“Why are you always trying to fix me?” Connor snapped. “Why don’t you just be my friend, Aven? I don’t need to be fixed.”
“I don’t want to fix you,” I said. “I don’t think you’re broken or anything. I just want to help you. Friends help each other, don’t they?”
“I’d rather you just play video games with me. That’s how you can help me.”
I lowered my eyes and ran my rainbow-striped flat over the dingy carpet. “Okay,” I said. “But I won’t stop going to the meetings. You can come if you want.” I shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t care.”
Connor’s face softened, and he grinned. “Yeah, you do. And yeah, I’ll come.”
Connor and I walked up to the door of the Tourette’s support group. “Here we go again,” he said under his breath as I opened the door. This month’s group was smaller—only Dexter, Jack, and Mason were there.
“Hey, armless Aven,” Dexter said.
“Is that a new tic, Dexter?” I asked, thinking of his tendency to say inappropriate things.
“What do you mean?” he said, a baffled expression on his face.
I grinned at the floor. “Never mind.”
Dexter patted the seat next to him. “Come sit over here—chicken nipple.”
Connor and I sat in two seats next to Dexter. “Where’s everyone else?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Dexter said. “Maybe Rebecca slapped herself so hard—chicken nipple—that she’s lying passed out on her kitchen floor.”
Jack snorted loudly. “That’s not cool, Dex,” he said.
I shook my head. “Definitely not cool.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, clearly doing his best to look innocent. “It could be the bathroom floor.”
“That’s enough, Dexter.” Andrea looked up from the clipboard she held on her lap. “That’s almost crossing the line into making fun of instead of making fun with.” She stared him down, but I could hear some playfulness in her voice.
“I’m sorry.” Dexter hung his head and stuck out his lip. “I won’t do it again.” He covered his mouth to hide his obvious grin.
“Well, it looks like this is all we have today,” Andrea said. “Why don’t we go ahead and get started. Since we all talked a little bit last month about our fear of going out in public, I thought this month would be a good time to talk about some techniques for staying relaxed when we go out. There’s no reason any of you should feel you need to stay confined to your house out of fear of venturing out. It’s so important you all live your lives as normally as possible, and feeling comfortable when going out in public is a big part of that.”
“But what if we can’t relax and our tics get really bad?” Jack said, letting out his loud whooping noise.
“Don’t already decide that you can’t relax in public, Jack,” Andrea said. “That’s why I’m going to teach you some techniques you can use. Are you going to tic in public? Probably, yes. You have to accept that. But you don’t have to allow it to get out of control.”
“Is this going to be about habit-reversal training?” Connor asked. “Because I’ve already tried that.”
“What’s that?” I asked him.
Before he could answer me, Andrea said, “No, Connor. We’re not going to be discussing habit-reversal training today.”
Connor turned to me. “It’s when you try to focus your attention on doing something that basically, like, competes with the tic as soon as you feel the urge. Over time, it’s supposed to make you feel the urge to tic less.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
“A little,” Connor said. “But I haven’t been very good about doing it.”
“It can work well for some kids,” Andrea said. “But today we’re just going to focus on relaxing.”
I ignored her. “Maybe you should try it again if it helped,” I told Connor.
“I told you I’m not going to therapy anymore, Aven,” he said. “Besides, it didn’t work well for me.”
I frowned and kicked at my chair legs as Andrea went on about how to breathe deeply. We all closed our eyes, and she told us to breathe in slowly through our noses and out slowly through our mouths. I found it difficult to relax with Dexter repeatedly saying “chicken nipple” next to me, but I did my best.
“Now,” Andrea said in a soothing voice, “feel a warmth in your chest—a wonderful warmth that travels from your chest . . . to your shoulders . . . now down your arms . . . and into your fingertips.”
I couldn’t help it—I totally burst out laughing. Then Connor and the other guys joined me. “You feel that warmth in your fingertips, Aven?” Dexter asked.
