American cars of the 1980s: large and in charge.
And here is the weird thing—I’m sitting here with Tebow, who I see every day and frequently call on the phone at night, but I can’t think of anything to talk about. I’m still obsessing over whether this is a date, which is complicated by the fact that I don’t even know if I want this to be a date or not. Do I? Maybe. Tebow is insanely good looking. And sweet. But he’s also Tebow. I’ve never thought of him that way, and I need a little time for my brain to try out the idea and see if I can get used to it.
That’s when I notice that Tebow isn’t talking, either. After a while, I decide I’m okay with quiet. And the minute I decide that, I remember something I wanted to tell him.
“Oh!” I pull my journal out of the messenger bag that I always carry around. “I made up a movie for us to star in.”
(Don’t worry—it’s not the Hunger Games one.)
“You have a great imagination, Kooks,” Tebow says. That makes me happy, even though I’m not really sure he gets my sense of humor. But it’s okay. He doesn’t have to get everything.
Eggy was right. It’s just Tebow.
There’s no need to overthink it.
Chapter 16
MULTITASKING
I didn’t have strong feelings about it, so I let Tebow pick the movie. He chose something with valor in the title. That’s Tebow’s style. He likes soldier heroes who sacrifice all for friendship and/or country. He also likes inspirational true stories and action comedies. I like all that junk, too, so I was perfectly happy with Valor Whatever.
So we sat down and made fun of the commercial slideshow they were showing before the previews.
This feels good, because it’s what we usually do with the Freakshow when we all see a movie. So there’s less of the strange “I’m just out with Tebow for some reason” vibe.
Then the previews come on, and I remind Tebow that I’m going to punch him in the arm every time he tries to talk to me during the movie, same as I always do. The movie starts.
It’s long and borderline incomprehensible, like maybe the script was cut and pasted from a lot of different movies and then jolted to life with a burst of lightning and a marketing committee.
On the other hand, there were a lot of great action scenes. And I really liked the characters. Maybe too much. Okay, I sobbed through the last ten minutes.
Here are the highlights:
There were soldiers in the movie.
Tebow’s fingers touched mine when we both reached for popcorn at the same time.
There was something gross on the floor right in front of my seat, and no matter where I moved my foot, my shoe kept getting stuck in it.
I was reasonably sure I could’ve written a better movie.
I even came up with several excellent alternate scenes and endings as it was going on.
After the movie, we walk around the mall for a while and get cappuccinos. I keep thinking, “This seems like a date. Not really. Well, maybe,” and on and on like that.
Then Tebow drives me home, and I never really get up the nerve to ask if this was a friends deal or a date deal. And he doesn’t bring it up, either.
So it just hangs there like a stinky fish that everyone’s too afraid to touch while we say good night.
Chapter 17
MAJOR FREAK-OUT
Mrs. Morris?” I call as I step into the living room. I hear Tebow’s car pull away as the door clicks closed behind me.
The talking heads on the evening news are blabbing, sending blue-and-white light flickering across the walls. Mrs. Morris is usually sitting right there—right in front of the television—from 10:00 to 11:00 PM. Cold snakes writhe through my stomach.
“Mrs. Morris?” I call. “Mrs. Morris?” I try to keep the rising panic out of my voice. Where is she? My skin feels cold and shuddery, like I’ve stepped into a giant spiderweb.
The clatter of toenails, then Morris the Dog bursts into the living room, barking hysterically. God, if only this were an episode of Lassie!
“What? What is it?” I ask, and I am so temporarily insane that (a) my first idea is that Mrs. Morris has been kidnapped and (b) I don’t even notice that the back door is open until Morris practically drags me toward it.
That’s when I hear “Yoo-hoo!” coming from the garage, and when I burst in, I find Mrs. Morris sprawled across the floor.
“Oh my god!” I’m crying and halfway hysterical—it’s like that Bridesmaids moment all over again—but Mrs. Morris is all cheerful and acting like it’s perfectly normal that she has fallen out of her wheelchair and is lying splayed across a slab of concrete.
“I didn’t mean to worry you, dear,” she says gently. “I just wanted some paper towels, and they were a little out of my reach, so I took a spill.”
She reaches for my hand, and we sit there for a moment, our fingers interlaced. Her gray hair is pooled around her head on the concrete. I keep trying to say, “You didn’t worry me,” but my throat is clogged, and I can’t speak at all. All I can do is make a wheezy-squeaky noise, which sets the wrinkles in Mrs. Morris’s face to worry mode.
“Oh dear,” she says. “Oh dear. Oh, oh, I’m so sorry.”
I take a deep, shaky breath and wipe the snot that’s pouring from my nose all over my sleeve.
“It’s all right. I’m all right, dear.” Mrs. Morris’s voice is a gentle whisper, and I realize that she’s trying to calm me down. I take another breath, forcing myself to pull it together. I sit there with my eyes closed until my tears dry up. When I open them, Mrs. Morris’s dark eyes are watching me.
“I’m okay,” I tell her. “I’m okay, too. I didn’t mean to worry you, either. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“No, really, I’m sorry,” I insist, and then I realize how ridiculous that sounds, and I let out a shallow little snort-chuckle. Then Mrs. Morris giggles. And after a minute, the whole thing starts to seem really funny, and soon neither of us can stop laughing.
After a while, our laughter quiets down. Then I lock my arms around her and haul her into her wheelchair. Luckily, Mrs. Morris only weighs about ninety pounds.
Nothing broken. No harm done.
Except for the major flashbacks I’m having to when my mom skipped out.
I’m still shaking like I may never stop.
Chapter 18
HERE IS WHAT HAPPENED
People always want to know what happened.
The answers are: no, no, not more than most people, and yes.
Look, my mom isn’t a horrible person. She’s just kind of flaky. Which is great if you’re piecrust, but not so great when you’re responsible for the welfare of another human being.
My mom goes through boyfriends faster than I go through a box of Kleenex during a Bridesmaids marathon. Whenever she starts a new fling, she disappears for a few days. That has been happening since I was seven or eight.
The thing is, my grandmother used to live across the street from us. So when Mom would disappear, I’d just head over there. Mom usually came back after a day or two. The longest she was ever away was five nights.
But Grammy died two years ago. And this time, Mom has been gone for two months, eleven days, and fifteen hours.
For the first two days, I hardly even worried. I just ate peanut-butter sandwiches and made sure I got to school on time. But after a week, I was low on food. Mom hadn’t left me any money.
After two weeks, I started bursting into tears at the slightest problem.