And now.. First Person!

We are Part of the Weird

                It was a whisper… a secret… a mantra… a promise when the world took an odd turn that I didn’t expect.  “We are part of the Weird, Ami-girl,” Dad would say.  Well, I wish I had known growing up that it was an understatement.  Maybe I would have been prepared for my new life.  Then again, fat chance of that.  Nothing could have prepared me for my first year in Aurora Bay, Alaska.  My name is Amelia Ann, but you can call me Ami.  In fact, I wish you would.

                Moving was nothing new to me.  Dad shuffled us around following the seasonal work all the time, but I knew it was mostly to keep me away from Mom’s “Sin City scene.”  Dad didn’t think Hollywood was any place to raise a child.  Mom didn’t think the backwoods of Alaska was any better, but she was busy and Dad didn’t slow down long enough for anyone to complain… at least not officially.  This was a totally different kind of trip however.  And in a way it was goodbye.  Ten years of breakfasts and dinners together, and now I would be going somewhere without Dad.

The 360-mile drive from Fairbanks into Anchorage was too kid-friendly.  Dad played all my favorite “ghastly” music from three years ago: Miley Cyrus, Spice Girls and even the old Radio Disney.  He even sang along in a high girly voice.  It would have been funny if I wasn’t so nervous.

                “Dad…” I began as she tapped down the volume on the IPOD jacked into the RV’s speakers.  “Do I really have to do this?”

He shrugged and looked out his side window for a few seconds, examining his rearview mirror for the same navy SUV that had been following them for fifty miles.  “We think it’s best.”

                “Does that ‘we’ include you and Uncle Andy… or you and Mom?”  It was an honest question.  It got me a rather dirty look.

                “All three of us agreed, actually.  Andy brought the idea up with Elli when he was in California for some computer training.  Your Mom told me it sounded great.”  Dad sighed and continued.  “Look, this school is exclusive and expensive.  The class sizes are small and the teachers are talented.  In the way your Mom is talented.  Just give it a shot, will ya?  Buy us some time, and learn something while you’re at it.  Your mom will stop worrying about me carting you all over kingdom come, and you can make some real friends.  Andy’s got a good job on the North Slope right now, so he won’t bother you much as long as you don’t burn down the house while he’s gone.”

                “Burn down the…”  I blinked…twice.  “You’re leaving me alone in a house… on my own?”  I’m sure my tone was pure mortification.   “But that’s not even legal, is it?”

                “How is that different than spending most of your time alone in a camper?  Anyway, he’ll be there two weeks out of five for the winter and your Aunt Jean lives literally across the street.   She promised the Principal and the Police Chief that they would keep an eye on you when Andy’s out.  I feel better knowing you’ll have family a few seconds away all the time.”

“Great…”  I slumped back in my plush leather seat.  “Living alone and being watched.  What more could a girl ask for?”

Her dad started to say something, but I turned the volume up again.  I stared out the window at the leafy trees reaching out toward the road and the big blue mountains hanging over them in the distance as the 10-foot RV rumbled south on the Parks Highway.  When the last song ended, I turned off the Ipod and grabbed one of her Dad’s old ACDC discs out of a black case.  I slid it into the disc player and Angus Young’s guitar and Bon Scott’s piercing wails filled the cab and blared out the windows.  Dad made a face, because it wasn’t exactly “age appropriate.”  He sang along anyway, and I joined in as I remembered the lyrics to “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”  Music was my way of handling moods.  The blasting melodies smoothed and quickened their southbound ride.  We sang and laughed, and the next two hours were easy and fun.

We stopped in Wasilla for gas and then lunch at a ‘60s style diner with chrome and jukeboxes, records and movie posters plastered all over the walls.  Walking from the car to the restaurant was annoyingly bright with the sun high overhead, but the interior was cool and a bit dim.  Teenagers joked at the long Formica-topped counter and old couples ate quietly together in booths.  The waitress wore poufy, curly hair and a pink leather jacket.  She wore gobs of mascara and was chewing gum while taking our order.  When she bent over the table, I smelled bad perfume, kitchen grease, and potting soil.  I kicked Dad under the table when I saw him take a good look at the waitresses amble cleavage right below her silky pink neck scarf.

I pilfered some quarters from Dad and slid them into the jukebox, keying in a couple Elvis hits and Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5.”  I sang along quietly to myself, and the mood of the whole place improved… except for the waitress who plopped our food in front of us and looked at me like a circus freak.

Dad pointed to our half-empty glasses and sent the gawking waitress on her way.

“What’s her problem?” I asked, watching her wide backside sashay to the kitchen’s swinging door.

“She knows talent when she sees it and she’s jealous.  Eat up.”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed my dripping western burger.  “Good thing mom ain’t here.  I’m a hack compared to her.”

Dad chuckled and shook his head.  “No, not really.  You just need a better audience.”

As we were finishing our burgers, a couple gooey hot fudge Sundays arrived.  Apparently they were compliments of the chef.  We thanked the waitress, who walked a few steps away and then turned back to watch.  I grabbed the fancy twisted spoon from the side of the glass and got the first bite halfway to my mouth when a shock jolted through my hand and up my arm. “Youch!”  I dropped the spoon on the table with a grumble and shook out my tingling fingers.

There was an “um-hum” noise from the waitress and she flipped a cell phone out of nowhere.  Dad glared at her and shook his head.  He dropped exactly $28 on the table for our food and stood up.  I followed him out the door, hustling to keep up.  The man never left less than a 15% tip unless the food was rotten.

We raced back to the camper in the blaring sunlight and spun out of the driveway toward the Palmer-Wasilla Highway, spitting gravel at the waitress who stood in the doorway, yakking excitedly into the phone.

“What was that all about?” I asked after a few minutes, failing to make any sense of it myself.

“I’m not sure I can explain it well,” Dad replied, staring straight ahead at the highway and cruising exactly five miles over the 35MPH speed limit through town.

“You could try.  That was really weird.”

He half-shrugged and then sighed.  “This world is full of weirdness, Ami-honey.  We’re part of the Weird.  You have a knack for bringing out emotions in people.  Some people don’t like being manipulated and they take it personal.”

I grumbled and sank back into soft warm leather.  “That didn’t answer my question.”