‹NOVEMBER›
Sent: Saturday, November 2 4:01PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Your poem
Wow! (How’s that for a deep comment?) But wow! I really like your poem. That first line is a poem all by itself:
You think
you
see me,
but
you
don’t.
Or maybe—
You think you see me,
but
you
don’t.
I feel dumb telling you this, but you got me with your title. I read it and thought, “Oh, she’s got the wrong word. She means mistaken identity.” I read the poem about four times, and it suddenly hit me that I had fallen into the trap—seeing things wrong (again).
Wow! What else can I say? Okay, I owe you a poem or something. I wish I had one half that good (or even a quarter that good) to send back. Right now I’d feel stupid sending you another “There was a young lady named Sara” poem. Give me a few days.
—Rob
Sent: Saturday, November 2 6:47PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: I’m blushing!
Thank you, thank you! You certainly know how to make a poet feel . . . well . . . poetical! Now I’ll be looking for yours.
Yesterday, after doing seven perfect parallel parkings in a row, I thought of something cool we might do. What if we allow each other two tacked-on questions per email? We could call it PSing. (No resemblance to BSing, mind you.) We answer one question and ignore the other. What do you think? You can always change the rules and answer both . . . or none. (Keep it loose and easy. All we need in our lives is more structure, right?)
So . . . in the event you agree . . . here goes PSing, the first two.
Why don’t you use “smilies,” “frownies,” and “winkies” or even sound like most teens on the Net? (I mean, Rob, we’re both email weirdos. We actually use punctuation.)
Do you have parents somewhere?
Have to rush. We girls in “The Baldie Club” are going to watch Jessie play volleyball tonight. Movie after. “To celebrate that I’m still alive,” Angie says. She’s incredible. If only she could defeat this thing and have her whole long life to look forward to. We care so much—all of us—but we can’t begin to know how it is.
—Sara
Sent: Monday, November 4 4:02PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Questions
Hey, Sara, I see how you operate. You ask two questions, but one of them is so dumb I really don’t have a choice. Sneaky.
Can’t you just see me using all that cutesy junk? :-J (said with tongue in cheek). How about @>—>— (offering you a rose)? Or maybe O:-) (what an angel!) You know what I think of all this? :-b (sticking my tongue out)
I don’t have to answer the other question, but I will. Yeah, I have parents—Dr. Frankenstein and Mrs. Think Positive. He’s a plastic surgeon who’s had four wives (my mother was number three) and about a thousand girlfriends. My mother calls herself a recovering alcoholic—which means she doesn’t drink. I hope that’s true, but I wouldn’t bet money on it. They’re both disappointed with me. He tells me that (often), but she never would. What kind of cutesy mark would I use here? Maybe :/) (it’s not funny).
Tell Angie hello from the Coyote Chaser.
No, I haven’t forgotten about the poem I owe you.
—Rob
Sent: Monday, November 4 8:08PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Your email
Rob—
I’m starting to understand why you’re at that academy. I guess you don’t really have a home right now—or, at least, a family who can make a home for you.
Maybe that’s why you seem older to me, because you are older when it comes to certain experiences. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if my parents parked me somewhere and turned their backs.
I know, go ahead and remind me—I rag at my folks all the time. But they still love me. And I love them. I’d say they love each other, too, most of the time, but we never talk about stuff like that. They’re kind of old-fashioned, know what I mean? And love is one of those subjects—like sex or prayer or Dad’s paycheck—that never comes up at the dinner table.
Now, of course, I want to ask a zillion more questions, but maybe you’ll tell me how you grew up to be who you are in spite of your parents’ mountainous problems. But I won’t use one of my PSes for asking.
—Sara
Sent: Tuesday, November 5 4:09PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Tuesday night
Hey, Sara, quit feeling sorry for me. I can’t stand that. My folks didn’t park me here and turn their backs. I did this to myself. I stole a car. (You and me, Sara.) A BMW convertible. If I didn’t have a rich father with lots of connections, I’d be stuck in some juvenile detention facility right now. So I’m lucky to be here. Pine Creek is weird, but it beats jail.
Don’t try to make me some pitiful little victim. Remember my coyote chasing? I knew I’d get in trouble, but I did it anyway. I’ve been doing stuff like that for years. A social worker told me, “The bottom line is that you’re very stubborn and a little stupid.” That’s about it. I suffer from Stubborn-and-Stupid Disorder—ever heard of it?
