Handmade Gifts Part II 2.10.12

I can't believe I haven't posted about this yet!!! Okay, so I said I was going to try making a lot of my Christmas presents this year. And I did--in the form of jewelry! :)

I feel that giving Christmas gifts--and any gifts, really--can be an awesome opportunity to give handmade things to people, whether you make them yourself or support a local artisan. So here's what I made!

Earrings
I'm pretty proud of the earrings. I'm just an amateur as far as jewelry making goes, but I have tons of beads that are great colors and shapes and I have a good time mixing them up to get a fun vibe.

These were for my mom. She loves purple. And hearts. The rest went to friends.

Keychains
These are my keychains! they were really fun to make too, and hopefully they were a step up as gifts from the macrame and boondagle we all used to make each other at camp. :)

I would have loved to do more, but unfortunately I got an awful cold the week before Christmas. Boo. But I love making things, and I will definitely be posting about my next craft project!

Birthday Pasta-Making 2.7.12

Pasta is my favorite food. Plus I like cooking things from scratch, listening to playlists of my favorite music, and generally being awesome with my awesome friends. So... this is what I did for my birthday dinner this year:

We (my boyfriend Mike, my friend Loryn, and I) made pasta dough from scratch. I know I've already showed pictures of the other ravioli I did from scratch, but this dough came out way better. And we also turned it into a couple different thicknesses of pasta, including fettucine, linguine, and pastina, shown below. The recipe can be found here.

 For the ravioli filling, we eyeballed/tasted a mixture of ricotta, mozzarella, basil and garlic. Then we did a batch with all that plus parm, then we did another batch with all that plus feta. It all came out deliciously.

 This was the thickest setting the pasta maker had... by the way, if you ever make your own pasta, even if it's just ravioli and you have a mold, definitely use one of these. It's so much easier than using a rolling pin to roll it out by hand. And they seem to be the kind of obscure appliance that people buy and then never use...thus, they are often found at garage sales for dirt cheap. :)

 In order, fettucine, pastina, and linguine. Or something close to linguine. There's a great guide to Italian pasta I found on google at this web address. It has the shapes and descriptions of what I have to believe is every single kind of pasta ever made in Italy.

Here's a random list of just a few of the dozens of types I've never even heard of:

Perciatelli

Bavettine

Mafalde

Calamarata

Tagliatelle

Cavatappi

 I tied a pastina bow around one of my ravioli. :)

Everything came out great... I guess I forgot to get any pictures of the pastas with sauce on our plates. Possibly because I was too busy eating them. Oh well. ;)

Homemade Ravioli 12.22.11

A few of weeks ago, I had some homemade ravioli. My aunt and cousin bought it from some place in the Bronx for my grandma, and one of the above relatives offered it to my family, and it had been sitting in our freezer ever since, so I finally ate some.

It was fantastic. 

In case I haven't mentioned this already, I love pasta. I love it more than I love almost any food. Pasta and chocolate are probably on an equal level for me in the category of favorite foods, shortly followed by french toast, crepes, and my family's homemade bread. Anyway, after I tasted this ravioli, I was addicted. I actually made more of the same the next day, before I realized that I was either going to have to:

a) get off my ravioli kick
b) go back to BJ's ravioli
or
c) learn to make my own


Clearly, the first two would have been reasonable choices. And if I had a job, I probably would have picked "b" or been stuck with "a" due to a lack of time.


So I guess one of the benefits of being unemployed and out of school is that you do some really random things about which you would normally say, "Oh yeah, that might be cool to try someday."

Like making homemade ravioli.


Conveniently, my mom bought an old-fashioned ravioli-making kit at some garage sale or another, so I fished that out, enlisted my dad for helping and bantering purposes (who cooks without good banter?) and began.

The dough recipe that came with the box was so bad, I'm not even going to put it in here. Instead, I found another recipe that I will use next time. This time, I got stuck with a really hard dough, which I tried to soften by adding an extra egg, and then which my mom had to save by adding more flour.

 
The thickness of the dough is really important. We made the first batch a little too thick. It was still good, just not ideal.

Sorry I can't figure out how to rotate this one.

 I didn't feel like going to buy ricotta cheese and leaving my nice, happy, warm kitchen. So I used mozzarella and cream cheese along with fresh parsley and garlic powder. It was yummy, although next time I would pack it tighter and maybe experiment with some more cheeses.

Exhibit A

 I know I'm the one in the pictures, but I have to give my dad most of the dough-rolling credit. I clearly have amazing muscle definition (See exhibit A above) but three batches of ravioli involves some heavy duty rolling.

"Yay it looks like real ravioli!!!" -- me

Ta-da!

