My name is Jordan.
I'm a normal thirteen year old girl in eighth grade. I grew up in sunny Santa Barbara, California, USA. My mom and dad are divorced, and I live with my mom. She's a lawyer with some power firm. I've heard my dad call her an ambulance chaser, but not like he's being mean about it, more like a joke. He's a cable news anchorman for a major network in Chicago, and he's one of the coolest, funniest guys I know.
I have normal friends. I have normal hobbies, like baking and soccer. I'm not even in high school yet, but I made Junior Varsity a couple of months ago. I haven't been able to play in a few weeks, because the field is gone. Not at the top of my list of worries, but it still sucks.
I have – had – two sisters. My younger sister, Sara, is still with us. After everything that's happened, she's worrying me. She was always quiet and shy – she's the kind of kid who'll hide behind our mom's leg if someone she doesn't know says hi to her – but she's totally disconnected now. When we first found out about Rachel, that she was never coming home, Sara cried. A lot. But it's been four days since we heard, and I guess she's cried herself out. She just hovers around my mom. She's, like, totally unplugged from the world. You have to say her name two or three times to get her attention, and even when you get it, she won't answer any questions if it requires more than a head-shake or a nod. She doesn't talk, and she doesn't do more than pick at her food. I'm worried. I mean, can a nine year old have an emotional breakdown? It seems like the answer is yes.
Anger. I've got a lot of that going on, too. Mostly at my mom, for what I think is good reason. Jake tells me to lay off her, but what does he know? When we were evacuated to the Valley of the Hork-Bajir, my mom was embarrassing. And I don't mean kiss-you-in-front-of-your-friends embarrassing...the way she behaved made me feel ashamed of her. I mean, we're clearly in a terrible situation, right? The Yeerks are burning our whole city, and they're scouring the area for Rachel. We're all scrambling just to catch up with the new reality. Rachel tells us what's going on – the alien invaders, the secret war she's been fighting, what she's done, what she's going to have to do. What Mom should have done was support Rachel. She should have apologized for never noticing that Rachel was losing her mind – losing herself – for the last few years. Hell, I noticed, and I'm just a kid. I even brought it up to my mom, more than once. I never knew what was going on with Rachel, but it was clear it was something, and it was bad. My mom always brushed me off, told me I was worrying for nothing.
Right. Nothing. Just a little ol' alien invasion. No big.
So anyway, we all finally know what's going on. We have to leave our home, our city, under the cover of darkness. In the space of a second, we went from being an ad for the American Nuclear Family to being fugitives. And what does my mom do? She whines, she bitches, she moans. She makes a hard situation harder. She refuses to accept the new facts of life.
Stubbornness, I can understand. Rachel was stubborn. I'm stubborn. Willful ignorance? I'm not giving that a pass, especially out of a grown adult.
It's been a few days since Jake and his friends got the Yeerks to surrender. Since Rachel died. I'm not going to go into detail on that – I'm sure you already know what happened there. It's horrible, and I miss her, but it is what it is. My mom has two daughters left to take care of, but she's not acting like it. She's totally shut down. Uncle Steve wrote her a prescription for Xanax, and I know for a fact she's abusing it. Those little blue pills are disappearing from the bottle at an alarming rate.
Some rich guy in Ventura Beach offered his summer home for our family to use. My mom, Sara, and I stayed on the top floor. Uncle Steve and Aunt Jean were on the middle floor. Jake, when he was there, slept in the guest room on the ground floor.
My Aunt Jean and Uncle Steve – Jake's parents – are different now. They're withdrawn. Their faces always look drawn out and haggard. But that's to be expected, you know? They were taken hostage by the Yeerks. Those animals used my aunt and uncle's bodies to try to track down and kill Jake. They lost their oldest son at the same time we lost Rachel. I'm not saying one tragedy is worse than another, but...well yeah, I guess that's what I'm saying. Aunt Jean and Uncle Steve definitely had it worse than my family. And they weren't taking drugs. They weren't totally closed off. They at least tried to take care of me, Sara, and Jake. They were in no state to do it, and it didn't help, but at least they tried.
