Mosquitoland(29)

I follow him to the other side of the shit pit, where a murky lake awaits. Walt props the flashlight against a rock, then throws his arms open, as if—ta-da!—presenting a vaudeville show. The water is beyond brown. It reminds me of the rusty-shat fluids that poured from my old Greyhound like a hose. Dysenteric concerns aside, I wonder who actually owns this land. If some deadly Amazonian bacterial disease doesn’t get me, a bullet courtesy of the land’s proper owner might.

I open my mouth to say, Sorry, buddy, you’re on your own. Yet somehow, the words that come out are “Gimme a minute.”

I step behind a tree and quickly pull off my hoodie, shoes, socks, and jeans. WT-f*cking-F, Malone. This is nuts, and I know that, but for some reason, I can’t stop laughing. I don’t know what it is, but slipping on the hoochie-mama shorts, I almost fall over due to uncontrollable laughter. I step out from behind the tree to find Walt in the middle of the lake, splashing himself in the face, acting like a goofball.

“What happened to your leg?” he asks, suddenly looking very concerned.

“I was in a bus accident,” I say, still giggling. “But I’m okay.”

“The bus had an accident?” he asks, climbing up onto the opposite bank.

“It flipped on the highway. But I’m fine, really. Just a scratch.”

Walt, apparently satisfied, backs up a few paces and throws his finger in the air. “This is how you do it, okay, Mim? Like this, watch.” He charges the lake with the ferocity of a Civil War captain leading his men into combat. But also—and if possible, more so—like a lanky five-year-old who just discovered what his arms and legs are for. It’s awkward, fumbly, and beyond beautiful. A few yards from the water’s edge, he trips over his own feet and rolls haphazardly into the lake. His head pops up out of the water like an apple. “Ha-ha! Did you see that, Mim? That was pretty good, huh? Okay. Your turn.”

I take a few steps back—wondering if there’s anything I wouldn’t do for this kid right now, even if he did steal my war paint—and hurl myself into the murky depths. The water is surprisingly refreshing, inside and out; after all that smiling and laughing, my mouth hurts, but I don’t care, because I’m here with Walt, enjoying the Young Fun Now.

Mom would love this kid.

After a brief splash-fight with Walt (because duh), I float on my back, letting the lake seep between my fingers and toes. The moon is young, but bright, and for a moment, I stare at it with my good eye.

“You’re going to help your mom,” Walt whispers. It’s not a question. He’s floating about ten feet away, looking right at me through the dusky light—it’s not creepy or anything, just intense. Ricky used to do the same thing.

“How do you know that, Walt?”

He dips his head under the water, leaving me in complete suspense. After resurfacing, he wipes his eyes and smiles at me. “I heard you. While you were asleep. Under the bridge.”

Great.

“What else did I say?”

“Something something fireworks,” he says softly. “Then other somethings. I don’t know. I have firework thoughts, too.”

Now it’s my turn to go under. Dipping my choppy hair back, I push my sopping bangs out of my eyes and turn my head from Walt. So the kid heard my Big Things after all.

“I understand,” he whispers. “Your mom needs you. And you need her.”

There are times when talking just pushes out the tears. So I float in silence, watching the final touches of this perfect moonrise, and in a moment of heavenly revelation, it occurs to me that detours are not without purpose. They provide safe passage to a destination, avoiding pitfalls in the process. Floating in this lake with Walt is most certainly a detour. And maybe I’ll never know the pitfalls I’ve avoided, but I can say this with certainty: a sincere soul is damn near impossible to find, and if Walt is my detour, I’ll take it. In fact, I wouldn’t be one bit surprised to hear him use the word pizzazz in a sentence.

I close my good eye and see myself as I might look from above, as I might look to a mosquito hovering over a hot lake. I see Mim: her face, pallid and feeble; her skin, pale and glistening; her bones, brittle and twiggy; an army of trees surrounding her. She floats next to a boy she met only hours ago, missing her mother, missing her old life, missing the way things used to be. Now she is crying because even after all that laughter, she can’t shake that feeling, one of the worst in the world . . .

I am tired of being alone.

“You need help?” Walt’s quiet voice brings me back to the now, the real, the detour.

I, Mary Iris Malone, smile at the bright new moon. Wiping away my tears, I wonder if things are finally changing. “Yeah, Walt. I might.”





18


Caleb

WHEN IT COMES to my war paint, my circle of trust is sparse. Nonexistent, really. There is no circle. Up until the bus accident, it had been a complete secret. And maybe it still is. Between the weight of imminent death, followed by the rush of having succeeded where others had failed—and there really is no kind of success like survival—it’s possible the passengers had issues more pressing than that of Mim Malone walking among the wreckage, wearing lipstick on her face like Athena, goddess of war. I sure hope so. Because the idea of Poncho Man witnessing that side of me is enough to make me rip my bangs out by the root.