Coffee

Coffee is a wondrous thing. It smells good, it tastes good, people are allowed to take it and do whatever they want to in order to make it delicious, hence it inspires creativity. Plus it does that pretty swirly thing with the cream.

On top of all of this, it does some really interesting things to my energy level. Just moments ago I could not keep my eyes open, and now I am posting a blog. Granted, the thing I was reading before was by a man called Antonio Gramsci (haha Gramsci Shmamsci Lamsci dansci panski fansci) and was for my literary theory and criticism class, but the effect of coffee still applies.

Once I had two cups of coffee at work and I found myself walking to my apartment at the end of the day, laughing for no reason at all. In fact, I had to call Mike in order to justify the fact that I was laughing so much, so that people I passed wouldn't think I was psycho.

Although, honestly, if I were actually insane, I don't think I would inspire that much fear in anybody. Especially if I was giggling. There is really nothing inherently intimidating about a giggle. Unless we are talking about clowns. Speaking of which, I never used to be afraid of clowns, and in fact people who were afraid of them annoyed me, because it seemed too much like a trend. You would ask, "What are you afraid of?" and people would say "Clowns." And I would just think, what happened to the good old answer, "the dark"? But now that I've heard a couple of mass-murderer-clown stories, I'm converted. Except the Cirque du Soliel clowns. They are not scary. They are awesome. I saw a Cirque du Soliel performance when I was 13 (and on my first period, incidentally) and it was amazing. I should save up money to go see another performance. What a great idea!

To do:
1. Save up money to go to a Cirque du Soliel show, like Zarkana on Broadway.
2. Finish my homework.
3. Stop drinking coffee.

Speaking of which, have you ever tried the French Vanilla non-dairy creamer by Nestle Coffee-mate? I mean, I like a good vanilla latte as much as the next person, but it really is the next best thing.

All right. I should probably get back to my homework before Mike figures out that I'm not doing it and yells at me. (He's never mean. He yells at me for my own good because otherwise I sometimes procrastinate. In my defense, my friend keeps putting up pictures of my goddaughter, who is now 8 months old, on facebook. I mean, I kind of HAVE to look at them, don't you think? That reminds me...)

4. Get off facebook.

Now I have to pee. Anyway. Fare-thee-well, blogisphere.

Cheers!

The Labor Day Storm

This one is creative non-fiction. Which means everything happened but I made up some of the details or described them as best I could remember, which may or may not be accurate.

They postponed opening the schools in my district in 1997 because they couldn’t get the buses through the streets when they were full of fallen trees. My friends and I were ecstatic about this, as well as about the sudden availability of hideouts with walls of tangled branches where we could hide and stake our claims to these natural forts created by winds that had somehow done the work of a battleaxe. I also found a certain romance in burning candles instead of turning on the lights, and I liked the taste of macaroni and cheese leftovers that had been fried on the gas stove better than its microwaved equivalent.

            These and other perks were endless: Emily and I spent a week riding our bikes around my street, which was blocked off because of all the branches and bark in the road. We were too young to help our parents do much other than pick up twigs off the front lawn, and nobody we knew had been hurt.

            The only downsides to the 1997 Labor Day Storm were the live wires on the ground, which we were repeatedly warned to avoid and which made the sidewalks suddenly lethal, and the deaths of two men who had been outside their trailers at the New York State Fairgrounds, twenty-five minutes away from my neighborhood. In between games of hide-and-seek and fort building under the tree in Emily’s yard that had crushed her entire porch (nobody was hurt), I wondered about those two men. Had they been chasing after debris that had come out of someone else’s trailer? Had their trailers fallen over? Did they know each other? Did they work on the Midway rides, or in the horse barn? Where were they from? I had been told that a mattress had been found in the debris, among other absurd things, and I now pictured a man holding onto a mattress for dear life as the wind picked it up tossed it into the air – a kind of wild, tragic Aladdin’s magic carpet ride.

            When we did start second grade, a week later than planned, all my classmates had stories.

            “Our power is still out,” said Joey.

            “A tree fell on my mom’s car when she was driving it,” Ashley announced. “But she’s okay.”

            My own stories of bike riding in my otherwise empty street were met with envy.

            Later that week, when the glory of the storm and its aftermath had faded, we started learning about the solar system. I was sitting on the blue carpeted floor of Miss McNerney’s classroom under the poster of “-at” words (cat, rat, mat, flat) when, for the second time in two weeks, my seven-year-old mind was faced with the fact of my mortality.

            “Someday, in about a billion years, the sun is going to swell up into its next phase as a star, and when it does, it will swallow up Mercury, Venus, and Earth,” Miss McNerney said matter-of-factly.

            I looked around wildly at my classmates. Somehow the news that our planet was going to be swallowed by an enormous ball of burning gas, never mind how far into the future, had only inspired awe in the faces of my peers.

