Here, There, Everywhere Page 2

  She looked at me for the first time, over the top of her red-framed glasses. “And worth every penny, I’m sure.”

  “It’s really good,” I said. Truthfully, I’d never even tried it. But she didn’t need to know that.

  “I hope so,” she replied, motioning with the cash for me to take it. She handed me two fives and told me to keep the change. I wanted to say, “Gee, thanks,” but kept my mouth shut. Then Ms. Stouffer marched back from wherever she came.

  As soon as she was gone, the room returned to life. Cackling Woman, clearly the pack leader, yelled, “More Tom Jones!” The girl named Rose went right into it, and several residents joined in for the chorus: “What’s new, pussycat? Whoa, whoa, whoa-oh!”

  Tom Jones must really like the word whoa.

  I looked back to the girl named Rose, who was watching her hands as they traveled the keyboard. I turned to leave, but after a few steps I spun around for one more look, which caught her attention. I pointed at the floor and mouthed the words, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  She gave me a quick thumbs-up before returning to the keys.

  THREE

  I MUST HAVE AN EFFECTIVE AUTOPILOT SETTING, BECAUSE I DON’T remember the bike ride back across town to the café. My mind was somewhere else the entire two-mile trip.

  Somewhere involving a Tom Jones song-and-dance number.

  Somewhere involving a World War II vet and the national anthem.

  But mostly somewhere involving a girl named Rose. And if I timed it right, thanks to the 5-Day Deal, I’d get to see her for the next four days in a row.

  My delivery job had taken a sudden turn for the better.

  That is, until I got the news.

  The World Peas Café was located on the corner of Main Street and the railroad tracks, in a run-down strip mall that also featured a cash-loan place, a psychic, some kind of small-town detective agency, and Crazy Joe’s Hot Slots. It was like one-stop shopping for people who would someday end up on The Jerry Springer Show.

  Not that I ever watched that show . . . Crazy mom, remember? We grew up without a television. Mom believed in the power of imagination. Somehow I’d managed to grow up pretty normal—save for the occasional propensity to daydream—but my brother definitely took Mom’s lesson to another level, which explained a lot about his compulsive mapmaking and battle planning.

  The parking lot was nearly empty, as usual, except for a few beat-up cars, including our own. I was locking the bike to the light pole in front of the café when my mom started talking from the doorway. “Another cancellation of the 5-Day Deal, that makes two today.”

  “Cancellation?” I asked, stepping inside.

  “I just got off the phone with the director of Hilltop Nursing Home. Apparently, the salad was ‘overpriced and not what she was expecting,’” Mom said, adding peevish air quotes to the last part.

  My heart sank. “Did you try to talk her out of it? What did you tell her?”

  She threw her hands in the air. “I can’t force people to eat my food, Zeus. If they want to live in a world of trans fats, hydrogenated oils, and factory-farm meat, that’s their choice, but I can’t change someone’s free will.”

  I wanted to say: “But, but, but Hot Piano Girl!”

  What came out instead: “That’s bullshit!”

  Mom crossed her arms and looked at me. “Watch the language, you. Care to rephrase that?”

  “Um . . . total bullshit?”

  Mom tried not to laugh and failed. “Complete and utter bullshit,” she agreed. “But don’t you dare say ‘I told you so.’”

  A rush of guilt hit me, and I looked down at my feet.

  I’d fought tooth and nail for us to stay in Chicago. It’s not like we’d lived some luxurious lifestyle there, but everything—my neighborhood, my school, our little house by the airport—had at least been familiar. Mom had busted her butt for years, though, and always for us. She’d never enjoyed waitressing, but she’d worked long hours so Grub and I could have food on the table every day.

  She’d always dreamed of moving to a small town and opening a café, though I never thought she’d really do it. For one thing, she didn’t have the kind of savings needed to start her own business. For another, I couldn’t imagine her making us say good-bye to all our friends. But when the night came to sit us down and tell us it was actually happening, that my aunt Willow had loaned her the money to make it happen, I knew I’d lost the battle. I saw her excitement at the prospect of no longer serving eggs and bacon. I knew this was an opportunity for her to do something for herself and not just for us. I understood.

