Rocky Road (2 page)

“Nobody asked Jordan what he wanted,” I said.

“Being deaf was no picnic for him back in San Antonio, Tess. He wasn’t catching on in school. A third grader not reading? Nonsense. And you know how he fusses at me like the devil. New York’s chock-full of smart special-education teachers. They’ll get him on a straight and narrow path.”

I didn’t want to hurt Ma’s feelings, but the teachers in San Antonio had nothing to do with why Jordan acted up. The reason he busted her chops was plain as the nose on her face. Jordan and Ma can’t
understand
each other. Now, I’m not saying Ma hasn’t tried to learn sign language since Jordan got the high fever as a baby and lost his hearing, because she has. When Jordan was littler and Pop was still around, Ma kept a sign-language dictionary propped open on the coffee table, and we’d all practice every night after supper, signing songs and silly rhymes. And she’d check signing videos out from the library for us to watch—that is, until our DVD player broke. Maybe it did have something to do with her being left-handed like she said, but for some reason, getting signs right was always harder for Ma. And then Pop’s boozing got worse, and the money problems kicked in, and—well, right or wrong, mastering sign language fell to the bottom of Ma’s priority bag. After Pop split for Galveston, she had to work longer hours at
Albertsons, so she started relying on me. I’d taken free American Sign Language classes at the Y, and truthfully, it came easier to me. “Tess, my interpreter,” that’s what she called me.

Ma’s voice brought me back. “As for you, my crafty queen, I bet you a hog’s curly tail that you’ll take a shine to Schenectady from the minute we get there.”

“Don’t count on it,” I said. “I’ll be the new kid. Who wants to be the new kid in January?”

“Think about the possibilities. Northeast weather gives you more fabrics to work with for home and fashion design. You couldn’t stroll down the River Walk in San Antonio in January wearing a full-length rabbit-fur coat, now, could ya? But you can in Schenectady. Like I said, a whole new world!”

“I wouldn’t
want
to wear real rabbit fur,” I told Ma, but I had to admit she had a point. I’ve always admired the bulky cowl-neck sweaters, pleated wool skirts, and shearling boots I saw in
Vogue
advertisements. That cozy look falls flat (and sweaty) on a seventy-degree winter day in the Southwest.

“Mark my words. Girls at the new school will appreciate your style
and
your warm heart. Folks say that New Yorkers act salty on the outside but they’re sweet like honey on the inside, where it counts. That’ll be a big change from those sorry witches back at your old school.”

I couldn’t argue that point either. The first half of seventh grade hadn’t been worth the scuff on my shoes. That’s because the girls at Navarro Middle School worshipped whoever had the coolest cell phone—
not
the neatest art project. Last October I’d overheard Kaylee, my science-lab partner, whispering about my
“cheesy homemade vest” and setting off a chorus of snickers. Designing that black satin vest and embroidering those ghosts and pumpkins on the front lapels took weeks. And it looked nice—not “cheesy.”

Ma looked back through the rearview mirror and caught me swimming in those mucky memories. “Don’t fret your pretty face about those girls,” she said. “That’s yesterday’s news. I see sunny skies and true-blue friends in tomorrow’s forecast for you.”

I smiled. Maybe Ma
was
right. Maybe there were other “crafty queens” in Schenectady just waiting for me to arrive with my yarn and paints and glue gun. Maybe, just maybe, my new school would even have an art club where we could hang out together and reveal our inner artists.

Bump
. The car hit a pothole. Jordan opened his eyes, sat up, and pushed his hood back.

I put the crochet hook down and moved my hands. “Turtle Boy wakes!”

He stared out the window. “Where is new home?” he signed.

“We’re not there yet.”

“Hungry. Hungry.” His hand moved quickly from his throat to his belly. As usual, his signing was sloppy. His fingers were clenched like a fist, which confused the meaning.

I took his hand in mine and corrected his fingers. My stomach growled too. Lunch was four hours and two states ago. Then I kissed his forehead. “What do you want for supper?” I signed.

“Chicken and ice cream.”

Now, Jordan always got those signs right.
Chicken
looks like a beak, and
ice cream
is easy as licking a cone.

“Too cold for ice cream,” I signed. Was it ever.

“Not too cold!” His fingers banged the air like he was playing drums.

Come rain, shine, or tornado, Jordan is always up for ice cream. No surprise. And he gets it whenever he wants. “Ice cream warms the heart, no matter what the weather.” That’s Ma’s motto for a good life. Sure, it’s silly, but I love ice cream too.

A road sign for Schenectady appeared an hour later, as daylight slipped behind the tall pine trees and gray horizon. Jordan was distracted, playing with his Happy Meal collection of zoo animals, but I noticed right away.

“Only a few miles to go. Time to check the local directions,” Ma called. “Imagine folks like us from the Alamo City about to call New York home. Brace yourself, Schenectady—here come the Dobsons!”

Brace yourself was right, because as we entered the city, the truck in front of us swerved to avoid a pothole while Ma was looking down at the seat. She slammed on the brakes, lurching us forward and sending papers flying.

“Shoot balls of fire! That driver’s not fit to steer a wheelbarrow!” Ma shouted. She kept looking at the seat beside her, shuffling through a folder. “I know I stuck that flyer in here. Son of a buck. Where is it?”

Suddenly she reached over for the papers that had fallen, causing the car to hit an ice patch and plow into the side of a parked car.

The driver had just opened the door and was about to step out when—w
hack!
—Ma took his door clean off the hinges.