            My fear lasted for the rest of the day. When we lined up to wash our hands for lunch, I stood there, my skin actually tingling with the knowledge of my own, and my planet’s, future demise. I overheard Joey talking about this next to me and turned my head sharply as he said, “BOOM!” spreading his arms apart to indicate the breadth of the sun’s future explosion.

            “Joey, stop it,” I said.

            “Why?” Joey asked, smiling. “By then we’ll all be living in space anyway.”

            “We will?”

            “Sure. Not in our lifetime, though.”

            What did it matter, all this talk of lifetimes and suns? I eventually got over my fear and regained my childhood sense of invincibility, but some core part of me was altered by the events of September 1997. I felt much more keenly for the future generation that may or may not be wiped out by the sun’s expansion. I also wondered occasionally if there was some way the Earth would miraculously just move away from the sun, like a magnet being forced away from its twin, continuing its orbit at a more cautious distance, allowing my descendants to continue living in harmony with the winds and trees and bicycles of their time, flying around the world on magic carpets and wearing green glasses to avoid being hurt by the big red sun of the future. 

Dream House

Okay, this one is from this past semester. I actually just re-revised it and handed it in as part of my final portfolio, so hopefully it's marginally more "advanced" than the other one in some way. 

The Dream House Contest

A bell rang over loudspeakers. Nathaniel Beck, an assistant principal at Jamesville Elementary School pulled a stack of papers to himself and plucked off the memo on top.

            Fourth grade contest: My dream house. Voting based on composition skills and creativity. Drawings included. Winning house design to hang in Jamesville Library. Please tally votes.

            Nate read the first submission.

            My name is Ali Greene. My dream house is green with pink shutters and a big lawn with a tire swing…

            Ali’s paragraph continued, detailing a flowerbed full of roses and a whole side of the house that would be covered in morning glories. Attached was a drawing done on yellow construction paper. There was the green house, pink shutters, and a garden full of generic daisy-like flowers. Tree with puffy cloud-leaves from which hang a black circle. Nate noted that the tire swing was about the same size as the daisies.

            My name is Greg Schafer. My dream house is a pickup truck. It has four-wheel-drive and Ford makes it. Houses are for sissies…

            The rest of the submission went on about the various models of trucks Greg would have and where he would keep his bed and toilet. Nate dimly remembered a disciplinary meeting with Greg’s parents earlier in the year. He read a comment on Greg’s page from his teacher, made in glaring red ink, that said, “Don’t say sissy. That’s a bad word.” Nate had to agree, having been called a sissy himself on occasion and never enjoying it.

            He read through twenty more submissions, most of which were like Ali’s, detailing the color of the house and the size of the child’s bedroom. Some featured secret passages, or entire rooms belonging to dolls and stuffed animals for their daily businesses of E-Z Bakeries, Hess truck emergency rescues, or both. From the more outdoorsy children, there were several treehouses, and even one house that seemed to be a hobbit-hole, as it featured a round door and was under a grassy hill. Another was entirely self-sufficient, as it was heated and electrically powered by solar energy and a wood stove, and the child even wrote that the paints used on the wall “would not contain any bad chemicals.”

            Then Nate came upon a submission written entirely in perfect textbook cursive, which the children had learned in the third grade. At first, Nate thought this was an example submission written by one of the teachers, considering the penmanship. He started to skim the paragraph, but before he could move on to the next submission, he found himself reading and rereading this one.

            My name is Stephen Royer. My dream house is a castle. It has rooms for my mom, my dad, and my grandmother. There are more rooms for each of my friends. There is a room for my toys and a room for my sister to play dress-up. There is another room for my brother and his toys. The walls are made of big beautiful stones and crystals. The windows are all open without glass and they have purple curtains that blow in the wind. There are no windows so that the fairies can get in and out easily. They also have their own houses, but they come visit my castle frequently. There is a weeping willow tree next to my house and I hang birdhouses in it for the fairies and the birds. There is a barn outside, for the horses. Some of them are Pegasuses, and they live in the upstairs part of the barn…

             The submission went on to the full back of the page, detailing the places various mythological creatures would be able to stay in Stephen’s house. The grammar was close to perfect, with an advanced vocabulary for an eight-year-old and very little misuse of commas. Nate read the rest of the submissions, but none were so detailed and imaginative as Stephen’s. His drawing was also impressive, showing all the details from the written portion and exhibiting an impressive mastery of perspective, with a front walkway that widened at the bottom of the page.

            After reading all eighty submissions, Nate found the page that described each of the four teachers’ choices for winners of the competition, and his or her reasoning.

