More Than Good Enough (8 page)

On Saturday morning, I padded barefoot into the kitchen. When I squinted through the window, Uncle Seth was in the backyard, talking to a Miccosukee woman in a straw hat. He used to be married, but his wife died in a car accident a long time ago. Sometimes I wondered if he had a girlfriend. Not that I was the world’s expert on that subject.

“You’re up early,” Dad said, drifting behind me.

“I’m working on a project,” I told him. Code-speak for
none of your business.

“What sort of project?”

“A film thing.”

Dad nodded. “Another one of your Hollywood productions?”

“It’s for school. Remember, they let me borrow that camera?”

“When is this ‘film thing’ due?” He filled the blender with a scoop of his weight-lifting mix—gritty packets of Muscle Juice that probably caused cancer in lab rats.

“Soon.”

That’s all he needed to know.

When I looked through the window again, Uncle Seth was gone. He’d probably snuck off with his boys to shoot hoops in the gym. Around here, basketball was kind of an obsession. I’d never seen anybody get so worked up over that game as the Rezzy kids. I swear, even the little babies were swagged out in Miami Heat gear before they could walk.

“Did Uncle Seth take the Ninja?” I asked.

The Ninja was my dad’s bike—a sweet Kawasaki. He was on it every chance he got. I couldn’t really blame the man.

Dad fired up the blender. “Don’t think so.”

“Can I borrow it? I’ll bring it right back. Promise. I’ll even put gas in the tank. It’s running on fumes.”

“Is it?” Dad shouted, punching a button, then another. The blender’s noise got higher-pitched. It sounded like an airboat taking off. “Aren’t you supposed to be working today?”

“Yeah,” I yelled, like a nanosecond after Dad unplugged the stupid blender. I felt like an idiot for shouting. And I’d totally forgotten about my job at the gator show. Uncle Seth kept promising to teach me how to wrestle the gator, but so far, it wasn’t happening.

Dad reached into a drawer and tossed me the car keys. “You can drive your own car. Forget about that bike. And by the way, I heard you missed work last time.”

“Not even.” I’d been a half hour late. That’s not the same as missing work. I grabbed my jacket off the couch and headed for the door.

“What about breakfast?” He lifted his glass of Muscle Juice.

“That stuff will kill you, Dad. It’s too healthy,” I said, yanking open the fridge.

My dad never tossed stuff out, no matter how rotten it got. I’d learned to sniff the milk before splashing it on my Cheerios. The fridge was crammed with take-out boxes—so many there was no room left for real food. He even saved the chopsticks and soy sauce from the Chinese place, electric-colored packets decorated with pandas.

I found one of his Power Bars in the “crisper” drawer. “Candy, yes,” I said, tearing off the wrapper.

“Trent.”

I turned around to face him.

“Found some stuff in your room.”

Stuff?

“Don’t bring girls over to the house,” Dad said.

I figured he was talking about Michelle. He made it sound like I was getting nonstop action (not even close). It was totally unfair, the way he was judging me. Did he go in my room and search for evidence? As I turned away, he grabbed my shoulder. I fell backward against the wall and the granola bar shot across the floor.

“You hear what I said?”

He was starting to freak me out. “Yeah,” I muttered. “No girls. I heard you.”

I jerked free of Dad’s grip. Then I picked up the stupid granola bar.
Supports muscle strength
, the label said.

It took, like, five seconds to run outside and unlock the car. My hands shook as I cranked the ignition. I sped past a row of concrete houses and turned in front of the Welcome Center. In the middle of the parking lot was a giant statue of a Miccosukee guy tickling an alligator’s chin. I wanted to push it into the canal.

My dad talked about being “Indian,” but if he ever knew anything about “the old ways,” he forgot a long time ago. I got dumped here because my mom didn’t want me around. And she didn’t want Dad around, either.

Not that I blamed her.

Driving to Miami, I sat behind the wheel and punched buttons on the radio. Broken lyrics floated out, telling me things I didn’t believe. I left it on a Spanish station. All those lies sounded a lot better when I couldn’t understand the words.

My old neighborhood was kind of boring compared to the Rez. All the houses looked the same in the morning light. No crazy paint colors. And it was mad quiet. Everybody stayed locked indoors all day, glued to the TV, watching shows about so-called reality.

I kept going past the gated houses and spiked metal fences—whether keeping people out or in, it was hard to tell. As I pulled onto my block, I thought about rolling up to Mom’s house. Then I saw a car I recognized in the driveway.

What the hell was I thinking? I shoved another chunk of granola in my mouth. If I was going to survive this weekend, I needed all the muscle strength I could get.

I parked next to the rusty swingset at Pippa’s, got out, and walked to the porch. On the steps were a bunch of plastic lids filled with cat food and ants. All the flowers were in various stages of death. There was even a pile of faded paperbacks spilling out of a Hefty bag. My mom would’ve killed me if I left a book outside.

Maybe Pippa didn’t live here anymore?

It seemed totally possible. Her mom got divorced back when I was in middle school. I glanced at the window by the front door. There was so much junk piled against the glass, I couldn’t get a decent look. Only one thing left to do.

I knocked on the door. Waited. Knocked again.

Yeah, maybe I should’ve called first.

The door swung open. Pippa’s mom stood there, wearing a T-shirt that said
Boss of Floss
.

“Is Pippa around?” I asked.

“Wow, kiddo. What a surprise. I saw your mother at Costco. When was it? Let’s say, last week. Looked like she’d frosted her hair. How’s she doing?”

“Um. I have no idea,” I mumbled.

“And why is that?”

“Because I’m staying at my dad’s place now.”

“Where?”

“Highway forty-one. Just off the turnpike.”

“Near the Everglades, you mean?” Pippa’s mom was still clueless.