Jake's a mess. He's still hanging in there, which is like the one thing in my family I can be proud of. He's miserable, he's depressed, he's burned out and used up...but he's still doing his job. He's still dealing with the finer points of the Yeerk surrender. He's a go-between for the humans and Andalites. He's helping Marco out with the public relations stuff. You can tell he's just delaying his inevitable breakdown, but I was weirdly proud of him. I approved. I know Rachel would have approved, too; I think that's why he was doing it. To try to make up for getting Rachel killed. I know he blames himself.
So that was the situation. I was stuck in a house with a bunch of grieving, depressed family members. There was no handbook for a scenario like this. I don't know why I was dealing with everything better than everyone else, I just was. You want to know what I was most emotional about? The fact that Rachel never let me in on it. I know, logically, she couldn't have been sure that I wasn't a Controller. But when I'm lying in bed at night, I can think of a hundred different ways she could have brought me into the Animorphs.
Why didn't she do it? Why didn't she come to me for help? Did she think I wouldn't have agreed? Maybe she didn't think I was as strong as her. Maybe she didn't think she could count on me. Maybe she just simply didn't want to put that on me; maybe it was all about protecting me. But that pisses me off, because all she would have had to do was put herself in my shoes. We aren't – weren't – all that different. She should have known that I'd have jumped at the chance to help. I'd have fought every bit as hard as the rest of them. I was older than they were when they started, so the "kid" thing wasn't a valid excuse. I don't know exactly why she hid it from me and kept me in the dark, and she wasn't around for me to get my answers.
That's why, on the fourth day after she died and the Yeerks surrendered, I decided to get what answers I could. I would go to our house and see what I could find, what Rachel left behind.
Now, I'm not stupid. I knew I wasn't going to find a journal in her room titled "The War With the Yeerks, and Why I Never Let Jordan In On It." I knew how careful they had to be not to drop any clues about who or what they were. But maybe there was something that would give me a hint as to what she was thinking. Or hey, maybe there wasn't. But going to look and make sure was better than sitting around in the house of misery. The despair and depression was like a bad smell, and I was to the point where I just had to get away from it.
I packed my bookbag with some stuff I found in the kitchen. Bottled water, beef jerky, and some of those pre-packaged sandwich wedges they sell in vending machines at truck stops. From what I'd seen on the news, I knew there was a ring burned around Santa Barbara. All the footage was from choppers, and everything inside the ring was leveled, so there was no point of reference, but it looked like it was wide. And hot. I laced up my Chuck Taylors and left the house. Nobody questioned me. Nobody even noticed me.
As I left the beach and walked toward the main highway, I was really amazed at what I saw. Not because things were different, but because everything seemed the same. People seemed to be in a good mood – peppy, up, you know? They stopped to talk to each other in a way that seemed a little friendlier than before. But for the most part, people went about their business. Shopping, going where they had to go, whatever. I tried not to be mad about it.
I got to the highway and stuck out my thumb. My mom would have shit if she'd known I was hitchhiking. Well, at least she would have, before. The state she was in now...who knew? It wasn't long before some older kids in a van pulled over to let me in. There was a big portrait of that serial killer, Ted Bundy, painted expertly on the side of the van. Underneath, in dripping letters, was the name "The Handsome Slashers." It was actually pretty funny. As I climbed in, it was obvious this was a band – the instruments crammed in the back and the smell of pot in the van made it a no-brainer.
A tiny girl with a green mohawk was driving. She turned to me, offered me a fist bump, and asked, "Where you headed, little sister?"
"Santa Barbara. You're going that way, right?"
Mohawk girl shook her head – the jewelry in her nose and ears jangled. "Nah, place is a wasteland, from what I hear. We're heading up the coast, gonna have to detour around it."
