The End-of-the-Year Picnic
In the morning, I crunch a bite of Coral’s homemade granola cereal with soy milk.
“May I borrow your bike again today?” she asks me. “Coho needs mine.”
The memory of Coral’s kale-clad body straddling my bicycle seat makes me nauseated. I stop eating the cereal. I’m not sure I ever want to ride my bike again. “Sure.”
“Before you go, MacKenna, Hank and I have a little gift for you, for continuing to seventh grade.”
A gift?
Coral holds out a small brown paper bag. I cautiously take the bag and unroll the top. I reach inside and pull out a cell phone. A flip phone. A dinosaur relic, to be precise. It’s smaller than my palm.
Coral claps and jumps up and down. “We thought you would love this, MacKenna. And there’s more good news!”
Hank and Coral reach into their hip pockets, and together, they pull out matching flip phones, waving them in the air.
“Coho refurbished these little gizmos for us. He also connected us with a carrier.” Hank pauses and looks at Coho, who steps into the kitchen. “Is that what you call it?”
Coho nods.
“And we have a family plan for all three of these telephones,” Hank explains.
“Yes! One hundred minutes each month and one hundred texts,” Coral adds.
“Each?” I ask, clicking the phone open and closed, open and closed.
“No, together as a family unit. It’s the one-hundred-one-hundred plan. It’s huge.”
Huge is an inaccurate word choice, but I don’t say it aloud.
I examine the phone’s features. Old-school keypad texting and the game Snake. I press the menu key and find my phone number.
Mine.
Coral holds up her opened phone in front of me. “Look! There’s a camera too.”
I check it out. “I estimate two megapixels, and a limited capacity of photos, which means we’ll have to regularly upload them to a computer.”
“Keen eye, Mac,” Coho says.
“Is that uploading hard to do?” Coral asks me.
I squint at her. “Yes, because we don’t have a computer.”
“Those flip phones are retro now,” Coho says. “Celebs actually crave them.”
Retro? Hmmm . . . I wonder how much this phone might be worth. Well under five hundred dollars, but maybe . . . a hundred? I snap the device shut.
“It’s more plastic than I’m comfortable with, but Hank and I knew this would be perfect for you, MacKenna.”
I’ve been asking for a phone for two years. This isn’t the phone I would choose for myself, but at least I can finally text!
I can’t help but wonder whether Hank and Coral are turning a corner. It’s a wide, gradually curving corner, and for a nanosecond I consider asking them about coding camp.
Then Hank raises his phone and says, “This is still a screen, Mac, so we don’t want you to overuse it and suffer from eyestrain.”
Okay, maybe there’s no corner.
But I smile at my technology challenged parents. “Thanks.”
During a short break between our final math class and final reading class, I slide my flip phone out of my pocket and show Willa and Brie.
Willa laughs and grabs it from my hand, flicking it open and snapping it closed. “This is so cute, Mac. It’s a little flipper! Listen to this.” She plays with my phone and wiggles her shoulders: click, click, click, click.
“Let me see it.” Brie takes the phone from Willa. “Oh, I think I’ve seen these keypads. So, when you want to type a B, you hit two twice.”
“Right,” I say, “then tap three sevens for R. Then tap three fours for I, and then two threes for E. That’s your name. It’s kind of inefficient.”
“But you have a phone! Willa and I can text you this summer.”
I take my little flipper from Brie just as Joey Marino breezes past us. My face muscles tense. Joey locks eyes with me, and I think he smiles. He doesn’t say anything to me, though, and I shouldn’t be surprised by that. But I wonder if he’s talked to anyone else and told them what he saw at the statue.
No one has said anything to me.
Yet.
