Nothing Special (8 page)

But, instead of just running around Bluffton and jumping up and down like a monkey and cursing Andrew's name, I paused, breathed, sat back down, and Googled “Rose” Reinstein.

Every result that came up on the Google page referred to me, except for the very first one. I stared at this result. It was an obituary from the
Fort
Myers
News-Press
dated March 29 (the same week when everything went bad for me—and you, I guess, Aleah). I took a deep breath and then clicked on the link. Here's what I saw:

Rose Reinstein, 71, of Fort Myers died the morning of Wednesday, March 28, surrounded by family. Survived by her beloved husband, Stan; daughter, Evith (David Halpen); granddaughter, Tovi; and two grandsons, Felton and Andrew. Preceded in death by son, Steven. Born in Prague (the Czech Republic); an accomplished tennis player and track athlete in her youth. Rose played golf at Fiddlesticks with the same group for fifteen years and volunteered for numerous local organizations. She was a beautiful light to all who knew her. Services will be at the Centennial Cemetery on Monday. In lieu of flowers, please send gifts to the American Cancer Society.

Holy God, Aleah.

Do you have any idea? I mean, what the holy freaking…what?

Rose. Stan. Steven.

Tovi?

Andrew. (Poor Andrew.)

Felton.

Rose and Stan. My grandparents. I met them when I was a little kid (tiny). A couple times. In Florida too. (That other time I flew.) I could picture a skinny woman with big hands and a giant smile that took up the bottom half of her face. She had black, curly hair like mine. This is what I knew too: these grandparents, they did not like Jerri. They did not like Grandma Berba. They stayed away from Andrew and me entirely: no cards, no phone calls, no anything.

(I didn't know anything.)

They lost their son because he killed himself in our garage (Dad).

And, Rose, my grandmother, died of cancer.

• • •

Jesus, Aleah. It's like five in the morning.

I was just going to leave it at that, Aleah. I finally (like three hours ago) fell asleep thinking: that's all she needs to know, that Andrew disappeared because of something to do with my dad's parents (one of whom is totally dead, like Dad). Aleah's not my family. Ronald has probably told her everything anyway and she never bothered to contact me, which is terrible.

Aleah? You've really made me feel bad. Do you know that? What am I suppose to do?

Forget it.

Want to know something funny? There's a heat wave in the South. One airport is having delays because of pavement issues. One airport just shut down completely because of some kind of power outage. Fort Myers is fine, apparently, but they're having problems with planes getting where they need to be everywhere in the system. I am very confused.

I actually said to the gate agent, without stuttering or stumbling, because I was pissed: “The South doesn't know how to handle hot weather? That's ridiculous.”

“Not this kind of hot, sir. This is unprecedented.”

Sir? Unprecedented? Like in the world? Makes me worry about the future.

Now they won't tell me if my flight's going to get the crap out of here on time.

I am angry.
Angry! Monkey chest pound
.

I do not enjoy air travel, for it puts me in prison.

• • •

My legs feel like Jell-O. Donkey needs to run.

What if I'm stuck in Chicago forever?

Jerri would come get me.

Your dad is still in Bluffton, so he can't just drive over to O'Hare and take me for breakfast.

Maybe I'll still be here when you get back from Germany on Friday morning. Then you can spit on my shoes in person.

Or maybe we'd make up?

No. Maybe.

Gus and I sort of made up after I received that unbelievable email from Randy Stone. Who could I call? Who could I talk to? Not Jerri, you know? After falling on the floor for like three hours, I decided no, no, no Jerri.

I called Gus.

(After I left Andrew several hysterical voice mails, by the way.)

Gus didn't pick up when I called, of course. But in my message I pretty much shouted: “Check your email immediately!” Then I forwarded him the child detective Randy Stone dispatch.

Gus called me back about thirty seconds after I hit
Send
.

“Holy shit!”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Randy Freaking Stone! Andrew!”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “I'm sorry I blamed you for that crap.”

“I wish I did it because Randy Stone's awesome, but I didn't,” Gus said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Jesus. That drunken, bony unicorn girl told the truth, didn't she?”