"Can you drop me on the north side?" I asked. "That's where my house is. Was. Whatever."
The two guys in the back with me shared a look. The one with long hair patted me on the shoulder with a sympathetic look on his face. "Bummer. You lost people?"
The stranger's kindness made me want to cry, but I sucked it up. "Yeah. My sister. I want to go back to the house to...you know...see if she left anything."
"No doubt," the girl said, dropping the van into drive and getting back on the highway. "I'm Machine Gun Cary. The hippie is Vic." Long hair gave me a peace sign and rolled his eyes, and they all laughed. "That's Tom-Tom the Fuckin' Bomb," she said of the other.
"But you can just call me Tommy," he winked, and shook with me.
"We're out of Garden Grove," Vic said, propping his feet on the back of the driver's seat. Cary reached around to smack his legs off. "We've been hearing about this craziness for a few days. But you were there, huh? Ground zero. That's gnarly."
"Well, not really. My family had some warning, we got out before it went down and the Yeerks started torching the place." I opened my bag and got a piece of jerky, and passed the bag around. They said thanks and took it. My friends from school, all they wanted to talk about was Rachel, and the Animorphs, and how I'd been so close to the whole thing. I guess to them, it was thrilling. These van-people...kids, really, not really all that much older than me...didn't know me. They just saw me as a hitchhiker/refugee, one of thousands. It was liberating.
"Well that's good, I guess," Tommy mused. "Still, sorry about your sister. That's hard for anyone."
"What kind of music do you guys play?" I asked, just to change the subject.
It was the right question. It led to a heated debate between Tom-Tom and Vic as to whether they were more punk, indy, or post-hardcore (whatever the hell that was.) The conversation needed no input from me, as if I understood half of what they were saying, anyway. Before long, we crested a hill and saw the way blocked with cops and detour signs. Beyond that was...nothing. It was a scorched wasteland, like Cary had said. There wasn't so much as a tree or bush left. I mean, after a forest fire, there's still burned tree trunks and stuff. Here, the ground itself was burned. Beyond it, through the smoke and haze, you could barely make out the ruins of the city.
The boys broke off mid-argument and everybody just stared, silent. After a moment, the traffic started moving, and we headed east. "Maybe the north side of town is better," Cary said, trying to be positive. I appreciated the effort, but I doubted if she was right. We could see some of the town to our left as we drove, and it looked like the war zone it had been. The Yeerks had done a real number on the place.
Cary tried to get as close to the north end as she could. Some of the obstructions were just abandoned cars. Some were man-made barricades manned by police. She was determined though, and finally found a private drive that led right up to the perimeter the Yeerks had burned. We all got out and just stared out over the destruction.
"Can you see your house?" Tommy asked. There weren't many houses to see; more piles of smoking rubble than anything else. But there were still some standing.
"I won't be able to tell from here. It's about a mile that way," I reluctantly pointed in the direction where the destruction seemed the worst.
"There doesn't look like there's much left that way, homegirl," Cary said, chewing her lip. "Sure you don't want to just call it a day?"
"I have to know," I said simply.
"We'll go with you," Vic blurted out. Cary nodded in agreement right away. Tommy hesitated, then nodded too.
"But what about your show?" I asked.
"What, and disappoint a screaming crowd of twenty-five people? All of them so drunk they wouldn't notice if we were a traveling circus?" Tommy said sarcastically.
"Or miss out on the two hundred bucks we'd split?" Vic grinned. "I think we'll get along without it."
I hesitated. Not because I didn't want them to come with me. I genuinely liked them, and seeing the town where I grew up like this...it was hard. But a little voice inside of me told me this was something I should do by myself. Whatever came of it, and whatever feelings it brought, it should be mine alone. "I appreciate it, but I have to do this myself," I said, pleased that my voice came out strong and confident. And, because they were so nice and I felt like I owed them, I added, "I'm Jordan Berenson. Rachel Berenson was my sister. So...that's why I have to do this alone," I finished a little lamely.
