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My So-Called Ruined Life. Melanie Bishop
Читать онлайн.Название My So-Called Ruined Life
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781937226220
Автор произведения Melanie Bishop
Жанр Учебная литература
Серия Tate McCoy Series
Издательство Ingram
“Yum,” I say. “Can we do the vegan nachos? Or the spinach enchiladas?”
“Whatever you want, but we have to hurry because we have to bike across town, order, eat, and then I have to go home and shower and change.”
As we make the long trek back to where our bikes are locked in the parking lot, I scan the pool for Swimmer Boy-Who-Saws. The place is in full swing now—moms and kids and no school and long lazy days. It is nearly impossible to find someone—Barton Springs is huge. But I make a wish to see him one more time before I leave, and then there he is—shallow section, far away—green swim trunks and a half-dozen kids in a semi-circle around him.
“Look,” I say to Kale.
“What?”
“One-who-saws.” I point.
“There are a hundred people where you’re pointing, Tate.”
“Green shorts, bare chest, encircled by children.”
“Got it,” she says. “He’s cute.”
“And sweet,” I add, “with that gaggle of kids always following him.”
“Ducklings.”
“Exactly. Or goslings.”
“Goslings it is,” says Kale. “Goslings is a far superior word.” She grabs my arm and pulls. “We have to hurry.”
“So he has another name,” I say. “Mother Goose.”
“And one-who-saws,” she says. She’s unlocking our bikes, which are hooked together.
“And one-who-swims, AKA Swimmer Boy.”
She untangles her bike from the rack and gives me the look: we’re in a hurry. I get serious, grab my steed, and jump on.
The ride from south Austin to Hyde Park takes a good half hour, but we are fast. The exercise feels great, the steady pumping of the pedals, the hot humid wind in my hair, the satisfaction of propelling myself forward with my own power.
Kale sets the pace. Her dark curls trail out behind her like streamers from her helmet.
As we pass downtown, the capitol building, and head up through the university, I’m reminded that my poor sweet father is sitting in that courtroom, probably right now, with his lawyer and the lawyer’s assistants, and they are doing their best to defend him against a crime he is psychologically incapable of committing. At some point, they’ll call me as a witness. The lawyer (one who laws?) says it could be many months or even as long as a year. I am the kind of witness the defense saves for when they really need me. I try to send my dad a good vibe as I cruise past. My thoughts turn to Swimmer Boy, Sawyer, what a nice name, and then to nachos, and back and forth, equally delicious.
Greta’s in town, partly to attend a few days of the trial, mostly to take me camping. She’s my aunt on my mom’s side and we have gone camping every summer since I was eleven. Well, except last summer, when no one was in the mood. Last summer is a total blur.
Greta is staying in the main house until we leave for the Grand Canyon, but she’s the one adult who would be welcome to stay in my studio. She’s more like a friend or a sister than an aunt. More like me than like Carla, her own sister. But there are three bedrooms in the big house and she wants to give me my space.
She knocks after she gets home from court. I’m looking at colleges on the internet.
“Entré,” I say.
“Hola,” she says. “How goes it?”
“Check this out.” She looks over my shoulder. “These five colleges are all grouped together into something called the EcoLeague. Basically, if you get accepted into one of them, it’s an acceptance into all five.”
“Cool,” Greta says. “Look at the one in Vermont—Green Mountain College—that just sounds fun. And look—that one in Arizona isn’t far from where we’re going camping.”
“You mean we could maybe check it out?”
“I don’t see why not. Leave the canyon a day early, go there, get a hotel. You should call them and let them know you’re coming. Get an appointment.”
While I type an email to their admissions office, Greta browses around the room.
“I like your goals,” she says. “I should get mine big like that. More in-your-face. I put mine on little Post-it notes and then I wonder why I lose them.”
I turn to look at the goal poster with her.
“Number four is about to be crossed off,” I say.
“And if we go see that school in Arizona, we’re accomplishing part of number three,” Greta says. “NO WAY!”
“What?”
“Number ten! I just ordered you a vegan cookbook! It should be here tomorrow.”
“Read my mind.”
“I figured we’d need help with camping food you could eat.”
“Camping vegan is simple. Most of what people bring camping is already vegan—trail mix, peanut butter, power bars…”
“Beef jerky,” says Greta.
I give her a look. “The cookbook will be good for making something nice at home. Maybe I’ll have someone over for dinner.”
“Maybe some lucky guy,” Greta says.
“Have you not read number six?”
“Oh yeah, number six,” Greta says. “Swearing off boys forever? That seems extreme.”
“No, not forever. Till I get my act together. Can you not read anymore?”
“Well,” says Greta, “in my opinion, not that anyone’s asking for it, you have your act together way more than most people I know, and people much older than you, too.”
“That’s your opinion, Garbo. I’ll take it into consideration.” There was once a famous actress named Greta Garbo.
“Jasper is a dunce,” says Garbo, out of nowhere.
“Where did that come from?”
“I know it’s been a year, but I still think it sucks the biggest weenie that a guy would bail on you right when you need him most. Good riddance.”
“He’s an okay guy,” I say. “He just couldn’t handle it. I’m sure his parents weren’t overjoyed to have their son dating the girl who…”
Greta interrupts: “Yeah, but none of that was your fault. Anyway, what I’m saying is there’s someone better out there for you. And, I think you’re wise beyond your years to know that now’s not the best time to go out boy-shopping.”
“Exactly.”
At Greta’s favorite Mexican place, she eats a chili relleno oozing with cheese and I have my first wave of doubt about being vegan. My former favorite food? Pizza. Second place: grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches. Third place: mac and cheese. I’m having the corn tamale and salad. But damn, her cheese looks good.
“Should I have a bite of that?” I say.
“If you want.”
“I’m not eating cheese,” I remind her, indignant.
“Well,