The Freak isn’t angry anymore at anything or anyone. Everything is unfolding as it should be.

  Malcolm has stolen his grandmother’s car.

  Loretta has found her red-sequined dress.

  CanIHelpYou? has been fired from her job.

  The boy with the shovel is still lost, but until he figures out that accidental fruit grows just fine there isn’t a thing The Freak can do about that.

  Easter is in two weeks and The Freak has decided never to go home again. Hasn’t she always been a missing person? Missing a bra, missing tampons, missing parents who care less about her than they do their own bickering—and calling that love, like when they send her a birthday ecard.

  The Freak just turned eighteen last week. No one noticed because she was flickering between Borneo and Idaho, and she no longer has a device on which to receive email, so her parents’ ecard is lost in the ether somewhere if they sent one.

  Borneo was nice, though. The rain forest there is 140 million years old—one of the oldest in the world—and The Freak thought it was a pretty cool place to land on her eighteenth birthday. It beat having a party and getting presents that she doesn’t need.

  The Freak has transcended Stuff.

  The Freak only has room for Experiences.

  Once The Freak met a boy who lived in a car. Once she met a girl who sold her body for drugs. Once she met a girl who was so ordinary she hated herself. Once she met a deer in headlights. Once she met a man on a boat who didn’t know how to swim. Once she met a baker who ran out of flour. Once she met a famous singer who had twenty million dollars but still cut the highest part of her thighs with a razor blade because the pain had to escape somehow.

  The Freak knows the deal.

  The Freak does what she can. She puts newspapers in mailboxes. She delivers food to cars with boys sleeping inside. She delivers flour and teaches swimming lessons. She puts the right dress on the right rack at the right time. She is the Easter Bunny. Magical. Impossible to believe.

  The Freak loves Easter because of the chocolate, not because of the Bible. She thinks Jesus probably lived and probably hung out with lepers and prostitutes and cared for the poor. But you can’t just be alive again. She’s tried. She’s tried so hard. But nothing allows her to be alive again. She’s atoms. She’s the Consciousness. She’s here to help, but not to interfere.

  Except the boy with the shovel.

  She can’t stop herself.

  PART THREE: OUR CAST IN A STRAINER

  Malcolm’s Phone Finally Rings

  Dad says he’s sorry right away. It’s nearly eleven. Last flight from the island tonight. I can hear the echo of the arrivals exit at the airport and the taxis going by.

  “I’m so sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  I’m outside Marla’s hospital room, and Gottfried is wandering again. He keeps having to pee and says it’s because he drank tea today, but I’ve never seen Gottfried drink tea, not before tonight or tonight. “Marla’s in the hospital, but she’s okay.”

  “What happened?”

  I walk down the hall so Marla can’t hear me. “She fell at the farmers’ market. Has a concussion. She’ll be fine.”

  “Did you really steal her car?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where’s the car now?”

  “In the hospital garage.”

  “Do they know?”

  “No.”

  He laughs. I love his laugh. There are times in first class when I can see him talking to his new stranger-friends, and I watch him and wait for that laugh. Always comes. He never disappoints.

  “I’ll come get you. We can get the car home before she notices.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I say.

  “I’ll be there in about an hour, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry again, kid. I hate that you worry.”

  I’m about to say a bunch of smart shit about how I’d worry no matter what. Telling me I’m not allowed to worry doesn’t mean I don’t worry. It makes me worry more, really. But I see Gottfried walking around up the hall with this skinny girl in a red-sequined dress and I’m confused and I’m too busy watching to say anything.

  “Eleanor wanted me to tell you she misses you,” he says. My gut drops.

  “How’d you find out?”

  “She told me. Honest, smart, and works her ass off. You could do worse.”

  “That’s not actually a compliment, you know. The you-could-do-worse part. Okay?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “We’ll talk when you get here,” I say. “I can’t live with Marla anymore. It’s not that she’s a bad person,” I whisper. “It’s just the antithesis of everything you ever taught me—living here. They’re not good for me.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Just think about it on your way. Talk to the driver about it. He’s a people person. He’s great at stuff like this.”

  * * *

  Dad’s still in his hat and sunglasses when he gets to Marla’s room. He kisses her on the head and says, “You need to stop doing that trapeze act, Ma.”

  She shakes her head.

  Gottfried gives Dad a hug and says, “You stink, kid.”

  I can see Dad’s hackles go up and then smooth back down. Gottfried always wanted a different son, I guess. And Dad does stink. He doesn’t use Jamaican tap water unless he has to. That’s what the sea’s for!

  I could really use a sea bath right about now.

  Right when I think this, tears well up in my eyes. My chest heaves a bit, and I look down so no one can see. What’s wrong with you?

  It’s not Eleanor or Dad or Marla or anyone. It’s not school or the entitled kids I have to navigate every day—the ones who complain about how their Internet is slow or their phone has a crack in the screen. It’s the beach. The sand. The people. The fish. The pelicans. The sunset. I found a place I belong.