"Rachel Berenson..." Cary said, looking confused. "Rachel...oh my God! That Rachel? That was your sister?" All three of them shared a look that I didn't much care for. A mix of pity and horror for me. But I figured I ought to get used to it.
"Yeah. So that's why. I really appreciate the ride and the offer to come with," I said. Cary gave me a hug, and the boys joined in. Once again, I had to fight back tears. Sometimes, when you're at your worst, you accidentally find the people who can bring you back.
Even though I had managed to hold back my own tears, Cary hadn't. Vic suspiciously turned his back on us and sniffled.
"Well, let's not make this awkward," Cary said. "If you ever need to...you know, get away from it all...come look us up in Garden Grove. You can crash with us, just hide out for a while if you want to. You're always welcome, little sis." She quickly scribbled a phone number on a fast food receipt and gave it to me. "Anytime."
Vic kissed me on the top of the head in a brotherly way. "We'll keep a good thought for you, Jordan." Tom-Tom just slapped hands with me. They stood and watched as I headed into the gloom.
The area the Yeerks had Draconed around Santa Barbara was spooky and depressing. It was like walking through some nightmare world. The ground was scorched, and it felt like walking through charcoal and glass. The smell was hellish, too – it was a mixture of fire, sulfur, and something strangely sweet. I tried not to think of the smell of roasting pork. If I started imagining how many people and animals were a part of the burned up ground I was walking on, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from turning around and running back to the world I knew. The sane one, where my city wasn't a smoldering cinder. After about ten minutes of walking, I came to some grass. I looked to my left and my right, and confirmed that I was coming through the ring of death and into the city proper.
Not that there was anything proper about it. Eight out of ten houses in the neighborhood were gone. Just piles of ash standing in the middle of their lawns. I could see lines burned in the ground connecting one ash pile to the next, and I could imagine the Bug Fighters flying overhead, dragging their Dracon beams along the houses in a row. I could picture people running and screaming, maybe getting burned down by ground troops, maybe getting snatched up by Hork-Bajir Controllers to be infested. I shuddered and tried to turn my brain off. Only three more blocks to my neighborhood. I needed to focus on my mission and ignore the rest.
"Hey!" A voice yelled from behind me. I jumped and spun around, my adrenaline pumping. A guy in a gas mask and space suit was getting out of a truck with FEMA printed on the side. "You can't be here! It's not safe!"
All of the anger, frustration, and sadness I'd been feeling for the past four days just overflowed. "It's over, you jackass!" I waved my hand at the destruction around us. "Are you blind? Are you stupid? My sister and her friends won your damn war for you! And you come in after the fact in your stupid suit and your fancy truck and try to act like you're in control!" Without deciding to, I started stalking toward the surprised man. "Where were you while my sister was dying? Nowhere! SO DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" I screamed.
The guy obviously decided that dealing with a crazy and possibly homicidal teenager wasn't on his to-do list for the day. He raised his hands, got back in his truck, and shut the door. I saw him remove his mask and make a phone call, but I ignored him and kept walking back toward my old neighborhood.
Once I got on my street, I was greeted by a dog. I had seen him before; I remembered because I remember thinking he was the cutest mutt alive. He was shaped like a weiner dog, with the ridiculously short legs and long body, but much bigger. He had golden, shaggy fur, but thick and wiry. His face looked like he had one of those old-tyme gunslinger mustaches. I remembered Rachel laughing and calling him Low Rider. He walked up to me, hesitantly wagging his tail and grinning at me.