I think there’s a cutesy sign for NO CRYBABIES, but I don’t know what it is. I’d use it here if I did.
Sent: Tuesday, November 5 7:22PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Hey, good taste in cars!
For now I’m going to ignore your crybaby remarks. But I can’t ignore the rest. You stole a BMW? What were you thinking? That doesn’t sound like the Rob I’ve been emailing. Come on, bud, you can’t just drop something like that on me and then stop.
You telling this story for its shock value, or is it true? Details. I shared my “car theft,” didn’t I?
—Sara
Sent: Wednesday, November 6 4:09PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Stealing a BMW
You’re right, Sara. You deserve the details.
Last spring I sneaked out of school because I couldn’t stand to be there another minute. But the school security officer saw me. He called the police, then started chasing me, blowing his whistle. There I was—running down the street with a whistle-blower after me, and I could hear sirens getting close. I saw this BMW double-parked, engine running, outside a flower shop. I jumped in and took off. Racing through the city, running red lights, I could see the police cars behind me. I figured my only chance was to duck down an alley, so I— Nah! No way, Sara. (But how was that for “shock value”?)
The real truth: I did sneak out of a school, but nobody saw me. I walked for hours, trying to get out of the city. Then I saw the double-parked car. It was a BMW, but I would have been just as happy with a cement truck. I just wanted to get out of there. I drove the car out into the country, locked it (even put up the top), and took off into the hills.
So that’s my story. Not very exciting. But really stupid. Won myself a free trip to Camp Feelgood. I don’t know what else to tell you. You see why I didn’t want to start digging up the past?
—Rob
Sent: Wednesday, November 6 7:29PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: (No subject)
Rob—
Wow! I can’t believe you did that and you even put up the top? Crazy!
But all that stuff is history now, right? It looks as if you’ve learned some lessons—the hard way. Maybe it’s time to move on.
Here are your questions for today. 1) What do you see outside your bedroom window? 2) Is Shannon your best friend, or is she your girlfriend?
—Sara
Sent: Thursday, November 7 4:19PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: PS answers for Sara
Good idea, Sara. No more history. (I have ten extra minutes today—a little bribery—so I’ll try to answer your questions.)
Shannon and I are buds, but that’s nothing special. She’s buds with all the aliens. She may be the smartest person here. Including all the teachers and doctors. Reads incredibly fast and remembers everything. She’s funny, in a sarcastic way, and she talks tough. But she’s a sucker for anybody in trouble or hurt.
Most of the guys here, even the pit bulls, are a little scared of her. She won’t back down from anybody. People here tell stories about her—how she knocked a guy cold with a sock full of sand, how one troublemaker woke up tied to his bed with duct tape over his mouth. She says these are fairy tales, but most people believe them. Including me.
I sit at Shannon’s table for most meals. Sometimes we play poker or Scrabble in the rec room after dinner. She talks a lot, but she’s interesting. Except when she’s bagging on herself for being fat and ugly—which she does way too much. I hate that. And it’s not true. She isn’t ugly. She’s bigger than other people, but so what?
Anyway, that’s Shannon. She jokes that she’s “Queen of Camp Feelgood,” but that’s more or less true.
Question 1: My dorm (log exterior) is built like a motel— long central hallway with rooms on each side. Screens on the windows—wired to an alarm system—to keep us from jumping out. Looking past the screen, I see lawns and concrete walks and other log buildings. Trees and shrubs, a few boulders artistically placed. Everything all neat and tidy like in the brochures. (Parents go crazy with their cameras.)
Off in the distance I can see the dark green of pine forests. That’s where I’d like to be. (Don’t worry. I won’t go coyote-chasing tonight.)
My PS question: Where would you like to be right now?
—Rob
Sent: Thursday, November 7 8:34PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Answer to Rob’s PS
Believe it or not, the answer is right where I am, living in this hundred-and-some-year-old house at Fort Douglas. No lie! Here, finally, I’m starting to have some friends. Do you know how it feels, being in seven different schools in eleven years? (French only in one, German only in another.) Always saying “goodbye, goodbye, goodbye” to people and knowing you’ll never see them again? I’ve never lived anywhere long enough to have a hometown. (Hometown! Now there’s poetry.)