  Most people I know are lost—never found a place they belong. I’m fifteen and I already found mine. Except I don’t really belong there. I’m Lonerman. I don’t belong anywhere.

  Dad’s made some excuse—I didn’t catch it. He motions for me to get up.

  “We’re gonna take off. If you need anything, call me, okay?”

  Marla says, “What about his backpack and clothes at our place?”

  “We’ll drop by and get them,” Dad says. He looks at Gottfried, who somehow knows what’s going on. Man language. I’m learning it. I was born with it. I try not to use it, but sometimes it comes in handy. Especially when you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing and getting away with it . . . like stealing a car or whatever.

  I feel so white right now, I can’t stand myself.

  * * *

  Dad drives Marla’s BMW back to the house. We don’t say much to each other because he wants to test the car’s speakers. Harman Kardon. Marla always gets the best even if she doesn’t use it.

  The airport driver follows us in his black Town Car, and once I get my stuff from inside the house, we get into the Town Car and go back down the driveway.

  “You know I stole her car when I was in high school,” Dad says. “Crashed it, though. Into a parked car. Lied. Got away with it. I was totally stoned.”

  The driver laughs. All of us white, all of us lucky we get away with things. I still can’t shake the feelings I was having in the hospital. Overwhelming sadness, really. At having to be here. At having to be in this family, where a father tells his dying son that he smells bad.

  I start to cry and Dad does something he hasn’t done in a long time. He hugs me. Pulls me across the back seat and puts me in his arms and he squeezes me. No pats on the back, no chatter in my ear. He just hugs and lets me cry on his lap even though he has no idea why I’m crying.

  When I can finally talk, I say, “I need to get out of here. Now. Tomorrow. I need the beach.”

  “Okay,” Dad says. “I can get us on the first flight tomorrow morning.”

  “You don’t have treatments this week?”

  “Nope.”

  I sit up. “Why?”

  Dad sighs. “Nothing more they can do for me.”

  I look at him in the highway light.

  “And I want my fucking hair back.” The driver laughs at this. “If I’m gonna die, I want to do it with hair, you know?”

  “You do have great hair,” I say.

  I stay in his arms, and it feels like the world is both ending and beginning. “I can’t go back there. I can’t live with them anymore.”

  “You can’t be wiping my ass a few months down the road, either,” he says.

  “I’m not leaving you. You’re stuck with me. This is what happens when you have a kid, Dad. You can’t just push me out of your life now.”

  He’s quiet and I look at him and he’s crying, too.

  The driver keeps driving. Dad keeps crying. I hug him and he sobs into my chest. It’s as if we’d just switched places. Except it’s not. I think this is what families are supposed to do.

  Marla & Gottfried Run Off at the Mouth

  Gottfried can’t shake the feeling of seeing Missy in her hospital bed. Marla keeps complaining about how fast he’s driving. Gottfried isn’t driving more than sixty, but Marla doesn’t care.

  “Why’d he have to bring Harry in like that? Why’d he have to come at all?” Marla asks.

  “Malcolm?” Gottfried knows she’s talking about Malcolm.

  “Of course Malcolm. Who else would I be talking about? Harry coming all the way here in the middle of the night. So stupid.”

  Gottfried sighs. “We have a lot to talk about tonight.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “You can’t go to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. Doctor’s orders.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just a bump. That kid thinks he runs the world, you know. Got it from you. All you boys think the same.”

  “Settle down,” Gottfried says. “The kid has a lot going on. Not his fault.”

  Gottfried doesn’t want to talk to Marla about Malcolm because he’s afraid he might tell her that Malcolm stole her car. If he was to be honest, he’s pretty proud the kid did it and managed to get all the way to the hospital.

  “I saw Loretta,” Gottfried says.

  Marla doesn’t really hear what Gottfried says. She hears the words, but they seem like nonsense. “It’s late,” she says. “You need sleep.”

  “True. But maybe you didn’t hear me. I saw Loretta tonight,” he says. “In the hospital. With Missy.”

  Marla sighs. “What kind of kids did I even raise?” She sighs again. “Let me guess: Loretta’s bites got infected, and Missy was too stupid to just take her to a regular doctor.”

  Gottfried sighs.

  “What?” she says. “Just tell me.”

  “Why do you have to be so mean about Missy? Girl can’t help that she married a bad guy. Can’t help that she’s broke.”

  “She’s not broke, she’s poor. Remember how she looked last time we saw her?”

  “Exactly. And what did we do to help?” Mating with purpose, Gottfried thinks, looks different from this.

  Marla grunts. Gottfried feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Anger. He feels anger.

  Marla and Gottfried argue through the night. Gottfried insists that their children hate them because of Marla’s meanness. Marla insists their children hate them because Gottfried was never home when they were growing up. They can’t come to an agreement, and eventually Marla opts for the silent treatment. Gottfried keeps talking. Yelling. By himself. At himself.