“In it, actually,” I said.

She stepped out onto the porch and pushed something across the boards with her toes. “I’m sweating bullets. Let’s move away from the sun. Want anything, sweetie? I could nuke some coffee. You take unleaded?” Her word for decaf.

“Sounds good. All I had for breakfast was a Power Bar. It wasn’t very powerful.”

I followed her inside. The kitchen was crammed with water bottles and empty cat food bags, folded neatly and tucked near the stove. Don’t get me wrong. The place was clean. It was just … cluttered.

When Pippa came into the kitchen, I figured she’d be surprised.

She blinked at me. “Trent? Why are you here?”

Not exactly the reaction I wanted.

“I thought we were … you know. Working on that film thing,” I said.

Pippa didn’t say anything. It was hard to see her face because the house was really dark. And there was so much crap everywhere, it looked like a yard sale in the living room.

“So you’re helping Pippa with a film project?” her mom wanted to know.

“Our project,” I said. “We’re making documentaries.”

“What are you documenting, exactly?”

I thought for a second. “Life.”

The microwave beeped and I almost jumped out of my skin. Let’s just say the whole situation was kind of awkward. Pippa still wasn’t talking. Her mom kept rattling stuff in the cabinets, trying to find a coffee mug.

“That’s okay, Mom,” Pippa finally said, grabbing her camera bag. “We should get going.”

“Pippa drinks way too much caffeine anyway,” her mom said, like she wasn’t even there. “Coffee leeches the calcium in your teeth. Good thing you eat a lot of cheese.”

“We’re leaving. Now.” Pippa laced up her combat boots.

As we headed outside, I couldn’t keep up with her. She was fast-walking to the car, not even looking at me.

“Well, I guess we’re filming my life, then,” I said. “You sure I can’t shoot some footage here? Since we’re already at your place and everything?”

Pippa shook her head. “Not unless you’re making an episode of
Hoarders
.”

She was embarrassed. God, why didn’t I see it before?

“Your house isn’t on that level yet,” I said. “We don’t need to call an intervention.”

I thought this would make her laugh. Of course, I was wrong.

“It’s been like this since Dad left,” Pippa told me. “Sometimes I’m scared that my mom has mental problems. She thinks we’re all going to die in a hurricane. You saw the water bottles, right? And I’m sure you noticed the boards on our windows.”

Actually, I didn’t notice the boards. I did notice that it was dark as hell.

“That’s a good thing,” I said, unlocking the passenger door.

“Why?”

“Now you’re ready for the zombie apocalypse.”

She smiled. “What if I’m the only survivor?”

“You mean I really can’t come over?” I asked. “That’s so not fair, homeslice.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said.

“So it’s like that, huh?”

Pippa dumped her camera bag in the backseat. “Oh my god, you still have that tape?” She pointed at
The Magic of Muscle Singing
.

“It’s my mom’s tape, actually. It’s probably older than this car.”

“Classic,” Pippa said. “I’m totally stealing it.”

We both made a grab for it at the same time. My hand fumbled down near her legs.

“Sorry about the groping,” I said, sitting up straight.

“I’ll survive.” She pushed the tape into the deck and hit play. A vocal coach started chanting, “My mother made me mash my M&Ms.” Then he clicked his tongue like he was part dolphin.

“I like tapes and records more than CDs anyway,” Pippa said. “Why do they sound so much better?”

“Because CDs are too perfect. You don’t hear any scratches or pops between songs.”

“The scratches definitely make it interesting,” she said. “More like real life.”

I laughed. “Real life has scratches?”

She cranked the volume. “You know what I mean.”

Me and Pippa used to sing along in the car. Nothing could make me laugh like that—laugh until I actually peed my pants (embarrassing but true).

A couple minutes later, the tape clicked to the other side. Bass guitar notes dribbled out of the speakers.

“What is this music?” Pippa asked, closing her eyes. “It’s actually kind of good.”

“It’s nothing.” I hit the eject button.

“Wait. That’s you playing bass?”

“I wanted it to sound ‘vintage’ so I recorded over a tape.”

“Can I have a copy of that song?”

“It’s not a song yet. But I could make it happen.”

“Yeah?” she said. “I think you should.”

She rewound the tape back to the beginning. For the rest of the drive, we listened in silence, and that was cool with me.

When we got to the Welcome Center, Pippa headed straight for the gift shop.
HALF OFF TODAY ONLY
, a sign said, as if the day itself were on sale. I couldn’t understand why she wanted to film a pile of back-scratchers made of dried-up gator claws.

“So, when are we interviewing your dad?” Pippa asked.

That was the last thing I wanted to do. “You should film the gator show,” I said. “It’s starting soon.”

I glanced down the aisles. A little girl bolted past me, screaming words I didn’t understand. She carried a snow globe in both hands. Inside it, Santa’s sleigh floated above a beach, pulled by a team of flamingoes.

“You guys want to see some alligator wrestling?” somebody asked.

Uncle Seth.

I recognized his laugh, the way he poured his whole body into it.

Pippa was so excited she did a little robot dance, right in the middle of the gift shop. It was kind of cute, actually. I was still trying to figure out how to keep her away from the drama that had become my life.

Uncle Seth was in his wrestling gear. He wore a patchwork vest and his bare feet were dusted with sand. A necklace of snaggly teeth bounced against his chest as he loped toward me.

“And I believe you’re supposed to be helping out today?” He steered me outside.

We walked toward a clump of chickee huts facing a sandy pit. I was thankful for the shade. Already, my T-shirt had begun to stick to my shoulder blades. On the other side of a chain-link fence, an alligator sprawled in a concrete pool. He looked like a deflated truck tire. At least until he cracked his mouth wide open.