year. I am the kind of witness the defense saves for when they really need me. I try to send my dad a good vibe as I cruise past. My thoughts turn to Swimmer Boy, Sawyer, what a nice name, and then to nachos, and back and forth, equally delicious.
Greta’s in town, partly to attend a few days of the trial, mostly to take me camping. She’s my aunt on my mom’s side and we have gone camping every summer since I was eleven. Well, except last summer, when no one was in the mood. Last summer is a total blur.
Greta is staying in the main house until we leave for the Grand Canyon, but she’s the one adult who would be welcome to stay in my studio. She’s more like a friend or a sister than an aunt. More like me than like Carla, her own sister. But there are three bedrooms in the big house and she wants to give me my space.
She knocks after she gets home from court. I’m looking at colleges on the internet.
“Entré,” I say.
“Hola,” she says. “How goes it?”
“Check this out.” She looks over my shoulder. “These five colleges are all grouped together into something called the EcoLeague. Basically, if you get accepted into one of them, it’s an acceptance into all five.”
“Cool,” Greta says. “Look at the one in Vermont—Green Mountain College—that just sounds fun. And look—that one in Arizona isn’t far from where we’re going camping.”
“You mean we could maybe check it out?”
“I don’t see why not. Leave the canyon a day early, go there, get a hotel. You should call them and let them know you’re coming. Get an appointment.”
While I type an email to their admissions office, Greta browses around the room.
“I like your goals,” she says. “I should get mine big like that. More in-your-face. I put mine on little Post-it notes and then I wonder why I lose them.”
I turn to look at the goal poster with her.
“Number four is about to be crossed off,” I say.
“And if we go see that school in Arizona, we’re accomplishing part of number three,” Greta says. “NO WAY!”
“What?”
“Number ten! I just ordered you a vegan cookbook! It should be here tomorrow.”
“Read my mind.”
“I figured we’d need help with camping food you could eat.”
“Camping vegan is simple. Most of what people bring camping is already vegan—trail mix, peanut butter, power bars…”
“Beef jerky,” says Greta.
I give her a look. “The cookbook will be good for making something nice at home. Maybe I’ll have someone over for dinner.”
“Maybe some lucky guy,” Greta says.
“Have you not read number six?”
“Oh yeah, number six,” Greta says. “Swearing off boys forever? That seems extreme.”
“No, not forever. Till I get my act together. Can you not read anymore?”
“Well,” says Greta, “in my opinion, not that anyone’s asking for it, you have your act together way more than most people I know, and people much older than you, too.”
“That’s your opinion, Garbo. I’ll take it into consideration.” There was once a famous actress named Greta Garbo.
“Jasper is a dunce,” says Garbo, out of nowhere.
“Where did that come from?”
“I know it’s been a year, but I still think it sucks the biggest weenie that a guy would bail on you right when you need him most. Good riddance.”
“He’s an okay guy,” I say. “He just couldn’t handle it. I’m sure his parents weren’t overjoyed to have their son dating the girl who…”
Greta interrupts: “Yeah, but none of that was your fault. Anyway, what I’m saying is there’s someone better out there for you. And, I think you’re wise beyond your years to know that now’s not the best time to go out boy-shopping.”
“Exactly.”
At Greta’s favorite Mexican place, she eats a chili relleno oozing with cheese and I have my first wave of doubt about being vegan. My former favorite food? Pizza. Second place: grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches. Third place: mac and cheese. I’m having the corn tamale and salad. But damn, her cheese looks good.
“Should I have a bite of that?” I say.
“If you want.”
“I’m not eating cheese,” I remind her, indignant.
“Well, I know, nut job. I’m just saying if you want a bite of my food, it’s yours.”
“I don’t. I just had to entertain the idea…nut job.”
“The nut job is you.” Greta takes another bite and the cheese hangs off her fork in strings.
“Is it good?” I say.
“Not gonna answer that.”
“Come on. Is it delicious?”
“No, it’s completely icky and I’m gonna go make myself barf,” she says. “Yes, it is utterly, exquisitely fantastic. Otherwise, I would not order it every time I come here.”
“Just checking,” I say.
“Sooooo…” she says, in a way that I know means she’s about to 1) change the subject; and 2) bring up something difficult.
“Sooooo…” I say back to her.
“I noticed in your ten goals, there was the one about helping your dad through all this, but there was nothing about your mom.”
“Can’t exactly help her now.”
“Well,” Greta says, “it’s not the same as what you might do for your dad, obviously, because she’s not here, but it seems weird to completely leave her off the list.”
“The list is for goals. Get a job. Look at schools.” I take the last bite of my tamale and wipe up the rest of the salsa with it.
“I know. I think they’re great goals—I already said that. I just wondered if there was anything