  But that didn’t mean I was thrilled about moving. And she knew it.

  I looked back up at my mom. She wore a light blue T-shirt that read We Are One in a dozen different languages, blue jeans cuffed midcalf, and dollar-store flip-flops. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  “I got a dollar tip,” I said sheepishly, trying to change the subject.

  “Well, that’s a dollar more than you had before, isn’t it?” chirped Mom, ever the optimist.

  “So, how’s the café doing, other than the cancellations?” I asked.

  “Good,” she said in a way that sounded like Not good. “I’m not throwing in the towel yet.”

  “To victory!” yelled Grub, raising a fist. He sat at one of two booths that occupied the café, drawing a map of the nursing-home battle he’d just fought.

  “To victory indeed!” said Mom, walking over to him. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked down at the map. “Wow, that’s quite the battle, Manny.” (Mom refused to call my brother Grub; I refused to call him Manny. I guess in the end it all evened out.) “I recognize you there behind the plant, but who’s in the wheelchair?”

  “Sergeant Porter. He played army with me. I covered him when the enemy came out. I shot a rocket, but I missed the target.”

  “I see. And who’s the enemy?”

  “The mean lady.”

  “Missy Stouffer,” I clarified. “‘Overpriced and not what she was expecting,’” I added, mimicking my mom’s air quotes.

  Mom stifled a laugh, which came out like a snort, then patted Grub on the shoulder. “Next time, don’t miss.”

  And that’s when I had the greatest idea that ever was, or ever shall be.

  “Hey, what about your triple chocolate brownie?” I asked.

  “Turn That Frownie Upside Brownie?” Mom replied.

  I hated calling it by name. “Yeah, that one. What if we offered a free brownie and maybe a cup of soup to Missy Stouffer and the others who canceled? As a way to keep their business. What soup do you have this week?”

  “Tomato bisque.”

  “No fancy name?”

  “The only one I could think of was Life’s a Bisque, and Then You Die.”

  “That doesn’t sound very World Peas-y.”

  “How about I Say Tomayto, You Say Tomah—”

  “Yeah, no,” I said, shaking my head at her. “So, free brownie and soup? I can deliver them to Hilltop tomorrow.” I didn’t have the slightest clue what I’d say to Rose once I got there, but I had to start somewhere, right?

  She eyed me with suspicion again. “Why so eager to go back to a nursing home? You hated going when Grandma was sick.”

  “Yeah, that’s because Grandma was sick. I love old people.”

  Mom narrowed her eyes.

  “I love you, don’t I?” I said, trying to make her laugh again.

  “Good thing,” she said, holding out her hand, “because I need to borrow your phone for a while.”

  I stared at her in horror. My phone, along with its instant access to social media, text messaging, and Google, contained my entire punk rock music collection. Without my playlists, I would never survive the summer.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Just for a week or two. I dropped mine in the sink this morning, and I need a phone to take orders.”

  I thought fast. “But all the coupons and
advertisements have your number on them, not mine. It won’t work.”

  I felt like I’d won the battle until Mom delivered the deathblow. “I already chatted with the phone company this morning on the laptop. They forwarded my number to yours.”

  My shoulders slumped. I pulled my phone out. “Well, that would explain the four new voicemails from unknown numbers.”

  “Speaking of which, there are more deliveries to be made.”

  I loved my mom, but she needed a Nerf bazooka to the forehead right then.

  “So I’m supposed to ride around all week without music?”

  Mom showed no mercy. “Try listening to the birds, they’re nature’s music. You can have your phone back in the evenings.” She handed me three more salad containers and a map of Buffalo Falls. “Sometimes you have to take one for the team, son.”

  I shook my head and handed over my phone.

  It felt like I’d just ripped off my right arm.

  “Now go be charming,” she said, and pecked me on the cheek.

  “Let’s roll!” said Grub.

  And so we rolled.