Clanky-clank, clanky-clank
. The door scraped, wobbled, and banged the asphalt, then plopped against a sewer grate.

“Holy—————!” Ma let out a six-foot string of cusswords that would’ve fried bacon.

I’d barely felt the bang in the backseat, but seeing that car door rolling was a real shocker.

Ma whipped her head toward us, I guess to see if we were dead or bleeding. Then she pulled over and glanced back at the car she’d hit. The driver was still sitting inside. His bald head was shaking back and forth like he was a robot.

Jordan looked at me to sign something, and I waited for Ma to say something, but she didn’t. I rubbed Jordan’s knee to calm him, and Ma scrunched her eyes shut like she does when she’s thinking hard. Then she peeked in the rearview mirror and smoothed her hair.

“Could’ve been worse,” she said, getting out of the car. “Doors are replaceable, right? That’s why they got hinges. Stay here.”

Back home, before we were evicted from the house, I used to tell little Juanita who lived next door that Ma did things up big like Texas. “
Hace grande
, that’s what Mexicans would say about your ma,” Juanita always said, her brown moon face giggling.

Juanita was three years younger than me, but I liked her better than just about all my seventh-grade classmates combined. And she was right about Ma. Arriving in Schenectady was another
hace grande
moment on this
hace grande
trip. Because as it turned out, Ma’s wisest comment today was her warning Schenectady that the Dobsons were coming.

Our Toyota had a dent on the front passenger door, and the side mirror was cracked and twisted. Luckily the U-Haul had no damage, so we’d still get our deposit back. But no such luck for the car we hit, a gold Lincoln Town Car.

Yikes
. Ma hadn’t ripped the door off Mr. Nobody’s car. This one had a custom license plate that said it all:
MAYOR
.

T
wo police officers showed up within minutes. One had a clipboard and asked Ma and the other driver questions. The second one redirected traffic and set flares along the road. Meanwhile, Ma tried to make small talk with the guy she hit. The cops called him Mayor Legato, and he really was the mayor of Schenectady. He wore earmuffs, and a pipe sticking out of his mouth made him look like Frosty the Snowman, only he wasn’t jolly. Mayor Legato kept staring at his new car minus the door and shaking his head, disgusted. When he
spoke to the cops alongside Ma, his deep voice rolled right over hers, the way adults step on kids’ words.

Jordan and I stood on the icy sidewalk with our teeth chattering while Ma tried to sweet-talk her way out of this mess.

“Can’t imagine what came over me,” she said as the tow-truck driver hitched a cable to the Lincoln Town Car’s shiny front bumper. “Guess I was plumb excited about finally reaching the famous city of Schenectady. I’ve done my research, Mr. Mayor. I know this place saw plenty of action dating back to ol’ George W.’s days—George Washington, that is.”

“Quit jabbering, Ma!” That’s what I wanted to say. She was playing her Texas twang so bad, she sounded like Yippee Coyote.

But the mayor didn’t fall for Ma’s flattery. As Pop used to say, it felt colder than hell with the furnace turned off. Mostly he kept scowling at Ma. And when she told the mayor that VIPs she knew personally said Schenectady might be the next washed-up city to turn things around, he exhaled a warm cloud and walked away without another word.

“Hush, Ma. You’re making things worse,” I whispered. Not that I was worried about Mayor Legato liking us—it was too late for that. Money was on my mind now. The police officer had already given Ma a ticket for something called driver inattention. And I knew insurance would be coming after her for all this damage.

Ma has a lot to say, but she never has a lot of money.

Another hour and two stops later, we pulled into the Mohawk Valley Village. That’s what Ma called it, anyway. It was too dark to read the sign.

“You and Jordan wait in the lobby while I find the rental office,” she said.

The lobby of Building One smelled like stale potato chips. Its faded plaid wallpaper and coffee-stained carpeting reminded me of ugly “before” footage on my favorite home-makeover show.

There were no magazines, no toys, and nothing worth looking at in the waiting area, so Jordan started peeling leaves off a fake tree next to the love seat.

“Stop,” I signed, and he growled back at me. Hunger is a surefire way of turning my brother into FrankenJordan.

Next thing I knew, he was pulling tissues from a box and flinging them into the air like a flock of seagulls. Kleenex soon covered the floor by my feet.

“I mean it, Jordan. Stop!”

He stuck out his tongue. “Tess no fun,” he signed, and he charged into the laundry room just as Ma returned.

Ma said our apartment was four floors up—number 418. “The good news is they fixed the hot water. The bad news is we got one bedroom, not two like they promised, and the elevator’s busted.”

So I wrestled Jordan down from the dryer he was standing on, and up the stairs we climbed. By the third flight we were all huffing. My heart was feeling heavy like my feet, so I tried a positive-thinking exercise I read about in a magazine. In my mind I pictured Ma unlocking the apartment door to reveal a gorgeous
suite with a plush leather sectional, a floral arrangement on a glass coffee table, and the soothing smell of lavender candles.

When we reached the door of 418, I stopped the mind-over-matter wishing. Who cared what the apartment looked like? It still beat sitting in a freezing car.

That night, Jordan and I shared the bed, and Ma slept in the living room on a futon that was pretending to be a sofa. Ma plumped the pillows that had been flattened from the car ride, dug sheets out from the U-Haul, and spread a down comforter she found in the bedroom closet on us. Warm under that soft, cozy blanket, we snoozed like ducklings in a nest.