            I think Sara Steinbeck is the best choice. She displays conscientious thought about reducing her carbon footprint and I think this should be rewarded. – Mrs. McDowell

             Well, Nate thought, I guess that was to be expected. Mrs. McDowell is very politically correct, and she teaches most of the science classes for the grade, and I’m sure she’s glad that one of these kids thinks about her subject even in English class.

            Ali Greene has excellent grammar and pays close attention to the questions asked in the assignment. Joyce Connell is also a good candidate based on creativity. – Miss Fallon

            All right. Miss Fallon could be a little conservative in her views, and Joyce Connell’s drawing of a hobbit-hole did exhibit skill with a crayon, but honestly, Stephen’s grammar was just as good as Ali’s, and his castle featured multiple turrets! Nate considered calling in a second opinion if none of the teachers chose Stephen’s piece.

            Sara Steinbeck’s piece would be nice hanging in the library to show how we integrate science and English. It is nicely thought out and it has a cute drawing. –Mr. Markinson.

            Colin Markinson reminded Nate of his sister, Sue. Sue went about her world with a military exactness, always knowing the correct things to do in any situation. If Sue wasn’t already married, Nate might actually consider introducing her to Markinson. Well, if she wasn’t married, and if he wasn’t afraid of their hypothetical progeny. Nate leaned back in his chair, feeling like a beauty pageant judge who had noticed that a girl was stunningly beautiful and talented, and had turned to the other judges to find that they had blinked and missed her arrival.

It was painfully obvious to Nate that Markinson had picked Sara over Stephen and the others based on the opinion he wanted others to have of the school; Perhaps if Stephen’s fanciful characters were displayed on Jamesville’s library walls, Colin Markinson would be pegged as a teacher of fantasy, a cheerleader for the most ridiculous of mythological creatures, fairies and flying horses. And worse, as a man who molds the minds of little boys to believe that fairies and flying horses are appropriate areas of academic study. Nate could see himself arguing with Markinson about Stephen’s piece, and he could see himself losing. Resigned, he read the last teacher’s vote.

            I think Stephen Royer is the obvious choice for this contest. His vocabulary and creativity should serve as an inspiration to children and adults alike if his piece is hung in the library. Furthermore, he went beyond the requirements of the assignment and created a dream world, not just a dream house. Many of the children have not yet learned how to push themselves past the limits of an assignment as Stephen has. – Marisa Andrews

            Nate sat back in his chair. He had one, but did it matter? Did his vote count? Would Marisa Andrews back him up? He remembered for the third or fourth time that week that he had been planning to ask Marisa, the soft-spoken, curly-haired unanimous favorite of the fourth graders, to go out for coffee with him. Swiveling in his padded desk chair, Nate caught his reflection in the window behind his desk. His clean-shaven face looked back at him, perched over a blue collar held up by a blue-and-grey patterned tie. He had picked out the tie himself, thinking its pattern was one of those swirly, professional-looking ones, rather than a geometric old-man type or a paisley fatherly brand. Nate had always been proud of his taste in ties, feeling that they were the male equivalent of jewelry, a sort of macho mood ring that announced one’s state of mind. Now he was wishing that he had chosen a more somber, solid-colored variety that would reflect what he felt was the seriousness of his position in choosing the winner of the dream house contest.

It was nearing the end of the school day, and he had to announce the teachers’ decision at the afternoon assembly. He wondered at the possible effects of announcing that Sara Steinbeck had won the competition. She would be proud, as would her parents. The Steinbecks were nice people; they came to all the school’s events to which parents were invited. They had run carnival booths to raise money for charity and had donated used books to the school’s annual book drive. Nate mainly remembered them because of Mrs. Steinbeck’s face-painting abilities. He had brought his six-year-old niece, Sue’s daughter Caroline, to last year’s carnival, and she had been a wriggling, hyperactive ball of excitement until she had her face magically transformed into a butterfly. In contrast with her joyful metamorphosis, little Caroline had taken one look in the mirror and walked around the rest of the day as somber as a nun afraid to do anything that would ruin her beautiful green and gold feathers.

            On the other hand, if only he could somehow convince Miss Fallon or Mrs. McDowell to see the merit in Stephen’s little story – for it was really a story – by only his and Marisa’s opinions. Marisa Andrews was the newest and youngest fourth grade teacher at Jamesville Elementary and held little sway in the teachers’ lounge. Nate was in the same position relative to the rest of the administrative office. He wondered if tat was why they had both picked Stephen; Were they closer to remembering something that had floated through their minds on a string and had inspired games of Aladdin, House, Neverland, and Little Orphan Annie? Something that had perhaps buried itself deeper in the minds of Colin Markinson and Cheryl Fallon than in his own and Marisa Andrews’s? No, Nate decided. Colin Markinson would never have played Aladdin.

