Goodbye, Rebel Blue Hardcover (19 page)

Mr.
Star Trek
whistles. The bodies spread out. Laundry Mom gives my hand another squeeze.

“Bow to your partner!” Mr.
Star Trek
calls out. “Now bow to your corner!”

Around us shoppers stop eating. People stop on the stairs. The girl at the pretzel cart stops twisting pretzel dough. A fiddler standing in the middle of the food court starts swinging his bow.

“Circle round, now circle round!” Mr.
Star Trek
calls.

The ants circle, and I crash into the old lady, a dagger of pain piercing my knee.

“You’re circling the wrong way, dear,” she says as she pats my shoulder. “Circle right, circle right.”

Laundry Mom and I hold hands and promenade. “I don’t hate my life,” she says over the fiddle music. “And I don’t hate the twins. I hate laundry, and only some of the time.” Her cheeks are as rosy as the toddlers sitting in the stroller, clapping along with the song.

At last Mr.
Star Trek
whistles again, and the music stops. Everyone drops hands and heads back to their tables and shopping.

“Is that the coolest thing or what?” Laundry Mom squeezes my hand. “I’ve never participated in a flash mob before. I mean, we’re total strangers one minute, then we’re connected.” The tired lines around her eyes smooth out. “And we’ll probably never see each other again.” She grabs both of my hands and brings them to her chest. “What’s your name?”

“Rebecca. Rebecca Blue.”

“Well, Rebecca, I’m Samantha Grayson, and I’m glad we were here. Together. At this moment.”

After one more squeeze, she grabs the stroller and wheels away, her ponytail bobbing.

That’s when I realize that the chill that had settled in under the bleachers is gone. Warmth floods my arm.

You were here for me when I needed you, and I’m here for you.

THE NEXT MORNING I LIMP TO PERCY’S OFFICE, A large maintenance supply closet near Unit One. He stands at his workbench, where an easel with a single broken leg lies like an amputee on an operating table. As usual, his eye twitches as he works.

I lean my hip against his workbench, and my messenger bag falls to the ground with a heavy
clunk.
Today I need a place far away from crowds and track hurdles and flash mobs. Today I need to turn off the world, because I need to think.

For weeks Kennedy has been in my head, talking about fate and destiny, and I’ve been arguing that the choices I make control me. They make me who I am and determine my future. But last night at the flash mob, I had a chance encounter with Samantha Grayson, who was exactly where I needed her when I needed her, and vice versa. I threw a life preserver at a mother drowning in laundry, and she warmed my hands. Kennedy would have said that some higher being or unseen force had brought us together.

I slide along the side of the workbench and sit on a five-gallon bucket of something called Sudsy Blue. “Hi,” I tell Percy.

He takes a screw from the easel’s lone leg. “Haven’t seen you in detention lately.”

“I’m too busy attempting to do good.”

“Smart girl.”

“I’m not too sure about that.” I tug at a button on one of my pants pockets.

At the workbench, Percy takes out another screw. Unlike Kennedy, Percy appreciates silence. He gave me earplugs my freshman year and told me it was okay to turn off the noise. He also got the principal to okay my Red Rocket trees, and I gave him one of Macey’s pies. We are friends. And, according to Kennedy Green, friends talk.

I tap my foot against my bag, the shark teeth jangling. “Were you really almost killed in the Gulf War?”

Percy slides the broken leg off the easel. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Kennedy Green, the girl who died last month. She said you told her you were in a convoy that was bombed in Iraq.”

Percy picks up another broken easel. “Yep. She’s got—I mean, she had—a way with people.”

True. Dead and alive. At first I thought Kennedy was a moron, but she’s far from dumb. I shake my head. “It’s crazy, Percy. After only twenty minutes in detention, she got me to admit my greatest fears. And now she’s got me … she’s got me wondering about things.”

Percy nods gravely.

“So why are you here, Percy? And I don’t mean at this school or in this room. Why did you survive that roadside bomb in Iraq when others didn’t?”

Percy takes the second easel apart and then works on a third and fourth, tossing the broken pieces into a large garbage bin. Finally he sets the screwdriver on a potter’s wheel with a broken foot pedal, reaches into his pocket, and takes out a penny.

“You’re not going to offer me a penny for my thoughts, are you?” I ask.

Percy drops the penny onto my hand. It’s an old one, dulled and smoothed with time. I turn it over and try to make out the date: 1955. There’s something odd about it. I study both sides. Lincoln’s head is exactly where it needs to be, but the Lincoln Memorial is missing from the other side. Instead, two feathers curve the back side—no, not feathers. “Sprigs of wheat?”

“Yep. Wheat penny. Government stopped making them in 1958, so not many around these days.

Got that one from my grandma. She told me it was good luck and to carry it with me wherever I go.”

“And you do?”

“Yep. Had it with me in the Gulf.”

I stare incredulously from Percy to the penny. “So you’re saying you’re here, you survived that roadside bomb, because of a lucky penny?”

“I’m saying there’s a lot about this world we don’t know and never will. Could be luck. Could be fate. Could be the spirit of old Abe himself keeping me safe.” Percy folds my fingers over the penny.

“But I’ll hang my hat on a guardian angel.”

I’m here for you.

Today Mr. Phillips wears a tie splattered with amoeba intestines. Squiggles of red curl in and out of brown and black smudges. No green. No blue.

