Chapter Five: Jaden

The drive from Milwaukee to Whitefish Lake, Minnesota is five hours and fifty-five minutes and only half an hour in, I am realizing that traveling with Helen and her mother is a big mistake. Ever since they picked me up bright and early at 6:30 on-the-dot this morning, the two Helens have been blabbing away non-stop like a couple of middle-schoolers. Though I'm barely paying attention, I glean that Helen (the III that is) has never had a full conversation with her snob of an uncle, despite meeting him at least a few dozen times; that Helen's cousin Becket lacks the concept of personal space (although, Helen – the III that is – can almost forgive him for that since he has Lupus); that Helen's grandmother, Helen Harris I, has recently given up smoking and will therefore be more of a bossy, old hag than usual; and that Gail, whoever the hell that is, is probably still fat, despite her recent bypass surgery.

When I was a kid, Hermione and I watched this crappy, old musical called The Music Man where one of the songs involved a bunch of old busybodies "picking a little" and "talking a little." That's what Helen and her mother remind me of: a pair of gossipy hens. I have only met Helen II a handful of times, but every one of my encounters have been some somewhat less than positive. She's much like her daughter, but with a harder, nastier edge to her. Where Helen III can certainly be irritating (to put it mildly), you can tell she means well and is a decent person. Helen II may well be a decent person as well, but her cold confidence and lack of caring about what other people think makes her seem scarier, even more dangerous than her daughter.

As we approach a gas station, Helen the III turns around. "So, Jaden!" she says, as if just now remembering that I am there. "Are you looking forward to the fireworks tomorrow?" She gives me a pathetic, hopeful smile. Meanwhile, Helen II rolls her eyes and scoffs.

"Huh?" I say, removing my ear buds, even though I heard her perfectly well. In fact, I'm not even listening to my iPod at all. Earlier, I listened to "Scarborough Faire," the theme song from Mice (although I was never able to find the exact version used in the show), but it made me so sad and frustrated that I wanted to throw my iPod to the floor and stomp on it until the screen shattered.

"I said 'are you looking forward to the fireworks tomorrow," Helen repeats cheerfully.

"Oh," I say, slouching into the back seat, "sure."

"Jeez," she says, shaking her head and still smiling like an idiot. "Maybe you shouldn't have your music on so loud! You don't want to go deaf, do you?"

I clench my teeth and glare. "Why do you care?" I say in a cold, quiet voice, much calmer than I actually feel. "You're not my mother." Instantly I realize my mistake and regret saying it. Helen looks like I just slapped her. Her face falls and she breathes in sharply, purses her lips, then turns away from me. I am about to apologize, but before I can mumble a single word, she is right back to gossiping with her mom.

"So, do you think Steffi and the baby will be there?" she asks.

"I hope not," says Helen II. "She's such a drama queen!"

"Yeah, but I bet the baby's super cute!" Helen III argues.

"Eh," says Helen II. "I don't think he's anything special. I've seen much cuter. His head's a bit…square shaped."

Helen III gives a sharp, shocked laugh. "MOM! You are sooo mean!" she shouts before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

I push my ear buds deep into my ears and curl against the window, closing my eyes. Perhaps not surprisingly, I am unable to sleep. My mind returns to Mice. I bet Thesidauticus never loses his temper at anyone. In fact, no one does in the King Arthurverse. Everything is calm and rational. The Mice think before they speak. They engage in healthy dialogue where everyone's opinion is respected. For a long time, this was one of the reasons I thought I would prefer to live in the King Arthurverse. Tears fill my eyes now, as I can no longer relate.

Something else I used to do was imagine how the Mice would respond in my situation, or how I would respond if I were them. Even at the time, I realized this was all kinds of weird. In fact, various articles I read about Mary Sues and Gary Stus listed "imagining a favorite character helping you in real life" or "pretending to be the character" as signs of extreme Stu-ishness. Right now, I don't know what Thesidauticus or any other character would do in my situation because Thesidauticus would never be in my situation. Icy cold dread fills my stomach. What if Mice really doesn't have anything to do with real life? What if it's just a bland, unrealistic utopia and all the characters are bland, overly perfect Gary Stus?

For the rest of the five-hour drive, my mind continues on this loop. By the time we reach our hotel in Minneapolis (we will be meeting the rest of the family for brunch/Bloody Marys tomorrow morning), I feel like bashing my head against a wall, screaming at the top of my lungs and kicking everything in sight. Instead, I clamor out of the car and shuffle into the hotel room, my eyes staring determinedly at the asphalt.

Helen III looks down at her watch. "It's only 6:45," she says. "Should we get some dinner?"

"There's actually a great Italian place around here," says Helen II.

"Well, Jaden?" Helen's voice lacks her usual bubbliness. Perhaps she's still secretly stinging from my earlier comment about her not being my mother.

I shrug. "Nah, that's okay. I'm not really hungry."

I'm expecting her to say something along the lines of "well you need to eat!", but instead, she just nods. "Okay. Why don't we go check in?"

I have my own room, as promised, with two double beds and an enormous flat-screened TV. I have absolutely no desire to watch anything, however, so I fling my suitcase on the floor and flop onto the bed nearest to the bathroom. Again, I cannot sleep, so I stare at the wall until the room darkens.