Shuffling again through the colorful papers on his desk, Nate wondered what Stephen would tell his parents if he won. He could not remember meeting a Mr. and Mrs. Royer, which was usually an indication that the child’s parents both worked full-time jobs and were unable to come to the school for the many volunteer efforts for which parents donated their time. Either that, or the Royers were both so wrapped up in careers, drugs, hobbies, or other children, that they were willing to push Jamesville Elementary to the periphery of their lives.

            No matter the possible mental and physical locations of Stephen’s parents, however, Nate felt strongly that the boy deserved to win. Judging by his writing, he was more likely to actually go to the Jamesville library than any of the other children anyway. And if another child won the prize that Stephen so clearly deserved, would he begin to realize what rules and values his teachers, the omnipotent adults with whom he spent more time than his parents five days a week, were thereby declaring? Would he give up on the fairies and flying horses? Would his imagination live to tell the world about the weeping willow tree hung with birdhouses in which apartments are shared by elves and squirrels?

            Nate sent memos to all four teachers, and the fourth grade recess found the five of them in a meeting in the vice principal’s office. Nate, who had been so convinced that he was taking a stance on a moral issue, was now unsure how to explain to these teachers why he was depriving them of half their lunch break.

            “I brought you together to discuss the results of the ‘Dream House’ competition,” he began. “As the votes lie, Sara Steinbeck would win the competition.” He looked at them. Marisa Andrews appeared surprised. This gave him enough confidence to go on.

            “I wondered whether you all might reconsider the winner based on the parameters of the assignment.” At this, he received raised eyebrows from Mrs. McDowell and a scowl from Miss Fallon. Mr. Markinson was the first to speak.

            “Listen, Mr. Beck – “

            “Please, call me Nate.”

            “Nate, we grade assignments like this all the time. We really only sent you the submissions as a formality. You know, the judges aren’t supposed to be the ones to tally the votes. Some rule somewhere. You didn’t actually have to read the submissions.”

            Nate recalled the memo on top of the pile of papers. Please tally votes.

            “I’m aware of that, Mr. Markinson.” He paused. No “Call me Colin” was forthcoming. He continued, “But I did read them. I guess I was trying to be thorough. And I’m glad I did, because there was an entry that really jumped out at me. Stephen Royer seems to have mastered English skills beyond his grade level and the imagination put into the piece is fantastic. I really think we could put his entry up in the library and people would be amazed at the education kids are getting here.”

            There was a pause, during which Marisa Andrews appeared oddly troubled, and Miss Fallon exchanged a look with Mr. Markinson. Mrs. McDowell finally spoke.

            “Listen, Nate, Stephen did an excellent job, but he went outside the assignment. Did you read the assignment?”

Nate nodded.

“Then you know they were only supposed to describe the ideal house they would want to live in, and so on. Stephen’s house was cute, but it was a fairy tale.”

“It seems to me that he went above and beyond the requirements of the assignment. Also, I received a memo that stated that you were grading this contest based on composition skills and creativity.” He showed it to them.

“It also says, ‘Please tally votes.’ Not, ‘please grade.’” Miss Fallon reminded him. Her arms were crossed over her chest, reminding Nate of his own fourth grade teacher, an aptly named Mr. Stern.

            “Well, I assumed that I received the full stack of submissions for a reason,” Nate said, “and I feel that it is important as a school administrator to be familiar with the work the students are doing.”

            “I didn’t realize you had enough free time over in the VP office to read everything placed on your desk. I wish I had that kind of time,” Miss Fallon replied pointedly.

            “All right, all right,” Mr. Markinson cut in with the air of the teacher telling his students to settle down. “Listen, Nate, this whole submission thing, it’s a perfectly democratic process. We all told you what we thought and you’re supposed to tally the votes. I think we all appreciate hearing your opinion, but at the end of the day, we’re the ones teaching the kids, and I think we know how to decide if a student has learned what he was supposed to learn. I understand if Stephen’s little essay appealed to your own personal sensibilities, but that’s not necessarily what we want to promote in the classroom.”

            Nate was completely taken aback. His personal sensibilities? Was this supposed to be a stab at his image? At what he now suspected was his alleged sexuality? He began to feel the heat and pinpricks of the kind of sweat that accompanies a specifically sexual embarrassment. The kind of sweat he had been trying to avoid since eleventh grade, when Bill Anderson had made sure their entire class of two hundred twenty-six students was aware that Nate was a virgin.

            “Sara did a great job,” Mrs. McDowell pointed out. “She referenced several areas of scientific study and gave detailed descriptions of the different parts of the house.”

            “Nate, buddy, if you haven’t got anything else for us?” Mr. Markinson asked, in a perfectly polite, condescending tone. Nate wondered if he spent time practicing that voice.

