It was a long drive back.
Ponch Sandhandler arranged to get Slushious out of impound so we could fly her home to Earth. It was Sandhandler who had flown to Earth in the first place when J.Lo’s initial broadcast had revealed that there was a human girl on New Boovworld. She-he had found my mom and brought her here. She-he was a good egg, Sandhandler.
So: Mom and J.Lo in the front seats, Emerson, Bill, and me in the back. For about the first hundred million miles I tried to get a conversation going with Mom, but she’d never liked airing our family business in front of strangers, and Emerson was in the car. So we all fell into this brittle silence, apart from J.Lo’s nanowave radio.
“...and after pulling the Boov to safety, that koobish was given a medal and had its ears eaten by a very famous chair designer. Back to you, Bish.”
“Bish Bishley is taking some vacation time with a former coworker, Chad. This is Lala Hombalamilay filling in.”
“Welcome aboard, Lala! Can you bring us the latest on the hunt for fugitive and former HighBoov Captain Smek?”
“The council is staying tight-lipped about both Captain Smek and the human Dan Landry, Chad, except to say that Landry is being held in Detention Nub Seven until they can consult with authorities on Earth. But secret sources tell us that after evading custody late last night, Captain Smek fled to his mansion atop the artificial hill known as Smek Peak—and would still be there now if the hill hadn’t collapsed this morning from crumplepits.”
“Interesting.”
J.Lo turned down the volume. I was about to ask him to turn it up again when I heard Mom snoring in the front seat. So I stayed in the back, thinking.
I got to be there for the Chief when he passed. I’ll always be glad about that. That morning he was looking better. I thought he was getting better. I didn’t know he would die that afternoon.
He said, “I don’t bet anyone gets to the end and says, ‘I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.’” And then he paused to catch his breath and added, “No matter how much time you get, there’s something you forgot to say.”
From now on I’d leave nothing unsaid, I decided. From now on it was going to be easier at home thanks to all my incredible openness. So the rest of the way to Earth I practiced what I’d say to Mom, because I was dumb and thought practice would help.
For the last million miles the CHECK OIL light was on, but we still made it okay.
We dropped Emerson off at his mom’s place, which meant taking a side trip to California.
“Your mom’s gonna be surprised when you tell her all this,” I said as he stepped out onto the curb.
Emerson turned. “Maybe not,” he said. “She always says Dad’ll end up in the White House or the Big House. I mean, she always says that. Like three times a day.”
I smiled. “Friend me, okay?” I said. “And good luck.”
Emerson glanced briefly at Mom, then me. “Good luck to you,” he answered.
We waited until he was safely inside. Then forty minutes later we were descending over Pennsylvania, and home.
We landed in the driveway. Before the dust settled Mom was already in the yard, stomping toward the house, one shoe in hand and eyes like a cartoon owl. She got the front door open and Lincoln bounded out of it, knocking her over—like a Marmaduke comic strip, but funny. And now Lincoln was barking, running around and around the car and then jumping inside when we opened the doors. Pig came out onto the front step, looked at us like she’d just now realized we’d been gone, and went back inside.
I came up to Mom, smirking at how she’d landed butt-first in the flower bed, but then she shot me a look and I put that smirk away. This was not the part of the story where we both laughed despite ourselves and realized that Everything Was Going to Be Okay.
Then, suddenly, Mom rocked forward and hugged me. She hugged me in a way that was kind of terrifying, actually, and pushed me out to look at me. And hugged me again.
“I know,” I said. “I’m grounded.”
“Oh, you do not know,” she hissed. I realize there aren’t any s sounds in there, but I swear she hissed all the same. “You’ve never even heard of grounding like this. A person could die from this much grounding.”
“I just...Life is short and I want you to know that I love you and I always will, and...things are going to be better now, I promise—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Gratuity, you don’t get to talk your way out of this! (Pardon my language.) You screwed up way too big this time!”
Mom was barking, so I guess Lincoln thought it was a good time to start barking too. He licked us and put his paws on us and barked until Mom stuck out her arm.
“Lincoln! In the house!”
Lincoln went in the house. Bill flew around and around, writing a whole novel over our front yard. I think we were making him nervous.
I quailed a little. “I’m...not trying to talk my way out of it. I’m trying to talk through—”
“Nope! I give you all this credit for being so mature, so wise for your age, but you’re the same thirteen-year-old sneaking out with her boyfriend that I was!”
I put my hands up. “Okay, waitaminute. Credit? You give me credit? Do you not remember what I’ve done? I earned my own credit. I should have a giant credit card made out of regular-sized credit cards, I have so much credit.”
