Kim Culbertson - Songs for a Teenage Nomad

Get Out the Map

the air smelling like honeysuckle, I dangle my arm from the passenger window, aware only of the honeysuckle air, Indigo Girls on a scratchy radio, and a white sun. And that everything we own has been packed into the back of a battered orange moving vanagain

My dad named me Calle after a cat he had in college that ran away. He really loved that cat. I always thought that was funny since he was the one who ran away from meand my mom.

Calle? With just the e at the end? Not C-A-L-L-I-E? the counselor asks.

Just an e. Its how he spelled the cats name. The Smith parts easy, though.

Mr. Hyatt, the counselor, shifts in his seat and scribbles something on a yellow legal pad. He has on a Mickey Mouse tie and red shoes. Vans. Ive seen the uniform before. Mickey tie because he has to wear a tie but doesnt want students to think hes stuffy. Vans because theyre Vans. The nameplate on his desk says Hyatt Way, like a street sign.

I watch him write, making sure I dont say more than I should. I always give away too much information, and sometimes it gets me in trouble. My mother once said I inherited this from my father. I dont remember him, have never even seen his picture. I take her word for it. And dont ask questions about him. It just makes her mad.

But the talking thing. Im working on it. Ive always admired the type of kid who can sit in silences and not need to fill them. There is one of those silences now.

Your mom is remarried? He flips through the manila folder with my name written in black marker on the tab.

Yeah. Rob.

Rob, he repeats, over-rounding the letters. Raawwbb. Annoying.

He works in computers and stuff. Actually, I have no idea what Rob does for a living, but I figure he probably has a computer wherever he works. He married my mom a month ago in San Diego where we used to live. Shed known him only four months. Now we live here. Andreas Bay, a snag in the Northern California coastline. The only thing I know is that he drives a Ford like all the others and makes a bunch of promises like all the others.

Howd you guys end up in Andreas Bay? Mr. Hyatt looks up from my folder, his pen poised.

Same way we find every town. My mom tosses a penny onto a map of California, and we go wherever it lands. He nods and pretends this isnt strange. Usually that story gets at least a raised eyebrow.

He finishes writing, caps his pen, and pushes my new schedule across the desk. You like to write? He points at the journal in my lap, with its faded purple velvet cover that looks like corduroy pants.

I instinctively clasp a hand over the cover. Its my song journal.

Song journal?

Last year, I started writing down memories I get from songs. I hear one, mostly older songs, and I write down the memory it brings. Like glimpses of my life as I remember it. Snapshots. His nod is directed over my shoulder. A black-haired girl in a Betty Boop T-shirt and skinny jeans hovers by the door. I shrug. Its just something I do.

Cool. Sounds really cool. Trying too hard.

My moms not the type to keep photo books. So I sort of have to keep my own version.

I dont tell him Im hunting for the Tambourine Man who plagues my dreams.

***

Youre sure you dont want a nicer shirt to wear?

In the mirror, I look at my mother, perched on the side of the tub, holding a coffee mug the size of her head. Her dark hair is wet from the shower and combed back away from her face.

I spit toothpaste into the sink. I like what Im wearing, I say for the third time. Swirling water around my mouth, I stare at my reflection. Faded blue T-shirt, jeans, brown eyes, shoulder-length brown hair. I look the same as I always do. A blurry, ordinary version of the beauty sitting behind me.

People say I look like her but its in an out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye sort of way. We both have dark hair and eyes, but her genes lined up in the right order; her dark hair thick, her eyes wide. Her angles drawn straight, her limbs long. My genes used some sort of splatter method for me, with everything not quite in the right spot. People notice my mom no matter what shes doing. If I wanted to be noticed, which I usually dont, Id have to hire a band and some fireworks.

First days are so critical, she continues, sipping out of her trough.