“You want to write computer programs all summer?”
“Actually, I do.”
Joey’s eyes are like drills, boring holes through me.
“Look, you don’t know what it’s like for me in the summer. All year long, actually. Living with my parents is nothing you could ever imagine.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, they . . .” I don’t know where to start. I drag my shoes into the bark chips and stop swinging. I hold out my hand to show Joey my stab wounds. “These are from a stupid chicken that I have to feed and collect eggs from every morning.”
Joey peers at the back of my hand. “Vicious.”
He’s mocking me like all the other kids at school.
“It’s horrible at home, okay? You’ve seen my parents at school, right? My mom with her plastic-filled dreadlocks? My dad with his drum?”
Joey doesn’t answer.
“Guess what they got two days ago? Goats. Goats for yoga.”
“Can you do that? Have goats at your house, I mean?” Joey’s laughing. It’s a sound I’ve never heard.
“No!” And I can’t help it, I laugh too.
“See? That’s how weird they are,” I continue. “You saw my mom the other day at the Joan of Arc statue. Do you remember?”
“The naked bikers?”
“She was wearing kale,” I add.
“It was more than some of the others.” He laughs again. “So, you’re hunting for food cart clues, hoping to win money so that you can go to camp all day and learn how to code little programs to make games that will help you avoid your parents riding their bikes naked and doing goat yoga.”
“No!” I kick at the bark chips. “That’s not—”
I think I like Joey Marino better when he’s silent and mysterious. His words make me feel ridiculous, and selfish, and pea brained. I hate that I feel tears forming.
“I happen to like computers and writing programs. I’m good at it, and I want to get better, but maybe you don’t get that.” I rise off the swing, flick the seat away from me, and start walking away. “Forget it, Joey. Forget the whole proposal.”
“Mac, come back.” Joey gets off his swing too. “Hey, I’m sorry.”
I turn around and look at him, his not-so-clear skin shiny and oily, his gray shirt wrinkled and drab. I wipe my eyes and move back to the swing and sit. Joey does the same.
“Hank and Coral don’t get me,” I say. “They never have. I feel like I was adopted or switched at birth, or like they just found me in their garden one day and plucked me off a vine.” I swing slowly. “Years ago, I begged them for a tablet, but they looked at me stunned, like I’d asked for a weapon or something. They said staring at a tablet would expose my brain to all the vices of the world. Hank and Coral never listen to my reasons. I don’t think they ever will.”
Joey doesn’t interrupt me. I have no idea why I’m suddenly sharing this stuff with him, but now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop. “Living with Hank and Coral is like growing up in the 1920s except . . . on a stupid urban farm with less cool clothes. They don’t understand that things are different now. We can go to stores for our vegetables, and we can even buy organic there. We don’t have to spend a full day making soap and candles. They don’t see the beauty in technology the way I do. They don’t . . .” I shake my head.
Joey nods at me, like he wants me to keep going, like he’s really listening.
“I just think having money to go to this camp will give me some breathing room and some time to do what I want. Not what they want. I’m too young to get a job, so when I found out about the hunt, it seemed perfect, and fun too.” I pause. “I really, really want this prize money. I don’t know what else to say about it.”
Joey thrusts out his boots and begins pumping the swing. I’m waiting for him to respond, but he just silently rises higher and higher with each leg pump. I do the same. Our swings aren’t in sync. He’s back when I’m forward. I’m forward when he’s back.
“Hey.” I speak loudly. “Your turn. Why are you doing the hunt?”
“I need money too,” he says.
“Why?”
But Joey doesn’t answer. He just keeps swinging. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Finally, he says, “For my mom.”
My legs stop pumping.
Aggie.
Joey’s mom, with the nonstop job at Patsy’s Diner and a boss who needs an attitude adjustment. Joey’s mom, who loves her son. That was easy to see.
But I didn’t expect that answer. I figured he wanted money for his next great community project. Maybe that library for the homeless.
