Return of the Jed (5 page)

“You own this place?” Dad said.

Elena nodded. “My husband and I bought it a few years ago. He’s the one in the kitchen cooking up a plate of brains with all the fixings.”

I held up my hand, quickly putting it down when I felt the Ooze shift in my pits. “Can I possibly change that?”

“Absolutely,” Elena said. “Tongue? Eyeballs? Or maybe something out of the skull menu entirely. Liver? Spleen? Ah, maybe you’re a heart guy.” She turned and shouted toward the kitchen. “Rodrigo, honey, we got any hearts left?”

A disembodied voice from the back responded, “Huh? Heart? You’re kidding, right?”

“Apparently fresh out,” Elena said. “I’ll give you a few minutes to decide and come back. Might even check on other customers.”

She shifted her gaze out the window. I followed it, noting Tread had curled up in the shade cast by the diner’s tattered awning.

“That your dog out there, the one that looks like it’s never seen the inside of a tub?” she asked.

“Yup,” I said. “That’s Tread, and I just bathed him a few days ago. He just doesn’t take well to soap.”

“This is a quiet place and he should be just fine out there, but I’m going to keep an eye on him too, if you don’t mind. Also looks like he could use some water, so I’m going to run out a bowl for him. Maybe a dish of our chili, since some customers have likened it to dog food.”

“Hey, I heard that!” cried the voice from the back. “I have feelings too, you know.”

Elena laughed, as if her teasing was frequent and harmless. She lowered her voice. “Actually, our chili is excellent, but I keep that to myself lest it leads to big heads in the kitchen. Anyway, I’ll be back in a bit.”

As she left, Luke jabbed his elbow into my ribs. “I like her. We should come here more often.”

“We live a million miles away from here,” I said.

“Exactly. Road trip!”

I picked up the menu and looked for only one thing. Brains. If they actually had it, I was in big trouble because, knowing Dad, he’d make me eat them. Clean my plate.

“I don’t see brains,” Dad said, looking up. “You are one lucky zombie, hombre.”

“I know.”

Nothing really stood out. Burgers. Sandwiches. When you’re out in the middle of nowhere knowing only a zombie apocalypse is going to increase business, you don’t take too many culinary risks.

Luke jabbed the menu. “Cheeseburger, French dip, fried chicken, ribs, potato salad, fries.”

“I don’t need someone to read the menu out loud,” Dad said, slipping his reading glasses out of his pocket. “Thanks anyway.”

“What? No, that’s what I want. In that order.”

“No,” Dad said without taking his eyes off the menu. “Choose one and a side. This is not a pleasure cruise. This is work. Well, for me. And you guys are along for the ride. So get that whole vacation-think out of your brain.”

Luke shook his head, but Dad was right. My buddy and I had to quit thinking about this as a trip with souvenirs and expensive meals and unaffordable activities involving rafts or parachutes or Jet Skis.

Dad was going to Mexico to make money, not spend it. That’s when it hit me. I really had no idea what he was going to do in his summer job. Not exactly.

Now was as good a time as any to ask.

“Dad—”

“Have you gentlemen made up your minds?”

Elena appeared at our table as if de-cloaking. Stealth server.

“Burger, please,” I said.

“Brains or no brains?” Elena said.

“Brainless, please.”

“That you are.”

I hated walking into a made-to-order insult, just like a stereotypical zombie. I didn’t have to look at Luke to know he was fist-bumping with Elena again.

Dad ordered the ribs, Luke the French dip. Elena collected the menus and disappeared, allowing me to get back to the subject.

“Dad, what’s in Mexico?”

“Great food, a thriving culture, mariachi music—”

“Come on, you know what I mean.”

“I’m pretty curious too,” Luke said. “Tell me more about this great food.”

“Luke, shut up for once. Dad, seriously, what’s going on in Mexico? I’m excited and all, but are you going to be working long hours, or get any days off? And how long are we going to be down there?”

Dad leaned back, clasped his hands behind his neck and assumed the classic “Let me explain it to you, son” pose.

