Riding the Universe (7 page)

P
rivate sanctuaries are private for a reason—so one can reflect, loiter, and nap without mothers interrupting to ask that you hang up the laundry before it rots in the washing machine. But Gordon looked so defeated, so tortured standing there, I knew he desperately needed a break, and I don't know of a better place for one.

Given our petty arguments, I realize how inconsistent it is to be sharing my sanctuary with him, but inconsistency is consistent with the way Gordon makes me feel. I guess that's what people mean by love-hate relationships. Like now: I feel strangely hyper as Gordon follows me.
Wait, he is still following me, isn't he?

I check the mirror. Yep. Still there.

I turn onto the Murphys' street, where the weeds grow longer than they should and the houses could use a new coat of paint. I gun Lolita down the road, thrilling at the dip, then turn into the Murphys' driveway.

Gordon follows, but I know that dip is just not the same in his car. I pull up to the gravel road leading to the dock and cut the engine. Gordon's tires crunch over the ground and come to a stop. As I take off my gear, I notice him sitting frozen in his car. That boy has issues. I nod to encourage him. A few feet away, an egret watches us.

Finally, Gordon gets out and trudges over. “Where are we?”

The buzz and chirping of a hundred or more insects in the sawgrass welcome me. “Do you mean literally or figuratively?”

“Any explanation will do.”

I start down the path, Gordon at my side. “Literally, we're at an estuary. Figuratively, this is my home.”

He nods with a smirk.

“I may as well live here. I'm always here.” We step onto the old planks and walk up to the dock's edge. The water is slimy brown today. Between the patches, you can see pipefish feeding off the surface slime.

Gordon stands there, arms folded. “Is this the place you desperately wanted me to see?” He smiles, playfully bumping my arm with his side. Gordon is a big, strong boy, so I nearly fall over when he does this.
Not
something I'm used to.

I sit on the dock, dangling my legs over the edge, and lean back. “Make fun of it all you want, but stay here long enough and you'll see this place is magical.”

“This place is in desperate need of environmental intervention, is what it is.”

“The water's
supposed
to look this way,” I say. “It's fresh and salt mixed together. There's a whole delicate biodiversity thing going on.”

“I know. I was just teasing.” He sits next to me, blocking the sun. We look out and listen to the sounds of the swamp, taking in nature's voices, but Gordon still seems uncomfortable. He's too quiet.

What would Rock do if he saw me here with Gordon? Probably ask a million questions.
Who's the dude? Why'd you bring him here? You think he's hot, don't you?
In my peripheral vision, I notice Gordon peering out at some movement in the water. I take the opportunity to check him out real quick. He hasn't shaved in a day or two. When he's off guard, it's easy to see that Gordon is pretty hot.

What makes him irresistible at the moment, though, is that he's here with me. He could be doing his thing at home, studying, playing Sudoku, filling out college applications, but he's not. He's making an effort to connect with me, to take me up on my challenge, and to show that there's more to him than meets the eye.

“You okay?” I ask.

He wraps his arms around his knees. “I guess so. I just…I don't know what I'm doing here.”

“So go if you're not comfortable. You don't have to—”

“No,” he interrupts, his voice firm with resolution. “I'm comfortable. I am. That's what I don't understand. I shouldn't be comfortable here. Normally, just sitting around would make me feel like I'm wasting time, when I should
be taking advantage of every waking moment to advance myself any way I can.”

“Glad to hear it.” I didn't want to change Gordon completely, strip him of his identity or anything. I only wanted him to relax a little, so this is good. Really good. “Sometimes,” I tell him, “I sit here and I'm in a trance. It doesn't matter what's happened during the day, doesn't matter what's going on in the world around me, I just feel calm.”

“I believe that's called meditating?”

“Okay. Forgive me if it takes me fifty words to say what takes you one.” I laugh. He does too.

I stare out at the water and the ripples on the surface. “But other times,” I say, “I sit here and think about people in other places, living lives parallel to mine. Like, maybe some woman in Afghanistan is right at this very moment searching for her missing children, hiding to save her life, while I'm sitting here like a spoiled little princess, worrying whether or not it'll rain today or whether I'll get to keep my motorcycle another year.”

