. Let’s do it.”
His mouth twitches. I’ve cracked the stone face. He’s half smiling. Progress! I will wear him down. I know how to be an annoying, nagging little sister. I’ve had years of practice. I can do this.
“Gross face-hugging space monster?” Rob says, finally pausing his game and putting down the controller. He stretches. “That’s just wrong.”
“All the more reason for you to make sure I’m educated on this scary sci-fi stuff so I don’t embarrass you,” I say. “Or else you’ll never know when I might drop that wrong phrase in front of your friends. It would be so awkward.”
“So awkward,” Rob agrees. The other side of his mouth quirks up. This is the closest he’s come to a full-out grin since Jason checked out.
“Come on. Let’s go see Alien,” I beg. “It’ll be fun.”
The smile fades, and I’m afraid I’ve blown it.
“I don’t know,” Rob says. “I’m not up to being around people.”
Like the debate queen that I am, I’ve already prepared for that argument.
“You don’t have to be around that many people. We can get there right before the movie starts, go straight in, and come straight back after,” I tell him. “It shouldn’t be that crowded on a weekday.”
His fingers drum his knee. He’s still on the fence. I have to push him over.
“It’ll be okay. I promise.”
Rob runs his hands through his hair and stands up.
“Okay, little sister. Count me in.”
“Yes!” I put out my fist and he gives it a half-hearted bump. I decide to push a little further. “Could you maybe … uh … change your shirt?”
“What, you don’t want to be seen with me in my three-day-old green tee?” he says, lifting it over his head and giving me a gag-inducing whiff of stinky armpit.
“How about putting on some deodorant, too?” I suggest, trying not to go too Mom on him. “I mean, I have to sit next to you and all.”
“Sheesh, give the girl an inch and she takes a mile,” Rob complains, but he shuffles upstairs to change.
I use the opportunity to take Peggy out for a quick walk to the end of the street. While I’m doing that, I text Mom: Convinced Rob to go see Alien! 4:30 show at mall. See you later!
I’m just coming back in when she replies: Great job! Have fun. Love you xo.
Rob is downstairs, wearing a clean T-shirt and jeans and it even looks like he jumped in the shower because he smells like body wash and his hair is wet. Apparently, miracles do happen.
“Got the tickets?”
“On my phone,” I say.
“Let’s do this thing,” he says, giving Peggy a last pat and heading for the garage.
We’re halfway to the mall when he says, “You’re allowed to breathe. And stop clutching the door handle.”
I look down and smile sheepishly when I realize that I’m gripping the handle so hard my knuckles are white.
“You’re worse than Mom when I was learning how to drive,” Rob says.
“That’s just cruel,” I say, putting my hands in my lap.
Rob glances at me with a slight grin.
“Tell me you haven’t been sitting there waiting for me to lose it.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but what’s the point? He’ll know I’m lying. “So what if I have? Can you blame me? You haven’t exactly been Mr. Normal lately.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth I feel like a total jerk. I’m supposed to be supportive and compassionate and I told him he was acting crazy. Way to empathize, Stella!
But Rob laughs. Go figure.
“I can always trust you to tell it like it is,” he says. “Everyone else tiptoes around the subject, but Stella marches right in and names it.”
Ever since he got back from this latest deployment, I can count on my big brother to confuse me. Before, I could pretty much predict how he’d react in any given situation. Now I have no idea. It’s exhausting.
“Don’t worry,” Rob says. “Sometimes it’s a relief to hear it said out loud.”
Sometimes?
But what about the other times? How do I know when to say it and when not to?
As we pull in the mall lot, the car in front of us stops suddenly, and my brother slams on the brakes so hard I almost hit my head against the dash, even though I’m wearing a seat belt.
“What’s your problem?” Rob shouts, leaning on the horn. “No one’s even in front of you, moron!”
A black-and-white dog streaks across to the other side of the road, looking even more freaked out than my brother.
“Chill, Rob!” I snap, watching the dog escape between parked cars headed for the Olive Garden
trash bins. “They braked so they didn’t run over a dog.”
The car rolls forward and as it does, I hear what sounds like a cross between a hiccup and a burp come from Rob.
“What do you call that weird noise? A biccup?”
When he doesn’t even groan at my joke, I turn to look at Rob and once again I’m confused. His face is contorted as if he’s in pain.
Maybe this mall excursion was a bad idea. Maybe he’s not up to this.
I’m worried that I might not be up to it, either.
“Rob, are—” No, don’t ask if he’s okay, because duh, of course he’s not. “What’s going on?”
He keeps driving, with slow, deliberate, careful concentration, like he’s working to hold it together, until he finds an empty space not far from the mall entrance, pulls in, and turns off the engine. Then he puts his arms across the wheel, lowers his head, and breaks down, his shoulders heaving as he sobs.
Freaked out, I unbuckle my seat belt and lean across the console to put my arm around him.
“What is it?” I ask.
I wonder if I should call Mom or Dad. I wonder if I should get him into the passenger seat, turn the car around, and drive home. I wonder if I should just sit here with my arm around him until he’s ready to tell me what is making him lose it.
“The d-dog,” he manages to get out, but that doesn’t really explain much. I know Rob loves dogs, but I can’t understand why he’s crying over a dog that escaped death, but he stayed dry-eyed when his friend Jason didn’t.
I rummage in the glove compartment in search of tissues. Luckily, I find a few crumpled-up McDonalds napkins. I hand them to him silently.
“Thanks,” he says.
After he’s wiped his face and blown his nose, I finally muster the courage to ask, “So … what about the dog? I … don’t understand.”
Rob takes a deep, shuddering breath and grips the steering wheel.
“We had just left a village when one of the trucks in our convoy got a flat. We never liked to stop ’cause it meant we were sitting ducks, but we didn’t have a choice. I was pulling security. I see this boy, must have been around ten, coming across the field from where he’d been tending his goats. He had a dog with him, this skinny, rangy-looking thing.”
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