“First, I really have no idea how much time I’ll be putting in,” he said. “It just depends on the project.”

“What kind of project?”

“Surveying, mostly. Lots of construction going on, and I’m going to be testing a lot of soil, probably some sonar detection too. Did you know a lot of Mexico sits on a combination of—”

Dad went on and on, and I heard it all. “Blah blah blah, bedrock, something something something, earthmovers—”

“But why you?” I said because it didn’t seem like Dad was going to stop talking anytime soon. “Doesn’t Mexico have its own geologists?”

“Of course,” he said. “But none as charming as me.”

Dad’s opinion of himself was like the temperature outside—way up there and pretty unbearable.

“No, really. Why you?” I insisted.

“I worked with these guys a long time ago, way before you were born. We get along really well. The pay is pretty good because so am I, and they knew I’d be happy to help. I know just enough Spanish to get by. And no,” he turned to Luke, “I won’t teach you bad words.”

“Dang,” Luke muttered.

“How much are you getting?” I said.

Luke sat up. “Enough that I can order another side? And maybe some chicken fingers?” Luke looked at me. “No offense, you know, about wanting to eat fingers.”

“Seriously?” I said.

“Enough to pay for a nice place and make sure all expenses are met for the summer,” Dad said. “To be honest, Jed, the biggest chunk is going to your college fund, which is a huge reason I took this job. We’re not going to live in luxury.”

Elena appeared out of nowhere. Did she teleport or something?

She set our plates in front of us and put her hand on the back of my chair. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, “but I heard you say you were on the way to Mexico. You guys should really try to catch a
lucha libre
show.”

“A lose-a-libro show?” Luke asked. “Libro is Spanish for book, right? If it’s a math book, I would love to lose a ton of libros.”

“No,
lucha libre
,” Elena said. “Mexican wrestling. Though, in Mexico it’s just called wrestling. My cousin is part of a traveling
lucha libre
show. It’s cheap, and it’s very entertaining. And people will get hurt. At least they’ll make it look like they get hurt.”

“We’ll probably refrain from anything that could spawn violence in these guys,” Dad said. ”Very impressionable.”

“Dad,” I whispered. “Thanks for making us sound eight years old.”

“Jed, it’s for your own good. Relax. Besides. Mexico is a big country. What are the odds?”

“By the way,” Elena said, nodding to where Tread was curled up, only now there were two empty bowls by him. “Your dog loves chili. I guess you’ll find out if chili loves him.”

Once Elena vanished, Dad gave me one of his “We need to talk” looks. It looked pretty serious, on the level of “don’t do drugs” and “here’s how babies are made.”

“I need to ask a favor,” he started, taking a deep breath, “Jed, everyone at this table knows you’re a bit different, and we love you for it—”

“Speak for yourself,” Luke interjected. “You haven’t had to endure the gas of the undead when you’re playing video games for hours on end.”

“True that, but I’ve endured my share,” Dad said, smiling.

A smile. That was a good sign. Maybe this wasn’t as serious as it seemed.

“Son, you’ve matured an awful lot over the last year, and I know how tough seventh grade was for you,” Dad continued. “So I’m going to be honest and meet this thing head-on.”

Oh, crap. It went from zero to severe in three seconds.

“Most people still aren’t open to zombies, not surprising since there’s probably only one.”

“Probably?” I said.

“Figure of speech. I’m sure you’re one in seven billion, as impossible as it seems. The only thing people know about zombies are the stereotypes, the shuffling brain-dead with an insatiable hunger for flesh, preferably that of people. So I just want you to promise me to keep the undead thing under your hat, so to speak.”

“So you want me to be someone I’m not, after all this time of telling me to be who I am.”

“It’s not that simple, and you know it. You’re an awesome kid, and I love you to death, so to speak. But you know as well as I do the challenges posed by your uniqueness. I know for a fact there have even been times when you’ve wished you weren’t a zombie.”