“You can't do anything about that woman in Afghanistan, so don't even worry yourself over it. This world needs all kinds of people. You need the poor as much as you need the rich. You need the bad so you can have the good, and you need the unhappy to have the grateful. It's a balance. Like your ecosystem.”

“Okay, so who's been cracking open fortune cookies besides me?” I ask.

“It's true.” He lies down, arms folded across his chest.

“And I thought
I
was cynical.”

“You?” He laughs. “You're the least-cynical person I know.”

That's funny, because Rock seems to think otherwise. It's amazing how one conversation with Gordon takes everything I've ever thought and turns it into a pretzel.

“And I'm not being cynical, I'm just being realistic,” he says, closing his eyes.

Could he be right? If it weren't for that imaginary woman in Afghanistan, I might not think about how grateful I am. I might be a real spoiled brat, like this one girl Rock was seeing who he kept complaining about. She was never happy with anything. After a while, I finally asked him, “If you're so annoyed with her, why are you still hooking up with her?”

To which he answered, “Because of the sex,” scoffing at me like it was the dumbest question he'd ever heard.

Then the horror of that idea stops me. Is that why Gordon's here? Did he incorrectly read my intentions for inviting him? I look over. Gordon seems to be in a state of near slumber, a state I've been in many a time here at the Murphys' dock, so I seriously doubt he is pursuing sexual favors.

“Why do you ride a motorcycle?” he says suddenly. So much for the slumber theory.

“My uncle gave it to me.”

“He
gave
you a motorcycle? What is he, crazy?”

“He's dead.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn't know.” A moment goes by where neither of us says anything.

“He died of leukemia. Last summer.” My words are like little boomerang darts that shoot out, then turn around and stab me.

“What kind?”

“Acute myelogenous.” Two words I'll never forget. “He slipped into a coma for two weeks, and then died.”

“Sorry, Chloé.” He shakes his head.

“No one is sorrier than me, believe me. We were really close, and we built that bike from the ground up. It took us a whole year.”

“Ahh,” he says. “I get it now.”

“He was my adoptive mom's brother,” I add.

“You're adopted?”

I nod.

He seems taken aback. “What's that like?”

“Well, I was only a few weeks old when they adopted me, and I grew up knowing this, so I won't find out my life was a lie at thirty.”

“Which is good.”

“Which is good,” I repeat, watching the clouds move in swiftly. “I never really gave it much thought before, but lately, I've been wondering about my birth parents more. What they're like, why they left me, who I look like, all that stuff. Not that knowing those things will change anything—I mean, I love my adoptive parents, nothing will ever change that.”

“I don't blame you for wondering. I would too. Just natural, I guess.”

“I guess,” I say, happy that someone can sympathize. Somehow, it makes this easier.

“I'm sure they had good reasons, though—your birth parents.”

“Well, that's what I've always told myself. But still, I just
want answers, so I can stop thinking about it so much. Does that make sense?”

He nods slowly. “That it does. Tough stuff. But you're pretty smart to handle it that way.”

I try not to smile too much, lest he think I've never heard anybody call me smart before. I don't know why his words send me reeling, but they do. Validation coming from a guy like Gordon can do weird things to a girl. “Thanks.”

He clears his throat. “But about the bike…aren't you afraid of becoming roadkill?”

I turn on my side to face him, propping my head on my hand. “That is so typical.”

“Of what?”

“Of people who've never ridden a motorcycle.”

“How do you know I've never ridden one?” I know he can't be serious. He is so bluffing, it's not even funny.

I close my eyes, and the combination of heat and swamp noises starts to lull me. “You haven't, or you wouldn't be asking me that question. Are you judging me again, Gordon?”

“No, I'm only asking because you don't seem like someone who wouldn't care about possibly getting killed in an accident. You seem conscientious.”

“I
am
conscientious.”

“But people at school see you as this rebel without a cause.”

“I don't care how people see me. And just because I ride a motorcycle doesn't mean I'm a rebel.”

