The Fabulous Zed Watson!

by Basil Sylvester

  “Sure.”

  “So,” I said, “plants. You’re an expert, obviously.”

  “Yeah, I like them.” Gabe shrugged.

  “You’re being fake humble, dude. Admit it—you’re good with plants.”

  He shrugged again but stayed silent.

  He was squinting at the map, though.

  “Climb on the desk, Lord Latin,” I said.

  “You sure? It’s your desk.”

  “Oh, brother.” I took my foot and cleared off the top, sending papers and books flying. “Look. Room for two. Move it.”

  He jumped up.

  I gave a silent wish that the Jimi-constructed desk would hold our combined weight.

  I pointed to the two Veronas, and Gabe nodded.

  “I think that makes sense,” he said. “You said that’s where the play is set?”

  “Yeah. Is there a Verona rose?”

  “No.” He paused for a few seconds, thinking. He actually scratched his chin like an old man with a beard.

  I thought it was cute and chuckled. He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice.

  Eventually, he stopped scratching and stood up straight. “The weird thing about the Rosaceae reference in the poem is that it also says, ‘Look where he fled, a blue Rosaceae sign.’ So maybe it’s not where Romeo and Juliet are from but where they go. Do they travel anywhere in the story?”

  “Um, I’ll be right back,” I said.

  A quick consult with Tom revealed that Gabe had hit the nail on the head.

  “Romeo gets exiled to Mantua!” I yelled, bursting through the door. “Just like Lysander gets exiled to the United States!”

  Gabe was so shocked, he almost fell off the desk.

  I leapt up next to him. “Look for someplace called Mantua! You go east of the Mississippi and I’ll look west.”

  A few minutes passed and then Gabe said, “Found it!”

  He took the pushpin out of Verona, New Jersey, and placed it in the upper east corner of Ohio.

  “Looks tiny,” I said. You could barely make out the word “Mantua” on the map. “Nice eyesight!”

  “Oh, I used this.” He held up a small magnifying glass. Then he dropped his hand to his side and the glass disappeared.

  For the first time, I noticed Gabe’s pockets. There were, like, a hundred of them, and more zippers and pouches.

  He saw me looking. “Always be prepared,” he said. Reaching into another pocket, he pulled out a red marker and circled Mantua.

  “You’re, like, the biggest nerd ever,” I said.

  “I’m taking that as a compliment?”

  “Zed calling you a nerd? That’s my highest compliment,” I assured him. “On to the next clue!” I pumped my fist in the air.

  We moved on to the next stanza of Taylor’s poem. It had a Latin phrase as well—Et in Arcadia ego—and the Gabeapproved translation was “There I also dwell.” We got into a rhythm.

  Gabe knew so much about plants and Latin that we’d soon transformed the ugly plaid pattern on my map into a stylish pocket square—that is to say, we’d corralled my chaotic mess of pushpins into something resembling a route that we could actually drive.

  It started in Mantua, Ohio, and then went on to Arcadia, Indiana. Admittedly, from there, we were only mostly sure that the next stop would be Huzzah, Missouri. It could possibly be Marion, Illinois, but we figured we’d be able to get more specific directions after discovering the clues in the first two stops on the way.

  After that, our options had us driving northwest or possibly southwest, but at least we had a direction to go: west . . . ish. Gabe and I shared a low-key fist bump (he refused a high five) on his way out the door.

  The adventure was on!

  Alone in my room, I danced my happy dance. The map was still pinned over Lysander, but he was partly visible. “I’ll see you soon!” I whispered.

  I couldn’t see his mouth, but I knew he was smiling at me.

  Chapter 8

  Road Trip

  I convinced my parents that I could go with Gabe and his sister; Gabe and I would fly home in a week, after helping Sam move in. Dad even got wistful as he told me about the road trips he and Mom went on before they had kids—probably just after the Cretaceous Period. I wasn’t totally paying attention, actually. After he said yes, all I could think about was how to get Sam on board. As it turned out, I never had to use my charm on her.

