Operation Stalker, Part 1

Chicken farmers, jumbo-unicorns, and What else could you want?

“I still can't believe your mom's letting you stay here for two months!” Meg says, shaking her head in faux-disbelief.

“Yeah, well,” I say, then add, “You stayed with me last summer. And experienced the cultural sensation that is Spooner, Wisconsin.”

Meg laughs. “My grandma lives in Shell Lake. And it was for less than a week.” Shell Lake, Wisconsin: County seat of Washburn County, population 1,309 at the 2000 census. Spooner's twice its size...and that doesn't say much. Milwaukee's about six hundred times its size.

“I can pack up my bag and leave, if you want,” I joke with the closest to fake sincerity I can get.

Meg throws a stuffed frog at me. She's got quite the impressive collection of stuffed animals at the end of her bed. That must be something you can do when you're five foot one. Five-nine? Not so much.

“That'd need to much energy for you to attempt.” she says, “Seriously, though. It's insane!” I toss the frog back at her.

“Lemme see. The frog's not mine, but those socks are,” I grab my socks off the floor and ball them up, “This book's mine, gosh, what else I think�"”

“Ahhgg! Stop that!” Mag says, flinging a zebra at me. “I want you to stay!”

She whips a plush cobra around. “I just also think its unbelievable!” She heaves a three-foot long unicorn at me.

My response follows the line of: “Holy shee-it! Where did that thing come from?”

“Christmas 1997.” she replies, “Or December 27th. Did I mention that December birthdays are awful?”

“A ridiculous amount of times, considering it's June.”

“I mean,” Meg says, switching topics instantaneously, “My grandma was ten minutes away.” I like Meg, I really do. (Hence the fact I'll be spending the next two months with her.) However, she, like anyone else, can get annoying. “This is like, six hours.”

“All the way across the state, but not.” I smirk.

“Someday,” Meg says, “I will have friends capable of taking things seriously.”

I put on my best serious face. Y'know, the one I wore to my Great-Uncle Walter's funeral? That one.

“I believe,” I say. “That there was communication between our mothers? Chicken farmer to adolescent psychologist?”

“Your mom is not a chicken farmer.” Meg says.

“They assured each other that everything would run smoothly, safely, and wonder-piffically? That's the vibe I got.” I continue, “Chicken farmer is so much more interesting than her actual occupation. And, we do have chickens. And the veggie garden.”

In my mother's ideal world, she wouldn't have to do all these silly social things like work, parent teacher conferences, work picnics, grocery shopping, and et cetera. She'd only have to interact with me (and only when I'm in a good mood), Aunt Stacey, and potentially her friends Diana and Paul. Oh, yeah, and the McLaughlin's from down the road. But maybe not Diana. Mom thinks she thinks too highly of her daughter Ellen. I don't mean this all as awful as it sounds, because I'm not exactly a social butterfly, either. According to Mom, there are two traits that run on both the Krause and Michaelson sides of me: introverted-ness and curly hair.

Meg gets up from her bed, grabs the jumbo-unicorn from me, and squeezes it. “I think I love this unicorn more than Louie.” she says, “Cause I've had it longer.”

“And you accuse me of not taking things seriously?” I ask.

“What if you start dying?” she says.

“Then I get myself some urban health care. Rural health care just doesn't cut it when your dying.” I answer. Meg raises an eyebrow in a shockingly maternal fashion. I'm overcome with an urge to confess to having stolen cookies from the cookie jar.

Actually, at this point I really just want to get Meg off the whole topic, which is why, instead of confessing to those cookies I stole eight years ago, I say:

“My dad lives in Milwaukee. I won't be dying family-less. And,” I muse, “If I start dying Mom'll probably come down here.” Whatever part of mind thought this would change the topic is going to burnt at the metaphorical stake by all the other logical parts of my brain.

“Seriously?” Meg asks, “Honest to God? Have you gone to see him? Or talk to him or something or anything?”

“Have you seen me leave the house in the past two days? I'm still recuperating from my intensive six-hour drive.” I do some speedy mental math in my head. “It takes eight hours of inactivity to restore energy from one hour of driving.” I grin at Meg.

“That's exactly why I don't drive.” she says, “And I assumed you used your secret nighttime ninja powers.”

“Hih-fwah!” I say, and hurl her zebra at her bed.

“But you're gonna, right?” she asks.

I twist my watch on my wrist in response.

“You're not?” Meg asks, taking fidgeting as legitimate answer. “C'mon,

Karen, you gotta!”

“Naw, I don't wanna. Not in the mood.” I reply.

Meg does the freakishly maternal eyebrow raise. I try to think of something that will really end the conversation. For some reason, mentioning that I've only known where he lives for three months doesn't seen like the way to do it. This is one of those annoying things with Meg. She just doesn't let go of things. I don't want to lie to her, and I try to think of some way just to get across that I don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It.

“Why?” Meg asks, “Ya know, just out of curiosity?”

I wince. “I haven't seen him in years and I just don't want to, okay?” Alright, okay, so I'm trying to (inaccurately) play up the (mostly nonexistent) Boo-hoo-my-dad-abandoned-me-and-waa-waa-I-had-to-be-raised-by-a-single-mom-just-like-tons-of-other-kids aspect. What are you gonna do about it? So, technically he's not an absent dad to two boys in the city. So, what?

“Okay.” Meg says, “I get that. Alright.”

We fall silent for ten or so minutes, then Meg starts to talk about her friends, her finals, and various other topics I have no stake in. A friend of hers made it his goal to 69.5% in English and got a 69.3%. Now he's in summer school for it. One of her teachers gave an essay question that they didn't cover in class, it was completely unfair, watch it ruin her chemistry grade. (Blah, blah, blah.) (Yes, I know I'm a bad friend.)

It's only after we eat lunch and reenact the absolute worst moments of camp, (which is where we met three summers ago), for her sister Louisa (who magically appeared while I was in the bathroom), that Meg brings it up again.

“Does he have a name?” Meg asks.

“Most people have names.” I reply.

“Who?” Louisa asks, “Who? Do I know them? Are you talking about Greggie?”

“Jeez. Okay, what is his name?” Meg restates.

“Who're you talking about?” I ask, “And what is a Greggie?” At this point I can't remember what we're talking about. “Ryan?” I offer, Ryan being the name of one of the kids at Summer Camp 2005.

“No, your,” Meg starts to say, then, “Bug off, Louie.” Louisa groans and sticks out her tongue as she leaves the room.

“Your dad.” Meg says, “Does he have name?”

“I think I said this,” I say, “Most people have names.”

Meg puts her head in her hands and starts to fake-sob. “You stickler, what's his name?”

“Much, much better.” I say, “It's Joe. Or, if we're being sticklers, Joseph.”

“Joseph Krause!” Meg exclaims. “To White Pages, the stalker's best friend!” Meg skids out of the room on sock feet, leaving me with my mouth half open.

“Uh...” I mumble to the empty room, “Krause is my mom's last name.”