Chapter Five

 

After polishing off my burger and a peach milkshake, I clean the kitchen and do a load of laundry. I’m feeling pretty virtuous as I sit down at the table with Mom’s laptop and the college catalogue to finish registering for the art class. Our Neanderthal Wi-Fi only works at the southeast corner of the house, which usually means the kitchen table or Brian’s room.

I log in and click on the bookmarked college website. Name, birthdate, a few more assorted crucial numbers, and poof—I have officially beaten Brian into college. I check out Lorena’s pictures of Coronado Island and yesterday’s In-n-Out lunch on Instagram. I already know the drill. Selfies will morph from Lori and her dad to Lori and a bunch of surfer types—her summer BFFs.

I Google “lucid dreaming” for the thousandth time, but there’s nothing new. Same with “astral traveling.” That seems closer, but still not exactly right. I research dream sites a lot, but they’re all New Age supernatural woo, generic dream interpretation or pervy Freudian stuff. I guess I’m hoping there might miraculously be something to explain last night. The dreamwalk.

I Google “dream walking” and get that Toby Keith song on YouTube. Country music isn’t really my thing, but I play it anyway. It fits my mood today, but I doubt Toby Keith ever went dreamwalking with someone who’s been dead for seven years.

There’s another site where nothing ever changes. I click on Mom’s bookmark, and the Navy Corpsmen Memorial site blooms on the screen.

There’s Dad in full dress uniform, smiling in front of a flag. Ian Night Hawk, 1972-2007. Beloved husband of Summer, father of Vivian and Brian, son of Liluye. Do not think of me as gone. I am with you still, in each new dawn. Prayers offered up from fellow corpsmen and family friends in Eastern and Western Apache, also some in Navajo, along with the same pictures of him with his units from Desert Storm, Bosnia, and Iraq. The Desert Storm pictures look bleached out, but his lively smile makes him stand out from the other young, short-haired guys in fatigues—at least to me. The Bosnia picture is darker, with a few of the same guys from Desert Storm. But it’s cold. Everyone sports pale faces and pink noses, bundled up in jackets, huddled together, but smiling—and Dad stands at the end near a campfire, his black hair covered with a watch cap and his hands shoved into the pockets of his brown leather jacket.

Wait, wait, what?

Trembling, I click on the picture, which doubles its size, but makes it grainy. I squint, and I swear it looks like the jacket. My jacket. The diagonal snaps, the straps around the wrists. The deep collar. My heart leaps. I feel a little dizzy as a shiver snakes its way down my spine. Is it? No, no, no. It is not even possible.

Remember, Mom told you Dad had a jacket like that. She told you.

I scrutinize it, marching my eyes across every pixel of that grainy picture until I’m cross-eyed. Everything seems the same, but I’m feeling extremely weirded out. And then a closer look at the collar—there’s something on it. Something small and shiny. Another snap? My jacket doesn’t have a snap on the collar. Or does it?

The indecision paralyzes me. Don’t just sit there, Vivian, go look. I leap from the chair, grabbing the laptop, and head for my room. Flinging my door open, I set the computer down on my desk, and open the blinds.

On the screen, the Chrome Tyrannosaurus growls, “Sorry, no connection.” Gaaaah, I lost the Wi-Fi! I run back to the kitchen, clutching the laptop, but it’s gone. I log in and click Refresh, but all I get is that maddening spinning wheel.

“Dammit!” I collapse on the kitchen chair, fuming, as the front door pops open.

“Home,” Brian sings out. “Hungry!” Door closes.

“In here,” I grumble. I look at the clock, which smugly informs me it’s almost 5:00. I have spent all afternoon online with nothing to show for it. I snap the evil laptop closed.

Brian traipses into the kitchen, drops his backpack by the door to the garage, and then flops into the chair opposite from me, announcing, “Must. Have. Food.” He tilts his head back, rolls his eyes, and in his best Homer Simpson voice, moans, “Me so HUN-GEE.” He spies the laptop, becomes Brian again, and asks, “Did you register for that class? Mom sure ninja’d you good.”

I am still mad. Mad at my dumb phone, the laptop—technology in general. And I’m still mad at the Peppers for getting between me and Mysterious Handsome Stranger, who seems to be setting up a permanent spot in my brain. And then here comes Brian, stomping into the middle of it all, reminding me of Mom’s art class ambush and demanding to be fed.

Thank God, some things never change.

“Yeah, she did.” I sigh loudly. “How about a PB and J?” Slathering the sandwich together, I turn and shoot him a menacing glare. “Oh, yeah. Thanks for warning me about Mom’s fungus juice this morning.”

His brown eyes are smug. “Knew you’d appreciate that.”

“Dude. Let’s get the patio done before the sun hits it. We can finish those Macaroonies before Mom comes home.” A little incentive never hurts.

Brian smiles sheepishly. “Too late. I had differential equations to do last night. I needed fuel.” Oh, right. Differential equations. I nod like I know what those are.

“I thought this was supposed to be Space Camp, not Math Torture.”

“Nah, it was for Duke. I had assignments that had to be posted by midnight.”

I pop Dad’s iPod into the dock on the kitchen windowsill, hunt for some vintage AC/DC, and open the window. We lug the furniture off of the patio and then sweep quickly, screeching along with Back in Black and making up our own words.

Grab a broom, gonna clean, gotta scream ’cause we just can’t sing!