“Oh.” That’s all I say. My swinging slows.
Joey stops pumping his legs too. “She’s sick.”
Sick? She didn’t look sick to me. She just looked tired, and sad, and maybe a little angry.
“Is it serious?”
Joey jams his combat boots into the bark chips and pops out of the seat of his swing. He starts walking away from me. I jump off my swing and follow him, jogging to keep up.
“I have two moms,” he finally says.
“What?” I touch his shoulder, forcing him to stop and turn around.
“Two moms. Okay?” He faces me, eyebrows lifted.
“Okay. I just . . . I didn’t know that. You never mentioned it.”
“No one’s ever asked.”
Oh.
He’s right. I’ve never asked him . . . anything, until today. I don’t think Willa or Brie or anyone else has either. He’s always been such a . . . mystery.
“My ma, the one you met, is fine other than working so much. It’s my other mom who I need to get money for.”
I feel a sense of relief for Aggie, the mom I met, but I ask, “Does your other mom live in Portland?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t live with us.”
We slowly make our way toward the bleachers near the baseball diamond.
“I don’t think I’ve seen your other mom,” I say, which is such a dumb comment. I’ve only seen Aggie twice.
Joey stops. “Actually, you have. You just didn’t know who she was.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Joey’s Connections
“What do you mean? When did I see her?” I ask.
We climb onto the small set of metal bleachers behind the baseball backstop and sit on the middle bench.
“I think you’ve seen her a few times, but that doesn’t really matter right now. The only thing that matters is that I win this prize money, so I can help her.”
I scroll through my memories, trying to think of when I may have seen Joey’s other mom, and I can’t think of any time. At school, Joey’s always by himself. I wonder what’s wrong with his mom. How sick is she? I should ask because apparently, I don’t do that enough.
I start to form a question when Joey blurts out, “Right now, you and I should focus on this hunt, not our parents.”
He’s right. Our hunting minutes are precious and dwindling. Saturday is just three days away. We have clues to locate. I’ll ask about Joey’s mom another time.
“So, that means we’re officially a team?”
“Sure.” Joey sticks out his hand. “I suppose we should shake on it. Prize money will be split?”
“Deal.” I grasp his hand.
Splitting the money in half rather than thirds gives me an instant jolt of energy.
One thousand dollars each!
“How many clues do you have?” I ask.
Joey yanks off his stuffed backpack and pulls out what looks like a wad of trash. He lays out napkins and papers on the bleacher bench in front of us.
“Seven,” he says.
“Seven!” I pick them up one at a time. “How did you solve so many?”
“It’s not about solving,” he says. “It’s about connections.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know people,” he says. “How many do you have?”
I pull out the fo
ur clues from my hunt folder and hand them to Joey.
He reads them over. “I don’t have this one.” He holds up the sunshine tropics clue that led me to Smoothie Guy.
“You were totally following me the other day to get another clue.”
Joey grins. “You were my connection, Mac. Thanks.”
I pick up a couple of his clues that I don’t have. “‘Take a shot in the dark if you dare. Be large and be whole since you care,’” I read. “Where was this cart?”
Joey shrugs. “No idea.”
“Then how’d you get it?”
He flicks my forehead with his fingers. “You’re not using your logical brain. I keep telling you. I have connections. This clue was given to me.” He reaches down and picks up three more. “So were these.” He waves them in my face. “You left this clue on the table, remember?”
He’s holding up my first clue, the one I got from Lorenzo, which led to the fish and chips on the double-decker bus. “This is the only clue I’ve actually solved.”
I’m a little confused, and a lot amazed.
“Snitch gave me this one about creamy, spicy, and sweet. He hangs out between Division and Clinton Street. He’s a Gulf War vet and has PTSD, but he counsels other vets at the Eastbank Shelter when he’s having a good day,” Joey explains.
“A homeless guy gave you this clue?”
