Wreck Read online

  She gets us settled in at the table and turns to me. “You haven’t said a word.”

  I look at her. I’m good at quiet stares. Always have been.

  She sighs. “Call me if you need anything, all right? All of this will make sense soon.” She turns to my dad. “You should have told her before now.”

  “How I parent Tobin is none of your business, Allison.” He’s kind of slurring his words, but he means it. She’s judgy about the littlest things sometimes. Five years ago, when my dad made me buy my own tampons and pads, Allison was not happy. He took me to the store and explained it all, and I chose what I wanted. She lost her mind. Said it was an important moment to share with a woman. Whatev. When you deal with bodies for a living, my dad said, menstruation is a piece of cake compared to a severed artery. Makes sense to me.

  “You’re botching it.” She turns to me again. “I’m here for you, Tobin. No matter what. All right?” She’s waiting for me to answer her.

  I don’t.

  She sighs again. “Good night, you two.” And she walks out.

  I get the roast and veggies from the slow cooker. Our kitchen is huge enough to have the dining room table in it, so I set it while the food’s cooling. My dad pours two glasses of milk, very carefully, with his unbroken hand and wrist, and leaves them at our places. For a tiny family, we’re kind of traditional in our supper behavior.

  He sits down in his spot. “What happened in school today?”

  I put butter on my potatoes, even though they’re already delicious, and stay quiet.

  “Tobin?” His eyes are searching my face. “Please talk to me.”

  I don’t say a word.

  “Come on. Don’t be like this.” His eyes have tears in them, which seems extreme, but it’s enough to melt me.

  “Only if you’re straight with me about what’s going on.”

  “Deal. But not tonight.” He chews a mouthful of roast. “What happened at school today?”

  “What the hell do you mean, not tonight?”

  “I mean not tonight. I feel like shit, and you’re shook up, and tomorrow is soon enough.” He gives me the glare that says it’s final.

  I return the look. I drill him with my eyes. But he holds steady. I finally have to look away.

  “Let’s start again. What happened in school today, Tobin?” He chews another bite, waiting for my answer.

  I sigh. “I took pictures of some jerky guys from metal shop. And Rowan Hansen set a book on fire right after first period. It’s the third time this month.”

  “Does he have a pyromania problem?”

  “He’s just bored.”

  “Why hasn’t he gotten expelled?” Dad serves himself more roast. “This is great, Tobin. Thanks.”

  “He has been. Twice. This time he got kicked out for good. And you’re welcome.”

  My dad grimaces. “Too bad for him. But what else happened today to you—not to your classmates?”

  “I got my history test back with an A-plus and I got accepted to the Colorado School of Visual Arts.” He doesn’t have to know the letter came yesterday. He wasn’t home when I went to bed, so today is close enough.

  He drops his fork but picks it up fast. “You did? After all the back and forth and torturing me with your every thought about the right place, and how much money they all cost?” He’s grinning.

  “If I get an entrance portfolio submitted by September fifteenth, I have a chance at a full-ride scholarship.”

  He pats my hand with his cast-up fingers. “Even if I want you closer to home, who am I to argue with the chance for a full-ride scholarship?” When he picks up his fork, it clatters to the plate again. He captures it again and attacks his roast. “It’s an excellent choice, daughter. Just outstanding. I’m proud of you.” He grins around the food. “Tell me more about the entrance portfolio.”

  Not a single word about making a living with art and how that’s a dumb choice.

  Weird.

  I watch him eat second helpings of carrots and potatoes and a third of meat, like it’s the last time he’s going to have food. “It needs to be our origin story.”

  He looks at me over his glass of milk while he drinks it dry, then he puts the glass down. “Origin story? Like how you got to be a superhero, that kind of origin story?” He spreads his arms out, cast-up wrist and all, providing a benediction over supper. “You are the Mutant G-Force Superhero of Good Food. You make supper appear with no effort at all.”

  “Sometimes I have my shit together.”

  He laughs. “More than sometimes.”