Mom pursed her lips. “This from the girl who says she doesn’t want anyone to know—”
“Oh man...” I said, and I broke down a little. “Oh man, of course I want people to know! Are you kidding me? I want every single person to know!”
I flailed my arms and fell backward onto the grass.
“I saved the world. I should get to turn in homework late because I saved the world. That girl Stephanie shouldn’t make fun of my hair clips anymore, because I saved the world.”
I felt dizzy. It felt good to admit this, despite the circumstances.
“I...want everyone to treat me like a regular person,” I finished. “A regular person that they think is amazing.”
Mom actually looked like she felt sorry for me for a moment. That seemed like a good sign. She sat down in the grass too.
“So I guess deep down I expect all this credit for taking care of myself all those years,” I said, and Mom looked down. “But instead you’re all SuperMom lately, and I like it and hate it at the same time.”
“That’s normal,” said Mom. “That’s how you’re supposed to feel about being parented.”
“I guess. I guess I just...I decided recently that I maybe have trouble trusting...things, and—”
“And so you’ve been testing me,” said Mom. “Oh, believe me, Gratuity, I know.”
I flinched—I hadn’t even known. But as soon as she said it, I realized it was true.
“Well, but I’m done doing that!” I said quickly. “Things are going to be better now!”
Mom sighed.
“Things are not going to just ‘be better’ now, Gratuity,” she said. “Things are gonna pretty much be lousy for a while. And I am so, so proud of what you did in the invasion, but I still get to treat you like a little girl, because you are a little girl and that’s my right.”
I didn’t like that. But I remembered my talks with the Chief and decided not to do the idiot thing.
“It’s going to get worse,” Mom said, “’cause that’s how it is. And you’re gonna hate me a little in your teens. Like, legitimately hate me.”
“Wha...no,” I said. “You know I love you—”
“Oh, and you think you can’t do both at the same time? Love and hate? You can totally do both, Gratuity! Get ready! And when you go off to college, you’ll say mean things about me to your new friends—unfair things, because you’ll all hate your parents. You and your friends will have invented hating your parents. And...you’ll learn so much and go so many places, places I never could go. So you’ll think you’re better than me.” She took my face in her hands, smiling suddenly. “And you’ll be better than me—you’ll be so much better than me.”
Her eyes were wet; her cheeks were stained. I knew my face looked like her face.
“Later, you’ll call more,” she said. “And visit. You’ll be, like...amazed when you realize I’m right about a few things. I’ll be like a horse who can do math. Maybe later still you’ll have a daughter and realize how...just...screwed up and hopeless we all are.”
She let go of me and leaned back.
“And eventually you and me’ll get to be friends again, kind of. Like school friends who were always seated together because we have the same last name. You never would have chosen me, but now...why not, you know?”
We were quiet. I heard only the birds, and the tick-tick-tick of the car engine cooling.
“Well. That...sounds awful,” I said, and we both laughed.
“Yeah,” Mom agreed. “Pretty awful.”
She smiled.
“You wanna do it anyway?” She extended a hand.
I took it.
And she was wrong, you know. I didn’t tell her then, so I would have to remember to tell her again and again, for the rest of our lives: I would’ve chosen her. I was choosing her now.
Anyway.
After a longish hug, J.Lo cleared his throat and waved from the driveway.
“I also am here,” he said.
* * *
I’m making all this sound easier than it was. She was mad for a long time.
But we survived.
But I’m still grounded.
We hear Funsize is doing well—after a long vacation with an old friend, he was put in charge of overhauling the whole New Boovworld sanitation system. It’s a big job, but he’s going to have a lot of help. In particular, he has a Boov and a human who’ve been sentenced to work as garbagemen, so they pretty much have to do whatever he says. They both used to be in politics.
But that’s not even the biggest news.
A few days after we got home, the election was held on New Boovworld. J.Lo won.
The Boov decided that the second-place winner should act as president if the fairly elected president of New Boovworld is away. And by an almost unanimous write-in vote, the second-place winner ended up being Ponch Sandhandler.
And the fairly elected president of New Boovworld is away, is eight hundred million miles away, and currently in my kitchen spreading rubber cement on a doughnut.
“Hey, Mr. President!” I called.
J.Lo leaned into the door frame. “Ohyes, hello?”
Lincoln lay at my feet. Pig chased Bill across the living room.
“You wanna go down to the lake and throw rocks, Mr. President?” I asked.
J.Lo nodded solemnly, or tried to.
“I...command that it be so,” he declared, then burst out laughing.