Ruby Unscripted (8 page)

She rests a knee on a bench the way a jock might, but she's so pretty it's sort of a humorous stance. “I've been as far north as Mendocino or Napa. Are there any spas up there?”

“Spas?”

“My mother is doing this tour of spas. She's in Budapest right now, but I know she's gone around California. She has this book about the best spas in the world and wants to try every one of them. I guess everyone needs goals.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I'm more like my father. I'd rather tour all the golf courses or the top architectural wonders.”

“We're not really known for any of those things, though we have them. Like the Sundial Bridge, which is really cool. And Redding does have a church designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, but I suppose with all you have down here, that wouldn't be all that exciting.”

“Yeah, probably not.” The way she says that sounds just a touch snobbish, and I hope she doesn't mean it.

“So you're in student government?”

“Yes. Both of my parents were in student gov at this school. My dad is thinking of running for Congress next term. He's so political, but international bankers make much more money than government officials, so he has his strategy. I've been very
encouraged
to do politics, to the point of insistent encouragement. But I actually enjoy it. I'm considering political science for my major in college.”

“Interesting.”

Lucinda waves as some students pass and gives a smile that I think will get her definite votes.

“I'm supposed to ask what some of your interests are to help you find some groups or organizations. You know, get you plugged into the school quickly.”

“I'm about as political as a . . . well, what's the most nonpolitical thing in existence?”

“Everyone is political, whether they admit it or not. But it's a rare person who is actually politician material,” she says with a tinge of condescension.

“I like art.”

“We have lots of art classes and art theory and art club. There's also yearbook staff, the newspaper, and dozens of clubs, from the Che Guevara group to Vegans Today . . . but I don't imagine you'd be interested in a lot of those. Are you interested in filmmaking? That's a big thing here.”

“Well, yeah, maybe. I think some of the students hold a Premiere Night at my aunt's coffeehouse. I just started working there. The Underground—do you know it?”

“Ah sure, cool place. Did you say you
work
there?”

“Yeah.”

Lucinda doesn't respond to that, just files it away with political smoothness. At home, most older teenagers have part-time jobs, but I wonder what it's like here where money is less of an issue.

“I'll introduce you to some of the filmies.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, so you'll be here Monday?”

“Yep.”

“Then I'll meet you right here at eight o'clock.”

“Great.”

“Off to my debate club.” She smiles warmly and squeezes my arm. “You'll like it here, Ruby. I'll make sure you do.”

“Thanks, Lucinda.”

“If you need anything, call me at this number.” She hands me a small CD thingie.

“What is this?”

“Put it in your laptop, and it'll pop up with all my information. It also has info about me running for junior class president. See you Monday.”

I find Mom standing in the doorway of Mr. James's office, taking steps away, being drawn back, and finally breaking free with a look of relief on her face. “That was hard.”

“What was?”

“Getting away from Mr. James.”

We recite Mr. James quotes on the walk back to the car.

“You will just love this school,” I say with enthusiasm.

“Our school has one of the highest academic ratings in not just the state of California but the nation as well.”

“I think Mr. James is reliving his high school experience,” Mom says in the voice she uses when she and Aunt Jenna do their people-watching/story-making game.

“Not reliving, recreating. I think he was a painfully awkward teenager.”

We both laugh at that, and then Mom feels guilty for making fun of my school guidance counselor and says what a nice man Mr. James is and certainly an asset to the students who have him. “But you know,” she says as we open the car doors, “Carson wouldn't have fit here at all.”

That makes us silent. Neither of us speaks the entire drive home.

Once in my room, which is still a maze of boxes, I dial Carson's number. My friends are in school, but Carson gets out early for work experience. His voice mail comes on.

I leave a message: “I can't believe you deserted me! You need to call me soon.”

I try my dad's house, then Carson's best friend, Marty's house, only to find out that Carson headed up to the mountains after school.

He's not ignoring me, I do know this. My brother is one of the least techie people to live in the twenty-first century. I created his MySpace for him. His friends often complain that they can't reach him, or he forgot to turn on his phone, or he let the battery go dead. If he'd been born several hundred years ago, Carson would be exploring the New World. That's my brother. And when life gets hard or stressed, he goes to the mountains.

So that's where he is now. Driving back roads, music on. Maybe he'll go for a long hike to one of his favorite lakes with a fishing pole in his backpack. I've gone with him a few times, and I follow the unspoken rules. We stop and get snacks; then he turns on some music, and we don't talk except on rare occasions. And there's something about driving those long mountain roads that gives a sense of freedom and escape and washes away the bad for a few hours.

Sometimes we talk on the drive home; other times we come back in continued silence as the reality of life returns. I rode with my brother after Dad told us he'd gotten married, and when Carson and his first girlfriend broke up, and again when Mom first told us about Aunt Betty giving us the house.

The boxes cluttering my room press in around me as I lie on my bed.