“Yeah, but how many girls—guys even—do you see riding motorcycles to school? Going against the grain is rebellious by definition.”

“Well, I'm not doing it to be rebellious. It's just what I love. It's not a front or fake. Lolita is a part of me.”

“Who?”

“Lolita. My bike.”

He looks at me incredulously then starts laughing. And right when I think it's over, he keeps laughing. I purse my lips and wait for the hysterics to end. “Oh, man…God, Chloé, that's…so awesome.”

“What? That you laugh at the most mundane things?”

He laughs even harder. “You think it's mundane to give your bike a name?”

“I didn't name her. My uncle did. Can I ask you something?”

“No.” He grins.

“This is going to sound strange, but…did you cover my motorcycle with a tarp a couple of weeks ago?”

“Uh…no. Why?” Judging from his reaction, either he really didn't, or he's a good faker.

“No reason. Someone covered her in the rain the first day of tutoring, but…whatever. I should've known you wouldn't do anything nice for me.” I give him a playful smile.

“I
might
do something nice for you. You don't have to get all tough girl on me.” He tries turning a composed look toward me, but his eyes are smiling. I'd fight back more, but I like seeing him this way. He's a completely different person. I want to take him back for show-and-tell so everyone can see how Gordon Spudinka really is when you break him down.

“Tough girl?” I pick at a piece of rotten wood from the
dock and flick it at him. “Don't be condescending. I am not playing this game with you today.” I point my finger right at his nose, but he grabs it and acts like he's going to bite it.

I freeze. Some people are playful by nature, but some you have to encourage, slowly crack open. I look at Gordon smiling, holding my finger—so opposite to how he was in the auditorium today or even the first time I met him. I think I've definitely cracked him open.

And it's sexy as hell.

For the first time since I've known him, I feel hesitation wash over me. Not because we're sitting here with fingers linked, skin and auras touching, but because I don't know how to feel. Half my brain says it's not a good idea to start a relationship while still dealing with the loss of a loved one. If it ends in breakup, it will compound the trauma. But the other half of my brain feels my heart needs this. Something to remind me that life still has good things in it.

Yet here I am in a moment that requires decision making on my part—some sort of momentum—and I can't seem to move. Gordon watches me with his hazel eyes, studying my face, probably wondering what's wrong. I mean, I asked him to come here, and when he finally does, I freak out. Even though I entertained the idea that his wall might eventually come down, I guess I didn't believe that it really would.

But it has.

And because Sagittarius and Leo are both fire signs, well known for being volatile together, and because I'm hardheaded and dive into things I definitely shouldn't be diving into, I brace myself. For the spontaneous combustion that's sure to come.

“Y
ou know what?” I slip my fingers out of his. “You have to study, and…I have to go too.”

Gordon's eyes reflect more than just the estuary in front of us. They're loaded with disappointment. I'd love to stay forever, stretching this afternoon as far as it'll go. But I have a chemistry test next Monday to study for, Lolita patiently waits to have her leak fixed, Seth's body slowly withers inside a box, and Rock is probably planting the same lips he kissed me with on someone new. Too much on my mind right now—brain salad.

“Right,” he says breathlessly. I could snatch his confusion right out of the air and twist it into a knot. “You're completely right,” he says again, only this time, it's as if he remembers
he
does
have better things to do. He gets up and brushes his jeans off.

“See you at school?” I ask.

“Yeah. See you at school.”

I'm not sure what just happened, but I am glad we decided to ditch tutoring today, even though it probably burned Sabine to see us missing.

Gordon goes back to his car. I get up to stretch. Maybe a buffer comment will help things. “Thanks for following me,” I call out.

He raises a hand. I want to hear him say, “The pleasure was all mine, Chloé,” but he doesn't.

 

Try wrapping your mind around ionic compounds when your house sounds like a baby torture chamber and your mom and godmother are arguing over possible reasons for the symphony of shrieks. I watch from the counter.

“It's gas.” Mom explains her breast-milk theory for the fiftieth time in the last four days. “I put too much garlic in yesterday's chicken.”

