Read Ask the Passengers Online
Authors: A. S. King
Ask the Passengers (33 page)
There’s coffee waiting for me on the counter—extra sweet and light. Mom is in the living room in her robe. This is new. A day off? Relaxation?
“Your father is out there waiting for you,” she says.
“Cool. And, uh, I know I’m grounded, but can I have friends come over here?”
“Sure. I guess. How many?”
I don’t understand her question at first.
“You said
friends
. Just curious.”
“No,” I say. “I just meant one friend.”
“That’s fine with us,” she says.
Dad works on the door detail and the internal floors, which make him swear a lot but he finally figures it out. I spray-paint the roof tiles and then coat them with a few layers of weatherproof lacquer. When we break for lunch, I call Dee back, and she says she’ll be here at three.
I can’t figure out whether to tell Mom and Dad over lunch about Dee’s visit. I mean, I
should
tell them who’s coming, shouldn’t I? But do I have to tell them that she’s my girlfriend?
We finish the birdhouse before three. I have red paint on my fingers, and I’m wiping it off with turpentine and a cloth when I hear Dee park. I’d know the rattling sound of the Buick’s engine anywhere. I walk up the side driveway to meet her before she gets to the front door.
“Come with me,” I say. “I’m just finishing up.”
She stops and looks around the backyard. “Daaaamn. That’s awesome.”
I cross my arms and nod.
“I mean, I’d heard about the birdhouses, you know?” she says. “But I didn’t understand it was like
this
.”
“Yes. We’re freaks. We know.”
I walk into the garage and get back to my can of turpentine, and I load the rag up again and wipe off any leftover paint. Dee looks around and spots the nearly finished dovecote on the bench.
“Did you just make that?”
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“I had no idea you could do shit like that, Jones.
And
you’re a poet and a great kisser,” she says, moving in and putting her hand on my hip.
I take her hand and lead her in the back door and to the kitchen table, where Mom is sitting reading the weekend section of the paper. Dad appears from the powder room, still drying his hands on a paper towel.
Dad points and says, “I know you! Dee Roberts! Mount Pitts! Number thirty-four!”
Dee smiles. “Hi, Mr. Jones.”
I smile shyly and put my arm around Dee’s shoulder, take a deep breath and say, “Guys, I want you to meet my girlfriend, Dee.”
Mom could have been nicer. Dad could have been less goofy. Ellis could have pulled out her hockey stick and invited Dee into the backyard to hit the ball around a little. Instead, they left us alone. So now we’re here.
“What’s that one?” she asks, pointing.
“That’s a Cessna. Single engine. Probably a 172. Nice day to take the family up for a ride.”
She laughs. “I think that’s what you just did.”
“I hope they learn to be less awkward.”
“They will. Don’t worry,” she says. She grabs my hand and holds it in hers.
I spot a reflection in the sky—a high-flying 747. I send it a little love to let it know I’m here.
PASSENGER #587
JESSICA KIMBALL, SEAT 2A
FLIGHT #78
MINNEAPOLIS TO PHILADELPHIA
She put me in a window seat because that way she can control when I go to the toilet and who I talk to. Never. And nobody.
I am her prisoner.
My own mother.
I’m her prisoner until she delivers me to the camp. Gay camp. Conversion camp. Whatever you want to call it… it’s where I’m going.
I look out the rounded airplane window and marvel at the clouds. They are miracles from every direction. The blue of the sky is so deep, I wish I had a parachute and could jump into it. Or maybe… we could skip the parachute.
Below the clouds I see vague ridges of mountains and dark
forests. I see a lake. I see a large building—some sort of enormous warehouse that is visible from this high up.
I ask it:
What do they store in you, warehouse? And can I jump out of this plane right now and work in you? Anonymous. Unpaid. I’d do anything to get out of this plane before I am handed over.
An even bigger lake appears. I had no idea Pennsylvania had lakes. All I knew about it before now was that it had my father, who is worse than my mother.