I squatted down, and he nearly jumped into my lap, licking my face and wagging his tail so hard that his whole butt gyrated. "You poor guy," I said, scratching his ears. I looked for the house he belonged to. It was a burned out shell. I took it as a grim sign that both cars were still in the driveway; it meant that the family had probably been home when it happened. I took a bottle of water out of my bag, and Low Rider started trying to drink it before I even got the cap off. Watching him try to drink as I tried to pour it into his mouth was hilarious, and it was probably the first time I'd laughed since I'd heard about Rachel. There was more to it than that, though. When something disastrous happens, the very worst part is being helpless. Wanting to do something to help, and having nothing to do. Well, here was a dog who was thirsty. I had water to give. It might have been small, but it was important. To this little dog in this destroyed neighborhood, I was a hero.
I mean, it was something. I needed something to hold on to right then, and the pup had done that for me. I gave him the rest of my beef jerky, and as he scarfed it, I sensed that I had just made a friend for life. It made me smile. He finished the jerky and grinned up at me with an adorable doggy underbite, as if to say, "What now, Jordan?"
"Now, we go see what's left of my house," I said. I started walking again, and Low Rider trotted along at my side. As we passed his former house, he ducked his head, as if he knew what had happened there and was sad about it. Who knows? Maybe he was.
My heart jumped a little as my house came into view. The garage was blasted and burned, but the majority of the house seemed okay. As I got closer, I realized that the fire hadn't spread beyond the garage. I remembered the reconstruction of my house a couple of years back, and my mom insisting on the very best and most expensive materials. Fire-proof insulation included. It must have made a difference.
As I crossed the front lawn, I realized that our house falling in two years ago had been no accident. Several things clicked into place. I remembered Sara saying she'd seen an elephant in the kitchen while I was calling 911 to come and free Rachel from the wreckage. We'd all chalked it up to trauma and imagination, but in light of all of the new information about my sister, I realized that there really had been an elephant in my house, and it had been Rachel. Crazy stuff. It just kept hitting me in weird and unexpected ways.
Low Rider barked once, as if to say, "We going in, or what?" I laughed and patted his head. "Yeah, we're going. C'mon."
Bizarrely, the house key was still under the welcome mat. I unlocked it and went it.
It was like I'd never left. The wall that the kitchen shared with the garage was blistered, and there was a strange smell in the house, but other than that, it was totally normal. I took the stairs two at a time, with my new friend following me like a reverse slinky, panting like he was climbing Everest.
I spent over an hour going through Rachel's room. It was like I remembered it, which was totally disappointing. I mean, I knew the Rachel that she'd wanted the rest of the world to see. What I wanted was something, anything, that would show me the Rachel I never got the chance to know. I did pick up some clues that I'd missed before, just little hints about the warrior who'd been my sister. One was the dry erase board over her desk. For the past year or two, I'd noticed that the tone of those quotes she wrote on it had changed, but I hadn't thought anything of it. Seeing them now, I could see they were all for her to draw inspiration from, the sort of inspiration she needed to keep going in her secret war. Quotes from famous generals throughout history and stuff. But a big ass dry erase board didn't make a good memento, so I kept looking.
And looking. And looking. I just wasn't finding the sort of thing I hoped. I did find a photo of her, Cassie, Marco, Jake, and Tobias. I marveled as I realized the blue smudge in the corner must have been one of their Andalite friend's fingers as he took the snap for them. It was an old picture; I could tell right away because Marco's hair was still long. I still remember when he got it cut – I was eleven, and I remember being bummed about it, because his hair had been the cutest part about him. But it was taken after Tobias had allegedly disappeared, so finding it had the feeling of digging up something that was supposed to be hidden. I tucked the photo in my bag and kept looking.
"Hello?" A voice called up the stairs. "Santa Barbara PD! Come to the head of the stairs with your hands up!"
"Shit," I grumbled, and Low Rider whined questioningly at me. "Chill, boy," I told him. "This is my house!" I called, heading toward the stairs. I stuck my hands around the corner first, and then followed them. Two cops stood at the foot of the stairs with their guns drawn, but they holstered them when they saw me.
"You'll have to come with us, Miss," the younger cop said. "This is a...crime scene."
"No, it's not. It's my house," I said again. "I'm fine here. Thanks. You can go."
