9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Jackie
T he air is muggy, and the seats are sticky from the late morning sun. Silas has been staring out his open window since he got in the camper. He smells of cheap liquor and beer, just like he did yesterday when I found him passed out on my bed.
I want to ask how long he’s been drinking like this. And where he got the booze last night, because like I said, I know he’s practically broke. But I also know that confronting him with this right now will only annoy him and make him shut me out completely. So instead I ask about the slew of spaghetti bracelets hugging his forearm that definitely weren’t there yesterday.
He lifts his arm and shrugs nonchalantly, as if neon jelly bracelets are part of every seventeen-year-old guy’s daily attire.
“A couple of girls bought a bunch of them last night.”
He doesn’t even bother taking them off. He just goes back to staring out the window.
I nod. “Oh. Cool.”
I guess that also explains who bought him the liquor, then. I glance at him one more time and can’t help noticing the lack of color in his face and how lethargic he is. Like maybe his sour, languid mood is due to more than just a late night of drinking. I suspect his only sustenance these past few days has been liquor and the occasional snack.
So fifteen minutes later, I pull into a McDonald’s drive-through and order two breakfast sandwich meals and coffees. When the attendant passes me a warm bag, I drop it into Silas’s lap.
“Here. Eat. ”
He balances the unopened bag on the tray-like surface of the console in front of the cup holders. “I’m good, thanks.”
I roll my eyes. Great: here we go again with this whole battle.
“Would you stop making such a big deal out of this stuff?” I merge onto the main road and toss the bag back at him. “It’s a breakfast sandwich, dude. Not my life savings.”
He’s silent for a second, and I assume he’s finally swallowed his pride enough to eat the stupid sandwich. But he doesn’t open the bag.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Silas…” I sigh, trying my hardest not to sound patronizing. I just want him to hear me and take my words at face value for once. “It doesn’t matter how many times you push me away or try to shut me out or… or whatever . I’m not going to stop giving a crap about you. And wanting to be kind.”
“Fine. Knock yourself out.” He spits, then turns and tosses the bag out the window. “Just stop buying me stuff.”
My eyes jerk from the window to the passenger side mirror, then to the road. I can’t decide if I’m more shocked that he ditched a perfectly good meal out of pure stubbornness, or annoyed that he just littered so callously. It will take eons for that bag to decompose, and I’m pretty sure the sandwich wrappers are made of a waxy paper that will sit there forever. Or get blown into a lake somewhere and choke some poor animal.
I look over at him, then check my mirrors again, then press hard on the brake and swerve Trudy around.
“Oh, for the love of…” Silas starts.
I ignore him and that already familiar eye-roll, and pull Trudy alongside the surprisingly intact bag of food lying by the roadside. I climb out, walk around the camper and pick it up, not looking up once at Silas, even as I climb back in and pull the door closed behind me.
I pull back onto the road and open the bag with one hand as I resume driving. I can feel Silas watching me as I fold the wrapper back and sink my teeth into one of the still warm bacon-and-cheese McMuffins.
“Mm mmm.” I groan through a mouthful of sandwich .
I glance at him. His eyes are slightly narrowed. Baffled? Disgusted? Possibly… remorseful?
I smile innocently at him and take another bite. “Sooo good.”
His stomach growls, then. Full-on growls .
When I raise a questioning eyebrow at him, he flips me the finger, and I can’t help smiling again.
“Geez, you’re stubborn.” I say, before looking back at the road. I place the rest of the sandwich on the console between us. Then add, “And also a litterbug.”
He does that huffing thing again: like an exhalation of air through his nostrils, that’s almost a laugh.
“ Litterbug? ” He scoffs. “You know only five-year-olds use that word, right?”
“Five-year-olds.” I shrug. “And me.”
This time, he really does laugh. An actual laugh. “Man, you’re something else.”
“And you’re a litterbug.” I retort. And he laughs. Again.
I suppress a smile as he goes back to staring out the window, blatantly ignoring the sandwich just inches from his left thigh and the smell of fresh coffee that’s permeated the cab.
