THE NEXT MORNING IS Saturday. Shayna and I tiptoe around each other, not saying much in the Jellymobile. On the way to what is my mom’s favorite sell-point, Shayna stops at Grunyon’s for lattes. I see some kids from school inside, so I duck down a little in the front seat. The alpacas, John, Paul, George, and Ringo, stare at me steadily from beyond the fence with their sleepy eyes.
Shayna stays in the Airstream a little longer than necessary, gazing at the alpacas through the window. I can see her standing there, sipping one of the coffees, and I wonder what’s got her so fascinated with John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
At the sell-point, we unload our cooler of water and lunches and snacks, and I show her how to set up the hand-painted sign next to the truck, how to use the credit card machine, how to log sales in my mother’s favorite ledger.
We unload the jars, arranging them inside the truck on the shelves. Shayna takes a long time making the jars look just so on the front counter of the sell-window.
And then we wait. There are fans inside the truck to keep us cool, and a small air-conditioning unit hooked up to a petite generator.
It takes about five minutes for Shayna to whine, “This. Is. Boring.”
“I brought books.” I hold up two Stephen Kings, and Pride and Prejudice.
She heaves a deep sigh and sips water, adjusting the brim of one of my mom’s hats. I’m not sure how I feel about her wearing something of my mom’s, but I stay quiet. I guess I want to keep things on an even keel after yesterday. I feel like we were close to something dangerous.
“There are reservations out here.” She gazes at the landscape. Dry desert, blue sky, white puffs of clouds.
“Yeah.”
“Are there a lot of Native kids at your school?”
“Some. My friend…Kai. He’s half Navajo and half Japanese.” It still hurts a little, saying his name.
Shayna whistles softly. “That’s a helluva combination. Is it rough for him?”
“I don’t know.” I think about the question. We’ve all been in school together forever, and Mesa Luna has lots of different kinds of kids, because it’s the only high school for miles, so tons of kids get bused in from other dinky towns, but maybe there are problems I never really noticed.
“I mean, he never says anything about it, anyway.”
“Well, did you ever ask him?”
“No, I mean, he’s just Kai. His skin color doesn’t matter. His character does. We listen to the “I Have a Dream” speech every February during Black History Month.” I like listening to MLK’s voice streaming from the speakers in each classroom.
Shayna snorts. “That’s some very hunky-dory peace-and-love shit, Tiger, but his skin color does matter. And he’s not Black; one ethnicity isn’t like, one size fits all, you know? You can’t just pretend color doesn’t matter because you think it shouldn’t, because you were born with white skin and privilege. And you can’t pretend to not notice racism because you listen to the one famous Black guy every single year. That’s not enough. There are terrible, terrible people in the world. Kai’s life will always be vastly different from yours.” She takes a sip of water.
“Also, there was a significant pause between the words ‘My friend’ and ‘Kai,’ so it sounds like there’s something going on there. He your boyfriend?”
My face reddens. “No! It’s not—”
Her phone pings. She looks down. “Dude,” she says softly. “You. Will. Not.” She starts texting.
“Who is it?” I ask.
She grimaces. “Ray.”
Ray again. Maybe I can get more from her this time.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Like I said, it didn’t end well. He’s not quite ready to say ciao.”
“Why not? What happened? What’s he do for a living?”
I went too far. Shayna gives me a look and changes back to me. “How far did you get with the Kai guy? You got all red, so I know there’s a story there.” She’s looking curious now.
I slide my hat down over my face.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Sexual intercourse is the bomb.” She laughs.
“Stop! We didn’t do that! We just kissed! And then my—”
“What? And then what?” Shayna leans forward, tugging her skirt down a little.
“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry
“You kill me. Why are you so embarrassed?” She pokes me in the shoulder and then leans out the window suddenly.
“Company. It’s go time.”
Relieved, I show her the ropes. The couple who emerge from their camper have southern accents, they comment on the dryness of the heat, want to know how long we’ve lived here, what’s in the jams, how long can they be kept unrefrigerated, do we have a website, how lucky we must feel to live out in all this wide-open beauty.
It goes on like this for the next couple of hours. Cars pull up every fifteen minutes or so; people get out and buy jams and drinks from the cooler. And Shayna can talk. I’m impressed. They love her, all these people, hanging on her every word. They think she’s funny and friendly. Someone tells her about her chemotherapy, and Shayna darts out from the truck to hug her. A man says he’s buying jelly for his brother, who’s broken a hip and lives in San Diego. They’ll eat jam sandwiches, just like they did when they were little, he tells us. He’s old. The brim of his straw hat is cracked, and his car makes an unpleasant sound as he drives away. I wonder if he’ll make it.
Shayna clucks her tongue. “Poor old dude,” she murmurs. She checks her phone. “Ray! Gah.” Her fingers fly.
Watching her, I feel happy and sad at the same time, because she’s like my mom in that way: people open up to her, they spill their souls.
On the way home, she’s very chatty. The money makes her happy, I think. Or maybe relieved.
She decides we should get pizza and watch movies, so we pick up some frozen ones at Stop N Shop with the card Karen gave us. After my shower, when I’m sliding pizza slices onto plates, she comes out of the bedroom in her sexy pink pajama outfit and settles on the couch. She has no problem sitting there, but I still do, so I tuck myself on the beanbag my mother got me when I turned twelve. It’s purple and yellow and reminds me of a cupcake.
Shayna flips through the channels until she finds a movie with a lot of car crashes and bad language and we stay that way, watching movie after movie. I don’t eat much of the pizza, but Shayna doesn’t seem to notice.
I’m thinking, while pushing pizza around on my plate, that I kind of feel okay about things, about her, and us, that things might be fine after all, like, baby steps, I guess, even if it takes a while, when my sister drowsily raises her head from the couch and peeks over at me.
“I might drive into Tucson tomorrow. Borrow your mom’s car, okay? I need some wheels. Just to have a look around. That was cool today, out in the truck, but I don’t know if that’s totally me. We should keep our options open, okay?” She gives me a searching look, then drops her head back over the armrest.
I tear the pizza crust into tiny, tiny, tiny bits.