The cops exchanged a look. The older one took off his cap, scratched his head, and said, "Look, I get it. This is your house and you want to stay here. The fact is, this area is quarantined. We have no idea what kind of dangers are still lingering. Maybe those death rays they used cause cancer. There could be gas leaks and God knows what else. We can't leave you here, you have to come with us."
I realized they were serious, that they weren't leaving without me, so I sighed and started down the stairs. "Look, I'm Jordan Berenson. I lived here with my sister, Rachel." The cops shared another look. "People probably don't know this was her house yet, but they will. And when they figure it out, our stuff won't be safe. There's nobody here to protect it."
"Do you have any ID?" the young cop asked. I dug for my student ID and handed it over. "It really is her," he muttered, handing it back.
"I'll call the address in as soon as we get in the car, and we'll have a unit come watch over the place for you," the older one said. I hesitated, and he raised his hand. "You have my word on it, ma'am."
I could see that was the best I was going to get, so I nodded. As we left, I impulsively opened the entertainment center in the living room. I saw a tape labeled "Xmas '94" and stuffed it in my bag. As we got to the cop car and they opened the back for me, I turned to see Low Rider watching, and the poor guy looked worried. "C'mon, boy!" I called, and his grin reappeared as he sprinted for the back seat. For the third time, the cops looked at each other, but they decided to let it slide as the dog dove into the car. As soon as I was in, Low Rider curled up in my lap, gave me a lick, and went straight to sleep.
"Poor pup is worn out," the young cop said kindly. "Where to, Miss Berenson?"
I laughed, because he sounded more like a limo driver than a cop, but I gave him the address where we were staying. True to his word, the older cop called the station on our way back to Ventura. He gave them my address and told them to send some guys out to watch the place.
Most of the ride was quiet. When we got close to the house, the young cop turned around. He took off his hat. "I just want you to know how sorry I am for your loss. Rachel was a hero. I know that doesn't mean much right now, but the whole world knows what she did for us, and we appreciate it. It was an honor to meet you."
I didn't really know what to say. I felt proud of Rachel, but ashamed for taking praise on her behalf. After all, I hadn't done anything other than be born to the same parents. "Thanks," I said uncertainly. We pulled up to the beach house, and I woke Low Rider up. I shook hands with the cops and thanked them for bringing me home and taking care of my house.
The first thing I did was bring LR up to the top floor. He wasn't built for stairs, but he seemed plenty happy about having a new home. As I brought him into the master bedroom where my mom and Sara were staying, Sara lit up. It did my heart good to see it. She squealed and said, "Mom, look! Jordan found a puppy!" She clapped her hands, and good ol' LR jumped up on the bed and mugged her willingly. She laughed and kissed his head, and I could see that my little sister was going to be okay. She'd be able to come out of this and be her old self. It was a huge relief.
My mom was another matter. I had never seen her act like this, so I had no idea if she had a comeback in her or not. Her eyes still had that sort of dead look in them, but she managed a smile for Sara. "That's good, dear." She looked at me and said, "That's the Robinson's dog. You went back home?" I nodded. "That's good. Did you find what you were looking for?"
It was encouraging that Mom was still sharp enough to catch on to what had happened right away. "I don't know," I answered her question honestly. "I think...I think it was as much as I could have hoped for. Maybe better. I got the cops to post some people there, so hopefully the place won't be looted before we can get back."
"That's great, honey. I should have thought of that." She chewed her bottom lip. "Look...I know I've sort of checked out, lately. I don't want you to worry. I'm dealing with it. We're all going to be okay. Do you believe me?"
"Yeah," I said. I didn't know if I did or not, but it was what she needed to hear. "Yeah, I believe it. Is Jake here?"
"Not that I know of. I saw him on a live news program an hour ago, in San Luis Obispo. Why?"
"I'm going to crash downstairs tonight. I just...need some time. To process things, you know?" My mom nodded. "If he comes home and runs me out, I'll come up here to sleep. But until then, I'm just going to take some alone time."