That afternoon, the sixth-grade students walk three blocks to nearby Brooklyn Park for our end-of-the-year picnic. It’s one of the school traditions, and all families are invited. I didn’t remind Hank and Coral this morning, hoping they wouldn’t remember. They’re unpredictable at school events. Coral once vocally protested the excessive use of new paper at a fall open house. Afterward, she sponsored a paper recycling drive, encouraging families to bring in usable sheets of paper from home for the school to use. Hank once offered an afterschool drumming class. He signed me up. The only others who joined were Willa and Brie, but after one class, they said they had swimming and ballet classes and couldn’t come anymore. I used to love drumming with Hank. He made me a small drum for my tiny hands. We used to sit together on my futon island, banging our skins. Coral would join us and sing, but that was a long time ago, before I was Bongo Girl.
I hear quiet music as we near the park. So many parents are there, sitting in lawn chairs around the play structure and picnic tables. I discover the source of the music. Hank sits on the grass tapping his favorite tabor, and Coho is next to him, strumming a guitar. Coral spies me. She stands, waves her arms, and owl-hoots at me.
Behind me, I hear snickers from my classmates. “Hoo-hoo. You’re being bird called, Hippie Chicken.”
I groan and slowly make my way toward the embarrassing trio. At least Coral is wearing clothes.
Hank thumps the drum sandwiched between his knees three times as I sit down, ba-dum-dum.
“Why’s he here?” I whisper.
“It’s a celebration! Coho wanted to contribute.” Hank thumps the drum three more times, ba-dum-dum.
I feel the other families staring at us.
Coral pats my leg. “I love these community celebrations, MacKenna. Hank and I are so pleased to take part.” Her skin smells like the lavender-sage incense she burned this morning.
I pull up my knees and hug them to my chest. The sooner this day is over, the better.
Brie sits with her extended family of aunts and uncles at a picnic table. Mr. Vo is cheerfully pouring small paper cups of something thick and orange. I watch Brie drink four cups. Her mother watches too with an intense, disapproving look. She’s small but athletic looking and wears makeup and a stunning purple dress.
I shoot a quick glance at Coral. Her eyes are closed. Her head weaves back and forth, her dreadlocks and plastic bits swaying with her.
I once asked Coral why she never put me in swimming like Brie. She said, “Athletics are too competitive and confining, MacKenna. They do not allow for youthful enlightenment.”
But Brie seems youthful enough to me.
Willa sits unusually still on a low beach chair between her amazing, all-American parents. She seems worried or distracted, and I wonder why. She’s got parents with real jobs, a big house, and two cars. Parents who wear clothes . . . on all occasions. Mrs. Moore gazes toward the kids on the play structure. Willa’s little sister, Becca, is swinging on the monkey bars, but Mrs. Moore doesn’t seem to be paying attention. Mr. Moore is glued to his phone, both thumbs swiftly tapping the screen.
I look at Hank, who’s softly tapping his drum. There’s chicken feed in his beard.
I sneak a glance at Coho. He’s slumped over the guitar, apparently napping.
At last, Mr. Bellini, our principal, raises his hands to his mouth. “Families, will you gather around, please.”
Parents rise from their chairs, and students move toward the red oak tree where Mr. Bellini stands.
“As you know, Winterhill issues an award to one student each year who takes the most initiative toward improving our school community. I’d like to honor that student now, at our family picnic.”
Coral sighs and places her hands on her heart.
“The recipient of this award w
ill have his or her name engraved on our school plaque in the front hallway,” Mr. Bellini continues.
The students begin a drumroll on their legs.
So does Hank. On his drum. Ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.
I scan my classmates, wondering who will receive the award. Maybe Pilar. She’s always taking out the recycling bins from classrooms. Maybe Aditi, who’s always making posters about upcoming events.
“The student honored today has been the quiet brainchild behind several improvements to Winterhill this year, improvements that have benefitted our entire school community.” Mr. Bellini pauses and scans the crowd before him. “This student brought us the water-filtration systems in the hallway, the food composting program in the kitchen, and the free food table in our cafeteria.”
Coral grabs my hand and squeezes it. “How colossal.”
Coral wants me to win this award, but these are not my projects.
“This year’s Winterhill Community Award goes to . . . Joey Marino!”
Willa turns and looks at me, her eyebrows lifted. She was right yesterday when she said Joey was like a phantom. We don’t know where he is or what he’s thinking, and we obviously never know what he’s planning or doing.
