Blaze (21 page)

They look at each other and laugh. “Well, of course not, darlin’,” says the woman, prompting me to open the window more, since anyone who calls me “darlin’” can’t possibly be life-threatening.

The guy announces, “We-all been keepin’ an eye on you since we saw you having such a rough time back there around mile-marker 225 or so.”

I blink at the two of them, thinking
who
the
hell’s “we-all”?
but just ask politely, “Who’s been watching me?” I glance in my rearview mirror, picturing Uatu the Watcher tucked in one of those boxes.

“Oh, don’t you worry none.” The man chuckles. “We keep an eye out for four-wheelers who might need a hand. Boy, when we saw the way you was crying yesterday, we kept close tabs on you all the way, well, to here, I suppose. You disappeared around seven last night and channel nineteen’s been buzzing ever since with everybody working to get an eyeball on you.”

“Channel nineteen?”

“On the CB.” The woman smiles. “My handle’s Butterfly, and this here’s Maniac. The two of us wanted to make sure you were safe. Seemed to us you were
extremely
upset.”

“Yeah, well… I’m, uh, dealing with some stuff?” I don’t know what to tell my self-appointed guardians, and it’s a little overwhelming to think of channel nineteen “buzzing” over me. I’ve been getting enough unwanted attention on the World Wide Web and don’t really need my own radio channel.

“We circled around a few times, then spent the night over by the truck stop in Hazleton off exit 262,” says Maniac. “We got a tip early this morning from a fellow on his way to New Jersey. He’d spotted your flamin’ four-wheeler at this here rest stop. And sure enough, here you are.” He grins as if finding me is incredibly meaningful.

“Sure is an interesting paint job for a minivan,” says Butterfly. “Did you do it yourself?”

I nod, trying to get my bearings. The fury that prompted my current pilgrimage has been dampened considerably by all the crying. I wonder if Josh is on the bus to school right now and how he and the boys are reacting to my mortifying photo and fall from grace.

“So, where you headed, darlin’?”

“Oh, God,” I start, and that’s all it takes for me to unload my whole story on the both of them. As I talk, they lean their faces to my window and listen quietly. A few times Maniac starts saying something, but Butterfly bumps his shoulder with hers and he stops. I keep going. I show them the copy of
The
Blazing
Goddess
vs. Mark the Shark
I have tucked in my messenger bag and it makes them ooh and ahh appreciatively.

When I tell them about getting harassed by my schoolmates, my voice falters and their eyes gloss with tears. Then I explain what comment threads are, and they look perplexed but shake their heads with pity. I finish by putting my head on the steering wheel in despair, but Superturd rejects my self-pity by sounding the horn loudly. My head shoots back up, and the two of them leap back, with Maniac’s arm instinctively shielding Butterfly.

“Sorry,” I say meekly, and the three of us laugh together.

Butterfly suggests we move our little discussion on to the next exit so we can eat breakfast. “You’ve got a lot more driving to do,” she says.

“We’ll jump in the rig, and you can follow us,” says Maniac. “There’s a real good truck stop up ahead.” He looks at Butterfly. “Tuggy’s okay with you?”

At her nod, the two of them leave to get their truck, and it isn’t until they drive past, sounding the air horn for me to follow, that I realize they’re driving the shiny mirrored truck. The one that started me crying. As I follow my own reflection to Tuggy’s, I stare at the purple horseshoe mud-flaps and hope I’m a better judge of middle-aged trucker couples than I am of boyfriends.
They
could
be
nuts
, I think as I get off the exit behind them,
and
I
could
be
about
to
disappear
.

I feel oddly okay with that.

• • •

“I called off the search party,” Maniac says as we sit down at a chunky wooden table in Tuggy’s. “We had lots of folks lookin’ for ya.”

“Sorry.” I’ve decided they’re not planning to kidnap me.

“No worries,” says Butterfly. “We can be a little over-protective I know.”

“We like to think of ourselves as highway guardians,” says Maniac. “Channel nineteen is blowing up with fellas glad to hear you’re okay.”

As I eat “the best egg and pancake breakfast in the northeast” the two of them tell me all about themselves and their mission as sentinel truckers.