I press play on my Awesome Playlist; turn up the volume and stick my arm out the window, letting the wind pull my outstretched hand in an upward arch and then back. Up and then back…
The atmosphere feels less tense right now. The next song that comes on is School Friends by Now Now: a little mellower and a little vibier. It goes with the scenery and with the mood. The road now twists and turns along the water, past pebbly beaches and long stretches of sand tufted with tall grasses. And boulders that beckon to be climbed and jumped off.
“You know your music sucks, right?” Silas’s gruff voice interrupts the guitar riff. He doesn’t say it in a mean way, more like it’s just a fact he’s sharing with me.
I glance over at him. He’s still leaned back against the head-rest, eyes closed.
“Your attitude sucks.” I say .
“Well, maaaybe…” he drawls, “… that’s related to the fact that your music sucks.”
Now this… this is the kind of banter I can get into: challenging, rapid-fire quick, even flippant. But not aggressive. Which is why this last exchange feels like another victory: because from what I’ve experienced so far, Teenage Silas seems to harbor a lot of aggression.
“Okay then, Mister ‘I’m-such-a-music-snob-I-only-listen-to-music-that-totally-doesn’t-suck,” I tease. “What do you want to listen to?”
He opens his eyes, and shifts so that he can pull his phone out of his front pocket. He tosses it to me then leans back against the head-rest: “I don’t care… Play whatever.” He shrugs. “Any song on there will be better than the pop shit you’ve been playing non-stop.”
“Dayglow is not pop .”
“Well, it’s shit.”
“It’s catchy.”
“Exactly.” He opens his eyes and looks over at me. “Any song that’s catchy, by default, is also shit.”
I think for a second.
“What about Crazy on You, by Heart ? ”
He’s not as quick to reply this time. “Okay,” he eventually admits, “so there’s one exception.”
“And what about Closer To The Sun? By Slightly Stoopid?” I add. “Or Mr. Brightside by The Killers?”
He grins. He is full-on gorgeous, I realize, when he grins.
“Okay.” He passes his tongue along his lower lip. “Maybe half a dozen exceptions.” He sits back and then adds: “And Mr. Brightside is not one of them, by the way.”
“ Mr. Brightside is definitely one of them.” I argue. “And I will prove it.”
I stack his full coffee cup into my now empty one and slide his phone into the cup holder, then slow down to pull over onto the shoulder of the road again. Once I’m in park, I lean forward to get at my phone. Silas watches in silence as I scroll through my playlists .
I press play, and Brandon Flowers’ raw voice fills the cab. So awesome. I drop my phone into the cup holder next to Silas’ and maneuver Trudy back onto the road. Silas rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling again and it’s a beautiful thing. I silently vow to make him smile as many times as I possibly can for the rest of the day.
I lean into him, just in case he’s thinking about closing his eyes again. “Catchy, right?”
He groans.
I slow down suddenly as we pass a town sign. “Oh my Gosh! Look! We’re here already!” I point frantically at the sign.
He looks confused. “What are you—”
“Looklooklook!” I lean over him, motioning behind us at the sign we passed as I steer with my left hand. “The Sign! Look! Sandwich!”
He gives me this expression like I’ve lost my marbles.
“We just passed Sandwich. I thought it would take us longer to get here!”
He shakes his head slowly, and I explain. “The town we just passed—it’s called Sandwich. I wanted to eat a sandwich in Sandwich, because… how cool would that be?”
I check my mirrors and then do a swift U-Turn. My second in less than an hour, I realize.
“What are you doing?” He still looks incredulous. “Are you— You’re actually turning back?”
“Of course I’m turning back!”
Silas just shakes his head, and within less than a minute we’re back at the sign. I pull over and park so that we’re facing it, then reach in the bag for the second un-touched breakfast sandwich, which I extend to him.
He doesn’t take it.
“You are so full of it…” His eyes narrow accusingly. “You’re seriously going to pretend this is like, a thing . Just so I’ll eat a sandwich you bought me.” He scoffs. “News flash: I’m not four, Jackie.”