The audience is silent. Everyone looks around for Joey Marino, but he isn’t here.
Coral throws her arms in the air and claps over her head, prompting the rest of the crowd to clap too. And then she whoops like a crane.
I cringe. “Please don’t.”
My classmates glance her way, snickers on their faces.
And then, almost magically, Joey Marino materializes from the middle of the crowd. He drifts toward Mr. Bellini, cloud-like, in his uniform of black jeans, gray shirt, and combat boots, his expression unreadable.
“Oh, MacKenna,” Coral gushes. “This is such an honor for him.”
Hank nods in agreement.
Coho plucks some notes on his guitar strings.
I keep my eye on Joey, expecting he might disappear as suddenly as he appeared. He shakes Mr. Bellini’s hand and takes a certificate. Mr. Bellini leans over and whispers something to Joey, but Joey shakes his head, and Mr. Bellini nods in return.
“Well, our honoree does not have words of wisdom to share with you.” Mr. Bellini smiles. “So, I’ll just thank him again for his contributions that will be experienced by all Winterhill students present and future. Thank you, Joey.” He firmly shakes Joey’s hand once more.
Coral wipes a tear from her cheek. If only she were as moved by my school projects, the robotic arm I created, the Pac-Man-like game.
She whoops again, which catches Joey’s attention. He turns and sees her . . . and me. He looks long and hard. Does he recognize her?
I attempt to inch away, dropping my head, but Coral reaches for me and tugs my arm. “MacKenna, do you know him? Is he a friend of yours?” She points at Joey.
All I can do is shake my head.
He’s not a friend.
And I’m pretty sure no one knows him.
Chapter Six
The Hawthorne Street Food Carts
Mr. Bellini wishes us well in the summer months, reminding us to read lots. He tells us to be sure to clean up our trash and then we can head back to school to collect our belongings.
Coral wraps her arm around my shoulder. “MacKenna, that was fantastic. Hank and I will converse with the other parents and introduce them to Coho, and then we’ll celebrate with you and your friends. Maybe Joey can come over for dinner.”
“No!” I don’t want them celebrating with my friends and having dinner with Joey Marino. These do not sound like good ideas.
“Why not? Do you have plans?” Hank asks.
“Um . . . well, Brie and Willa and I thought we’d stay late and help clean up all the hallways.” It’s the only thing I can think of to get them to leave.
Coral slaps her hand on her heart. “Joey’s community spirit has already got to you.” She pulls me in for a hug.
“Of course.” I fake a smile and squirm out of her arms. “I’ll see you at home.”
I hurry ahead to catch the group of students returning to Winterhill. Once we arrive, I go to my math classroom, where I collect my binder and desk items and shove them into my shoulder bag. I wave goodbye to my teacher before leaving the room.
The hallway’s crowded with students and parents, but all I want is to forget this day, find Willa and Brie, and leave. Then I can go back to figuring out how to raise five hundred dollars.
A few classmates slap my back as they pass.
“Have fun with your chickens this summer!”
“They are not my chickens,” I yell back. I’m not in an ignoring frame of mind. I’m in a money-making mind-set now.
“Maybe I’ll swing by that big festival of yours, Earth Child.”
“Enjoy yourself,” I say. “I won’t be there.”
One boy thumps his thighs, ba-dum-dum, and laughs out loud. “Bongo Girl, tell your dad, Nice drum!”
I do manage to ignore that jab and keep moving down the hallway. Then I see him.
Joey Marino.
He’s standing alone in the hallway near a table, staring into his backpack. No one is near him to offer hugs or goodbyes. His long wavy hair looks dull and flat.
The sight of him completely alone makes me swallow. Hard.
Phantom Boy.
Have I ever seen him with a friend?
With a parent?
As soon as I think that, a woman rushes toward Joey. Her dark hair has streaks of gray, and it’s pulled into a tight bun. She wears a drab brown polyester dress and white tennis shoes. I can see a plastic name tag pinned under her collar. It says Patsy’s Diner in a large font, but I can’t read her name below. Is she Joey’s mom?