“My younger sister disappeared off this highway sixteen years ago.” Butterfly gently strokes her neck tattoo as she explains how they may never know whether her sister ran into foul play or disappeared on purpose to get a fresh start. Butterfly has dedicated the past sixteen years first to looking for her sister and then to keeping an eye on women traveling alone. Of course, this had meant she, herself, was oftentimes a woman traveling alone, until she and Maniac met on the CB.

“Channel nineteen,” Maniac smiles.

“At first I didn’t trust him at all,” she says. “Still not sure I do, and we’ve been married going on nine years now.” He gives her a quick rib-tickle and she squirms and laughs in a way that makes her seem young.

“We met by accident, talking while driving side-by-side one night, until he looked over and saw my lips moving.”

“And they were the prettiest lips I’ve ever seen too.” Maniac looks at her like he still can’t believe she’s his.

“Now we mainly drive up and down the east coast, always keeping an eye out for solo travelers,” Butterfly says. “Plus we try to grab a load heading west at least every few months or so…”

“To see my daughter, Dorothy,” Maniac cuts in, smiling as he stabs his eggs. “That girl has become one of the great loves of my life.” I can’t help but be impressed by this man’s capacity to love. He uses the handle of his fork to pick at the grease caked in the cracks of his palm as he explains that his daughter was estranged for many years.

“Dorothy’s mother poisoned the poor girl against her own father.” Butterfly looks angry as she says, “
Crazy-Bitch
,” under her breath.

“That’s what we call my ex-wife,” says Maniac, grinning. “Crazy-Bitch.”

The two of them explain how his ex-wife tried to turn Dorothy against him, but she eventually saw through her mother’s lies. “Crazy-Bitch always did love running the truth through a meat grinder.” Maniac frowns.

Butterfly lays a hand on the side of his goatee. “But then, without Crazy-Bitch, we wouldn’t have Dorothy.”

“We wouldn’t have our Dorothy,” he agrees. “She is such a joy.” The two of them smile at each other, making me nauseous over how beautiful both of their awful, messy lives have turned out for them. Suddenly, I’m not in the mood for the eggs on my plate and I’m nervous about seeing my father.

When I look up, Butterfly’s watching me. As if she’s read my mind she says, “You know, Blaze, your Daddy will be lucky if he gets to know you better. Not being in your life has been
his
loss.”

“Maybe he’s been waiting for a chance to spend some time with you,” adds Maniac. “Give him that chance. You never know what can happen.”

“Right,” I say, trying to look optimistic. “You never know.”

“There you go.” Butterfly practically explodes with happiness over the idea that the two of them helped me. “Now, I’ve got something special for you.” She reaches into her enormous quilted bag and pulls out a scroll of blue velvet. When she unrolls it, I see it’s actually a portable jewelry display holding rows of silver rings in square velvet slots. She traces her finger across a row of thick rings. “Here it is,” she pinches one of them up and holds it for me to see. “I knew this was yours just as soon as I heard your name. Not that your car’s paintjob hadn’t already put it to mind. See there.” She slides the ring smoothly onto the middle finger of my right hand, “Perfect fit.”

I look down at my finger and have to grin. The ring is more of a finger-cuff, really, since the thick silver runs the whole way up to my knuckle. Twisting flames are carved all around, and it couldn’t be more perfect if I’d designed it myself. “It’s beautiful,” I say, “but I can’t.” I start pulling it off my finger half-heartedly, protesting “It’s too nice,” but am relieved when they stop me.

“That there is a Butterfly Original,” says Maniac. “There’s no taking it off your finger once she’s set it there.”

“It’s a gift, from my hands to yours,” she says firmly. “I probably give away more of these things than I sell, but trust me, when I do sell one or two, I make more than enough to pay for all my charity.”

I smile at her briefly, but I can’t take my eyes off the ring for long. There’s a silhouette of a bird in the very center of the flames that I didn’t even notice at first. A phoenix. As I study the ring, Butterfly explains what I already know about the bird rising out of the flames. “It comes from Greek mythology,” she says, “but I’ve given the symbol my own twist. In my experience, sometimes the only way folks can manage to become the person they’re meant, is to have destiny fling them straight into the fire.”