With the move to Salt Lake, I wanted things to be different. I hoped we could stay. I love the outdoor life here—the hiking and skiing. And I love this school; it’s not all military kids. I love the idea of going to the junior prom, trying out for the senior class play, writing for the high school paper. And then GRADUATING! All with the same kids. So that’s my answer.
Sent: Friday, November 8 4:05PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Friday
You surprised me. I figured you’d go for a Paris cafe or a beach on Hawaii. And you picked Utah. I kind of understand how you feel about wanting to be part of a place, going to the junior prom, etc. But it’s a whole different world from mine. Different universe, maybe.
Your world: senior class play, dates and proms, school paper. My world: Today a delivery truck was parked outside the kitchen. While the driver was inside, Greg (a homefry) crawled under the truck and put his head right behind the back tires. The driver was already behind the wheel and was shifting into reverse when somebody noticed and yelled. Greg’s words to the guy who saved him? “Why didn’t you keep your **** mouth shut?”
Sent: Friday, November 8 8:17PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Friday night
Your take on my world? Wrrrrrrrrrong! It’s not the prom dress or a job on the school paper. It’s about wanting to have roots. Basically, it’s about making connections with people I like and feeling “at home” (whatever that means) where I live. Don’t ask me to explain why, but I’ve found that here. I’m not all pink fluff and ego, Robcruise. So stop categorizing me!
“My world”—to use that shorthand—has for all my life been unpacking and adjusting. I once read a book entitled Home Is Where Your Feet Are Standing, but . . . you know what? I’ve been there, done all that foot shuffling. I’m sick of so much “transitioning.” I love being back in the United States and I want to stay put on this quiet little post for a while.
—Sara
Sent: Saturday, November 9 4:05PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: I’m innocent (well, sort of)
Pink fluff and ego—did I say that? NO. Did I ever think it? NO WAY. Did I say that what’s normal at your school and what’s normal at mine are about a million miles apart? No, but that’s what I was trying to say.
And I’m accused of categorizing you. NOT GUILTY. Unless there’s a category for people who are talented poets, and skinhead car thieves, and friends to coyote chasers, and who’d rather live in Utah than Paris. (If you know anybody else who belongs in that category, give her my e-mail address. I’d like to hear from her.) Pink fluff? You? You’ve got to be kidding.
Sent: Saturday, November 9 5:48PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Reply to Robcruise, Innocence Personified
Well . . . I’m glad we got that cleared up. But please take note: The tears running down my cheeks are not crybaby tears. There’s a line that guys feed girls, but let me try it on you: I love it when you’re mad!
Okay, riled-up friend. After a two-minute deliberation, I pronounce you NOT GUILTY . . . by reason of excess sanity and more-or-less good intentions.
—Sara, Jury of One
Sent: Sunday, November 10 4:05PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: News from an innocent (glad you agree) alien
Hi, Sara—
Breaking news from MU (My Universe): three-for-one trade this week. Remember Greg? (Was it a real suicide try or a fake to get out of here?) He was taken away, and we got three new residents—a girl with purple hair, a guy from Saudi Arabia, and a quiet kid that somebody heard was an arsonist. Right away Shannon brought Masoud (the Saudi) to the aliens’ table. Keeping him away from the skinheads.
New physical ed. teacher. I sent him a memo asking about cross-country running as a new sport. He said he liked the idea. Wouldn’t that be great, getting out of here and running through the pines?
PS It’s been about six weeks since you shaved your head. What’s it been like?
Sent: Sunday, November 10 6:22PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Your last email
Let’s face it. I don’t write emails, I write letters. From now on, unless I’m mad or rushed, I’ll begin with “Dear Rob.” It’s more natural for me. Living out of the country so much, I’ve written a million letters (and now emails) to my cousins. I still handwrite letters to Grandpa, the dear old fogy, who flatly refuses to trade his pen for a keyboard.
I keep thinking about your new girl with the purple hair. I hope you’ll be nice to her. (I’m identifying.) Can you believe I dyed my hair lime green summer before last, when we were in Liverpool? I was seeing every shade of pastel on the street, so decided to try it myself. Big mistake! Dad tried to lock me in the officers’ quarters storage. Mom wouldn’t let him, then went to bed with a sick headache. The next day on the street, Gabe made me walk so far behind him, we couldn’t talk. So . . . please! . . . be nice to the girl with the purple hair.