"Are you going to take the doggy down with you?" Sara asked, clearly dreading the answer. I smiled.
"I think Low Rider wants to stay with you tonight. Why don't you get him a bowl of water for the bathroom? Maybe you can make him a bed out of some towels or something."
"Can he sleep with us, Mom? I love Low Rider, please please please!" I laughed and headed downstairs as they started to talk that one over.
In Jake's room, there was a daybed that he slept on. It was the kind with the second bed that you could roll out from under it. I pulled it out, tossed some sheets and blankets on it, and then turned to the TV set. There was a DVD-VHS combo underneath, so I popped in the tape that I'd liberated from my house.
My dad was obviously working the camcorder. There was a fire in the fireplace, so I knew it was Christmas Eve. That was the only day of the year we ever built a fire. Christmas had always been sort of a formality at my house – my dad, Jake's dad's brother, was Jewish, and my mom was Catholic. So when they got married, they'd agreed to celebrate both holidays for us kids. We did all of the Hanukkah stuff at Jake's house, and mostly did the Christmas thing at my house. I mean, it was pretty much a dream situation for us kids; double the parties, double the presents, double the food. It was awesome. I smiled as I watched the tape.
Rachel, eight years old, was cheesing at the camera. I was sitting on my mom's lap, and there was barely room for me, she was so pregnant with Sara. My dad said, "Hey Rachel. Do you know who's coming tonight?"
Predictably, she yelled, "Santa!" and started skipping in circles while my mom and dad laughed. Suddenly, she stopped in mid-skip and looked at my dad very seriously. He zoomed in on her face as she asked, "Dad? Santa brings all the kids in the world presents on Christmas, right?"
"He sure does," my dad said.
You could see the little wheels spinning in Rachel's brain. "So...who gives Santa his presents?"
"Well, I don't know, honey. I'm sure Mrs. Claus gives him a present or two."
Rachel thought about that for a minute. You could see her getting upset. I was fascinated watching it. She said, "That isn't fair for Santa, Dad. He gives presents to all the kids in the world. But he only gets a couple for himself." You could see her processing this information. "Mom? Can we go buy a present to leave for Santa?"
My dad put the camera on my mom. "Yeah, hon, can we go buy Santa a present? The kid's got a point. I think he'd like a six pack of Miller Light and a new Penn International rod and reel." I could see how it was funny from an adult point of view, with my dad being Santa and all. But it was a tender moment, because to Rachel, Santa was a real dude, and she was really concerned about him. How many kids can you say that about? How many kids care about how many presents Santa gets, when faced with that crazy joy of Christmas morning?
"That's Rachel," Jake said from the doorway. I jumped; I hadn't heard him come in. He looked done-in, but he was grinning a really genuine smile. "Always thinking outside the box." He came in and sat down on the other bed.
"Hey Jake," I greeted him. "Sorry for taking over your room...it just got a little heavy upstairs with my mom. I'll clear out." I got up to do it, but he put a hand on my shoulder.
"I'm so tired, I could sleep standing up. It won't bother me if you want to hang out and crash in here."
"That's really nice. I think I'll take you up on it, actually," I said, relieved that I didn't have to deal with my mom again tonight.
Jake flopped back on the bed. "Where'd you get the tape?" he asked.
I ended up telling him the whole story about my day. He didn't interrupt. It felt good to just chat about my day without any pressure to act or be any certain way. When I was done, he didn't say anything; I figured he'd fallen asleep. But then he asked, "So this band you met. They're not weirdos, are they?"
"Well, yeah, I guess they are," I said, thinking about Cary's green mohawk and facial piercings. "But they're good people."
"Do you think you might take them up on it? Go hang with them in Garden Grove?"
I thought about it. "I don't know. Maybe. I have the feeling I might need a hiding place, eventually. I mean, look at all the crap you're dealing with. They'll come after me eventually, don't you think?"