“Looks that way,” I said.

“Whoa, man. So weird.”

Gus knowing about this made me feel better.

“Where do you think he went? Is he smoking cigarettes, that sly devil? What the hell is going on? What's all that ‘rosy' babble about at the end?”

“I think he's probably in Florida. I think maybe with our cousin, Tovi. I don't know for sure, though.”

“Evidence?”

“He posted a picture of a pelican on feltonreinstein.com.”

“Solid.”

“Couple days ago he claimed his new friend at orchestra camp is named Tovi.”

“So?”

“The Rose babble at the bottom led me to my grandma's obituary where a girl named Tovi is listed as our cousin.”

“Grandma? Grandma Berba? What do you mean? Grandma who?”

“Grandma Rose Reinstein.”

“Wow.” Gus's voice lost its normal edge. No one else in the world other than Andrew and Jerri would know exactly what that meant. (Long. Lost. Grandparent.) “No shit, Felton.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Seriously.”

“What are you going to do? Tell Jerri?”

“I don't know. I don't know…No.”

“Whoa,” he said.

“I don't know,” I said.

“Aw, Jesus Christ, Felton.”

“What?”

“Do you want to hang out or something?” he asked, clearly not totally convinced he should.

“Yeah,” I said. “Please.”

“Okay,” he sort of whispered.

• • •

Announcement on loudspeaker…

Oh, god-dang dog crap
.

My flight is now officially delayed.

I'm in prison, Aleah.

At least another two hours…

Just talked to Jerri. She says she'll drive down to Chicago right now to pick me up and take me home. I'm only supposed to be in Florida until Thursday at the ass cracker of dawn (to get Andrew).

“Is it really worth this?” she asked me. “You could go to football practice the rest of the week so you'll be ready for your game, and you know Andrew is fully capable of taking care of himself. He's fine.”

“No,” I told her. “I want to go to Florida.”

Now I'm not exactly sure I'm making the right choice. I mean, in a lot of ways, I really don't want to go to the Dangling Sack (Florida). Most ways, really.
Okay…Okay…Calm, boy
. I can't just run away.

Do
not
be
reactionary, young Felton. You want to be there for your poor brother, Andrew.

Reactionary. Monkeys fling their own poop, Aleah. Why? Because it's there.

• • •

Gus and I spent that afternoon driving around trying to figure out what Andrew, aka Detective Randy Stone, was up to.

“Is there any way the little dude is actually at camp and is pulling stuff just to mess with you? You know, asking Emily to spread rumors and then sending weird emails and grandparent links?” Gus asked.

“No. I don't think he's into random torment. I think he has a real agenda. He always seems to, anyway.”

“Such a weird kid, man. And you're not telling Jerri because…? What? Her crazy breakdown last summer?”

“Yeah.”

Gus smoked cigarettes, which I don't appreciate very much, but what was I going to say: “Please don't smoke in your car while you try to help me even though you don't like me anymore?” Then, when he ran out of cigarettes, we drove over to Maddie's house to pick her up, because apparently she's his supplier.

“I don't want Maddie to know about this.”

“Uh. She already does. I called her before I picked you up,” Gus said.

“Everyone's going to find out!” I shouted at him.

“Maddie is far more loyal and dependable than the people you know,” Gus said.

Maddie smoked many, many cigarettes, especially after we purchased two more packs at this decrepit gas station out in Stitzer that didn't even question her status as an eighteen-year-old. (She is fifteen.) I rode in the backseat. They cranked music. I thought about how I should be running, packing, getting ready for Michigan instead of sitting there gulping poison. Gus smoked even more cigarettes. I hacked and hacked in the gross Toyota backseat, while they smoked those freaking cigarettes and sang along to loud songs. Everything in the world smelled like their smoke.

I like Gus, though. I do. He's good. Maddie's good too.

We drove out to Belmont Mound Woods and climbed the old fire tower out there. Maddie talked a million miles a minute, even as we climbed up, which impressed me because how could Missy Smokes-so-much get enough air in her tarred and feathered lungs?