As for your PS—my shaved head. Long story. Sure you have time for this?
I would never suggest that anyone do what we four did in thinking we were helping Angie. In the first place, she was embarrassed by it, a reaction none of us expected. And so were we, as it turned out. For about a month everyone wanted to feel our heads, even teachers, and I began to duck whenever I saw a hand coming at me. Worse, Timothy, my supposed boyfriend, was totally turned off by my new look.
When this one really smart senior (the chess champion) called us “a bunch of glory hogs,” I knew what he meant. None of us wanted the Big C, of course, but we’d been eating up all the patting and fussing. Now that I’m closer to Angie than ever, I suspect there’s something slightly mocking about taking on the mere appearance of being in chemo. In the end, we may have stolen something from her. All we had to do was let our hair grow out.
And, yes, I look more like a fledgling chicken hawk than the hairless Chihuahua I was six weeks ago.
Now, one more question for you. Why do you call yourself an alien?
—Sara
Sent: Tuesday, November 12 4:01PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Aliens
Hi, Sara—
You know what aliens are. They’re the ones from another planet. The ones who don’t fit in. Every school has them. But it’s kind of special here. Of all the weird ones (and we have some real prizes), we’re the weirdest.
Thanks for telling me about the shaved-head business. I’m always surprised when you lay things out the way you do. I’m so used to liars and whiners that I hardly know how to act when somebody is completely honest. What can I say that won’t sound stupid? I’m glad you’re out there, Sara4348.
Sent: Tuesday, November 12 9:11PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Of weirdos and aliens
Dear Rob,
It’s dawning on me that being an alien in that place is a good thing. You’re not druggies or would-bes. Not the emotionally unhinged. You’re simply aliens. “Outsiders” who don’t fit in. Whoa! So, you must ask, “Where do I belong?” Easy answer: on the Net with Sara4348, who has a PhD in Outsider Skills.
Oh, wow, I just glanced up. It’s snowing! Fat, fluffy flakes. They fly up on gusts, drift, then fly up again, dancing in the lamplight outside my window. What a beautiful sight!
Aunt Ginny, Mom’s older sister, is coming for Thanksgiving. She’s recently moved to Kayenta, a desert community near the Arizona border, and I can’t wait to hear her talk about it. She can make a phone-book delivery sound like a Broadway opening.
I’m awfully glad you’re out there, too, Robcruise99.
Sent: Thursday, November 14 4:02PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: News from an alien
The new kid, the rumored arsonist, knew how to make friends. He sneaked in some LSD and some PCP. I heard he had a hidden compartment in his Bible. So we’ve been having freak-outs everywhere. Three people taken to hospitals.
Still trying to picture Sara on the streets of Liverpool with lime green hair. Anyway, don’t worry about Carmen, the new girl with the purple hair. She has lots of company here. We have Day-Glo orange hair, green, fire-engine red, and a guy with red, white, and blue stripes.
Dr. Feelgood shot down my plan for cross-country running. He called me in and took ten minutes to say, “We don’t trust you, coyote chaser.” If I “demonstrate maturity” this winter, he’ll be happy to consider my proposal in the spring. In the meantime—he gave me a big smile right here—I can run around the grounds if I like.
550 days until I turn 18. Then I could go to Utah and watch the snow fall. (None here yet. Just depressing, drizzly rain.)
—Rob
Sent: Thursday, November 14 9:10PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Dog days of November
Dear Rob,
I’m so sorry your idea was turned down. But don’t give up. Just haul out the “sir”s and “ma’am”s—an excellent way to “demonstrate maturity.” Can you hold out like he says and try again?
Wouldn’t it be great if you could come to sunny Utah, out of that rain and drizzle? We’d have a snowball fight for starters. Then I’d hike you up Red Butte Canyon behind Fort Douglas and we’d look for deer tracks in the snow. I’d make us a hot buttered rum afterward and we’d warm our feet by a fire and talk and talk.
I’d rather stay in the dream, but Dad’s taking us to his favorite steakhouse tonight (Fat City!). He’s at the door downstairs, hollering for Mom and me to hurry. As usual.
Bye for now.