Lake, can I jump into you, and will you keep me safe underwater until I can escape? There are no other options. My mother has said it.
“There’s nothing I can do about it,” she said. “You’ll stay at that camp until they make you right again.”
My father said, “Your mother didn’t discipline you right. These people will.”
I wrap my love for Marie into a tight ball of mental swaddling. I wrap it in a soft flannel blanket, four, ten, a hundred times. I wrap it so well that nothing can hurt it. And then I look out the window and down at the green-and-brown landscape, and I toss my love to whoever might be there to keep it safe.
Maybe if you catch this love, you can keep it safe?
I ask them.
Maybe someone down there knows what to do with it while I go and get brainwashed by people who hate me?
Dee says, “What?”
I try to think of what just happened, but I can’t explain it. All I know is that a huge, overwhelming feeling of love has just landed in my heart, and I have to keep it safe for a while.
“Nothing,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
I’m left with this feeling, though. A lucky feeling. I squeeze Dee’s hand and kiss her on the cheek. I can do that now. I can do whatever I want.
I look at the plane, and I send my love.
Don’t worry. I’ll keep it safe. Stay strong.
Thank you to my family and friends—you know who you are, and you rock.
Topher, you get an extra line because you’re Topher. Big love.
Thanks to my awesome editor Andrea Spooner and to Deirdre Jones, who held this book’s hand until it found its way. Thanks to the entire team at Little, Brown for making me feel so welcome and for everything they do.
Thank you to my agent Michael Bourret, who knows my Vulcan secrets.
A huge thank-you to Rosemary Hauseman and Bob Fleck—my humanities teachers from high school. That class was where I (unintentionally) wrote my first piece of fiction and where I met Socrates, who has traveled with me through life. Thank you also to an unnamed fellow student from that humanities classroom who reminded me what a refuge it was.
Thank you to Detective Courtney Garipoli, an old friend and invaluable resource for all things police-related.
And an awesomechutney thank-you to every fan who has ever written to me or come to see me at events, and to every librarian, teacher, bookseller and blogger who has supported my work. Your support means the world to me, and I will be forever grateful.
ASK THE PASSENGERS
A Junior Library Guild selection
“A beautiful, heartfelt, and honest story that sends love up from every page.”
—JOHN COREY WHALEY, Printz Award–winning author of
Where Things Come Back
“So special and perfect and true and right. This book is made of stardust and guts; I’ll hold it in my heart forever.”
—LAUREN MYRACLE,
New York Times
bestselling author of
ttyl
and
Shine
“I’m sending love to Astrid Jones, for being one of the most reachable, realistic characters that I have ever dared to adore. And I’m sending love to A.S. King, whose positively brilliant writing style never ceases to amaze me.
Ask the Passengers
made me smile, cringe, laugh, and believe in the absolute power of the human spirit. Amazing. Simply amazing.”
—HEATHER BREWER,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Chronicles of Vladimir Tod series “A.S. King is one of the most engaging and innovative writers in the field.
Ask the Passengers
is a wonderful novel about tolerance and the limitations of definition; it should be required reading in all high schools.”
—MATT DE LA PEÑA, author of
Ball Don’t Lie
and
Mexican WhiteBoy
“A warm, thoughtful, and thought-provoking novel about the paradoxes of love, sexual identity, and the magic of connectedness.”
—MALINDA LO, author of
Adaptation
and
Huntress
“In
Ask the Passengers
, A.S. King exquisitely creates a tender, multilayered portrayal of the takeoffs, nose-dives, and loop-the-loops of sexuality, friendship, family, and love.”
—ALEX SANCHEZ, author of
Rainbow Boys
and
Boyfriends with Girlfriends
“In Astrid Jones, A.S. King has created a memorable, thoughtful, funny, questioning protagonist whose search for answers reminds us how important it is to ask the questions in the first place.”
—SARA RYAN, author of
Empress of the World