That was a tough truth to accept, but Dad was right. There had been times I wished I could blend into the background, fade into the crowd. Just be Jed. Not Dead Jed.

Dad noticed my expression. “I know it’s tough, but it would make things go smoothly.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “I get it. I can keep a lid on the zombie thing.”

“Right. Be Jed, the kid with the quick quip and easy smile. Go out, enjoy the experience, see the sights, relish this opportunity of being in a different land, meeting its people and learning its culture.”

“But keep my arms and legs on me at all times.”

Dad and I laughed. It felt good.

“All I ask is that you create no international incidents,” Dad said. “This trip allows you to hit the reset button and be among people who have no idea you’re any different. For the next few months, you can be the one thing you’ve always wanted to be: just another kid.”

It was a great thought, and so very wrong.

“Do you have anything to declare?” the man in uniform said, one hand on the Man Van’s window, the other out of sight. I presumed it was on his firearm because that’s where my hand would be as soon as I saw the monstrosity that was the Man Van, painted in a yellow so bright it was probably visible from space.

“I declare I am so awesome, if your country taxes awesomeness, I am not sure I can afford it.”

“Luke, shut up, would you?” I said for the umpteenth time, if the umpteens went into the millions. If the border agent hadn’t been staring at me, I would have pulled off my left arm and hit Luke with it, because he knew to keep out of swatting range when he was showing his Luke-itude.

Yes, that’s what he called it, explaining it this way: “You take attitude, amp it with a large dose of Luke, stir it until it bubbles. Wham goes the Luke-itude.”

“I will ask you again,” the uniformed man said, leaning farther into the van, forcing Dad to scoot closer to me. “Do you have anything to declare before you enter Mexico?”

It turned out Eats wasn’t that far from the border, maybe a half-million miles. But the sun was pretty low in the sky by the time we joined a line of about twenty cars, and Dad promised we’d get a hotel once we crossed, then we’d get to Guadalajara around mid-afternoon the next day.

The line was moving pretty fast, and it looked like each car was stopped for maybe a few minutes before being waved through. At that rate, we’d be at the hotel in about thirty minutes, I guessed.

I just hoped Luke-itude wasn’t going to slow us down.

“Officer, do you have to declare smart-alecks?” I said. “Because we have one in the back seat.”

He smiled, lips folding ever so slightly under a thick moustache. A good sign.

“No, because if you did, the paperwork alone would take weeks to fill out,” he said. “I think smart-alecks are a natural resource,
si
?”

“
Si
,” I said, noticing his nametag. Cesar Calderon. Dad noticed it too.

“Officer Calderon,” Dad said, “I’m not sure what we have to declare. Fruits and vegetables? That kind of thing? Because we don’t have anything like that.”

Calderon turned to Luke. “What about weapons? Knives? Fireworks? Anything that could stir up any trouble?”

“No,” Dad said, getting serious. “Nothing like that at all.”

“Alcohol maybe. Drugs.”

“No, no, of course not. Nothing like that.”

“How long do you plan on staying?”

“Maybe a month or two, hard to say.”

“Why is it hard to say?” Calderon said with a hint of suspicion. ”Most people visiting know exactly how long they are staying.”

“It depends on the job—”

“Oh, so you are here to work. Are they here to work too?” he said, pointing to Luke and me.

“No, they’re just along for the ride.”

“Good, because that one—” he pointed to Luke—” does not seem very employable. And the other, he could use a little sun. A job would be good for him.”

“Thanks, I’ll think about it,” Dad said.

“Passports. I assume you have a work visa from your job.”

“Absolutely. Boys, hand Officer Calderon your passports, please.”

I reached into the glove box and fetched the passports, handing them to the border agent. Dad got his from his back pocket and did the same.

“Be right back,” Officer Calderon said. “Until then, please pull to the side and park your, um, vehicle, next to that red sign,
por favor
.”

Dad rolled up the window, put the van in drive, and pulled to the side. I recognized that frown on his face. It was the same one he gave me every time I started an explanation with, “It wasn’t my fault.”