  The rest of the night is calm. I do homework. He falls asleep on the couch. I wake him up and help him to bed without hurting his wrist.

  The cold and windy lake argues with itself outside our windows.

  In the middle of the night, the question wakes me up. Not like it didn’t keep me awake for an hour in the first place.

  What’s not the same?

  He’s got cancer.

  We have to move away. He has to move away, and I have to stay.

  I’ve got a brother or a sister somewhere, and they’re coming to live with us.

  His old books are being reprinted—the ones he wrote before I was born—and he’s going on a book tour.

  He’s going to take me on a fabulous South American vacation.

  He’s going to become an accountant.

  He’s going to run across the entire United States as his very own personal marathon, and I have to quit school to be his support team.

  I have no idea.

  After I make a list of about twenty possibilities in my head, I’m sleepy.

  I don’t know what he’s hiding, but we’re all right, whatever it is.

  I trust him.

  Dad’s Big Book of Advice #2

  Never hesitate to become a pizza delivery person. People are always happy to see you.

  MARCH 16

  “Tobin, we need a poem now. Not tomorrow. And what’s with this photo?”

  Twin Ports Academy has the world’s worst school newspaper. It’s not even a newspaper. It’s a newsletter, six xeroxed pages with a few photos. People read it because they’re sick of looking at their phones. Stephanie Allen, editor of the Twin Ports Weekly, wants to talk about my weekly contributions. I am generally a nice person, but I’m not always a patient person, especially when she doesn’t like what I give her. Which is every time I give her something.

  I hold out the poem in front of me. “You’re not going to like it.”

  My brain isn’t working so great. All morning, off and on, it’s been echoing: What’s not the same?

  Well, my poems are the same—they suck, as always. People think I can write poems because my dad did. LOL.

  Stephanie reads. I watch her face.

  There once was a rock from Enger Park

  who lined up with others in the dark.

  When light came around,

  no space to be found,

  the rock flow had carried in Noah’s ark.

  She looks at me hard. “This is terrible. And you were supposed to photograph motion. Like a basketball game. Or even a gym class.” She frowns.

  “The Zen garden has flow in it. Look.” I point. “They’re moving.” The rocks are flat black ovals, and they’re stuck into the cement in ripple patterns, like water. “Who needs more photos of gym class?”

  “People like gym photos because they know the people in them. Nobody cares about a bunch of rocks.” She turns her chair so she can face the computer where she’s laying out the Weekly. The Weakly.

  “Give me twenty minutes.” I wrap my camera strap around my neck and walk out of the room.

  What’s not the same?

  Stephanie is the same. Still bitchy. Gym class will be the same. I’d bet money on it.

  On my way back from capturing candids of my fellow uninterested juniors pretending to play volleyball, I pass my dad’s shrine—that’s what I call it, even though it’s just a trophy case with his auth
or photo, two books, and a newspaper article in it.

  It’s awkward.

  According to the trophy case, Twin Ports Academy alum Stephen Oliver went to New York City and published a book of humorous poetry, mostly haikus, called Seagull with French Fry, and a goofy mystery novel called Icy Depths, about a woman who gets pushed off a sightseeing boat and freezes to death in Lake Superior and the dumb private eye who solves the case. The yellowed old Twin Ports Weekly article has this headline: FUNNY ALUM STEVE OLIVER TAKES HIS GOOFBALL SELF TO NYC. There are two dusty books in there—one with a weird-looking seagull on it, and one with a double-decker sightseeing boat on it. Both look kind of nineties and kind of sad.

  I give the glass a thump, leaving a handprint, then blow it a kiss.

  The trophy case is the same. Probably will be until the school falls down.

  When I get back to the room, I hand Stephanie the camera, and she clicks through the shots.

  “Not like this!” Stephanie scowls. “I wanted something that was happy. Carefree and positive.”

  “You said gym photos. It’s not my fault they didn’t smile.”

  She huffs at me—like actually blows-air-out-through-her-mouth huffs at me. “We don’t have time to find a picture. If I could replace you, Tobin, I would.”