—Sara
Sent: Friday, November 15 4:01PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Here it is
Here’s the poem I’ve been promising. I kind of cheated. I wrote most of this as an assignment. Our new resources specialist gives us breaks from our Internet lessons and has us do some writing and drawing. She asked us to imagine ourselves in a new place and then show what it was like. The poem isn’t really finished, but I can’t figure out what else to do with it. So I’m sending it to you anyway. If you fall over laughing, don’t tell me about it.
I’m standing by a BUS STOP sign
on Main Street in a town
I’ve never seen before.
Behind me is a hardware store,
a CLOSED sign in its window
next to barbecues and lawnmowers.
The sun has set,
and the last traces of orange
are fading from the sky.
I look in one direction,
then the other,
wondering which way
the bus will come.
The street is deserted.
The buildings are dark,
except for neon beer signs
in a grocery store window.
Somewhere, far off,
music is playing,
but all I can hear is
the faint beat of the bass.
I wish I could remember where I’m going,
or how I ended up in this strange place.
Suddenly I wonder if some bus left me here.
Maybe I’ve arrived at my destination
and somebody will come to get me soon.
Meanwhile a cold wind is blowing,
sending leaves and candy wrappers
skittering across the empty pavement.
I shove my hands deep into my pockets
and listen for the sound of an engine.
—Rob
Sent: Friday, November 15 8:26PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Your poem
Rob, your poem was so worth the wait! You really should post it. Great images! The BUS STOP sign, the CLOSED sign, the bass beat of far-off music. And what could be more forlorn than beer signs glowing in darkened windows? Your poem makes me want to grab a bus—any bus—and come after you.
If this is how you really feel being in that place, I’ll disguise myself as a social worker and come get you out. I could do that now, you know. I got my license yesterday.
So keep listening for an engine.
—Sara
Sent: Saturday, November 16 4:01PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: A note from Forlorn Rob
Hi, Sara—
I’m glad you liked my poem. I was nervous about sending it. But you surprised me by saying I should post it. For Iambicpentup and the piranhas? Why would I do that?
So Sara4348 is about to come to the rescue, roaring up the road to Pine Creek in her mom’s Camry? I love the idea, but I don’t need rescuing right now. I’m okay. Forlorn, maybe, but okay.
I think it’s great that you got your license. You’ll soon be cruising Main Street, windows down, CD blasting. (Hair flying? Not yet, I guess.)
—Rob
Today’s PS: Where did you go the first time you went driving by yourself?
Sent: Sunday, November 17 5:35PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Sunday afternoon
Dear Rob,
My first solo drive? You would ask. For the first three days I was too scared to take the car out by myself. Mom finally pushed me out the door. “Go, go! We need milk. And get gas while you’re there.” How thrilling! A trip to the 7-11 for gas and milk. (Disappointed?)
I keep forgetting to tell you. Gabe sent flowers on my birthday, but they got delivered to our sergeant’s house by mistake. I was hoping Gabe could get home for Thanksgiving, but he says no way. He’s facing finals. But dear Aunt Ginny will be here, with the pies and her famous Dilly Casserole Bread.
Two PSes: 1) What are your plans for Thanksgiving? 2) What pie do you like best—pumpkin, mince, apple, or other?
—Sara
Sent: Tuesday, November 19 4:01PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Less-forlorn stuff
New license—first trip. I was hoping for a mad dash to a ski resort or a midnight drive across the desert. But right now the 7-Eleven doesn’t sound so bad. Anywhere but here.
Bulletin board news: I told you that Shannon posted her poems as MLee1830. That should have been a clue to somebody. Our new resources specialist figured it out right away. Shannon was posting poems by Emily Dickinson (born in 1830) on the board. She loved watching the piranhas pounce on Emily’s work.
We have a nine-day break for Thanksgiving. I’m supposed to go to Burbank and stay with my mother—my first trip away since I got here in June. I think it’s going to happen.
To the important stuff: If I get a choice of pies, I’ll take a slice of each—except pumpkin. That’s the one every institution serves—all the time. It must be easy to make. Or cheap!
—Rob
PS How’s Angie doing, anyway?
Sent: Wednesday, November 20 3:47PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: (No subject)
Dear Rob,
Great news about going to see your mom. Wonderful, in fact! I hope things work out.
So Mlee1830 is Shannon passing off Emily Dickinson’s poems for the heck of it? That is way beyond cool. I’m embarrassed to have been so clueless. Mom gave me a book of Emily Dickinson when I was ten. “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” was a poem I could identify with that year of my invisibility.
