Page 8 of Sombra
Two
Kim - Name card
“Do youhaffHello Kittytooth-brusshhh?”
Randy, my boyfriend Shane’s best friend, has spent the last fifteen minutes faking a really bad Arnold Schwarzenegger accent while making me list every single thing I’m taking on my trip.
He’ssuch a madman. I have no idea why he’s using the accent. Randy’s about as far from Arnold as you can get. With spiky, jet black hair, ebony eyes, and a huge build, he could pass for Samoan, even though he’s mostly Mexican with a Chinese grandmother. Maybe he just sawTerminator. But he won’t quit talking like this.
Not one to stay quiet when she knows an answer, my mom pipes up. “Oh, Kimhasn’t used a Hello Kitty toothbrush since she was eight.” I give her a sidelong glance, then pretend to think about it, playing along with Randy.
We’re hanging out in my parents’ living room. I leave tomorrow on the biggest trip I’ve ever taken in my life, and this is the last time I’ll see all of them for months. When I agreed (sorta) to stay home and go to state school, it was to savemoney. But my parents weren’t planning on this scholarship I bagged for best grades in Spanish. I did that one on my own. So, I’m headed to school overseas, and I’ll live with a family in the southern part of Spain, on an olive farm just outside the city of Granada.
Finally, I’m getting the college experience everyone else has.
Randy’s imitation has put my parents in stitches. Shane’salternating between fidgeting and laughing, his laugh higher-pitched than usual. All afternoon he’s been running his hands through his russet brown hair. His hair’s freshly cut, in the style of the photo on the barber’s wall—three down, middle picture, a fade that’s longer on the top than the sides. It looks good on him. But with the exception of his weakness for nerd shirts like the one he’swearing saying “Gamers don’t die, they respawn,” Shane always looks good.
I should be grateful that Randy’s making me go through my bags—even though he’s doing it in a wacky way—because he’s calming my nerves and at the same time fulfilling my compulsion to check and double-check everything before I go. But I’d really rather do this without an audience, since no one here needs to know thatI packed a bullet. The personal kind, not the weapon kind—I’m not messing with the TSA.
Having an agent pull out a sex toy would be mortifying, though. I shudder.
Focusing on the toothbrush, I shake my head and snap my finger. “Darn. I totally forgot. I’ll just run to Hy-Vee Pharmacy sinceobviouslythey don’t have toothbrushes over in Europe. Never would have thought I needed one.”I gesture at the toiletries kit. “Oh, wait. It’s in there.”
“See, Linda, you don’t need to worry about her. She’s ready,” says my dad.
I give him a small smile.
Shane clears his throat and bounces his knee while he sits on the couch. He’s been unnaturally quiet because he doesn’t want me to go away. It messes up his plans.
And is he ever a planner. He’s an accountingmajor, which means he’s super orderly and meticulous. Like, he has a written five year plan for life after school, which lists me under “PERSONAL.” His goal is to get his CPA license and go work at a big accounting firm. He works out on a schedule. Consumes protein powder instead of food that you chew. Posts memes daily on his Instagram urging others to stay focused on their goals.
Me studyingoverseas wasn’t scheduled, and he doesn’t know how to deal.
Since kindergarten, when Shane punched stupid Tommy Nilson for pulling my hair and turned around and gave me a dandelion, we’ve been inseparable. He’s been my rock, my place to hang, my someone. “You okay, Shane?” I ask. “Need some water?”
“No. I’m good. Just kinda wondering what it will be like without you at school.”
I squeeze his bicep. “It will be okay. We’ll still talk.”
“Yeah …” he trails off.
Poor Shane. Except for this scholarship, I never would have imagined doing something without his input, because he’s so much better at organizing than me. I just do the best I can.
My mom’s exactly like him. Since I’m the only child, and I grew up before her weight loss business took off,she filled my calendar with after-school activities. I had something every night of the week, although none of it stuck with me. Hockey (no good, since I duck when the puck comes at me), gymnastics (no balance, so I fall off the beam), Mandarin (uh, just no), and after-school candy striping at the Lutheran Hospital when I was old enough (I hate the smell of disinfectant). All in all, although she’spushed me into a well-rounded education that looks good on a résumé, I have no idea what I want to do. Really, I just want to finish school and get out. To where and to do what, I don’t know. Some place where no one will make me recite the list of things I’ve packed.
Around all these overachievers and body vigilantes, Randy balances us out. Next to Shane, he’s topsy-turvy and erratic—buterratically fun, and I love hanging with him.
Randy guffaws and pushes my shoulder. Then he scowls, getting back into his Austrian bodybuilder persona. “Pass-port?”
I point to my security belt laid out on the coffee table. “Check.”
“Do youhaff dasplane tickets?”
Holding up the printout, I say, “All set.”
“Clean under-pants?”
Like I’d ever show him those.I pull my hair over my face and gesture in the direction of my bigger duffel. “Yes.” With a puff, I blow my hair away.