  I sigh. “If I could do anything else during this period, Stephanie, I totally would.” I pick up my camera from where she chucked it on the desk and check to make sure it’s not damaged. I don’t have money to fix it right now.

  Mrs. Longness comes in to see how we’re doing with this week’s issue.

  “Do you have some action photos now?” Longness gestures to me to give her the camera, so I do. She clicks through the shots and laughs. “One of these will work.” She smiles at me. “People must really love gym class.”

  Stephanie rolls her eyes.

  I go out where Mrs. Longness came in.

  My camera goes in its case and gets tucked into my locker, where I swipe my lunch from its perch on top of a stack of books. Then I swim with the crowd out the door toward our green space. It’s only thirty-five degrees, but it’s super sunny, so everyone’s gotta be outside. You never get a picnic table, but it’s still good to stand around. Not a single person is wearing a coat.

  Twin Ports Academy is high on the side of the hill that slopes into the lake, so there’s lots of city spread out underneath us. And Lake Superior—our claim to fame, my dad’s BFF, Gichi-gami in Ojibwe, goddess and ruler of our little corner of the world—looks like an ocean from up here, because it fades into the sky.

  The snow is mega-slushy now, and the sun makes it feel like it might become spring at some point. It’s winter for at least nine months of the year in Duluth. Close to the edge of the pavement, I can see green grass where the snow has retreated.

  While I lean on the south school wall, basking in the glow and snarfing my boring PB&J, I text Gracie. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, and our lunch periods overlap by ten minutes. She goes to Immaculate Heart, which is across town from Twin Ports Academy, and she has a crap-ton of homework at night, because her parents are expecting her to go Ivy League.

  She also really loves hashtags. She says they’re tiny little summaries of the conversation. Or tiny poems, if you do them right. She must be my dad’s daughter.

  Me: New package from Paris is here. All yours.

  Her: You know I love her gifts! #girlyFrenchstuff

  How’s lunch?

  Reading HP6. Gracie is a complete Harry Potter nerd. #textmelater #HPforlyfe

  Gracie is the same, and that’s a good thing.

  I don’t remember much about my mom. Her name is Meredith. I was five when she left for Paris. There are pictures of us as a family of three—she was a great photographer, and she bought me my first camera—but it feels like she was always four thousand miles away.

  She’s not a communicator, but she sends packages of stuff she hopes I’ll like, lacy T-shirts and perfume and sweet little pillows you’re supposed to put on your bed. Gracie is happy to take everything off my hands.

  I throw the crusts of my sandwich on the ground for whatever seagull wants them—they’re everywhere, and they don’t just eat french fries—and slurp down my water as I walk around the corner. Sasha from my math class is sitting on top of the rock in front of our school, the one where you can see almost to Two Harbors, twenty miles away.

  “Tobin! Want to climb up?” She pats a spot next to her.

  “I’m good.” Not a fan of heights. The hill is high enough as it is.

  Sasha’s buddy Enzo scrambles up next to her and plops his butt down, legs hanging off the side. “Tobin, how come you never hang out with us?” He starts kicking his feet, and I grab my phone and focus on them, trying to find some good shapes in the middle of the motion of the shadows.

  I like to be alone sounds pretty rude. “I work a lot.”

  “Where do you work?” Enzo can see I’m looking at his feet, so he kicks them faster.

  “Zenith City Trash Box.” Which is really Zenith City Treasure Box. Allison owns it.

  “Did you know she’s got old Playboys and Penthouses in the back room?” He grins.

  I snap a photo of his grin. “We threw them out after you and your buddies started stealing them.” I start toward the door. The math homework I didn’t finish last night is calling my name before next hour.

  “Tobin!”

  I turn around, and Sasha and Enzo have a new buddy on the top of their rock—Sid Smithson, a kid I grew up with. Gracie, Sid, and I were the only three kids in our section of Park Point. Then Gracie’s family moved up by Enger Park when she was ten.

  He’s posed himself up there like a Greek god. “Take pictures of me!”

  I click off a few more shots. “You can be the cover of the yearbook.” He does look pretty cute.