            He glanced over to discover that Marisa Andrews was looking at him in a way that confessed that she agreed with Mr. Markinson’s analysis of Nate himself, although in a less accusatory way. He also realized that perhaps his choices of tie and matching shirts had not had quite the effects he had hoped for. He let his mind drift to the afternoon in the auditeria – the combination auditorium and cafeteria – where he would announce that Sara Steinbeck had won the Dream House competition. Where he would make several such announcements before the year was out. Where it would be impossible for him to ever give Stephen Royer the recognition he deserved without leaving himself and Stephen vulnerable to their respective colleagues because of their appreciation of a dream house where nobody had anything but innocent intentions and benevolent spirits.

            Nate dismissed the fourth grade teachers from his office.

Driving With Strange Boys

I wrote this sophomore year for a fiction workshop. Let me know what you think? :)

Driving With Strange Boys

            I had hardly gotten in the car before George asked me what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I don’t know why that’s such a common question. You would think people would find it personal, maybe at least ask you about how many pets and siblings you have before they ask about your dreams and ambitions.

            I told George I didn’t know, which was faster and safer than the true explanation, which involves a lot of rubbish about becoming a rich and famous actress with my own private jet who somehow becomes really influential in world politics and marries a nice boy and buys a goldfish named Walter, then gives all her money to charity. I thought George might find it strange that I had picked out a name for my future goldfish when I didn’t even know whether I wanted kids yet. Not only that, but like I said, who says George got to know, anyway? Just because his mom and my mom went to college together and then moved to the same town and invited each other to Fourth of July and Christmas parties, George and I were supposed to be old buds.

            His name isn’t George, really. It’s Mike. But he doesn’t look like a Mike to me, so I  changed it to George in my head. We were driving to Ithaca College together. I wanted to take English and Theatre classes and learn to write plays. George wanted to be a famous composer and then probably write ballets for skinny girls who had known what they wanted to do since they were six.

            Half an hour into the ride, we had exhausted most small talk opportunities when George looked at me and said, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

            I never know if I should lie or not when boys ask that question. Deciding quickly that George didn’t have any ulterior motives, I responded, “No.”

            George nodded and glanced around at his mirrors before saying, “I don’t have a girlfriend, either.”

            I made an “mmm”  noise and continued looking out the window. There was another long pause, during which I remembered the last time this boy had thought we were friends. We were in the sixth grade and I was sitting with some girls in our Tech class. We were talking over our worksheets and probably giggling a lot. George came over and sat with us.

            Present George was thinking out loud. “Everyone says it’s a really hard music program. I probably won’t have any time to meet women. Sucks.”

            I said something noncommittal like, “You never know.”

            I remembered what he had done in 6th grade tech after he came to sit with us.

            “I farted,” he said, looking directly in my face.

            All the girls had looked at me, disgusted. I was embarrassed but somehow couldn’t open my mouth to explain that this freak was not my friend. They moved to a different table, giggling. Then they wrote me a note that said, “Dear Casey, Mike Saunders is gross. Do you like him?” The teacher yelled at me for passing notes before I could write them a reply.

            “Hey, are you okay?” George’s voice jolted me back to the interior of his Toyota Corolla with its moldy cup holders littered with change and rugs covered in sticky Coke cans.

            “Yeah, just thinking.”

            He nodded. “ I know what you mean. I have no idea what this place is going to be like now that we actually live there.”

            “I wasn’t really thinking about that, actually.”

            “No?”

            I didn’t answer.

            “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”

            “No, it’s fine.”

            He turned up a station.

            “Do you like this music? I can change it.”

            What is it with the person who is driving always feeling like they are responsible for the entertainment of the passenger?

            I fidgeted and answered, “I really don’t care.”

            “Okay.”

            Two miles later, George pulled into a rest stop.

            “Sorry, I just realized I didn’t get enough gas and it’s probably cheaper on this side of the border.”

            Again, George’s voice pulled me out of my reverie.

            “Yeah, it’s cool.” I wanted to get out of the car. “I’m gonna go use the bathroom.”

            “Okay,” George replied, putting the car in park.

            As soon as I heard the car’s locks click, I jumped out, straightening my clothes. I walked briskly up to the building, its large sunglasses display throwing the sun into my eyes, which seemed like rigging the system to me.

            After I had finished in the bathroom, I dawdled outside the little tourist shop, looking at t-shirts with road maps on them. When I got back outside, I walked toward the gas pumps, then stopped as I realized George’s car wasn’t there.

            “Casey! Hey, Casey!” I heard him calling me. I turned to see George standing by his car in another lot, talking to an unshaven guy carrying an army duffel and a backpack. I walked toward them, apprehensive.

            “Hey,” I said, looking at the pair of them.

            “Hi, I’m Jesse,” the scruffy guy said, holding out his hand. I shook it, dim realization spreading through my brain. I looked at George, thinking, this better be your cousin.