  Everything Gottfried ever did washes over him like poison. Regrets are something he could deal with, but every day he’s racking up new ones.

  At 5:33 Sunday morning, Gottfried yells, “Don’t need a degree in psychology to know that, Marla! Kids with shitty parents eventually figure it out!”

  The Shoveler: Wrong Words

  This morning when I went out for a smoke, I found one of those Merchandiser newspapers in the mailbox again. Inside there was an ad—circled in purple highlighter—for a decent Nissan right around the block; and I call the number and the guy says to come see him at two.

  So I do. And I leave my shovel at home.

  “I don’t even know how to buy a car,” I say to the guy.

  “Have a look at her. She’s a good machine. Just had her serviced and she runs great.” He smiles a lot and I try to look at the car as if I know what I’m doing. He says, “That ding in the door is from some dumb bitch and her shopping cart.” I nod. He says, “And the paint up front is just wear from the sun.”

  “How many miles?” I know the answer, but I ask anyway.

  “One thirty. These cars go a long time, too.”

  I wish I had Mike with me. I realize I should have Mike with me. I say, “Do you mind if I have a friend come and have a look, too? He’s good with motors and stuff.”

  “Be my guest,” he says.

  I nod and dial Mike’s number.

  “Yeah?” he answers.

  “I need a hand with something. You got ten minutes?” I want to ask him how his mom is, but it seems weird. She’s been there all this time and I never asked before.

  “Sure. Your place?”

  “Yeah. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”

  I tell the guy I’ll be back in ten minutes and walk home. Mike meets me out front and I tell him the deal—that I want to buy a car and I have the cash for it but I don’t actually know how to buy a car. This is what fathers are for.

  He rolls up the sleeves on his flannel shirt and says, “You like the car, though?”

  “Yeah. Seems good. Great deal. The guy just wants to get rid of it. New tires. Just inspected and serviced. One thirty on the clock.” One thirty on the clock? I don’t even know where that came from.

  “How much is he asking?”

  “Twenty-five hundred. Only damage is from some dumb—um—there’s a little dent in the door.”

  Mike laughs. “Twenty-five hundred? I got this.”

  While we walk over, I feel like throwing up. I can’t believe I almost said dumb bitch. Mom taught me better.

  When we get to the house where the old guy lives, Mike says, “This is Roy’s place. Oh, hell.”

  When Roy comes out, he and Mike shoot the shit for a minute or two. I pretend I know how to look at a car engine after popping the hood and propping it up. Looks clean. Yep. That’s all I got. I probably should have brought the shovel.

  “You’re not gonna screw my neighbor on this car, Roy. He trusts me and I trust you so we’re gonna find the right number here. Because twenty-five is high for this thing. You know it. I know it. He knows it.”

  “Blue book has it at twenty-seven,” the old guy says.

  “Bullshit,” Mike says. “Kid—you got your phone on you?” I hand Mike my phone. He hands it back and says, “Look up the Kelley Blue Book.” I open the browser and type it in, and the site opens and I start putting the details in. Blue, 2004, 130,000 miles, good condition.

  “What’s our zip code again?”

  Roy and Mike say it simultaneously. I enter it.

  “Got the number?” Mike says. I nod. He walks over to me and has a look. It says $2,300 is about right for a private seller. Mike says to Roy, “Buddy, eighteen hundred is where we’ll meet you.”

  Roy doesn’t look impressed. I look at the time on my phone. “I have to go soon. Work calls,” I say. Gottfried sent a text last night and said I couldn’t come over until after four.

  Mike winks at me and I’m not sure why.

  Roy says, “Come on. Two. Two grand.”

  Mike sticks his head under the hood and touches the parts in there like he’s done it three million times before. And he probably has. He says, “New starter?”

  Roy says, “Six months ago.”

  “Alternator?”

  “Been a while.”

  “Battery? Roy, this one looks older than me.”

  Roy looks at his hands. “Probably needs a new one after this winter.”

  Mike nods. “Nineteen.”

  This is the most mannish shit I’ve ever experienced. I’m used to my mother pulling pork loins out of her pants and cosmetics out of her socks.

  “You paying cash or check, son?”

  Even though I knew son was a term people say when you’re not their son, I wasn’t comfortable with this when it happened the first time or any time since. Son is something I am, but I don’t know whose I am, and when it happens, even that time it was the nice old man at the grocery store in Omaha, I can’t say anything because my throat closes up and refuses to work. I could barely breathe that first time.

  When Mike said it to me, he seemed to be saying it in that way where he knew something I didn’t. I have always felt out of the loop. The one who will be the last one to know. I was born with this disease. It makes me think too much.

  Am I the only one who feels like this all the time? Like someone is keeping the most important information from me? Like I’m stupid not by choice but by bad luck?

  Son. Don’t call me son. Son. You’re not my father.

  * * *

  “Kid?”

  I’m dizzy and holding on to the taillight of the Nissan.