  Sid climbs back down as quickly as he got up there. “Want a ride to work after school?”

  “Um. Sure. I guess.” I try to give Sid a smile, but I know it comes out crooked. He’s sort of out of context, even though I see him almost every day. Maybe because he’s never offered me a ride before.

  Sid is the same and not the same, simultaneously.

  “Great! See you then.” He disappears back behind the rock. I look up and see Sasha and Enzo laughing.

  Sasha looks down at me. “He’s only wanted to ask you out for a year. Boys.” She gives Enzo a whack on his shoulder.

  I roll my eyes. “We’ve known each other since we were little kids.”

  Sasha raises her eyebrows, daring me to contradict her. “Whatever you say, Tobin.”

  “Girls are impossible.” Enzo climbs down from the rock, three steps behind in the conversation as he holds up a hand for Sasha to climb down, too. “Gaming is what matters.”

  Everybody goes to class.

  I look at my photos while the teacher’s taking roll, while I’m pretending I’ve got my math homework done. A couple shots of Enzo’s feet aren’t bad, so I email them to Stephanie, with another limerick:

  There once were two feet, up high,

  and beauty began to supply.

  They moved with some grace,

  their shadows apace,

  clueless owner continuing, spry.

  It sucks, too, but maybe Stephanie will like it better than one about rocks.

  I see Sid walk by in the hall. He smiles and waves. I wave back, trying not to look weird.

  Sid’s a nerd like Gracie, though his jam is John Williams music instead of Harry Potter. That means film scores for movies like Star Wars, Jaws, and Raiders of the Lost Ark. He wants to be a conductor someday, and he plays the violin. If it’s really quiet at night and our windows are open, I can sometimes hear him on his back porch, five houses down.

  I text Gracie: Do you think Sid likes me?

  Why wouldn’t he like you? #ParkPointForever

  Like I was a real girl.

  LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL.

  That’s what I thought.


  He’s right there after school, by my elbow, before I even have a chance to think about it. “Can I still give you a ride?” Sid looks nervous.

  “I’d be late if I had to take the bus.” I had to talk with Mrs. Longness about Stephanie and her crabbiness. I’m lucky Mrs. Longness likes me.

  Once I’ve got all my homework, I shut my locker and we walk out to the parking lot. Awkward silence. Sid and I haven’t hung out in ages.

  He leads me to his dark-green beat-to-crap Saturn. “Does Zenith City Treasure Box get any business in March?” He unlocks the door for me and goes around to the driver’s side.

  “It’s pretty quiet for now.”

  “Do you actually like selling antiques?” Sid gives me a sideways look as he drives out of the lot, like junior girls who sell antiques are destined for lives as crazy cat ladies, and maybe we are. He’s plugged his phone into his aux cord, and the opening song from the Jurassic Park soundtrack comes roaring—ha ha, that’s a pun—out of his crappy speakers.

  “Dinosaurs? Really? It’s not just selling antiques, so you know. I dust and put things where Allison tells me.” Sid laughs, and I roll my eyes. “It’s pretty much working at McDonald’s, minus the food and grease.”

  He points at me. “Yeah, but do you know how hard it is to clean up vomit from six tourists who were seasick on the same trip? Or take registrations from families of twenty who want to be on the two o’clock harbor cruise, but there’s only ten places left? Try that for a while.” He works at Vista Fleet, where his dad is a boat pilot. Nobody probably recognizes it, but it’s a Vista Fleet boat on the cover of my dad’s book. They do big business around here.

  “I’ll dust antiques.”

  “If your aunt ever needs someone else to work, let me know.” His car slides partway down the hill toward Superior Street, almost into a parked car. “Spring ice sucks.”

  Then we’re on Lake Street, and almost to Trash Box. Things look pretty traditional for the middle of March—one or two people on the street walking around, but shopkeepers are working in their windows, setting up displays to lure in the visitors who’ll show up in a few weeks.

  He pulls up and I hop out fast, before it gets too weird. “Thanks, Sid.” I smile through the window at him.