“You’ve clearly got yourself in a fiery ’nough situation,” nods Maniac. “Couldn’t help but notice the profanity on the side of your van.”

Butterfly holds my hand with the ring on it and looks me in the eye. “I was known as a slut back in high school.”

I look at the plump middle-aged woman facing me and have to work to stifle a giggle.

“It’s okay, you can laugh,” she smiles. “See, I never allowed what folks thought of me to change who I am. Let ’em call me a slut. Didn’t make me act like one. Now, my sister, on the other hand.” Butterfly looks at her hands. “She allowed her bad reputation to carry her down a dark path. Figured she might as well be what she was accused of.” She shakes her head sadly.

“I’m so sorry,” I say and she nods.

“Don’t let getting called names change you into something you’re not,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“And every time you look at this ring.” Butterfly holds up my hand. “I want you to remember who you are, Blaze. Fire is a powerful element. No matter how beaten down or how stuck you may feel, you have the power to rise up anew.”

I smile weakly, thinking how much I want to believe her. Maniac sits nodding and looking back and forth between us. “Well now,” he says, “speaking of rising up, I know it’s still morning, but this place has an apple crisp that is to die for.”

I grin in spite of myself and give my awesome new ring a spin around my finger. “I’m in!”

“There’s our girl,” says Butterfly, and all I can say is Maniac sure does know his apple crisp, because it’s absolutely delicious.

Who
knows?
I think as the cinnamony sweetness hugs my tongue.
Maybe
Dad
and
I
will
turn
out
to
be
like
Maniac
and
his
daughter, Dorothy.
Our relationship wasn’t even completely severed for fourteen years like theirs was.

As I give Maniac and Butterfly each a solid hug goodbye and thank them earnestly, Butterfly whispers in my ear, “Those of us that must rise above our circumstances know what we’re made of deep down. Don’t you let anybody make you forget what you’re made of, sweetheart.”

Which would be really helpful advice if I were made of something solid, like maybe Colossus’s organic steel, or the Thing’s orange stone, or even Iceman’s ice. But I’m pretty sure that way deep down, all I’m made of is Fluffernutter.

I still haven’t been able to reach Dad, but once I’m back on the road I try dialing him again with my story all set in my head. I’ll tell him Mom and I discussed it and decided this was a good opportunity for me to check out the city, since I’m thinking of maybe going to college in New York. It’s a complete and total fabrication, of course. My college applications have been sidetracked by hopelessness and sit in an untouched stack under my bed. But I also know he won’t call Mom to check out my story. One of those side benefits of having parents who loathe each other.

“Hey there, kiddo, what’s shaking?” Dad says when my call goes through.

“Oh, hey there, Dad, I—”

“I know, I know. You must’ve gotten the phone message I left yesterday about needing those comics for the Javits Center today.”

Wrong
. “I—”

“And,” he interrupts, “Since they’re not here, I assume you want to apologize for not getting them overnighted yesterday.”

“Actually, I—”

He sighs loudly. “Yeah. It’s okay, really. I mean, I was sort of counting on them being here for Comic-Con, but that’s sure not happening. I’m actually dressed already and working my way into character.”

“Oh, I didn’t know…”

“That’s right, sweetie!” His tone brightens as he apparently forgives me for letting him down. “I’ve got a great gig playing a new character! The Red Cardinal! How cool is that?”

“So, you’ll be like a priest who wears one of those big, tall hat thingies?”

“What? No, I’m not playing a Catholic cardinal, I’m the
Red
Cardinal. He’s a brand new superhero character!” Dad sounds so excited my resolve falters.
He
doesn’t have time to rescue me.

I try to sound glad for him, “Wow, Dad! Congratulations. I haven’t heard of him, but he must be pretty great if they’re making a movie about him.”

“No, no. Not a movie. Well, that is, not a movie
yet
.” Dad laughs. “I’ve been working hard on this role and, hey, you never know who might see me at the Con. All sorts of producers and directors show up at these things, and this is exactly the sort of role that could get me discovered.”

“So you’re working—”

“At Comic-Con today! Over at the Javits Center. Isn’t that great? So listen, sweetie. I’ve really gotta go. I can’t very well show up there and be in character as ‘Blaze’s dad,’ can I?” He laughs again. “Just try to pop those boxes off to me whenever you get a chance, okay?”

