“Basta,” she says in a tone that lets him know he should be quiet.
Roger squeezes his eyes shut. He tries not to miss Mike Nesmith. He tries not to think about being dead. Or how his most secret wish has maybe come true. He tries not to think about what will become of his mother now that she doesn’t have Davy to love. To calm himself, he thinks about Mama Jo. Once he saw a picture of her as a young woman, before most of her teeth fell out and before she got so many wrinkles, and she looked almost pretty. In school he had to make a family tree and his mother said, Be sure to put everyone’s American names, sweetie. Okay, Roger said. But what’s Mama Jo’s American name? His mother had to think hard before she answered, Joanne.
But lying here in the dark with Mama Jo snoring softly and the room a heady mix of the cheese in her purse and the mildewed carpet and Black Jack gum, Roger doesn’t care what his mother says. He isn’t American. He’s Italian. He can feel it seep inside him. Someday he will be able to stir the polenta with that big wooden spoon until it is done. No lumps. He will be able to speak fluent Italian so he can talk to Mama Jo about her long life, and he will carry pepper biscuits in his pockets to nibble during the day. He will change his name so that everyone knows he is Italian. Roger is a terrible American name. So is Debra, his sister’s name. So is Davy, Roger whispers to himself.
He will become an Italian superhero. He will become Captain Macaroni, the bravest Italian ever. Captain Macaroni can fly and cook and be invisible. But his biggest superpower is that Captain Macaroni will never die.
Maybe he fell asleep. Or maybe time just went by. But as Roger lies there, he feels something changing. His arms and legs grow hard and rigid. Daylight peeks in through the heavy curtains, and in its soft silver light Roger can see his transformation. His legs are lasagna noodles, his arms long strands of spaghetti. His torso is rigatoni, his ears two perfect orecchiette.
From the other bed, Mama Jo lets out a long, low fart and begins to stir awake.
“Roger?” she says.
But he cannot answer her. He cannot move his penne fingers or his small shell toes. He is ziti and ravioli and gnocchi. He is Captain Macaroni.
“Roger?” Mama Jo says again, and her voice is anxious.
Roger wishes he could answer her. He wishes she would just look over at him, silent and happy in his hard, empty shell. She wishes she could see that he is Captain Macaroni, protected, loved, invincible.
The Boy on the Bus
“ I’M RUNNING AWAY,” AIDA WHISPERS INTO THE DARKNESS of the Greyhound bus as it hurtles west.
It is her nightly ritual. This is her third night on the bus. A week ago, she bought a Greyhound “See the USA” pass for ninety-nine dollars. She stole the money from her sister, Terry, who got it from selling pot. Terry kept her earnings in her underwear drawer and the night before Aida bought the pass, when she was babysitting for Terry’s baby, Dylan, she went into the bedroom, opened the cigar box, and pulled out three hundred dollars: one hundred for the “See the USA” pass, two hundred for expenses.
She has only gotten as far as Pittsburgh, but that is farther than Aida has ever been in her life. Once, her aunt Francie and Mama Jo took her along on a car trip to see fall foliage in Vermont. Aida got carsick on the winding back roads and Aunt Francie worried about the upholstery. They came home three days later, exhausted from each other. In seventh grade she took a class trip to Mystic, Connecticut, where they climbed aboard old schooners and fishing boats, ate lunch at Burger Chef, then toured historic homes. Aida bought a white bracelet made from rope that she hasn’t taken off in four years. Last year Terry took her to Boston. She made Aida drive even though she only had a learner’s permit because, as Terry said, “I’m too wasted.” Aida hadn’t even learned to merge yet, but she drove Terry’s baby-blue Bug all the way into the city, Terry red-eyed and stoned the whole way, her head lolling all funny and her fingers twitching in time to the eight-track Aztec Two Step tape stuck inside. That stupid tape played over and over because no one could get it out and the radio was busted.