"Yeah, I do. But you're strong. You'll deal with it better than I am," he said. I could tell he wasn't blowing smoke up my skirt, either. He said it matter-of-factly, and it made me feel good. "I know your dad's out there, running interference for the family. You, Aunt Naomi, Sara, my mom and dad. But I think the main reason you guys are being left alone right now is just because everybody's got bigger fish to fry. People are just catching up. Right now the Andalites, the Yeerks, the Animorphs...that's the big news. When people get bored of that, they're going to come your way with their intrusive questions and their bullshit. I don't want to freak you out, but you should be ready for it." Still lying down, he flipped his shoes off. "It'll be good for you to have some people you can count on, somewhere to go for some shelter when life gets heavy." He thought about it. "Hell, maybe I'll go with you."
I looked at the TV, where the video was paused. I was quiet. After a minute, Jake said, "What are you thinking about?"
"Just that," I said, pointing at the TV. "You know, people have already made up their mind about Rachel. Everybody thinks they know her personally. But they don't know anything. I'm thinking, maybe...maybe, if I can think of the right way to say it, I can let them know what she was really like. Because that's the way I remember her, and it feels important," I gestured to the TV again.
Jake thought about it for a while. "The girl who cared more about Santa's presents than her own when she was eight," he said, and chuckled. It was a sound that was somehow both happy and sad at the exact same time.
"Yeah. So listen, Jake...I know you blame yourself for Rachel and Tom," I said. He didn't reply. "I know you as good as anybody. It's written all over you. I'm not going to say anything about that, one way or the other. That's something that's for you to work out for yourself. But I can say that I don't blame you. I know you. I know you've always done your best, and you've always done what you thought was right. Rachel did too. Tom...poor Tom. He never had any say in any of it. Anyway...that's all I mean to say. Just that I don't blame you. So don't ever shut me out, okay? I'm not just a kid. I'm your cousin, and I love you."
"That means...well, thanks, Jordan," he said.
"Rachel isn't here to help you out now. But I am. I was mad earlier, because you guys never came to me for help. Well, maybe I can help you now. Maybe I can step up. I know it's not the same as fighting a war with you, but..."
"You know what's funny?" he said. "As bad as the fighting was, it was manageable. I don't know why. Maybe it was knowing there was no other choice. But this...all of this diplomatic crap, the TV interviews, that stuff...it's so hollow. It's doesn't feel necessary. The war is over, more or less. But now there's more pressure than ever."
I sat up and grabbed his hand. "But there's a difference now. You couldn't let people share the burden before. Now you can. I'm asking you to let me help. You can count on me. You always could, you just didn't know it. I don't want to be useless, Jake. If I can help, you'll ask me for help. Promise me you will."
"I will. And thanks," he said. "There actually is something you could help me with right now..."
"Anything. I'm here for you, Jake."
"I saw some of those frozen pasta things in the freezer, but I'm bushed. You think you could pop one in the microwave for me?"
I grinned, surprised and glad that he could still joke around, at least a little. "You're taking advantage, dude. But I'm hungry too, so I guess I could share one."
I got up to go to the kitchen. "Thanks, Jordan," he said. I heated up the meal, divided it up, and took the plates back into the room, where Jake was snoring loudly with one leg hanging off the daybed. I lifted it up gently and placed it back on the bed. I watched the rest of the video while I ate. It had been a strange day, an emotional day. Hard, in some ways. But as I turned off the tube and settled in to sleep, there was the unmistakable feeling of things being better than they were. I felt like I was healing, like maybe we all were. Maybe tomorrow, I'd see what I could do to help Aunt Jean and Uncle Steve along.
And hey, I'd even rescued Low Rider. Without even meaning to, I had added a member to my family.
Sometimes, when you really need something but you don't know exactly what it is, it comes into your life all on it's own. It was an uplifting thought to hold on to as I drifted off to sleep.