Andrea tried to continue talking about the warmth drifting down to our legs and feet, but everyone kept giggling and ticcing, so eventually she gave up and talked to us about other ways we could relax in public. These included using our breathing, visualization, meditation, and even counting or going over times tables.
At some point, Andrea said we should all have a goal we were working toward. It didn’t need to be big, but something easily attainable—like my parents had always taught me: one small goal at a time.
Dexter said he wanted to make it through a meeting without calling his mom to check the stove. Andrea said that was a good goal. Then Dexter asked if he could call his mom to check the stove. Jack said he wanted to talk to this girl at school he liked—not ask her out or anything, but just say hi. And Mason wanted to stop making farting noises.
When Andrea asked me what my goal was, Connor and I looked at each other with knowing grins—but I wasn’t about to tell the whole group about our murder investigation. Instead, I said I wanted to learn how to use nunchuks, which was also true.
When Andrea asked Connor about his goal, I blurted, “Connor’s going to challenge the next person who makes fun of him at school to a cage match.”
The others giggled, but Connor squinted at me suspiciously then turned his attention to Andrea. “I guess I should try to get out somewhere,” he said. “I haven’t been anywhere but school and Stagecoach Pass since I moved.”
The way he said his goal felt noncommittal, and I doubted he would follow through with it.
Andrea gave us the last ten minutes to socialize, so everyone wanted me to show them what kinds of things I could do with my feet. Andrea handed me her clipboard, paper, and pen, and I wrote People with arms are lame. I also opened up a water bottle and put my hair in a ponytail—impressive stuff.
“Wow, Aven,” Dexter said. “You’re like a superhero—like a totally awesome armless superhero.”
“If only I had those nunchuks,” I said.
“Armless Aven!” Dexter announced. “Able to open water bottles with a single toe!”
I blushed (that darn idiopathic craniofacial erythema). “Not a single toe, but that’s okay.” I glanced at Connor, but he wasn’t smiling. Actually, he looked downright annoyed.
Later, on the way home in the car, I asked him, “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” He slumped down in his seat and crossed his arms. “Dexter just thinks he’s so funny.”
“He is funny,” I said.
“I can tell you think he’s so funny, but I don’t.” He turned away from me so he could stare out the window. “He’s starting to get on my nerves, calling you armless Aven,” he mumbled.
“Someone at the support group calls you armless Aven? Is that from his Tourette’s?” Mom asked.
“No,” Connor said. “It’s from his stinky personality.”
I looked at Mom in the rearview mirror. I could tell from her wrinkled, squinty eyes she was grinning. I grinned back and then looked out my own window, hardly able to keep myself from giggling.
I had never, ever in my entire life made a boy jealous until now.
Christmas at Stagecoach Pass was actually pretty cool. My parents decided it was worth it to hire a company to come in and decorate the park with lights and a big tree in the middle of Main Street. We pulled all the old Christm
as decorations out of storage and placed them around the park—things like wreaths made of horseshoes and cowboy boots filled with fake poinsettias.
Dad made sure the company he hired strung lights over the covered wagon that marked the entrance. They also added the word CHRISTMAS after STAGECOACH PASS, so everyone would know something a little different was going on.
I had the idea to set up a booth that sold hot cocoa and s’mores fixings, and we lit fires in a couple of the old metal garbage cans. I had never expected the Arizona nights to get so cold; the weather even dipped below freezing a couple of times. I actually got to wear my ear muffs while I stood outside with Connor roasting marshmallows over the fire—well, he roasted marshmallows for me. I didn’t exactly need my toes freezing off.
“It’s too bad Zion’s gone for winter break,” I said. Zion and his family were spending two weeks in New Zealand. They’d gone all the way to the other side of the world to visit the movie sets from The Lord of the Rings. My dad had raised an eyebrow when I told him that and said, “I’ve got to meet these people.”
“Zion told me it’s actually summer down there right now,” I said. “How weird is that?”