I look in my rearview mirror at the boxes of comics and try to imagine how much it would cost to ship them. I can picture myself handing over two giant white sacks with big black dollar signs printed on the sides. As I’m distracted, my dad must finish talking and hang up, because by the time I try to explain that I’m on my way to bring him the comics in person, he’s gone.

Well, nice talking to you too, Dad
. It certainly isn’t the first time I’ve had a one-sided conversation with him, but this is the first time it really matters.

I mentally scroll through my options as I continue driving east on Route 80. Of course, I could try to call him back, but my first instinct is to turn my minivan around at the next exit and go back to face my rotten life. But then, the next exit doesn’t come up for another twenty miles, and in the meantime I rub my phoenix ring and think of Butterfly’s encouragement. I keep hearing Dad’s voice saying “the Jarvis Center” over and over until I know just what to do.

• • •

“Excuse me, how do I get to the Jarvis Center?”

I’ve survived the trip through the filthy, white-bricked Lincoln Tunnel and find myself driving along the crowded streets of Manhattan. They should really have more caution signs warning that you’re entering New York City and maybe post a few tips on how to not drive into anyone. I telepathically command Superturd to suck in her bumpers as I creep along 42nd Street with a sea of other cars.

I reach down to massage my right calf. Traffic has built steadily since I passed through New Jersey, and I’ve been pumping the gas and brake so much my muscles are cramping up. My directions show me how to get to my dad’s place, but he’ll be long gone by now. I need to find the Jarvis Center.

I have no idea if I should be headed uptown or downtown or even which direction is uptown or downtown. The sound of horns honking is constant, and I’m hit with the smell of charcoal. I hope nothing’s on fire, because we’re all pretty much packed between the buildings with no place to run.

The people of Manhattan seem glossy and mint-out-of-the-box, many of them wearing business suits with their hair slicked back. Both male and female. The official city color seems to be head-to-toe black, but there are plenty of dissenters who display their individuality by dressing like freaks. I grip the steering wheel at ten and two, taking in the crazy outfits accessorized with a plethora of chains, piercings, and mohawks. Every hair color imaginable is represented within five city blocks. I’ve seen old ladies with blue hair, but never bright green before. My pink is quite unremarkable all of a sudden. I’m clearly not in Butler anymore.

I try asking a few pedestrians for directions, but they mostly look at me like I’m crazy or something. Like, pedestrians and drivers don’t speak to each other in this city, despite being the two main ingredients, with a few cyclists sprinkled in for flavor. Flavor of
crazy
, that is. Because one thing’s for sure—the protective buffer of my minivan is my only comfort right now. I vow to never wish Superturd into anything small and cool and carjack-worthy ever again.

No wonder so many superheroes hang out in Manhattan. It’s a savage concrete wonderland with more people packed on one sidewalk than there are in my entire high school. It’s only too easy to imagine costumed heroes standing on the skyscrapers and swinging between the buildings on either side of me.

And I’m keeping an eye out because, boy, could I use a superhero about now.

“Excuse me, how do I get to the Jarvis Center?” I repeat over and over, feeling like I may end up trapped here in endless traffic for all eternity. Everyone seems to be in a hurry to get somewhere important. I feel the most lost I’ve ever felt.

I finally manage to get a nice-looking couple on the sidewalk to respond to my question. Unfortunately, their answer is to laugh and clap each other on the back as they tell me with Swedish accents that they’re tourists too. Apparently they’re flattered to have some teenager in a minivan from the sticks mistake them for New Yorkers.

As I continue down 42nd Street, I see marquees for movies-turned-musicals, and the traffic grows steadily even tighter. Following my Mapquest printout, I make a right onto 10th Avenue. Mapquest has no idea where Jarvis is, but nobody else seems to want to help me. I inch my way down the center lane as cars, cabs, and buses continually cut in front of me. Looking up, I spot a woman on top of a red double-decker bus snapping a picture of my minivan’s paintjob. Which I might find completely hilarious under different circumstances.

A few blocks later, my first real New Yorker finally speaks to me.

I call out to a taxi driver for what feels like the zillionth time. “Where is the Jarvis Center?!”