“Can you drop the attitude for just five minutes?” I huff. “It’s legit, okay? Look. Here: it’s on my itinerary.” I place the sandwich and the bag on the dash and remove my Master Itinerary Folder from the middle console, opening it to the laminated page for today’s date.
“See?” I hold it out to him, pointing to the morning itinerary. “Here: ‘ Eat a sandwich in Sandwich’,” I read.
His eyes widen and he looks at me strangely, but he still doesn’t respond. So I reach for the sandwich again and shove it into his hand. At least he takes it this time. Then I pick up the half-eaten one for myself and lift it toward him in a toast.
“Cheers!” I say.
He lifts both eyebrows, still looking utterly baffled. Then he bumps his breakfast sandwich against mine with the enthusiasm of a paperclip.
“Sure. Bottoms up,” he says. And we both take a bite of our sandwiches.
“What the…” Silas leans forward in his seat as I pull into the parking lot and bring Trudy to a full stop. He braces his hands against the dash and squints up at the plain yellow lettering above the door of the low brick building: TOILET MUSEUM . Stop number one on today’s sight-seeing itinerary.
“Seriously?” Silas turns to gawk at me. “Is this for real?”
“Yup. Cool, right?”
He looks back at the building. “You meant to come here?” He seems genuinely perplexed.
“Yes. I meant to come here. It’s North America’s only toilet museum!”
“Yeah.” He gives me that same unimpressed stare. “I see that.”
“Come on.” I shove lightly at his shoulder. “Be open-minded.”
He doesn’t react. And even when I get out of the camper and gesture for him to join me, he stays put. I watch from outside as he stretches forward to peer at the sign again, as if maybe he mis-read it the first time. Or it’s somehow miraculously changed in the last ten seconds .
“Let’s go!” I call, glancing back at the museum. The door is open and from this closer vantage point, I glimpse an entire plumbing diorama mounted on one of the interior walls.
He finally gets out and I wait for him to catch up to me before stepping inside.
“This is so weird,” he mumbles, walking slowly; almost cautiously.
I mean, geez, I get that it is sort of strange, but it’s not like I’m taking him to an interactive torture museum or something. I humor him, though, and as soon as we enter, I can tell he’s intrigued. And yeah, okay— technically he’s right: this place is weird. But that’s kind of the point. A museum about plumbing is not your typical kind of tourist destination, and in my experience, typical tourist destinations are boring. They’re predictable and usually disappointing. And the photos online are almost always more appealing than the real-life version.
That’s why I made sure to research lesser known, off-the-beaten-path attractions for my road trip. I want to see places that are weird, unexpected, quirky. Places that have character. I want this summer to be memorable. And mine . Not a carbon copy of every other tourist’s visit to the areas I’ll be exploring.
Sure enough, the museum turns out to be really interesting, and Silas’s demeanor changes completely as he becomes utterly absorbed in the exhibits. There’s the world’s most expensive toilet, largest toilet, smallest toilet, ornamental toilets, earliest toilets, and futuristic toilets… in addition to tons of displays and exhibits that explain stuff—like the tricky task of designing prison toilets, which need to be compact and constructed all in one piece without any screws or bolts or detachable parts.
Silas reads every single information plaque about the evolution of plumbing systems (I pass on that one), then lags behind to wait for me while I check out their huge collection of vintage toilet paper. And we both chuckle at the replica of some famous artist’s urinal art installation that sold for over a million dollars.
We spend just over an hour in total checking out the exhibits and gawking at some of the weirder displays and some seriously bizarre toilet-related facts. And when we get back to the truck, Silas seems a little less closed-off. Lighter. He shrugs out of the flannel shirt he’s wearing over his T-shirt and tosses it onto the floor .
“So. Where to next?” He asks, sounding almost enthusiastic.
I pull out my itinerary.
“We’re about forty-five minutes away from this cool vintage carousel just outside Boston.” I tell him. “And then on to Old Orchard Beach for the night. With maybe a couple other stops on the way.”
“You mean, like a kid’s merry-go-round?”
“Yup.” I pull out my folder of maps and unfold the one for the Boston area. “It’s almost a hundred years old, and the music plays on the original band organ. And it has four rows of hand-carved horses you can still ride.”