The late afternoon sun seeks us out, pressing down on the patio roof. And even though we speed up, sweeping furiously to try and beat the heat, we fail. By the time we drag the patio furniture back into place, rivers of sweat have glued our clothes to our skin. Red-faced, we collapse on a pair of iron chairs and survey our work, gulping down cold sodas.

“You know, Vivi, this still isn’t right.” He burps loud and long, raking his hands through his sweat-darkened hair and making it stand on end.

“What are you talking about? It’s fine.” I burp right back, beating him by at least two seconds. Having a prodigy for a brother can be exasperating. Things can be perfect, but Brian’s head for details means they are never quite perfect enough.

“Hold on.” Brian leaps out of his chair and walks over to the side of the house. I close my eyes, annoyed, wondering what the brainiac is up to. It’s hot and I’m tired, and he wants to clean some more?

A blast of water hits the wall above my head and cascades down, drenching me completely. My eyes fly open. He crouches on the edge of the patio, hose in hand, squirt nozzle set to “stun.”

“Oops, I missed!” He giggles and then turns the hose directly onto my stomach.

“You are so dead!” I leap from my chair and chase him into the yard. He bolts ahead of me, turning around to squirt me every few steps, but I step on the hose, causing it to yank out of his hand. He shrieks and zigzags all over the yard while I pursue him relentlessly, finally grabbing the back of his T-shirt.

“Now, you die,” I proclaim grimly and shove the end of the hose down the neck of his shirt, soaking him completely. “Revenge for the fungus juice!”

My hair hangs in my eyes, so I don’t see the back gate open, and the blasting water mingled with our laughter muffles the sound.

“Hellooo!” Una walks toward us, carrying a brown paper bag. I drop the hose and Brian simultaneously, then shove the hair out of my eyes. Her wide face is smiling.

“Oh, hi!” Awkward. Yes, this is normal. We drench each other in the backyard all the time. “If you’re looking for Mom, she’s still at work.”

Brian stands up and wrings out the edge of his dripping shirt. “Hi!” He waves, unfazed.

“Hi, Brian. Nice day for a water fight, huh? I brought some cantaloupe. Your mom said to drop it off here since you guys are home.” Una wiggles the bag. “I knocked at the front door, but we heard you out here, so we came around. My nephew and I are headed up to Santa Fe for a couple of days, and I wanted to get these to you.”

Nephew? The orphan? I look behind her and see a guy leaning against the rock wall, in the shade by the gate. Tall, in faded jeans, boots, and a maroon T-shirt. This is no scrawny waif, no pitiful Wimpy Kid.

Oh. My. God.

“Vivian, Brian, this is Lucas.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners like his aunt’s, as the Mysterious Handsome Stranger steps forward and uncrosses his arms to shake my hand. I am suddenly and acutely aware of the fact I look like a drowned rat with stringy hair plastered to my head and clothes stuck to me like wet paint. My face burns for the second time in two days as he takes my hand and stops my heart completely.

“Nice to meet you.”

His fingers linger on mine, his warm hand calloused and strong. Say something cool, Vivian. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Okay then, just say something. I manage a squeaky, breathless, idiotic, “Umm, yeah. Hi,” before Brian takes Una’s bag and drags her toward the patio.

“Did Mom tell you I’m going to Space Camp?”

Lucas and I drop our hands. The late afternoon sun shines on his hair, raven-black, thick and straight like mine. “You look familiar,” he says.

My heart flutters under his gaze. I know my wet tank top is showing everything, but his eyes are holding steady on my face, so I take a breath, push the dripping strands behind my ears and venture, “I think we ran into each other yesterday. Literally.”

A smile spreads across his face. “The Piggly Wiggly.”

“Yeah, I was on a jerky run. It’s one of the basic food groups around here.” My breath is trapped in my throat, but at least my voice is not betraying me.

Una and Brian are heading our way. Brian waves his hands around, explaining how the space station zero-gravity toilet works.

“Gotta run, guys. Santa Fe awaits,” Una announces.

Already? My brain races for something interesting to say as we walk through the gate to the front yard. The red truck is out on the street, the bed sitting low with something heavy in it, covered with a tarp. What kind of load could they be hauling to Santa Fe?

As if reading my thoughts, Lucas says, “Metal sculpture for the Sunday artist market.”

The Santa Fe Sunday Market is one of my ultimate artist fantasies. Besides the crafts and jewelry from a dozen Nations, the sidewalks around the square are crowded with local art for sale. Someday, maybe even mine.

“You’re an artist?” I peek at his profile. It’s easier to look at him if he isn’t looking right at me.

“Sort of. Aspiring?” His voice is deep and smooth. “I signed up for a metalworking class at Community this summer. My aunt has a weird schedule, but I think I can work it in.”

“Me too.” Another brilliant reply. “I mean, I’m taking a painting class. And working at Mom’s shop.”

We reach the back of the truck, where a small bumper sticker announces, “IT’S A NATIVE THING.” Lucas turns as he approaches the driver door and says, “Cool. When’s your class?”

I’m finally able to look him in the eye and say, “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings.” No hint of the wobbly pudding that my knees have become.

“Mine too. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.” He smiles and looks at me a little longer than he really needs to. His eyes are warm, and I almost fall into them, but then he nods and gets into the truck.

I’m not sure he hears me say, “I hope so.”

Wait until I tell Lorena.