            “Hey, Jesse needs a ride. He’s actually headed toward Ithaca himself, how convenient is that?” George grinned while he rambled. I was really starting to hate him.

            “Mike, the car’s pretty full,” I said cautiously.

            It was Scruffyman who answered. “That’s okay, I was just telling Mike I can ride with everything on my lap.” 

            Finding no objections to make, and remembering I had both my mom and 911 on speed dial, I offered to take the backseat of the car.

            “There’s more leg room in front,” I pointed out, and without waiting any longer, I shoved myself in the back next to a suitcase of George’s and one of my own duffel bags.

            “I hope you like the music,” George said. Scruffyman piled his stuff on his lap rather energetically and said, “Yeah, man, anything’s cool with me. I’m just glad you’re picking me up, dude.”

            I thought about changing Scruffyman’s name to Mandude, but I decided against it.

            “Everyone in? Seat belts? All right!” George had decided to get really enthusiastic about our road trip, apparently, which was ridiculous, as the whole thing was so obviously going downhill.

            “So, where are you coming from?” George asked Scruffymandude.

            “Oh, you know, I was in Rochester for a while, then Mexico, then Florida, but there were too many old people there, man, so now I’m going back to Ithaca.”

            “Wow, man, that’s pretty cool. So you grew up in Ithaca?” I found myself wondering why George was so polite.

            “Nah dude, I grew up in Tennessee. Well, Tennesee and then Westchester.”

            “So you’re rich?” I heard myself ask the question before I even stopped to think whether it was appropriate.

            Scruffy actually turned his neck all the way around to look at me.

            “No, I got sent to live with my auntie and uncle after my other auntie and uncle decided it would be a good experience for me. None of them are rich, but they wanted me to be.”           

            “Oh,” I said. I felt my body relaxing against my will as I started to believe he wouldn’t kill George and drive me somewhere no one could hear me scream.

            “That’s okay,” Scruffyman said, taking my silence as apologetic. “I’m an orphan, but it’s no big deal. My mom’s siblings have been taking care of me since I was a little kid. I got used to moving around a lot. I started community college near Ithaca, but I didn’t like it, so I decided to do some traveling-- Oh, I’m sorry, man, you didn’t ask for my life story.”

            Despite the warnings of my conscience about this guy possibly making up the whole thing and just getting me comfortable to rob me of all my money and possessions after raping and killing me, I was getting curious to hear about all the traveling he had done. I’d only been outside the United States once, and everyone always told me Niagara Falls, Canada doesn’t count.

            George had started to ask Scruffy a question, but I cut in.

            “Are you going back to school now?”

            Scruffy raised his hands up by his face in a “Who knows?” gesture that would have been comical if I wasn’t afraid of him.

            “I’m thinking about it. Think I’d like to be a lawyer, man.”

            I must have looked shocked, because George grinned at my expression in the rearview mirror. “You surprised or something, Casey?” I ignored him.

            “So, where do you get all this money from? To travel?” I demanded, determinedly looking at Scruffy.

            “Oh, you know, dude, odd jobs,” Scruffyman said airily.

            “No, I don’t know, dude. What kinds of jobs?” Maybe his calling me dude had set me off again, but all the stories I’d ever heard about hitchhikers involved knives and bodybags. I ignored the fact that George’s perpetual smile had been replaced by a furrowed brow. It looked like he thought I was being rude. Me, rude, when he had invited a random hitchhiker into our car without asking me. I was a thin eighteen-year-old girl without the faintest knowledge of self defense and a lot of explicit childhood advice about not talking to strangers ringing in my mind.

            Scruffy turned around to look at me again. I shrank back a little, determinedly making eye contact.

            “I worked at Burger King all through high school. And I babysat for my aunt and uncle. They have little kids. I saved pretty much all of it. How about you? Casey, right? Do you have a job?”

            “I used to bag groceries. I quit.”

            “You quit bagging groceries?”

            I hated telling this story. “Yeah, I didn’t talk much, and they hired another Casey at the same time who had a mental disability. They got confused and started treating me like a moron, only I thought they were just being sarcastic-- hey! It’s not funny!”

            Scruffymoron had started cracking up and George was snickering along with them.

            “No, no, please don’t stop. That’s hilarious.”

            “That was it,” I said shortly, going back to staring out the window. How could I have thought this guy was dangerous? This immature jerk who was just getting a ride to finish up his damn associate’s degree and went to Mexico with money from Burger King, probably to buy Mexican marijuana --

            “Casey, you’re funny. Mike, she’s funny, isn’t she?” Scruffy-the-idiot cut off the silent rant I had been directing at the back of his head.

