Patrick steps in between them and Rosie backs away, shaking her head like she can’t believe what’s happening.
“You really don’t understand why I always say no? You look at that truck and tell me why I always say no!” She puts her hand to her head and stares at her poor burning truck.
All I want to say is I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But nothing comes out no matter how hard I try to speak. Rosie looks at me a second and just shakes her head and walks away.
Uncle Carl stumbles back toward his apartment, the Quesadilla Ship apron hanging loose around his neck. Patrick goes to follow him, but then stops when Birdie lets out a cry of pain from a paramedic cleaning a giant scratch he has along his arm. “Birdie—?”
“My arm’s fine!” Birdie jumps to his feet.
“I really should finish wrapping that,” says the paramedic, but Patrick waves him off.
“I’ll take care of it,” Patrick says, looking over at me. “Let’s go. Now.”
Birdie’s purple eye shadow is smudged. His skirt has a grass stain, I guess from when we fell out of the truck. Patrick looks around at groups of people who have gathered.
“Can I at least get my things from Uncle Carl’s?” says Birdie as Patrick leads him away.
“Don’t worry about that,” says Patrick. “Get in the truck.”
“But Uncle Carl’s apartment is right here.” Patrick’s truck is parked haphazardly along the wrong side of the street.
“Get in. Now.” Patrick’s voice is low and serious.
Birdie jerks the door open and sits down with crossed arms and no seat belt.
I look back at the Quesadilla Ship. The fire’s out, but smoke rises from the black hole that had been the middle of the roof. I get in and buckle up Birdie and me.
As we drive away, I see Ms. Perkins standing on the sidewalk with a bunch of others. She raises her hand in a melancholy wave and I remember saying goodbye to Mrs. Spater all over again.
**Observation #785: The Quesadilla Ship
The Quesadilla Ship was a lime-green food truck decorated with planets, stars & asteroids & nebulas, all painted by some student from the community college over the hill. It had a short nose & a tall door, which was black with white splatter paint to look like the Milky Way Galaxy. I guess quesadillas remind Rosie of UFOs.
There was some rust, but Rosie always said it just added to the space effect.
Inside there was a huge griddle & a big rack of spices & a spot next to that where Rosie kept specialty oils like sesame for the Asian fusion quesadillas & her homemade jalapeño oil for her Some Like It Hot quesadillas.
It’s hard to believe that something as big & loud & perfect as the Quesadilla Ship can just disappear. It seems like once something is that big & important, it has to be there for good.
One moment, you’re days away from the best wedding proposal ever & a new place to live, a new future &
the next, everything’s gone up in smoke.
CHAPTER 14 ISLANDS ON THE LAKE
It’s five a.m. and I’ve been awake for more than an hour, my brain heavy with images of fire, Rosie’s angry face, and Uncle Carl’s apron hanging loose around his neck as he retreated to his apartment.
There’s a knock on my door.
“Jack?” Patrick says through the door. “Are you awake?”
I open the door and a light over the staircase puts everything in shadow. The cold hallway air makes me glad for the space heaters that appeared in our bedrooms a couple days ago.
“Wake up your brother,” he says. “We’re going to Lake Moser. And dress warmly. We leave in thirty minutes.”
• • •
Turns out, there was a small boat hitched to Patrick’s truck. So I guess we are going boating.
Now that we’re here, the sky is just beginning to lighten. The entire lake is surrounded by trees—almost to the water—except for a small parking lot near a dock and restrooms. We get out of the truck while Patrick gets the boat ready, making quick but deliberate movements as he takes off the tarp. He doesn’t look any happier than us to be out here.
Birdie walks over to a bench and puts the hood of his new black jacket up.
“Why are we here?” Birdie asks. “It’s so cold. And it’s a Monday.”
“You’d rather be at school?” I ask.
“No. But I thought that was the big problem with us living at Carl’s. We were skipping too much school.”
“I don’t think that was the only problem.”
I think of last night, when I secretly tried to call Uncle Carl and the phone just rang and rang. The answering machine never even picked up. Which means Uncle Carl unplugged his phone again.
“I’m just saying we need to help Uncle Carl and Rosie. We have to tell her that the fire was an accident. She’ll understand once we explain and then she won’t be mad.” He tugs on the collar of his jacket. “And I hate this stupid jacket. I’m never doing Norman another favor again!”
I’m about to say that I think Rosie’s feelings are more complicated than that when Patrick yells, “Okay, guys! Let’s go!”
Without saying another word, Birdie turns and walks down toward the water. I go too.
The boat is small, just a rowboat with a motor, really, and it’s wobblier than I’m expecting. I grip Patrick’s hand tight so that I don’t fall when I step inside. His arm is completely still. We both help Birdie into the boat, and then Patrick’s inside too, and suddenly the small motor roars to life and we are on our way, moving slowly across the water.
We ride for a while before Patrick cuts the engine. Cold silence follows. Hills of black-looking trees tower around us and there’s