  Somehow, without my help, Gabe got Sam to agree to the trip.

  And with just a week to go before summer ended, we were about to set off.

  I posted a notice on the fan site telling the Taylor legion about our discovery. I didn’t give all the details because to be one hundred percent honest, I wasn’t sure about all the stops. But I did mention the first two, Mantua and Arcadia.

  My fellow geeks had been unanimous in their praise.

  GO FOR IT!

  HELP LYSANDER AND YVES BE REUNITED!!!

  KEEP US POSTED!!

  I said I’d do my best to keep them all up to date from the road.

  Finally, the day arrived. A special occasion such as this called for a special outfit. I had already planned to wear my bright purple sweater with funky squares all over it, but that morning, I also threw on my favorite white-and-black-striped sweatpants. I was ready.

  Dad made me check for the thousandth time that I had packed my passport. I also had a letter of permission, signed by Mom the lawyer, letting Sam take me across the border.

  Snacks? Check.

  Other awesome sweaters? MANY! (Even in summer, fashion takes a front seat for this kid.)

  Where were Sam and Gabe?

  I heard the car before I saw it. Have you ever seen a nature documentary where a lion attacks a zebra, and the dying zebra makes this horrible noise?

  That noise sounded like music compared to the clanking and wheezing that was coming from the next block.

  I turned to Jimi. “You didn’t happen to work on this car, did you?”

  “Haha,” he said.

  The car made the turn. I’m not sure how it achieved that feat, but as it drew closer, I could see three different colors of paint, a dent in the front fender and what appeared to be duct tape holding the left headlight in place.

  I immediately told the crowd my new nickname for the car: Rusty Raccoon.

  “It’s actually a 1996 Subaru Impreza,” Jimi said.

  “I’m not Impreza-ed,” I said.

  The car rumbled to a stop in front of the house. The driver’s window rolled down and I finally met Sam. She had her head shaved on one side, and long pink-fringed hair cascaded down the other, partially obscuring a pair of green horned-rimmed glasses. She also had muscles on her muscles.

  Sam turned her head slowly in my direction, like a demented doll.

  “You’re Zed?” It sounded like a challenge.

  “Of course,” I said proudly. “Nice car. Is it dead?”

  Sam narrowed her eyes and spoke in a menacing voice. “It works fine.”

  “Really?” I pointed at the duct tape. “I’ve seen roadkill that looks more lively.”

  She scowled. “I could say the same thing about your sweater.”

  “Ah!” I gasped. “How dare—”

  My mom coughed. “Thanks for agreeing to this, Sam.” Apparently, she’d met Sam before and lived to tell about it.

  “All good, Mrs. W.,” Sam said. “Least I could do to say thanks for your help.”

  I had an instant picture of my mom getting Sam acquitted of some horribly violent crime. I made a mental note to tone down my witty comebacks.

  Sam swiveled her head back toward me. “In the back. Front seat is for adults.”

  “Okay, then,” I said.

  Sam got out to grab my bags.

  “How much luggage does one kid need?” she said, eyeing my suitcase, backpack and duffel bags.

  “One must travel in style. A sweater for every occasion.” I pointed to my current selection. “One of my best Value Village
finds.”

  “What occasion is that for? A clown funeral?”

  “Haha. I have an entire trunk filled with ugly Christmas sweaters.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t pack those.”

  “It’s August! Cottons only. What do you take me for?”

  “You don’t want to know. C’mon, sweaty. Move it.”

  SWEATY? I ignored that and hugged my family goodbye. They’d all woken up early to send me off.

  Jimi handed me a box. “Might come in handy,” he said. “Some walkie-talkies. I made a few adjustments.”

  The chances of the gift actually working were probably zero, but Jimi always had his heart in the right place. I hugged him. Then I slid across the worn fabric seat next to Gabe.