            Usually, I liked being called funny. It didn’t happen much, and it usually didn’t happen when I was in a horrible mood and sitting behind a possible serial killer and Mike Saunders, packed in with boxes and bags, feeling like everything in the car was trying to smother me with my own assumptions.

            I settled in against the door, tuning in and out of the animated conversation that was taking place in front of me. George asked Scruffy about good bars in Ithaca. I dimly recalled hearing that George didn’t party in high school, and vague annoyance at this line of questioning popped up in my brain. How did Mike Saunders dare to change when I had decided what to think of him six years ago?

            The sun had started to disappear when the car made a sudden hard jerk to the right.

            “Hey, hey, steady!” Scruffy shouted.

            George was hunched in his seat. “Sorry, guys, I feel a little -- oh, shit.”

            He pulled over just in time to jump out of the car and vomit on the side of the road. Scared, I got out of the car. I immediately regretted this decision and averted my eyes from the spot where George was now bent over double, hands on the knees of his jeans.

            Looking around, I spotted some paper towels sticking out of a box in the back. I lunged for them and started ripping them off and handing them to Scruffy.

            “Here, give him these. Help him wipe up.” Scruffyman took the towels without complaint and handed them to George. I got back out of the car, looking up cautiously.

            “Hey, Mike, do you feel better?” I asked, unsure.           

            He nodded numbly as he wiped his mouth with one hand, his body still bent like he’d been punched in the stomach. We stood there for a couple of minutes.

            “Hey, do you want me to drive?” I offered.

            “He doesn’t want to get in the car again that fast, are you crazy?” Scruffy said to me. I looked at him, then back at George.
            “Mike, we can sit here for a bit if you want,” I started.

            “No, no, it’s fine. I feel better. Sorry. I should have said something, but I didn’t think it was that bad. I’ve been feeling nauseous for a bit.”

            “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Just get in the back and rest your head.”

            We got him some water and settled him in the back with a bag and some towels.

            I had been driving for about twenty minutes when Scruffy said quietly to me,

            “It’s good how you took care of Mike.”

            “Thanks,” I said, a little taken aback that he had broken our silence.

            “So, do you know what you want to do in college yet?”

            “You know, why does everyone always ask that question? It’s not like I know, and why should you assume that I’m going to tell you! I mean --”

            “Hey, relax, it was just a question.” Scruffy looked a little alarmed.

            I stared at him. “Do I scare you or something?”

            “What? I don’t know, you’re a little intimidating. Why?”

            I had to remind myself to keep my eyes on the road and my mirrors.

            “No reason.” I paused, wrestling with myself. “I don’t know. I was thinking about majoring in theatre.”

            “Oh yeah? Did you do plays in high school?” Scruffy seemed not to be bothered by my disgruntled tone.

            “Yes.”

            “Anything good?”

            I considered. “I don’t know what you would think is good,” I admitted.

            He laughed. “Well, I love that one show. Fiddler on the Roof. It’s pretty awesome.”

            I had to look at him. “Really? You like Fiddler? I was in that once.”

            “Oh yeah? What part?”

            “I played Chava, the --

            “--the youngest daughter, yeah. I like her. She doesn’t take any crap. Like you.”

            I grinned at him despite myself.

            “What’s your favorite show, man?” he asked. It struck me how relaxed he looked, sitting in a stranger’s car without trying to control anything, simply going with the flow.

            “Um, I really like 42nd Street. But also this show John and Jen -- have you heard of it?”

            “No. Is it a musical?”

            “Yeah,” I said. Shows and composers made up one of my favorite subjects, and Scruffy proved to know plenty about them. The conversation carried us through a couple of hours, until there was some movement in the backseat.

            I immediately glanced in the mirror. “Do you need me to pull over?” I asked.

            “No, no, I’m okay,” George grunted. “What are you guys talking about?”

            “Theatre stuff,” I answered. “Why, George?”

            “What?”

            “Oh, uh-- yeah, I decided to call you George.” I hoped he wouldn’t think I was weird.

            “Oh. Okay.”

            Scruffy stared at me. “Why?” He looked at me like I was crazy.

            I glanced at him. Then, out of nowhere, I couldn’t stop laughing. I had no idea how it started, but suddenly everything was funny. Both of the boys were staring at me. Then, miraculously, they were laughing too. I could hardly see the road for tears, but I couldn’t stop laughing in this car with George Saunders and Jesse the Hitchhiker.

            After a while, when George had fallen back asleep and our laughter had faded to a general air of relaxed friendliness, Scruffy turned to me and said, “So what was so funny?”

            I didn’t know how to tell him that somebody who I had thought was going to end my life mere hours before had suddenly given me the urge to get two goldfish when I grew up, and name one of them Scruffy.

            “Oh, nothing really.” I smiled at him. “So, Jesse, where are you living in Ithaca?”