Connor didn’t answer as he looked around and barked nervously. The roasting sticks he held over the fire shook a little. “This place is busier than ever,” he said, and barked. The people roasting marshmallows across from us stared at him.
“Don’t let it scare you off,” I said.
Connor looked offended. “I won’t. I mean, you know, as long as it doesn’t get too busy.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “What qualifies as too busy?”
Connor shrugged. “Busier than this.”
“Well, I hope that’s not true because I would miss you.”
“I’m sure it will be dead again once Christmas is over,” Connor said, which was obviously reassuring to him, but not to me. I didn’t want the park to get dead again. Connor pulled a marshmallow off the stick and shoved it into my mouth. “Then things can just go back to normal.”
“Ah doh wah go nanahol,” I said, my mouth stuffed full of marshmallow.
“Huh?”
I swallowed. “I don’t want it to go back to normal. I want it to stay busy. You realize if the park closes down, my parents lose their jobs, and we probably have to move again.”
Connor frowned. “Yeah, I didn’t think of that.” He stuffed another marshmallow into my mouth. “Then I hope it stays busy . . . just as long as it doesn’t get too busy.”
We invited Connor and his mom over for Christmas Eve. We held a dinner in the steakhouse and invited all the employees who didn’t have any family to spend it with. Mom and Dad ordered three big turkeys.
“What can I do to help?” I asked Josephine, who was ordering everyone around in the kitchen. They were busy making cornbread stuffing, mashed potatoes, corn, and of course, cowboy beans, corn bread and coleslaw (which I would most definitely not be eating; coleslaw was ruined for me for life and would forevermore be known as pit slaw).
Josephine handed me a masher. “Why don’t you mash up them potatoes?” She stuck the giant pot of potatoes on the floor for me, and I worked on handling the masher with my feet. Several of the employees stopped to watch, but Josephine told them all to skedaddle. “Those will be the best mashed potatoes you ever put in your mouth,” she snapped at anyone who raised an eyebrow at me mashing the potatoes.
At one point Henry walked in. He put his hands on his hips. “Aven Cavanaugh!” he scolded. “What are you doing with your feet in the food?”
I didn’t think Josephine could have looked more shocked than if a tarantula the size of a horse had trampled through the room. “You crazy old kook!” she said to Henry. “Don’t you know her name by now? Get out of here and make yourself useful.” She shooed him out of the room, and neither one of them returned.
When I was done with the potatoes, I peeked my head through the swinging doors of the kitchen. I watched Connor and his mom sitting at a table together with my mom, talking and laughing. I knew this was the first time they had eaten in a restaurant together since Connor’s tics had started, so I was glad to see Connor looked so comfortable, although he didn’t eat much during dinner.
As we all sat together at the table, I whispered to Connor, “Henry just called me Aven Cavanaugh in the kitchen.”
He scrunched up his nose. “Like you said—he gets really confused.”
I picked up my fork with my toes and stabbed a big bite of turkey. “I guess. He does keep confusing me for someone else, but why would he think I was a Cavanaugh?”
Connor shrugged. “Maybe you look like a Cavanaugh.”
I shoved the bite of turkey in my mouth and chewed as I thought about this. “If only we could find that missing picture from the museum,” I said. “Maybe that would tell us something.”
“We’ll just have to keep searching the storage shed. There’s got to be something in all that junk.”
I nodded as I stabbed another chunk of turkey. “I hope so.”
That evening, Mom and Dad gave me my Christmas present: a pair of turquoise and silver earrings they had purchased from a Navajo woman. I thought if I ever got that necklace cleaned up and maybe got a new chain for it, it would look nice with my new earrings. I also thought this Navajo woman should come and sell her jewelry at Stagecoach Pass. Actually, I couldn’t stop thinking of things we should do with the park. I had a lot of ideas.
Later that night, I dragged Dad out to go tarantula hunting. I’d done this several times before; I had become obsessed with finding a live tarantula. He held the flashlight for me so I could sneak up on any holes I had found earlier in the day, thinking they might be tarantula burrows. But I never did find one, no matter how much I searched. I began to wonder if I ever would.