  I don’t know if it was being around his scary older sis full-time, but he seemed to have even less energy than Rusty Raccoon. He just kept staring out the window with his headphones on. Didn’t wave or say hi. Well, that kind of behavior never stopped Zed Watson from trying to start a confab!

  “Hey, good buddy,” I said, giving him a friendly punch on the arm. He didn’t respond.

  I tried a different strategy. “Sooooo . . . road-trip snacks, amirite?” I reached into my backpack and pulled out three bags of goodies. “We’ve got Doritos—Cool Ranch, of course. These are stage-three snacks. We’ll save these until we’ve driven at least an hour—if this car doesn’t blow up first.”

  I waved the bag in his face. No response. I grabbed another bag.

  “Next, sourdough pretzels. These are stage-two snacks—can be opened soon after leaving your home city, but not right away.”

  Zippo movement from the human Eeyore.

  Sam got into the driver’s seat.

  “Buckle up.”

  I did. Then I pulled out the pièce de résistance, a red cardboard box from the local coffee shop.

  “Stage-one snack supreme. All good road trips must begin with the classic, a sour cream glazed donut. One eats this immediately upon pulling away from the house.”

  Sam revved up the engine. I put a donut and napkin carefully on Gabe’s lap.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. “But I’m not really into donuts.” He passed it back.

  I was shocked. Shocked! “Mary Motto #6,” I said. “‘Do NOT say no to a DoNUT.’”

  But Gabe had gone back to staring out the window.

  I was about to reach over and take off his headphones when I caught Sam shooting us a look in the rear-view mirror. Was Gabe scared of his sister? It was understandable. I was scared of her.

  I pulled my hand back.

  Then she gunned the engine and we drove away.

  “We gotta make a pit stop,” Sam said. “Pick up a couple of boxes.”

  Boxes?

  “Pssst, Gabe. Your sister isn’t a smuggler, is she?” The idea actually sent a thrill down my spine.

  But Gabe said nothing. I thought he’d be at least a little bit excited. With Eeyore next to me and Darth Vader driving—this was not what I had hoped for.

  I munched on my donut. “It’s just you and me now, sour cream glaze,” I grumbled under my breath.

  “What’s in these boxes?” I asked. “Rocks?” I heaved an eight-ton cardboard box into the trunk, being careful not to trap my own sweater-filled suitcase underneath.

  “No spit, Sherlock,” Sam said.

  “I was kidding! These are seriously rocks?”

  We’d stopped at a storage locker to grab the last of Sam’s stuff. Not contraband, apparently.

  At least Gabe was talking a little bit more.

  “Sam studies geology,” he said, helping me lift yet another box. “These are rock samples for her thesis.”

  “Geology is about rocks?! I thought it was, like, about weird stuff.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, like, ‘Gee, that’s a weird-looking dog.’ Gee-ology.”

  Gabe giggled. I’d never heard him laugh before.

  “Did you just giggle?” I asked.

  Gabe stopped giggling. He stared at his shoes instead.

  “Hurry up, you bozos,” Sam said. “I want to hit the border before all the weekend shoppers are finished clipping their coupons.”

  We heaved the last box into the trunk and closed the lid.

  Back in the car, I passed Gabe’s untouched donut to Sam. She wolfed it down in one bite. Man, she was scary.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  I saw her watching Gabe again in the mirror.

  His headphones were once again clamped onto his head.

  So far, this road trip had been about as much fun as the maiden voyage of the Titanic.

  About an hour away from the border, we hit a bump and I jolted awake. I must have dozed off. I immediately checked the clock on the dashboard.

  11:53 a.m.

  “Pretzel time!” I announced. I ripped open the bag and jammed a handful into my mouth. I offered some to Gabe, but he just stared silently out the window.

  This had to stop.

  I reached over and yanked one of the earpieces away from his ear. I’m not sure what he was listening to, but it was LOUD and there was even more screaming than back in the library.

  He quickly fumbled with his player and muted it.

  “What?!” he said.

  “Pretzel time.” I waved the open bag in front him.