The woman speaks to him, but his back is to me, so I can’t see his expression. She hugs Joey quickly, smooths the hair from his face, and then rushes off again down the hallway. Joey doesn’t watch her go.
I pause to spy a bit longer.
He begins stuffing items from the table into his backpack. First some folders, then a couple of books, and lastly his phone. I don’t know why I’m watching him. Is it because he saw Coral at the picnic? He looked at her as she whooped and hollered for him. Did he recognize her . . . with clothes on?
Just as I’m thinking all this, Joey turns toward me and sees me staring. He stares back with his semitranslucent face. Neither of us says a word or moves an inch.
Then he raises his hand and waves, just like he did yesterday at the statue near the naked bikers.
I should wave back, but I turn away from him instead and set out to find Willa and Brie. As I shove open the front door of the school, I see them, waiting for me by the flagpole.
“Mac!” Willa leaps in front of me and grabs my elbow, pulling me north on 14th Avenue. “Brie, I didn’t get any of your dad’s drink. What was it?”
“Mango lassi. Mom says it’s bad for me. She says swimmers shouldn’t consume too much dairy and sugar. It causes bloating.”
“It looked delicious,” I say.
“It is,” Brie agrees.
“Hey, was that your cousin James with your parents?” Willa asks. “He looked different.”
“He is different. He goes by Coho now. He’s like a clone of Hank.”
“Wait!” Willa jumps in front of me. “He was with your mom yesterday at the statue! He was riding naked too.”
“Can we just forget what we saw?” I ask. “I can’t even think about riding my bike again this summer.”
“You could use my bike,” Brie suggests. “All I’m doing this summer is swimming. I have no use for it.”
“At least you enjoy swimming,” I say. “There’s nothing about summer I enjoy.”
But Brie doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on the sidewalk.
We stop at the busy Powell Boulevard intersection, waiting for the crossing light. “What about your coding camp?” Willa asks.
I let out a heavy sigh. “My plan w
as to talk to James. I figured he could convince Hank and Coral it was a good thing. But now he’s all technology and money are evil, so there goes that idea. Anyway, I still don’t know how I would pay for the camp, even if Hank and Coral agreed to let me go.”
“Sell your bike!” Willa offers.
My eyes pop. How did I not think of that? It’s the most expensive item I own, even though it was secondhand when I got it. But I know it’s not worth five hundred dollars. Maybe a hundred, tops.
“That’s a great idea,” I say, “but what other ideas do you have?”
“Get a job,” Willa offers. She begins skipping and swinging her arms as we cross the street.
“No one hires twelve-year-olds,” Brie says.
“You could babysit,” Willa suggests. “Maybe for my sister.”
“Really?” I ask. “But don’t you do that?”
“Yeah, well, I can’t all summer, I mean I have to . . .”
“You have to what?”
Willa stops skipping. “Forget it,” she says quickly. “Hey, how about this for an idea?” Willa grins and pulls a stack of bills from her pocket. “Dad gave me spending money. Who wants to hit the food carts? My treat!”
“I’m in.” Nothing can take me away from my worries like food outside of Coral’s kitchen.
Portland’s like the food cart capital of the universe. There’re hundreds of carts all over the city, eight-by-sixteen-foot trailers, plopped down in parking lots. Instant street-side, order-and-go restaurants. Whatever you feel like eating, there’s a food cart for your cravings.
As we walk through the archway of the Hawthorne cart pod, I inhale deeply, filling my nostrils with the food scents of these carts, clustered together, like an outdoor mall food court.
I immediately head to Manny’s Grill for a half-pound bacon cheeseburger on a white bun. It’s a carnivore’s dream, provided there are plenty of napkins.
“I’m getting a baked potato,” Brie says.
“Look.” Willa points. “A newbie.”
I follow Willa’s finger and notice the addition to the Hawthorne carts: a white trailer with the flag of Italy on the side. I can’t see a name, but there’s a chalkboard easel nearby that reads Handmade Mini-Pizzas.
Worse Than Weird Page 3