The doctor suggested that Angie drop a class or two. She won’t, so I’ve been helping with homework. She’s now on meds that control the nausea better, and she’s gaining weight. I’ll tell her you asked about her. That always seems to pump up her spirits.
Guess what? Aunt Ginny says she’ll let me drive her vintage red MG around the post while she’s here. It’s a stick shift!
—Sara
Sent: Thursday, November 21 4:04PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: Good news from Unforlorn Rob
I’m out of here tomorrow afternoon—a van to the Sacramento airport, then a flight to Burbank.
For weeks, my mother has been sending me letters (she doesn’t do computers) asking what I want to eat, which museums I want to visit, etc. Probably has a schedule for the whole nine days. All I want to do is get away from Pine Creek and walk for miles. The beach, the mountains, anywhere.
Have fun with that MG. A neighbor in Malibu had one. It was always in the shop. He swore that MG stood for Mechanic’s Goldmine.
And send me a note if you can. I’ll try to find a computer. Even if I don’t, it’ll be easier to come back to this place if I know there’s some Sara mail waiting for me.
Sent: Thursday, November 21 8:37PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Good news is right!
For now, goodbye, dear Unforlorn Rob. Happy Thanksgiving! Of course I’ll write. And keep trying for a trip to the mountains.
—Sara
Sent: Monday, November 25 10:38AM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: (No subject)
I’m in a coffee place called Caffeine and Computers, sipping my hazelnut latte. Great to come online and find a message from you.
Good news first: I’ve been walking all over the place— mostly on sidewalks. Not easy to find open country around here. But it’s great to be moving along, going anyplace I want.
Otherwise, things aren’t too good. Stan, my mother’s “fiance,” says the right things, but his body language says, “You’re pig vomit.” And my mom is trying way too hard to make things better. Any little thing—burned toast, a spilled drink, Stan not showing up on time—brings on the tears.
She was sick most of the weekend. All her plans down the drain. I keep telling her I’m happy just to be here—away from Pine Creek and walking my legs off. But she keeps on apologizing.
So, Sara, I just shut up and keep walking. If I get really down, I picture you bombing around in that MG. Makes me laugh every time.
Sent: Thursday, November 28 3:09PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Thanksgiving Day
Dear Rob,
Caffeine and Computers. I’d love to be there, sipping a latte with you. How nice would that be?
I’m sorry about the way things are going. I was hoping you’d have a great Thanksgiving. You know—turkey and mashed potatoes, and football later on. And someone to enjoy it with.
We were all in the kitchen early today. Dad, believe it or not, was doing KP (Kitchen Patrol)—wearing an apron Aunt Ginny thrust at him—and chopping up onions and celery. “Remember that Thanksgiving in Stuttgart?” my mom said out of the blue, and the three of us started laughing so hard.
Overseas the locals don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, so we often took in “strays” for dinner—enlistees who were there alone. One cute young private we invited got so sloshed that Dad let him sleep it off on our sofa. He woke up crying the next day. I was only eleven, but I remember that Marcus was from Georgia and called me “a pretty little thang.” My folks and Gabe thought his accent was totally hilarious, but being called “pretty” was what I liked.
Keep walking. I’ll be thinking about you.
—Sara
Sent: Saturday, November 30 1:11PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: Me and the MG
Rob, did you ever get into the mountains? I hope so. But do not (I repeat, NOT) hot-wire your mom’s car to get there.
You’ll be green when you hear that I got to take Mother Goon out for a spin all by myself. First, so you can picture this, my aunt’s car is the genuine old-timey MG roadster, built in 1970.
First, I had to give it a bath and a polish. Like she says, “You want to bond with a car, you have to caress it.” (Sneaky way to get a car wash, I say.) Then I got a lesson about what’s under “the bonnet.” I had to go through the gears a few times—parked. Finally she tossed me the keys and hopped out.
“Write when you find work,” she called over her shoulder.
Honestly, sitting in that low-slung driver’s seat, I felt like Amazon Woman stuffed into a Matchbox toy. I kept wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans. Finally, I turned the key. The MG bucked a time or two until I got smooth on the clutch, but about the third try I was off. I drove around the Officers’ Circle six times. Didn’t hit a thing.
