Next morning my apple-Jacks and I peel ourselves off my TV room couch and stroll into the diner and who else but the flesh-and-bones Ms. Ancient History is sitting with the Pretty Pennies in a shiny orange-and-blue plastic booth. We pass their table and smile hellos and Eve holds my gaze a little bit long. Our crowds are universes apart. They are queens of the hive. We are ants. They are honey. We are not impressed. But we are.
The Cats sit in the booth behind theirs and scat and laugh too loud. After ice cream sundaes shaped like clown faces, I can’t help myself—I turn around and pull Ms. Ancient History’s curlicue hair. She swivels and I look away and scheme it wasn’t me. She whistles, poorly, as she drops an ice cube down the back of my shirt and I yelp and grab for it as it runs down my back and into my skinnies. She’s cracking up and me, I’m a soaking mess.
“It’s on,” I challenge. “One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war.”
“Five, six, seven, eight, try to keep your thumb straight.” She grabs hold of my hand.
“Nine, ten, let’s begin.”
I win, but only after we establish there’s no “snake in the grass” or “tag team” schemer tactics allowed. Eve’s got an advantage, as her thumbs are oddly flexible and I suspect, double-jointed. But I talk massive trash and she laughs. BAM! She’s pinned. I win. She is Sore Thumb Loser.
“You’re all thumbs, Brooks,” I laugh.
She tells me about a toaster going hit tonight. “In the woods,” she says. “Under Suicide Bridge, by the lake, nine p.m. You Jacks should be in.” And we shake on it and agree to a rematch. The Pretty Pennies stand and throw their tip of crumpled dollars on the table and we watch as they sway and shimmy out the large swinging door.
I turn back to the Cats and see in their expressions that I’m a traitor, a treasonous double agent. They give me massive stink eye, but I also know Zoë and Maya are squirming with excitement.
“Word, so we scrounge up some sleeping bags and brew.” Zoë grins and we are heads down in super-stealth planning mode.
“Yo, Drug-Free,” I poke at Maya. “Got any ideas?” And we’re all cracking up, balance restored. As we talk, I picture my retro Ninja Turtles sleeping bag and know Eve will be hit for it. I can’t wait.
While loitering at Maya’s criminal cousin’s ramshackle trailer, hoping to score some tars and sauce, I get a buzz from Dad saying Oma’s okay. Which is weird ’cause I didn’t know she maybe wasn’t. I dial Miles, then Dad, to no avail. Finally I get Auntie Kay on the line and she says things like unexplained bleeding, needles, transfusions. I get a little woozy, my neck prickling and chilled. She says they’re hiring a nurse to camp at Oma’s place overnight, maybe for the rest of the week. Just in case. But, really, she’s fine.
“Sounds serious,” Zoë says, shaking her head at Maya, who’s shamelessly flirting up her hillbilly blood relation in the glare of the Chariot’s headlights. “All that blood.”
I shiver. “Y’think? But my aunt says she’s okay.”
Zoë shrugs. “You’re the one wants to be a doctor.”
“A surgeon, dummy.”
“What, surgeons don’t see blood?”
I shiver again.
“Blood.” Zoë grins and I punch her in the arm. She laughs, rubbing at where I socked her. But then she says, “Y’know, we don’t have to toast tonight, if you’re not feeling it. I’d get that.”
“Naw,” I say after a bit. “Oma’s a hard nut. I’ll go scope her tomorrow. Plus, Kay said she’s gonna be fine. Right now I just wanna get sauced with my apple-Jacks.”
“Word, Jack.”