He still looks unimpressed. He seems more fascinated by the map in my hands than by the history of the carousel.
“You know there’s this thing called Google Maps, right? It’s this wonderful invention that—”
“I thought it would be cool to do this whole trip using only paper maps.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course you did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He takes the map from me and glances at the highlighted route. “So, we’re gonna go ride an old carousel.”
“It’s vintage.”
He does that arched eyebrow thing again. “You know vintage is just a fancy word for ‘old’, right?”
“I think it’ll be cool.” I retrieve my slightly tattered Eyewitness New England Guidebook from the door and toss it to him. “It’s around page seventy. There should be a green sticky note marking the page.”
He turns the book over in his hands, studying it as if he’s never seen a guidebook before. Maybe he hasn’t.
He flips through the pages. “Please tell me you didn’t use color-coded sticky notes.”
“Yeah. So?”
I gave up being embarrassed about my organizing obsession years ago. It’s helped me get straight A’s since elementary school, and plan my weekends and keep on track of all the other stuff I have going on. Color-coded stickies are a lifesaver.
“Green is for ‘want to check out and short distance from my route’,” I explain. “Yellow is ‘could be interesting and on my route’. And pink is ‘want to check out but a little ways off my route’.”
I glance at him, and his eyes are round with awe.
“Holy shit. You really don’t mess around.”
“Fun fact,” I tell him, “The more research you do ahead of time, the easier it is to be spontaneous once you’re actually travelling.”
He gives me a funny look. “That makes absolutely no sense.”
“It makes a lot of sense. Other than having to spend the morning tracking you down, we haven’t wasted any time trying to find out what there is to check out around here. Or figuring out how to get there, or if it’s even open… that stuff sucks up a pile of time.”
He looks back at the guidebook and nods: “Huh.” Then spends the next few minutes skimming through the pages. I turn the music up and he doesn’t seem to notice, so I get to enjoy three consecutive Imagine Dragons songs without one protest or complaint.
A couple of miles past Quincy, he looks over at me.
“Wait—you tagged The Vermontasaurus in butt-fuck nowhere Vermont with a green stickie?” He holds the book out toward me as proof.
I nod. “It sounds awesome: a twenty-five-foot dinosaur sculpture made out of scraps of wood! It’s art. ”
“It’s a pile of scrap wood.”
“Nailed together to look like a dinosaur . ”
He shakes his head. “You are such a sucker.”
I snatch the book from him. “You are such a cynic.”
He tugs the book back and slumps back into his seat like a petulant child. “I was reading that.”
He keeps reading for another couple of minutes, and I can’t help noticing the way he bites down lightly on his lower lip when he’s concentrating. He used to do that when he was a kid, too .
Suddenly, he leans in closer to the book. “Hey! Did you know there’s a three-tiered waterfall just an hour from where we are right now? Right near…” he bends closer, scrunching his eyes. “Near Fitchburg.”
I think for a second. “Scott Brook Falls?”
“Yeah.” He confirms. Then: “Why isn’t there a green sticky on that ?”
“Because I don’t really have a lot of interest in hiking four miles to see a waterfall.” I shrug. “Once you’ve seen one, they’re all pretty much the same.”
“It’s three levels of waterfalls.” He leans in to look more closely at the accompanying photo. “And you can swim at the base of the lowest one. Come on… You have to admit that would be sick.”
I don’t say anything. I mean, I guess it’s cool—just not a unique experience. Like a toilet museum or a vintage carousel. But I haven’t seen him this animated since he got back from Trenton.
He thumbs through a few more pages, then looks up again. “Seriously? You put a green sticky on the Museum of Bad Art … but not on a three-tiered waterfall?” He removes the perfectly aligned green stickie.
“Silas, no! What are you doing?”
He flips back a couple of pages. “I’m moving the green stickie to the waterfall. Where it should have been in the first place.”
I reach out and grab his forearm. The one with the mysterious tattoo. “You can’t do that!”
His skin is warm beneath my fingers, and I feel the muscle tighten when he tugs his arm from my grasp.