In roadster heaven, still . . . Sara
Sent: Saturday, November 30 3:58PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: My Thanksgiving—courtesy of Kinko’s!
Hey, this is great! Two long Sara messages. I needed both and got to read them online for once.
I’m sitting at a computer at Kinko’s, two blocks from the movie theater where I’m supposed to be. Twenty cents a minute. Thank goodness for the ten-dollar bill I had hidden in my shoe. I’m not “demonstrating maturity,” I guess, but the movie was boring. And I felt like talking to you.
My vacation ended early. Everything fell apart on Wednesday. My mother had to be taken back to the clinic. (“Drying out,” Stan calls it.) I knew she was close to the edge when I first saw her. She swore she wasn’t drinking, but her breath about knocked me over. Anyway, she’s safe for now.
I flew back Thursday AM. Had Thanksgiving dinner at the Hometown Buffet in Sacramento. Turkey and mashed potatoes and somebody to enjoy it with—just like you hoped. Matt, one of the resources specialists, picked me up at the airport. With him were all the guys who had no place to go for the holiday—two skinheads who hate each other, Roland (a drooler), Paul (who talks too loud and smells bad), and Chris (4’ 10’’ with a ten-foot chip on his shoulder). Easy to see why nobody wanted them home.
Matt said that if everybody behaved at the restaurant, he’d take us to a movie on Saturday. So things went pretty well. The only problem was that you can’t take food out of the place. Roland loved their chocolate chip cookies. Ate about twenty.
Then he put about twenty more inside his shirt. The manager just waved and said, “Happy Thanksgiving!”
It was snowing when we got back to Pine Creek. I sat up most of the night watching it come down. On Friday we played in the snow like little kids. The skinheads made snow women. (Yeah, they were just what you’re picturing.) We built a sled run, then had to make our own sleds. Mine was an ironing board inside a garbage bag.
Last night I watched an old Japanese movie called Rashomon. Amazing. When it was over, I rewound it and watched it again. By then everybody else was asleep, so I went out and walked in the snow and thought about the movie some more.
In Rashomon, the same story is seen through different people’s eyes. And each person’s “truth” is different. I’m still thinking about that.
I’d better stop jabbering before you fall asleep and before I run out of money. I hope you get another chance to rip around in the MG before your aunt leaves.
Think we’ll ever take a walk in the snow together?
—Rob
Sent: Saturday, November 30 4:28PM
From: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
To: Sara4348@aol.com
Subj: (No subject)
Sara—
I’m back at Kinko’s. Everything’s messed up, and I have to take off. I’ll write as soon as I can, but it may be a while. Don’t worry. I’ll be ok.
—Rob
I started to hit SEND, then stopped. I could almost hear you saying, “Rob, what are you doing?” Then it hit me how stupid this was. I was running away—with no place to go. Almost broke. Freezing weather. And I’m taking off. Dumb. Really dumb.
When I went back to the theater, the van was gone. Woman in the ticket booth said they’d had a big fight. Cops hauled off some guys in handcuffs. She said the cops are still looking for “two boys from some juvie place who ran off.”
I was already an official runaway, so I headed out of there. (Figured I had nothing to lose.) But then racing past Kinko’s, I decided to send you another note. Glad I did.
I’d better get back to the theater. I don’t know what’s next. Juvie? Isolation? Whatever, I probably won’t be online for a while. Hang on, Sara. You know I’ll write as soon as I can.
Sent: Saturday, November 30 5:42PM
From: Sara4348@aol.com
To: Robcruise99@yahoo.com
Subj: (No subject)
Rob, horrible news!
The rumors are true. The post is being reactivated and Dad’s being transferred. I’m having the most awful meltdown. I can hardly see the screen.
Orders are for Angie’s parents to stay here for the next phase (we think because of her treatments), but Dad has to be in London end of December. After a briefing there, he goes to Heidelberg and from there to a base in Turkey or somewhere. I don’t know if . . . Whoa, an email. Yours!
I’ve read it twice now, holding my breath both times. Rob, wow! That was close. Too close! But you decided NOT to run. I’m so glad. You didn’t do anything wrong by skipping the movie. Not in my eyes.
No matter what, I’ll hang on, I promise. What I don’t get is how could everything come crashing down on both of us at the same time? Whatever happened to fair?
—Sara