  FOUR

  OUR LAST DELIVERY OF THE DAY TOOK US ACROSS THE BRIDGE TO THE south side of town. In fact, after fifteen minutes of uphill pedaling, we were nearly back at Hilltop. I tried to think of an excuse to go back inside but couldn’t find any good reason. Soon we reached the delivery address, a trim brick ranch with a sprawling maple tree shading the front lawn. Sweat dripped from my face like big salty tears. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my T-shirt, parked the bike on its kickstand, and approached the house.

  Grub planted himself on the lawn behind me, watching the street for enemies. I walked past a picture window, its ledge lined with a planter full of red geraniums.

  I started to knock on the door when a sound left me frozen.

  “Darling, don’t be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years . . .”

  Whoever sat near the open window five feet from my head was belting out a love ballad.

  “. . . I’ll love you for a thousand more.”

  I stood there, unsure if I should let the guy finish the song or interrupt and knock.

  My brother made the decision for me.

  “Pew-pew! Pew-pew-pew!” Grub had rolled across the lawn and began firing his imaginary pistol at the window.

  The singing stopped abruptly.

  I knocked.

  “It’s open!” yelled the voice from the window.

  Grub joined me at the door. I looked down at him and shrugged. He shrugged back. We let ourselves in the front door and stepped into a tiled entryway.

  “Hello?” I said in a pitch much higher than intended.

  The voice came from around the corner. “Yeah, back here.”

  Grub and I headed toward the sound of his voice. It led us through a short hallway, which ended with open doors on opposite sides. To the left, I caught a glimpse of a bathroom, to the right, a cluttered bedroom.

  “Step into my office,” said the voice in an odd way, as if it were an office.

  I stepped inside and froze again when I recognized the person. He recognized me too.

  “Jesucristo!” the guy said, pointing at me.

  “Shakira?” I replied.

  “Sí! ¿Cómo estás?”

  I tried to remember what little Spanish I’d learned in my one month at Buffalo Falls High School. “Uh, muy bien.”

  “Haha, what’s up, my man? Pull up a seat.” He motioned to his bed. I sat. “You moved here from Chicago, right? You have a weird name in real life, don’t tell me.” He shut his eyes and tapped his forehead with his knuckles. “Hercules?”

  “Zeus. Short for Jesús.”

  “Oh, right. Hence, Jesucristo.”

  “Sí.”

  Honestly, I was surprised he remembered me at all. I remembered him, of course. He was the kind of guy everyone noticed, the guy everyone wanted to be friends with. His real name was Dylan Rafferty, but Señora Stanford, our Spanish teacher, had nicknamed him Shakira, like the Latin pop star, due to his wavy, shoulder-length blond hair. And since another guy in the class had already been christened Jesús, she referred to me as Jesucristo, crossing herself Catholic-style every time she called on me. It’d been the only class I looked forward to, mostly because it was the last period of the day, but also because Señora was a wack job. The good kind of wack job though—the kind that randomly starts salsa dancing in the middle of class.

  Dylan was the same age as me but looked about three years older. He leaned back in his desk chair, a tobacco-sunburst Gibson Les Paul guitar lying across his chest. His left leg was in a cast, propped on top of the desk. Long hair fell on either side of his face, the rest tied back in a messy knot. Thick sideburns extended to his jaw. From what little information I’d been able to gather during my time at BFHS, Dylan not only dated the hottest girl at school, but could also shred guitar. I wondered if the two things were related.

  “Hey, mi hermana had to run,” he said, forgetting the h was supposed to be silent in Spanish, “but she told me to pay for her comero.”

  I laughed. His Spanish was even worse than mine. “You mean her comida?”

  “Her food-o deliverio,” he said, twirling a finger at the salad box I held.

  I laughed again. Dylan reminded me of the friends I’d left behind in Chicago: laid-back, funny, easy to talk to.

  Just then, a giant beast of a dog entered the room and lumbered toward us. Its jowls hung like mud flaps, from which ropes of drool dangled an inch from the ground.

  “Say hello, Agatha,” Dylan said.

  Agatha wagged her tail. Though her coat was light brown, she had a black face and ears to match. Grub walked up to her and they nearly met eye to eye.