“Aw, come on.” His voice is light, but I can tell there’s real emotion hidden beneath his words. “I’ve never seen a waterfall before.”
Stunned, I yank my eyes momentarily from the road to gawk at him.
“What? How have you never seen…” and then I let the rest of my sentence trail off, because I get that familiar twinge of guilt again: Meryl and Richard have been taking me on nature hikes since I moved in with them. We’ve gone on road trips, we’ve taken sun vacations and a trip to France and a couple of skiing trips. Silas has never done any of those things .
He would have if he’d never met me, though. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. I don’t know how he couldn’t be.
We pass a large sign welcoming us to the town of Hull, where the vintage carousel is located. I hand Silas the map.
“Here.” I glance over and point to the tiny carousel icon. The paper crinkles at my touch. “Can you direct me to the wharf there?”
All talk of waterfalls and green stickies is put aside as we focus on manoeuvring our way to the small but bustling town center. We manage to find a spot in the parking lot out front that actually fits Trudy’s larger-than-average size.
We head into the gift shop to buy tickets for the carousel. While I go up to the counter, Silas wanders around the shop checking out the knick knacks and over-priced candy.
“Don’t buy a ticket for me!” he calls over.
The woman at the counter looks up at me, midway through tearing off the second ticket. I shake my head and in a low voice, tell her: “Just ignore him. Two tickets, please.”
She smiles and continues tearing off the ticket. While I wait, my eyes stray to the small screen above the cash register: the image from the in-store security camera. And that’s when I see Silas pocketing two chocolate bars as he brushes past a shelf of candy and fudge.
My eyes automatically jump back to the cashier, but she’s busy putting the roll of tickets back in a drawer just underneath the counter. She didn’t see him.
But I did. And I feel sick to my stomach.
A quick peek over my shoulder reveals that Silas is sauntering down one of the aisles toward us. I turn back to the cashier and quickly say: “Um, actually, can you add two chocolate bars to that? I’ll just go grab them after I pay.”
There are a few people in line behind me, so I know she won’t notice when I don’t go back and take the chocolate bars.
She smiles. “Sure thing.” She rings in my total and I hand her the cash.
“Enjoy the carousel!” she says, handing me my change. I hope she doesn’t notice how sweaty my palm is. It feels like everyone in the store knows what just happened - what Silas did and what I just did to cover for him. I’ve never been with anyone who’s shop-lifted before and I hate it. I feel dirty; like now I’m somehow part of it by covering for him.
Breaking any kind of rule makes me uneasy, and this goes way beyond rule breaking. This pulls me so far out of my comfort zone that I actually physically feel the stress tugging behind my temples.
I thank the woman and stride straight over to where Silas is pretending to check out a shelf of dancing robots.
“Let’s go.” I say, grabbing the hem of his T-shirt.
Silas looks down at where my hand is pulling at the fabric, then up at me, confusion etched in the lines of his face. Like he truly can’t fathom why I would want to get out of this store as fast as humanly possible.
“Uh. Okay.”
I’m so mad I want to shove him out of the store. I bought him food earlier, and he tried to reject it. Several times. I didn’t even make a big deal about it. But he still acted like I was being unreasonable—and then he goes and steals food?
“You’re such a jerk.” I bite the words through clenched teeth, then turn and storm off toward the large arrow above the back door that says “Carousel: This Way”. I hear Silas just behind me, his long strides easily keeping up with my fast pace. He yanks me around once we get outside in a large covered area.
“What the hell is your problem?”
“ You !” I throw my hands up. “ You’re my problem!”
He still manages to look confused, and it makes me even angrier. “I saw what you did in there,” I spit out. “And I covered for you. I just paid for the two chocolate bars you stole.”
He backs away, and for a second he does look embarrassed. But then it quickly gets shrouded in defiance. Of course. Classic Silas Carmichael, I’m quickly learning.
“Oh, so here we go again,” he snaps. “Acting all high and mighty. Like you’re the hero swooping in to save me from my horrible—”
“This is not me saving you! This is me pointing out that you just committed a crime , Silas. ”
“Oh, for the love of…” He rolls his eyes. “A crime? I just took a couple of seventy-nine cent chocolate bars!”