The cabbie looks over and smiles at me. Nodding, he calls back, “
”

Great.

“You mean
Javits
.” A voice floats from my other side. I turn to my left, and above my window is a young man leaning from the cab of a big black semi. “You’re Butterfly and Maniac’s girl!” He seems pleased to see me. “I recognized the flame job on your van. Nice. Those two had everybody within range looking for you last night.” He’s tan and good-looking, with teeth that crowd a bit in the front. “Heard the news this morning they called off the hounds, but it’s still good to see you’re okay.”

The kindest fellow in Manhattan has me follow him toward the Javits Center, which, as it turns out, is back in the direction I came from. He gestures where I’m to turn right, and I wave my thanks. He honks his booming horn in response, and for a split second I have the image of myself as a trucker, meeting nice people and seeing all the states from the cab of a semi. I could even get one of those big maps and fill in all the colored stickers as I visit every state.

But I still have something I have to do before I resort to a life of trucking. I need to find my dad.

• • •

Finding him may be an even bigger super-challenge than finding the Javits Center.

The moment I see the giant glass Mecca, I start feeling overwhelmed. Huge red banners proclaim “COMIC-CON,” and people flow inward from every side. It’s as if they’re being sucked off the streets by a giant vacuum. I drive past the building and finally find a parking spot seven blocks beyond. I read and re-read the cryptic coded parking signs before finally deciding that since it’s not between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. on a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, and it’s not between midnight and 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, Thursday, or Saturday, it might be okay to leave the minivan for one-hour parking. Maybe. And unless the No Standing During Emergency, Snow Route sign is invoked, which seems unlikely considering the warmish day we’re having, I feel about fifty-fifty that Superturd won’t get towed.
Good
enough
for
me.

I walk toward Javits with the massive flow of happy Comic-Con goers. There’s an electricity flowing through the clumps of people wearing superhero T-shirts and
Star
Wars
T-shirts and T-shirts with snarky sayings like
You
read
my
T-shirt; that’s enough social interaction for today
. I’m entering an utter mob scene. I can’t help but feel a little bit excited.

My eyes widen as I step onto the tiled floor of the four-story-high glassed-in entryway. I take a program from a giant bin by the door that’s filled to the top. As I casually read it over, my inner geek-girl does a funky dance in my chest.
Happy
, is all I can think as I scan the list of exhibitors. Besides all the major comic book publishers, there are movie giveaways, book signings, and a number of young celebrities popping by. There’s even a section where artists can have their artwork evaluated. I touch my messenger bag and think of the copy of
The
Blazing
Goddess
vs. Mark the Shark
tucked neatly inside. Pushing that spark of hope down, I think,
just
gotta
find
Dad
.

I follow the crowd to another bin labeled “Badge Holders” and take out one of the red ribbons covered with sponsor names clipped to an empty plastic pocket. It’s apparently designed to hold the colorful cards I see a number of people waving gleefully. I place it around my neck and step onto the line marked “Didn’t Order Badges Online.” Considering the throng of people moving across the giant hall, the line isn’t very long. I soon discover why. Comic-Con has totally sold out and they aren’t selling any more entry badges.

“Should’ve ordered online, babe,” says the guy behind the counter. “Or at least gotten here by six a.m. to wait in line.” He’s wearing a T-shirt with a
POW!
design that says “Comic-Con Staff” on it. “Cool bag, though.” He points to my superhero button collection, and then he’s finished with our conversation. But I can’t be. I have to get into that exhibit hall and find my father. If I try waiting at the doors and hoping to spot him, my minivan filled with precious comics will get towed for sure. Thinking fast, I reach into my “cool” messenger bag.

“Do you know where Butler, Pennsylvania is?”

The guy looks annoyed I’m still here, despite his claim that he likes my bag.

“Well, let me tell you,” I rush on. “It is very far away. Very far. And I drove here through the night just to meet some publishers and get my work evaluated.”

I open my comic to face him, and he leans in, taking in the pages as I leaf through a few of them. “These aren’t bad,” he says, placing his palm on a layout that shows
The
Blazing
Goddess
displaying ample flexibility. “She seems cool, what’s her story?”