If Carson were here, I'd ask for a drive. I want my brother to be my brother still. With him there and me here, it's like suddenly we aren't siblings, or it's like he died but no one is really sad about it yet. Thinking of Carson dying reminds me of Little Tony.

My head feels foggy as I pull a blanket over me. Foggy and sad and thinking of Carson driving and driving on some mountain road and trying to remember exactly what Little Tony's face looked like—he had freckles, I remember, but what color were his eyes? What does it matter now that they will never look around the world again?

I wake to darkness with my cell phone vibrating next to my ear. It's Kate, which makes me realize that I never read her other texts.

KATE:
So what did you think?

ME:
I forgot to read it

KATE:
Hell?! Earth to Ruby.

ME:
Was in a guidance counselor appt

KATE:
Yeah, yeah. K then, recap. Nick doesn't want to go with Nikki but feels bad telling her. He was caught off guard when she asked. It'd be so fun if you went with him. We'll get a limo and go to dinner at Nello's or...

ME:
So you're going for sure?

KATE:
Probably with jeffers-as Mends only.

ME:
Hands Jefters? I'll be your bodyguard.

KATE:
Yes, though you might want to keep your attention
on your boyfriend.

ME:
LOL, we're a bit presumptuous, aren't we?

KATE:
Speak human please.

ME:
Sorry. Hey, have you seen my brother?

KATE:
Yeah. At school and at Marty's house when my
brother picked me up.

ME:
What did he say?.

KATE:
I didn't really talk to him. But my brother said he'd
be crazy to move now with only one year left. He's gone to school with everyone since kindergarten.

ME:
Like me.

KATE:
Like you.

ME:
Tell him I keep trying to call him.

KATE:
K. Sorry Rubes. But back to important-what do you
think about Nick?

chapter eight

I have this recurring daydream.

It's a secret to everyone except Kate.

The closest city to my hometown of Cottonwood is Redding. It's not a big city; it's just the only city within several hundred miles. According to my parents, who've lived there most of their lives, Redding has experienced a cultural awakening. They've renovated the downtown area and the old Cascade Theater and other stuff that adults get excited about. All I know is that Redding's mall is embarrassingly small.

But Redding has the coolest bridge I've ever seen. The Sundial Bridge.

From miles away, the massive white column of the bridge's dial is visible, rising from the trees like an airplane tail or a ship's sail frozen in motion. The walking bridge stretches over the wide Sacramento River, with the dial rising on the far side with thick cables in symmetric lines holding the dial to the bridge. If someone could see it from above, it really would look like one of those old Roman sundials. And it really works.

At the summer equinox on June 21, the shadow from the dial falls in perfect alignment with the time knobs on the ground. Mom took me one year to see it. The day was filled with local groups and musicians putting on sun-related festivities: sunspot viewing through giant telescopes, sun dances, and scientific games for kids. It was pretty fun.

But the bridge at night—that's when it's nearly magical in beauty.

If you cross the bridge and go down the trail that leads beneath the bridge, the huge cables that hold the dial look like a giant violin. But only at night and from this point of view. Also, the soft green glow that comes from the translucent glass reflects off the river below. In the summer, bands play at the little Turtle Bay Café, and there's a stillness to the diamond sky above us.

Not everyone loved the Sundial Bridge at first. Some people made fun of it—which, when I hear it, causes anger to rise in me and I want to call those people stupid or hicks or cultural losers. I'm not sure why I need to defend the bridge—it's a bridge! And so I remind myself that there were people against the construction of the Eiffel Tower in 1889. And what would Paris be without the Eiffel Tower? So Redding has its Sundial Bridge.

Anyway, back to my recurring daydream, or rather night dream or rainy night dream.

I'm at the Sundial Bridge at night when the stars are their brightest.

The soft green glow of light comes through the frosted glass walkway.

It's raining.

I'm there with
him
. The unknown
him
every girl imagines and maybe someday finds, hopefully, though I don't see that many women with a husband who looks like
him
. (This worries me, I must admit.)

My
him
is there with me, though I can't see his face, but his presence is more familiar than anything that belongs to me. It's that familiarity I feel on rare moments among family—not those times when I'm sure I'm adopted or wonder why I can't be comfortable playing games, undistracted, and not like the black sheep of the family. Not those moments.

But the familiarity when I can wear anything, not even look in the mirror, and laugh as loud and long as I want. Something like that kind of comfortable knowing, but even more so. He, the mystery guy, is like a part of me, part of my future, but it feels like I've always known him too, and that we've always been a part of each other. Maybe that's where the idea of soul mates was born.

And so, okay, I'm reasonable enough to know this mystery guy may be all a dream and might always be. But I dream it anyway.

In the dream, we hold hands as our feet walk over the glow of soft green light going near the white railing above the rippling waters of the Sacramento River. The clouds hang low and offer the soft rain that dampens our hair and faces.