  To my surprise, he grabbed a few and began munching on them. That’s when I noticed the plastic bin on his lap. He must have opened it while I was napping. Inside were some cucumber slices, several carrots and a beige-colored dip.

  “Your parents sent you on a road trip . . . with VEGETABLES? What kind of parents do that?”

  “Zed.” Sam’s voice from the front was sharp and stern.

  Now, my social radar isn’t always the best, but I know when someone is sending me “parent” signals, and this one was “shut up now.”

  I shut up.

  For a few seconds anyway.

  “So I made a playlist for the trip. Pre-border selections are mostly from the pop charts—banger bands from Korea, pop legends, and disco icons.”

  “Now we’re finally talking the same language!” Sam said.

  She passed me the aux cord, and I plugged in my player. (My “player” was actually an old smartphone that Jimi had “fixed” a few months before. Now useless as a phone, it was still great as a mobile music library.)

  I hit Play.

  “Karaoke time!”

  Sam and I began belting out tunes.

  Gabe wasn’t joining in.

  “Don’t know the words?” I asked.

  “Don’t want to,” he said, and he slipped his headphones back over his ears.

  Oh, well. At least Sam and I were sort-of bonding. Until she made me skip “Call Me Maybe”—an all-time best song!

  “Seriously?”

  “Just not my fave,” she said.

  I shook my head in silent disappointment and shock. We’d been doing so well.

  And then we hit the border, and things got even worse. At least for me. All because of my passport.

  Chapter 9

  Border Cross

  Here’s the thing about my passport.

  It, of course, has an awesome picture of my face. Well, as good as any passport picture can be when they won’t let you flash your million-dollar smile or wear your funky glasses.

  The problem is the bit that lists your gender and name.

  My passport doesn’t have my actual gender or my name.

  It has my birth name and my assigned gender.

  And this is the document I was going to have to hand to an already suspicious and grumpy border guard. How did I know the border guard was going to be suspicious and grumpy? Cross the US border some time.

  It can be humiliating to have to answer questions based on information that’s not about who you are.

  I must have looked very anxious because Sam noticed and said, “It’ll be over soon. And we have the letter from your mom, so everyth
ing’s aboveboard.”

  Gabe even patted my shoulder. “This stuff makes me nervous too,” he said.

  I gave a weak smile.

  What I didn’t want to point out was that I wasn’t anxious about crossing the border—I was worried about what I’d have to say and what someone looking at my passport might say to me.

  Sam turned off the music. “Okay, quiet, guys! Or sorry, Zed? Is ‘guys’ okay?”

  “It’s all good. I’m a ‘guys.’” At least she was trying to help smooth things.

  Sam rolled down the window and made us get out our passports. I didn’t want to show her mine, but she made me give it to her so she could pass it to the border agent. She didn’t look at it. She simply held it in one hand and took out my mom’s letter from the plastic sandwich bag I had stored it in.

  “Passports, please,” said the burly customs agent.

  He had a beard and looked like he had laser vision that could X-ray anything just by looking at it.

  I wanted to shut my eyes, but I was afraid that would make me look guilty or like I was hiding something.

  The border agent took the passports without even a thank-you, which I thought was pretty rude. He looked at Sam’s and Gabe’s, and then at mine. “Which one of you is Zed?” he asked.

  Except he didn’t say “Zed” because that’s not what’s on my passport.

  His mouth formed the other name as if in slow motion, and in my brain I was slo-mo yelling, “Nooooooo!”

  But he had said it. Out loud.

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a split second before Sam realized he was asking about me.

  “In the back seat,” she said.

  “Yes.” I gave a miserable little wave. “That’s me.”

  The uncomfortable silence got longer. The guard stared at me, frowning. “And Zed is related to you how?” he asked Sam.

  Except once again, he hadn’t said “Zed”; he’d used a pronoun. And it was not the pronoun I used.

  Sam grabbed my mom’s letter. “I have a permission letter here from a parent.” She passed it to the guard.