Blue-green, the world’s most perfect color.

Nate walks in and tosses his backpack onto my lab table. His fingers brush against mine.

“Everything okay?” he asks. Of course he notices I’m in a thoughtful mood. I’ve been thinking about Kennedy and guardian angels, which is ludicrous, because the presence of a guardian angel would indicate the existence of a being in need of guarding, which would not be me. I grind the inside of my cheek with my back molars.

The tardy bell rings, and Mr. Phillips’s lips move, but I don’t hear what he says. Pennies are circles of copper, nothing more than a metal designated by the letters
Cu
on the periodic table. A good-luck penny did not save Percy. A guardian angel did not save Percy. The choices Percy made that day in the Gulf saved Percy. He chose that seat on that side of the convoy truck. He chose to wear his helmet and what to hold in front of his chest.

I pop my neck, jerking my head from one side to the other, and take out my biology notebook and pencil stub. I choose to arrive on time for biology. I choose to have Nate in my life. I choose to complete Kennedy’s bucket list. Believing in fate and destiny and guardian angels doesn’t make sense.

I’m responsible for my successes and failures. Power comes from within, and the only person who can hold me back is me.

When the bell rings, signaling class is over, I toss my pencil into my bag. A large, pale hand settles on the top page of my notebook before I can close it.

“Ms. Blue.” Mr. Phillips drums his index finger on the paper. “It saddens me that you find your time in biology a total waste.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your … um … notes.” He points to my notebook, covered in drawings of dozens of pennies. In most of them Lincoln wears horns, a mustache, or an arrow through his head.

“I have other things on my mind,” I say.

“That’s obvious.” The amoebas on Mr. Phillips’s tie pulse and swirl. He taps his pointer on his thigh and raises both eyebrows.

“What do you want from me—blood?” I ask.

Mr. Phillips sighs. “A bit more focus, work ethic, and respect would be nice.”

“Fine.” I rip the page from the notebook and tear it in half, again and again. “It’s gone. All of it gone. Not a damned penny in sight!” I throw the pieces at the wastebasket, but most float about the room, landing on desks, the floor, and Mr. Phillips’s shoe. “How’s that?”

Mr. Phillips doesn’t move at first. He sets his pointer on his desk and pulls a pink pad from his back pocket. “Detention. How’s that?”

Ms. Lungren places a tattered box of crayons on my desk and one on Macey’s. “Today you’re going to get in touch with your artistic sides.”

I should be ecstatic. Instead, I curse myself as I raise my hand.

“Yes, Rebecca?”

“I have track practice this afternoon. Is it possible to make other arrangements?”

“The track team will have to wait.”

Life’s a bitter bitch. For the first time in detention, I get to do something artistic, and all I can think about is my promise to my cousin. It’s day two of track practice, and already I’m failing to “just show up.”

But the thing that pisses me off the most is that I care.

“Sometimes words fail us,” Lungren says. “They don’t adequately allow us to express our feelings, but that doesn’t mean we should keep our feelings bottled inside, because when that happens, oftentimes you explode.” She sets a large piece of white drawing paper on each of our desks. “I want you to draw a picture of the various feelings you experienced today, especially the strong feelings.

Your artistic rendering can be of people or places or even words. Or you may choose a more abstract expression. The goal is to express your feelings in a safe and healthy way. Please get started.”

Macey twirls a crayon, peachy orange. I dig through my box, my frown sharpening to a glare at the green crayon.

I push away the box and stand. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Lungren nods. “Five minutes.”

In the bathroom I steady my hands on the cold porcelain of the sink and inspect the girl in the mirror. Same blue streaks. Same sharky strap on my messenger bag. Same me. My forehead rests on the hard, smooth glass. But I don’t feel like me. I bang my forehead against the mirror, the thud echoing through the bathroom.

The door swings open. Macey glides in and hoists herself up onto the other sink. “What’s wrong?”

Peeling my face off the mirror, I turn on the water and cup my hands under the spray. “I kissed Nate, joined the track team, and made friends with a mom who uses cloth diapers.”

“Is that supposed to make sense?”

“On some twisted level.” And that’s just it. Somehow my life got twisted into something I don’t recognize. I splash water on my face, one handful after another, as if trying to wash away this person I’ve become. Macey turns off the water, and I rest my wrists on the sink.

“Seriously, how are you
feeling
?” Macey asks.

What is it about death that makes people want to talk about
feelings
? After my mom died, Aunt Evelyn was obsessed with my feelings, and ever since Kennedy died, I’ve been asking Macey about her feelings and talking to a total stranger about her feelings concerning laundry. The truth is, life was much easier when I chose to keep my feelings to myself and my nose out of other people’s lives.

I fling my hands, water flying and my wrists clanking on the counter. “I’m angry.”

“I get that, but there’s usually something under the anger.”

“More anger. I’m really,
really
angry.”

“No, it’s like …” Macey tugs at a long, ghosty lock of hair hanging along the side of her face.

“It’s like pie. Anger is the crust, and below the crust is the filling, which is really the heart of the pie.

The crust masks something deeper, stuff like sadness or fear.”

I cradle my face in my hands. “I’m not sure I can handle pie therapy right now.”

“Try it.”

I lift my head and glare at her. “Fine. I’m mad at Mr. Phillips because he gave me another detention.”