The Winner's Game(15)

“It’s for your own good. Just until you get your new heart. Then everything will be better. I’ll let you lift all the suitcases you want.”

When I inspect the suitcase that my mom packed for me, it takes me maybe a second to see that she missed all the important stuff I’ll need for a summer at the beach. Sure, there are plenty of shirts, socks, and underwear. But what about my slingshot for warding off sharks, or my binoculars to keep an eye out for killer whales? And what respectable pirate would go on a summer trip without a BB gun, buck knife, lighter fluid, and fishing pole? By the time my dad gets home from work, I have all that packed and more.

“Let’s go!” I hear him shout as soon as he comes in the door. “I want to beat the traffic!”

Bree is brushing her hair in the entryway mirror when I drag my suitcase up the stairs. When she sees all the extra goodies tied to the outside of my bag, she says, “You know this is not a hunting expedition, right?”

“Mind yer own business, lass.”

She gives me a nasty look, then yells over her shoulder, “Mom! Cade’s still talking like a pirate!”

“Mom! Bree be a yellow-livered landlubber, and she can’t tell me how to talk!”

“Just leave him alone, Bree. It’ll wear off. And Cade, don’t call your sister names.”

I give her my best wicked smile and whisper, “If ye hates me talking like a pirate, I won’t ever stop.” Then I load my booty in the car.

On the ride to Cannon Beach, Dad makes me and Bree sit together in the very back of the minivan so Ann can sprawl out on the middle bench. I am sure it’s going to be miserable sitting next to my sister for so long, but it ends up being pretty…um…interesting.

There’s a lot of things I don’t like about Bree, but one thing I can’t not like is how good she is at art. She’s the only person I know who can draw or paint anything. So I’m not at all surprised that she brought a large pad of paper and markers to help pass the time. But after not too long, she leans over and whispers, “Hey, I have an idea.” After eleven years as her younger brother, I know what “I have an idea” means. It means she has a plan to do something that we probably shouldn’t. In this case, it means she has an idea to do something with her supplies other than doodling sketches. “Check it out,” she says.

I watch as Bree takes a wide blue marker and writes a message for the cars behind us to read.

“Honk…if…,” she says, whispering the words to herself as she spells them out, “you…love…ice…cream!” When she’s done writing, she holds it flat against the rear window. Ten seconds later the truck behind us gives two loud beeps. Knowing that our dad will be looking, Bree quickly drops the paper as soon as she hears the horn.

“Why is that jerk honking at us?” he asks almost instantly. “I’m going five miles over the speed limit.”

“Because he likes ice cream,” replies Bree matter-of-factly.

“Oh. Seriously?”

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” I shout.

That seems to pacify him.

After Dad changes lanes, Bree hands me a pen and paper and I write my first message: Wave if you are nice! OK, it isn’t exactly brilliant, but it does earn a gesture from a large woman in the cab of a semitruck.

“She waved!” I whisper excitedly.

Bree tries to swallow a laugh. “That’s not a wave, Dimwit. Unless she only has one finger on that hand.”

My sister’s next message says, I like your car! Flash lights if U want 2 trade. The Mercedes driving behind us quickly speeds past without flashing any lights.

Since Bree has already come up with two good messages, I have to step it up. It takes a few minutes to think of one, but eventually I write, Sister is 17. Never been kissed. Honk if that is sad! Within a minute, my message earns five loud beeps from a bunch of teenage boys driving by in a rusty Volkswagen Bug.

“What’s the problem now?” asks Dad, thinking he is getting honked at again. “Why are people so rude?”

“It’s just some teenage boys being dumb,” Bree assures him. “Don’t worry, Dad, it’s not you.”

“What are you guys up to back there?” asks Mom.

“We’re just being nice to the other cars. It’s fine.”

“Hey, as long as they’re not fighting, I’m happy,” Dad tells her.

“I like it when there’s no fighting too,” states Mom. I can’t tell if she is talking about us kids or about her and Dad. From the extra look he gives her, I’d say he is wondering the same thing.