He picks up a crinkled paper next and reads it aloud. “One meat, one fruit. Can you find the mate? It just might come from a small red state.” He glances at me. “This clue came from Yolanda. She stays at a camp near the river. Told me she found it picking through trash one day and thought it was a message from the Holy Ghost.”
Another homeless person?
Right then, all of Joey’s actions over the past few days begin to make sense. He’s constantly talking to homeless people and giving them stuff. There’s the woman he handed his travel mug to. There’s the man he gave a granola bar to, the one with the barking dog. There’s the woman downtown he gave the book to, who then grabbed him, and I scared her off.
This is how Joey gets the clues.
Unbelievable.
My face must display all my shock because he says, “If you want to know what’s going on in the city, you ask people who are on the streets all day and night. Some of them know more than the cops. More than any of us.”
Unbelievable.
Joey Marino looks like he’s twelve, but he speaks like he’s eighty.
He rearranges all the clues on the bleacher bench, his and mine. “Together we have eight clues, Mac.”
Eight clues!
I feel a gust of fresh air, like good fortune. With eight clues between us and all of Joey Marino’s connections, finding two more clues in four days might be possible. Winning this hunt could really happen.
I lean over and scan all the clues, flipping over the ones that have been solved, which is only three. That leaves us with five unsolved clues. “The problem is,” I say with a sigh, “that one or more of these clues”—I point to the five unsolved—“will just lead us to a clue that we already have.”
But I won’t let that set me back. We have eight clues! Double what I had just twenty minutes ago.
I pick up a clue on waxy paper.
Jack might know how to divide the white.
So squeeze the citrus and take a bite.
“Joey! I know where this clue leads to.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Pepper or Monterey
Joey and I catch the 4 bus and head east on Division Street, back to the cart pod I’d visited just a few days earlier. As soon as I sit down, I send texts to Willa and Brie to let them know I’m still hunting and teaming with Joey. Then I begin telling Joey about Shaggy and Scarface, and how I spied them reading the menu at the grilled cheese cart.
“I overheard them say the word jack, but then I wasn’t able to see what they actually ordered.” I don’t mention that it was him and a barking dog that distracted me. “I’m pretty sure we should order the sandwich with jack cheese on white bread. I think the word divide is a reference to Division Street, and the ‘squeeze the citrus’ is the drink. We probably need to order orange juice, or maybe lemonade.”
It’s simple, like a four-step computer program. Go to Division Street pod. Order one grilled cheese. Order one citrus drink. Receive the next clue.
Girls are supercoders!
Joey appears unmoved by my brilliant display of decoding skills. He looks out the bus window, more focused on the people outside the bus than on me.
His distracted silence doesn’t make me feel like we’re much of a team. I seem to be doing all the thinking and planning.
When the bus coasts to a stop at 28th and Division, Joey and I hop off and cross 28th to the food cart pod. It’s about an hour before the lunch eaters will arrive, so it’s not overly crowded like on my first visit. No one’s in line at Greg’s Grilled Cheese, so I stand in front of the orange trailer and read the menu board.
“There’re three problems,” I say. “Number one: Do we order pepper or Monterey Jack? Number two: Lemonade or orange juice? They have both. Number three: I only have four dollars and fifteen cents.”
I remember all the coins Joey pulled out of his backpack the other day on the way to the zoo. He’s going to have to cover us for most of this meal and potential clue.
Now I’ll owe Coho and Joey.
But the winning cash I’ll reel in on Saturday will cover my debts. I’m feeling positive now. I almost feel like dancing, like Willa would do.
“Stay here.” Joey points to the pavement, like I’m suddenly his dog in training. Not a very team-like thing to do.
“Wait. What are you doing?”
Joey walks up to the order window and talks to the woman inside the grilled cheese trailer. He’s leaning in and whispering, so I can’t hear a word that’s said.