The fun and success of Christmas had me thinking a lot about Stagecoach Pass. The park had gotten old and tired. Everyone in town had visited at one point and didn’t feel the need to come back. There was no draw—even the food at the steakhouse probably got old because they only served a few different things. Something needed to change or there wouldn’t be a Stagecoach Pass for very long. And then who knew where we’d go?
My parents were so busy keeping up with all the little tasks that went into running the place that they didn’t have time to see the bigger picture. But I did. As we sat down one chilly January night for dinner together, I told them my ideas.
“You know, I walked through Stagecoach Pass yesterday, and I counted seventeen empty storefronts,” I said as I took a bite of roll. “Seventeen.”
Dad sighed. “I know. This place is like a ghost town.”
“It makes the place look sad,” I said. “We need to get some stuff in here for people to do. Stuff for people to buy.”
“It takes money to fill the buildings with employees and merchandise,” Mom said.
I frowned. “Can’t we take out a loan? I heard you have to spend money to make money.”
Dad laughed. “Where’d you hear that?”
“On a commercial.”
“Well, that may be true sometimes,” Dad said. “But I think the park already took out a couple of loans just to keep going. I’d have to talk to Gary about that, but I don’t think it’s an option.”
“Isn’t there some other way to get stuff in here?” I said.
Dad took a swig of his water. “I suppose we could rent the spaces, but then we’d have to worry about finding businesses and what kind of businesses should be allowed to rent here.”
“Of course,” I said. “We would want it to all be . . . cowboy-ish.” I eyed both of them. “You know, I’ve been writing down ideas for a while now. Ideas for the park.”
“We’d love to hear your ideas, sweetie,” Mom said.
I went back to my room, grabbed my notebook, and returned to the table. I opened it with my toes. “Things that Stagecoach Pass needs to bring in business,” I read aloud. “Number one.” I looked at them dramatically. “A lighte
r food option. We have the steakhouse for a big fat, heavy, greasy meal, and we have the soda shop for a large ice cream sundae when you only ask for a single cone, but there’s no deli or sandwich shop or anything like that for a nice little lunch.”
I could tell they liked the idea so I went on. “Number two: coffee and smoothies. Whenever Mom and I go shopping, I notice the malls always have some kind of coffee and smoothie place. Number three: more shopping. Navajo jewelry like the earrings you bought me, a cool leather shop, and a hat store that specializes in custom cowboy hats. Stuff like that.”
“Wow, Aven,” Dad said. “Those are all great ideas. It’s just complicated, honey.”
“How is it complicated?”
“Well,” Mom said, “for one thing, how do we even find these vendors?”
I shrugged and went back to eating my dinner, sorry my ideas had fallen flat. Then I remembered Mr. Jeffries, my art teacher, telling us about an art festival in a town called Fountain Hills that was happening next weekend. He encouraged us all to go and check out the local artists’ work. “There’s a giant art festival in Fountain Hills next weekend,” I said. “There will be like five hundred artists. Maybe we could find some cool vendors there.”
Mom and Dad looked at each other. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go check it out,” Mom said. “Might be fun.”
“And what if we had our own art festival?” I said, getting excited now. “With artists and food and music . . . and fireworks!”
Mom and Dad both laughed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Dad said, but I couldn’t help it. My mind was going crazy now.
“It’s a great opportunity for the artists to check out Stagecoach Pass and see if they might want to rent a space here. Main Street is huge. We could have a huge art festival. You should have it by early April before it gets too hot outside. Oh, and I saw this show about food trucks, and—”
“Slow down, Sheebs,” Dad said. “How about we start with visiting this festival and see how it goes from there?”
“But if we’re going to have our own art festival, the best way to let the artists know would be to tell them about it at this art festival in Fountain Hills.”
Insignificant Events in the Life of a Cactus Page 10