“
Non
, Vero, they're just tired.” Marraine sets down a Rubbermaid of something she cooked for us and opens it. Is that lasagna I see? Yes! She looks at Baby Carl. “See how his eyes roll back, and that cry—that cry is not one of pain, it's exhaustion.”

Papi, smelling of today's catch and the garage again, breezes by on his way into the kitchen. “Have you worked on the leak yet,
hija
? The puddle of oil in the garage is a little bigger,” he says above the shrieks. “What about the tune-up?”

“I'll get started this weekend, Papi. I swear.”

“Swear, swear…” He mumbles something about waiting too long, and don't come crying when I break down in the middle of nowhere, but I can't quite hear due to the twinsies' colic concerto. Even after he grabs his water and heads toward the garage, he's still talking about how “Harleys tend to leak oil…” and “responsible ownership of a motorcycle,” blah, blah, blah…

I cannot think worth a crap in here.

The element symbols jumble around in my mind, forming stick figures that dance in circles, mocking my knowledge deficiency in their jubilation. How does Gordon understand subject matter fifty times more difficult than this in his honors, AP, and IB classes? I try to shake it off and ignore babies Carl and Sagan (ugh), but they just take their screaming to new heights.

I put down my pencil and go to my mom with open arms. “Let me have one so you can eat.”

“I'm fine, honey. Marraine's here.”

My godmother smiles, and the wild hairs that frame her face bounce around. “Yes, go, Chloé, you need to study. We'll handle the babies.”

“You sure?” I ask them. They both nod. I know my mother would love nothing more than to have a five-minute break, and I would love nothing more than to handle my screaming baby brothers instead of studying for chemistry, but they're right—I have a goal. I need to stick to it.

“I'll be in my room,” I say, gathering my stuff.

Marraine tries putting Baby Carl in the jaguar-on-a-branch position, face down, draped over her forearm, as
Mom tries the shoulder bouncy-bounce with Baby Sagan, who looks like he's about to pass out from how red he's turning. My mother looks over at me apologetically. “You can help me at bedtime.”

I head down the hall to my room, throwing my book and folder on top of my bed. I stop at my computer just to check messages, but end up browsing sites way longer than is reasonably necessary. On one of my mother's zodiac matchmaker pages I select Sagittarius for me, Leo for Gordon, and wait for the analysis. I don't even need to read the whole thing. I already know what it's going to say:

See? I knew that already. And it's going to get me into trouble. Especially when your tutor turns out to be hotter than you originally thought. I can't believe this is happening. It's Gordon
Spoonbill
, for God's sake.

I close my eyes and relive the afternoon. Gordon laughing at my joke, his dimples popping out to remind me just how blind I've been for a whole year. His fingers linked around my fingers, making my heart pound in my chest. His face, only a couple of inches from mine.

Studying with Gordon is a chemistry lesson all right. I go back to the zodiac matchmaking page and this time select Sagittarius and Libra, Rock's sign. You know. For self-imposed torture:

I can't finish. Besides, I've read it all before, how Libras and Sagittarius aren't much of anything at first but can develop romantically over time. I'm about to turn back to studying, when something else occurs to me. I never got around to checking out those adoption agencies last time. So I retype the keywords
Florida adoption agencies
and wait.

Pages and pages of results pop up. My heart rate picks up a bit. I guess the student-tutor line isn't the only line I'm brave enough to cross these days. I start clicking. I read one article about how most adoptions are open or semi-open these days, how adopted kids are keeping in touch with their birth parents, even if it's only through pictures and letters once a year. I don't even have that. The article also mentions how closed adoptions like mine aren't as popular as they used to be a long time ago and how the parents must have had strong reasons to want it that way. That sounds like what Gordon said. Maybe he should've written the article.

One site has a contact page where you type in your information and they'll send you some brochures of information. I stare at the empty text boxes.
It's only to request information, Chloé
. Even Gordon said it would make him wonder. It's just natural to want to know.