“Let him live his life, Felton,” she said. “Andrew's finding out the truth about your whole thing, right? Figuring out the family. It's amazing. Let him do it, man.”

“Yeah, but I don't know what he's doing, and he could totally get killed or something.”

“By who? His old grandpa?” she asked. “His grandpa's going to kill him?”

“No. By gangs, maybe. He's alone and tiny. I don't know that he's with our grandfather. I'm pretty sure our grandpa hates us.”

Gus piped in. “You should call your grandfather, man. He might be in on this, don't you think? Where's the money coming from? Trips to Florida aren't free. He probably paid to get Andrew down there, but he really has to know that Andrew's a slippery little bitch,” Gus said.

“Please.” My chest ached when Gus said that. “Please. Stop calling him ‘bitch.'”

“Sorry. He is slippery like a mossy rock.”

“He's awesome beautiful,” Maddie said. “Andrew's like a French film.”

“He's crazy like a French film,” said Gus.

I thought about calling my grandfather, and my stomach knotted up and I pretty much dry-heaved. I had no idea really who he was, and anything I knew was bad. (Grandma Berba said terrible things about him.)

From up on top of Belmont Tower you can see a ton of rolling southwest Wisconsin. You can see the backside of the big mound with the M on it where you and me hung out, where I used to run, and where my dad used to run before me.
You
should
be
running, not hanging out with skinny jean smokers…

Then Gus said, “We should go to Fort Myers.”

Maddie said, “
Yeah!
”

Gus said, “Just me and Felton, probably. We don't want kidnapping charges, Mads. Your mom would totally press charges. Let me think.”

I said, “What? What? Jesus.
How?
”

“Let me think,” Gus said.

• • •

Damn it. They're announcing something over the loudspeaker, but I can't freaking understand a word of it. What a damn joke.

The airline is offering vouchers for people not to fly. That means if I choose not to take this flight to Fort Myers I could get a later flight and then get a free ticket any place in the U.S. Great news, except I have no place else to fly. They aren't even certain there will be a plane available to go to Fort Myers for this flight, Aleah. I really wish I were driving.

Maybe I should call Jerri? Shit…

• • •

Okay. Jerri was sitting in the living room when Gus and Maddie dropped me off that night. It was 10 p.m., so she was pretty sleepy, because 10 p.m. is what she calls her “witching hour” (which I don't understand because why would “witching” make you sleepy?). When I climbed the stairs she said, “Who were you with?”

“Gus.”

“I can smell that.”

“Oh?”

“I hope you don't do things that Gus does.”

“Of course I don't.”

“Well…your dad, you know genetics…You should tell Gus to cut it out. I saw him smoking in front of the Piggly Wiggly the other day. He's going to get himself addicted.”

“Dad?”

“Nothing, okay?” Jerri said. She was a little pale.

“Are you okay?”

“Just Andrew didn't call tonight,” she said. “I'm worried.”

“He's probably busy.”

“I know. He said he wouldn't call every night.”

“Right,” I nodded.

“Wish you hadn't accused him of running away,” Jerri said.

“Ha, ha, ha…I'm crazy,” I said.

“I almost called the camp today to…”

“No need to do that! I talked to Andrew. He's fine. He's doing great. I'm paranoid.”

“You talked to him?”

“Yeah!”

“Good. Good. I'm actually glad you care about him, Felton. It's not always clear.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I'm going to bed,” Jerri said.

That hurt. Shouldn't have shocked me that she'd say that, of course.

Later, I sat awake imagining Andrew alone in Florida, a little homeless boy panhandling on a beach.

Here's what's weird: I couldn't really be sure he was in Fort Myers, not from the freaking Randy Stone emails, you know? It could all be a smoke screen…But, actually, I knew. I knew it. I knew he was there. I also knew this: there was no way in hell I wanted to go to Florida.

Possibly meet my dad's dad?

No
way
.

But…I knew I could go. I knew I could work it out. I knew I maybe should go…

There was only one place I wanted to go less than Florida: the Michigan technique camp.

I texted Gus:
I
might
have
a
plan.