  “I bet she’d be a good bomb sniffer,” Grub said, examining the dog’s huge nostrils.

  “No doubt. She’s an excellent butt sniffer.” Dylan gave Agatha a playful slap on the hip. The dog leaned in and licked Grub’s face from chin to forehead.

  “Ohhhh, sorry about that, little dude,” said Dylan, then turned to the dog. “A little less tongue next time, Aggs.”

  Grub giggled and wiped his face with his sleeve.

  Agatha sat in front of him and held a paw in the air.

  “Atta girl,” Dylan said. “Now she wants to shake your hand, like a proper lady.”

  Grub stuck out his hand, which was smaller than her paw. “Nice to meet you, Agatha.”

  Agatha barked in agreement.

  “So, what have we got here?” Dylan asked, eyeing the cardboard box I carried.

  “Peas and Hominy.”

  “For sure. What’s in the box?”

  “That’s what it’s called.”

  “Oh, right on. How much?”

  “Eight ninety-five.”

  Dylan reacted as anyone would after being told a salad named Peas and Hominy cost nearly nine dollars: a quick twitch of the eyebrows and mouth, followed by a head nod of justification.

  We made the exchange, and Dylan opened the container to inspect it. He made the same face as when I’d told him the price, then showed it to Agatha. She sneezed, shook her head, and flung drool around the room.

  “It’s actually really good,” I said. “The peas are organic, locally grown, and—” I began, reciting Mom’s delivery pitch.

  He cut me off. “It’s all good, man. Maybe I’ll give it a try. Maggie—my sister—got called into work and won’t be home till late. I could probably use a night off of deep-fried burritos anyway.”

  I nodded back. “Hard to beat a deep-fried burrito though.”

  “Hell yeah. So your mom owns that new place on Main Street? World Hunger Café or something?”

  I nodded. “World Peas Café.”

  “She, like, a hippie-type?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess.”

  Dylan chuckled. “She’d probably get along great with my parents. They’re spending two months in India at some Buddhist retreat center. Just me and Mag
gie for now. And Agatha.”

  Agatha’s tongue spilled from the side of her mouth as she smiled.

  “Your parents left you guys alone for two months? That must be awesome.”

  It was Dylan’s turn to shrug. “Kind of awesome. Maggie’s a social worker, studying for her master’s, so she’s not around much. My girlfriend’s away in Maine all summer, working as a camp counselor. And most of my friends have temp jobs at the moving company where I used to work before my little accident.” He motioned to his cast-entombed leg.

  I raised my eyebrows in question. “Little accident?”

  Dylan blew out a breath. “Ladder. Squirrel. Life-and-death struggle.”

  “Sounds traumatic.”

  “Yeah, that squirrel was a real asshole.” He set the salad box on his desk, then played a riff on his guitar. It was a simple slidey, bendy move, but much better than I could do.

  A couple more guitars hung on his bedroom wall.

  “How long have you been playing?” I asked.

  “I guess about five years now.”

  “Cool. I’ve been playing for a few months, but I just have a shitty acoustic.”

  “You want to play one of mine? Here, let me—”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks though. We have to get running. Maybe next time.”

  Dylan nodded. “Next time.”

  Grub was on his knees stroking Agatha’s ears, relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen him since we’d moved. I almost hated to interrupt him, but we’d been there long enough.

  “Let’s move, soldier, time to go.”

  “Do we have to? Look, she wants to play.” Agatha had rolled onto her back, her big paws hanging limp over her chest. Agatha and Grub both looked at me awaiting an answer.

  I patted Grub on top of his army helmet. “Not today, bud. Need to head back. Tell Agatha good-bye. Maybe we’ll see her again soon.”

  “All right.” Grub hopped up and darted out the door. “Bye, Agatha!” he called, his voice fading down the hall.

  Agatha barked.

  I started after Grub but something made me stop and turn back to Dylan. “By the way, was that you singing when we pulled up?”

  Dylan’s face turned as red as the Stratocaster hanging on his wall. “Uh, that, yeah.” He held up his phone to show me. “My girlfriend, Anna, the one in Maine this summer? She loves Christina Perri.”