“You stole. That’s a crime.”
“Ok. Well, thanks for the heads up.” His voice hardens. “But I don’t need you pointing out everything I do wrong, or trying to steer me on the right path all the time like you’re… like some kind of missionary or something.” He takes a step back. “So just stop it, okay? Stop trying to fix me, like it’s your right, or your duty or whatever - just because you know shit about my past.”
“That is not what I’m doing.”
“Yes! It is!” He insists. “And I know you think you’re trying to help me, but I don’t want that. I never asked you to do that.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I haven’t asked you for anything, alright?”
“Oh, I know.” I scoff. “I’m plenty aware of that.”
He rolls his eyes but I continue: “I mean, God forbid you let someone try to help you, Silas — that you let a friend make you a grilled cheese sandwich! Or buy you a muffin and a cup of coffee! God forbid you let someone give a crap about you!”
There’s a loaded silence after that, where Silas just stares back at me: slightly confused, still fuming. I inhale a calming breath and lower my voice because I’m conscious that a few people are starting to stare.
“Sorry.” I mutter. “It’s just… I just don’t understand why you keep doing stuff like this. You’re going to get caught, and then they’ll actually have a reason to send you back to Trenton. Or worse. And I don’t want—”
“Jesus!” He practically screams. “You’re still doing it!”
“So what if I am?” I throw back. “If you think that trying to keep you from getting arrested again, and thrown in jail, means I’m trying to ‘fix’ you, then fine. Yeah. Guilty.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“What is so bad about that?” I push. “Why does wanting to help you make me such a horrible person?”
“It doesn’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s just… ”
The corners of his eyes crease a little. I can’t tell if it’s from confusion or anger this time. Everything now seems to make him angry.
“It’s just what?” I insist. “Please, tell me. What is it?”
“It’s…” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Forget it.”
He turns and stalks toward the exit with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Then, just as he gets to the doorway that leads out back toward the parking lot, he slams his fist into the paneled wall.
“ FUCK! ”
And now everyone really is staring. At Silas, as he strides out of sight. At me, standing with my mouth agape, clutching two unused carousel tickets. And at the dent in the wall where his fist just connected.
The entire space is covered in old barn wood, so it isn’t that noticeable. I doubt his knuckles fared as well, though.
It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from Silas in two days, and what hurts the most is the fact that it’s my concern for him that provoked it. I don’t understand how he manages to make it sound like any act of kindness—my friendship even, is somehow self-serving or controlling in some way? He stole two chocolate bars. I covered for him. And now I’m the bad guy? How does that even make sense?
And why is caring about him such a bad thing, anyway? Everything that happened to him—because of the denial everyone had about my mother’s condition—was a bad thing. The way he got left behind, with an aunt and uncle who didn’t like him—the unfairness of it all was definitely a bad thing. But me wanting to help him find some way to crawl out from beneath the rubble of it all is a good thing. It’s the only way I know of bringing about even a small amount of balance after all these years.
And I won’t stop. Even if I’m confused or intimidated by the guy he’s turned in to. Even if I can barely stand the guy he’s turned in to, I won’t just be another person who walks away out of frustration and dismisses him. Because he is broken. He does need fixing, and he’s obviously got no one else who’s willing to do it .
I glance around. A few people are still darting looks in my direction, but mostly peoples’ attention is focused on the large four-wide carousel that stands majestically in the center of the space.
It’s even more magnificent than I imagined.
I walk slowly toward it, taking in every hand-crafted detail, then I make my way around its perimeter once, then again, then a third time. I stand for a while after that, just staring at it. Except I’m really just using the time to collect my thoughts; reigning in my emotions as my mind keeps wondering back to Silas and our fight. I have no desire to ride the carousel anymore. The whimsical music is just making me sad.
Eventually, I wind my way through the crowd toward the same exit Silas stormed out of ten minutes ago, slowing down just long enough to toss the two tickets into the garbage can along the wall.