Page 93 of Possibly Texas

I didn’t manage a smile, but I responded with the same sign. That was enough to appease Jack because he smiled wider and turned back around to tend to the steaming skillet on the stovetop. The toaster clicked and toast sprang up. Leaving the stovetop, Jack stepped over and extracted the slices of toast to slather them with butter while they were fresh and hot. Watching the butter melt into the toast made my stomach groan with appreciation again.

“Smells good,” I said, managing to find something nice to say, though my tone didn’t match my words.

Jack shot a pleased look over his shoulder at me, then he was back to work.

I hated that he was so happy and I was so…dour. Not that I was jealous of Jack’s mood, or annoyed by it, I just hated that I couldn’t find it in me to match the tone he was trying to set for the day. Jack wasn’t the problem, so he didn’t deserve my mood.

But what was the problem?

Ghosts.

Ghosts were the problem.

And Possibly.

The entire town was the problem.

Since arriving in Possibly, though I’d done my best to find something wrong with it, I’d found nothing but goodness. The people were nice. They were kind to each other. They minded their own business and went about their lives while allowing each other the same privilege. I’d never been fed so well since arriving in town. I had a warm bed that was in the same place night after night. I had security and safety.

The best coffee I’d ever drank and the best treats I’d ever ate could be found a short walk from Jack’s place. I could take art classes for free from a woman who wanted nothing more than to see me find myself and what I was good at creating. I’d made a friend who enjoyed art and music and teaching me sign language, who found new and exciting things for us to do any day of the week in a town as small as Possibly, Texas.

Other teenage boys in town that we encountered on the street didn’t care if I hung out with Auggie. They wouldn’t bat an eye if I gave him a plastic flower to show my appreciation for his friendship. No one teased or taunted other people for being different or doing things that were not necessarily typical.

Grandy philosophized down at his gas station and Levi Lee did all kinds of weird performance art right out in the open by Starbuck’s. Mystic Molly sat in her tent all day, waiting to tell people’s fortunes. Agnes Broussard used old plastic bottles to make flowers and Sofia Salazar hung up misdirected love letters for the entire town to swoon over.

Wyatt walked through town like Yosemite Sam and fired his gun randomly into the air whenever the mood struck him. Earl Dean took a pickaxe to Liberty Lane nearly every day, and Officer Hanning simply stood by and watched. Jasper took an hourly trip up and down Liberty Lane on the tram for no apparent reason, and Amos played the same song all day long on AMOR.

And no one cared.

Everyone was so…accepting.

It was becoming annoying because there was nothing annoying about it. There was no fault to find in Possibly or how Possibilians lived their lives and let others live their lives.

Possibly was…perfect?

I’d never lived anywhere that was perfect. That never had strife or arguments or tragedy. There was no drama or news to speak of in the tiny, sleepy little town on the bank of the perpetually full Susurrus Creek. Nothing happened, yet everything was new and exciting. There was always something new to discover about Possibly—even if a lot of it was due to the behind-the-scenes machinations of people in sheets who walked down the road at midnight to thrill the new guy.

Possibly was perfect.

Impossibly small and outdated, a town steeped in Americana and art and friendship and acceptance, Possibly was quite possibly the best place to be.

So…why was I so angry?

It wasn’t out of the question to assume that a boring life was an adjustment for a guy who’d spent his life on the road with his free-spirited mother. I didn’t have to run like hell from cops after busking on a street corner. If I busked in Possibly, Officer Hanning would just watch along with everyone else. I didn’t have to worry where my next meal would come from when meal times came around. There was no concern over finding friends—friends found you in Possibly.

Mom’s text.

In my heart of hearts, though I’d never admitted it to myself, I had expected Mom to get bored on the road without me. To miss me as a mother is supposed to miss her child. By the end of summer, I expected to be sitting under the tree outside of Starbuck’s with Auggie, doing our daily sign language lesson, and I’d look up. Mom’s car would be rolling carefully…oh, so carefully…across Lovelorn Pass Bridge. She’d come retrieve me.

She’d sweep me into her arms and tell me how big of a mistake it was to dump me on the side of the road on Two-Mile Trail.

That wasn’t going to happen.

Maybe it’s best that you’re there.

That’s what her text had said. After weeks without me, Mom had realized that having me around all the time was cramping her style. That having me around made her life less enjoyable.

I had been unwanted for…how long? For how many days, weeks, months, or even years, had Mom been thinking about ditching me with Jack? How much had she been itching to push me out of her life so she could be free of me?