Slowly, I type in my name and address, leaving off my phone number. Before I can take it back, I hit
SUBMIT
and stare at the “Thank You” screen. There, that wasn't so bad. It's not like I am going ahead with an actual search for my
birth parents. I just want to see what something like that would cost.

Another article mentions how teens have enough of an identity crisis going on without the added stress of wondering where they come from. It says it's not unusual for kids who previously accepted their history to suddenly become curious when they're teens. Well, they got
that
right.

Mom's knock at the door brings my research to a screeching halt. Quickly, I erase the adoption search in my Google box and close the browser windows. “Yes?”

“Can I come in?”

“Open.”

“I can't.”

Reluctantly, I roll my chair over and open the door for her. A twinsy has given in to the powerful arms of sleep, cradled against my mother's chest, perfectly angelic, like he wasn't trying out for the Florida Grand Opera half an hour ago.

Mom sits down on the edge of my bed. “How's tutoring going?”

“Going great.”

She nods. “You sure? Because if it's not working with this boy, we can get you a real tutor, Chloé. Whatever you need.”

“I don't need a real tutor, Mom. I'm trying. Give me time.”

“Honey, I'd like to sit and talk with you more, whenever there's a good moment.”

About?
“I'm always here, Mom.”

“No, you're not. You're out a lot and, well…” She looks
like she has fifty things she wants to tell me but doesn't know where to start. “I know things have been crazy, but let's find the time, okay?”

“For what?” I rub my eyes then refocus them on my book.

There's a moment of silence before she sighs. “Forget it, you're not even listening.” She turns around to leave.

“To talk. Yes, I heard you.”

But what is there to talk about? I really don't want to discuss Seth's death anymore. We overdid the whole talking-about-it thing when it happened. And yes, I'm having a little trouble in school, but I'm trying to do something about it. What I would
maybe
like to have a discussion about is a subject that may freak her out, given how stressful her life already is right now. But unless she's miraculously learned who my birth parents are and is willing to tell me without hesitation, there's not much to discuss. It'll have to wait until the babies are older and things have settled down.

She looks at me, and I know, from seventeen years' experience, that there's more to this discussion than meets the eye. “Marraine says you've been late every morning for a few weeks now.”

“Not every morning. Only one or two.” I use my Eyebrows of Innocence to inject doubt into the conversation. Who's she going to believe…Marraine or her daughter?
Pfft
.

“Chloé, it's been more than one or two. You need to pass chemistry, and it's your first class of the day.”

“I know, Mom!” I start yelling but manage to control my tone right at the end. How did this conversation progress so
quickly? The babies have definitely taught my mother the art of time management. “Give me a chance.”

Baby Sagan stirs in his sleep. My mother shushes him then whispers, “I am. I just want to make sure you're still on the right track, because I know how easily you can veer off that track if you allow yourself to, Chloé.”

“I'm sure this is about me giving up the bike, and you're using my failing class as an excuse. Well, it won't work. Because I'm going to pass.”

She sighs. “I never said that.”

“You don't have to,” I snap. “I know that's your ultimate plan.”

She looks stunned. “What? Oh, I see you know everything now. God, Chloé, sometimes talking to you is like talking to…” She can't finish.

I raise my eyebrows.

She holds her breath, then lets it out sharply. “Forget it.”

To Seth. Talking to me is like talking to Seth.
Yes, I know I spent entirely too much time with him and that he rubbed off on me in some bad ways. But he was the most fun of anyone in my extended family, had the most personality, and loved me like his own kid. And he left me his most precious possession, which I'm not about to lose. So I sit up straight, shake off this sleepiness, and focus on passing this stupid excuse for a class.

“Mom,” I say, assuming a very studious pose with one hand holding up my head and one hand poised to write. “I'll do it. Okay? I'll pass.”

I don't defend myself anymore, even though I know what she's thinking as she leaves my room—that I'm doomed to
roam the Earth on a motorcycle like Seth, that I'll never set any long-term goals for myself like Seth. But she's wrong. I do have goals—short-term ones, at least.

Like learning the unlearnable in order to save Lolita from falling into enemy hands.