He doesn’t really think this woman will just hand over the clue without ordering, does he? He clearly doesn’t understand this hunt. These carts aren’t involved for fun. They’re in it because it will make them some money.
After several minutes of discussion, Joey returns empty-handed.
“What was that about?” I ask.
Joey doesn’t answer. He swings his backpack off his shoulders, unzips it, and pulls out a baseball cap. Smoothing his long bangs to the side, he sticks the cap on his head and says, “Ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“To work.”
“What?”
But Joey doesn’t answer me. He moves toward the grilled cheese cart and vanishes behind it. I jog to catch up to him. He stands by three large bins. “The woman has lots for us to do. We’ll earn our food and the next clue. We’ll start here.”
Work for food. Work for the clue. This must be how he got the clue at the double-decker bus.
My shoulders slump. This is not the most efficient means of getting the clue, but without money, I don’t have much choice.
We begin by sorting garbage, recycling, and compost. We open the bins, and Joey immediately pulls out plastic water bottles and cans from the garbage bin and tosses them into the recycling bin.
“I’m going to go ask for gloves.” I can’t believe I’m diving in dumpsters.
When I come back with too-big plastic gloves, Joey gives me a new order. “Connect that red hose with the nozzle to the spigot over there. She told me all the carts can use that for cleanup.”
I prefer the quiet, ghostlike Joey to this bossy version, but I do what he says and pull the end of the hose to the bins where he takes the nozzle from me and proceeds to rinse out cardboard containers that can be recycled. Joey hands me a plastic fork. “Use this to scrape the large chunks of food into the compost bin. Put napkins in there too.”
Disgusting, I think to myself, but I also think of Hank and Coral, two people who’d be proud to see me sorting trash, especially with someone as community minded as Joey Marino. I’m practically shrinking my carbon footprint by a whole sho
e size right now.
Soon the woman appears and sets down a bucket with soapy water. “This is to wash the exterior of the trailer,” she says. “Make sure you rinse periodically so that the soap doesn’t leave streaks and be sure not to get water inside.”
Joey washes a section near the back with soapy water and a rag. I spray it down when he’s done, watching the soap suds stream away. I think about how if Willa and Brie were here instead of Joey Marino, the clue would already be in my hands because they would help me pay.
Then again, I wouldn’t have Joey’s clues, which means I wouldn’t have a shot at winning the money.
After completing the exterior wash, we move inside the cart. The woman hands us some sort of salt paste and a cloth and tells us to wipe down her griddle. I start on the right side and Joey on the left side. We work over every inch of the cast iron. It’s strangely satisfying to wipe away the stuck bits of cheese and bread, kind of like pushing away Hank and Coral’s clutter surrounding my futon island. The surface slowly begins to shine.
If Coral had a griddle like this, I’d clean it every day if she’d fry me some bacon with our eggs . . . and the occasional burger.
“Just one more thing,” the woman says. She points to the knives and two blocks of cheese. “Wash your hands well, then slice some thick chunks for me.”
My stomach rages. I hope we can eat soon.
After what feels like a forty-hour workweek, we finish the slicing.
“Aren’t you two darlings,” Grilled Cheese Woman says. “What can I make for you? I bet you’re hungry.”
I whisper instructions to Joey and he places our order. “She’ll have pepper jack on white with orange juice, and I’ll have Monterey Jack on white with lemonade.”
The woman nods at us and tells us to go outside and wait at the tables. “I’ll bring your food when it’s ready.”
Joey pulls off his hat and shoves it in his backpack as soon as we sit down. His hair is damp and sticks to his forehead.
He points at my palm. “I think you have a blister.”
I inspect quickly. He’s right. There are small blisters on both my hands.
Grilled Cheese Woman walks toward us and sets down our sandwiches, drinks, and napkins. “Here’s the receipt for your services.” She tucks the slip of paper under Joey’s foil-wrapped sandwich and gives him a wink.
Worse Than Weird Page 10