The Pull of Gravity by Gae Polisner

Author:Gae Polisner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

12

We grab sandwiches at a deli, then Jaycee turns on the GPS and we start our trek toward First Street. We don’t really know anything about the Reylands that supposedly live there. If they still do, that is. Like, whether they’re even related to Guy Reyland or the Scoot. But it’s the only lead we have, so we follow it. We turn right off of South Avenue and left on East Broad Street, then head southeast toward downtown Rochester.

The day is sunny and bright and, despite our cuckoo mission, I am content to be doing what I am doing. I mean, I’m happy to be away from home, away from Jeremy and Mom, on this mission with Jaycee. Even though I’m still not completely sure what it is.

Jaycee’s pretty quiet for Jaycee. I get the sense she’s still not feeling too well. I tap on her shoulder, figure it’s time to cheer her up.

“You know,” I say, “Reyland is a really rare name.”

“I guess so,” she says.

“Really rare, I mean.”

She turns to me. “Your point?” She thinks I’m serious.

“Nothing. Just saying. Are the Reylands really rare?”

She cocks her head sideways, like maybe now she knows I’m up to something. I make a face, then say, “I’m just wondering. Are the Reylands really rare, will we find them anywhere? Are the Reylands really rare in Rochester?” She punches me. I laugh and keep going.

“Are the Reylands really rare, do they wear their underwear, in Rochester?”

“You’re an idiot,” she says.

“So, you do not really care, if the Reylands are so rare, in Rochester?”

She slaps me again, so I cut it. We walk for a block or so, and then she says, “If you’re hungry, eat a pear, with the Reylands on a dare, but the Reylands never share, in Rochester.”

I smile. “Will they catch a polar bear, in Rochester?”

Jaycee shakes her head then buzzes me out, “Enhhh!” like it’s a game show. “No good,” she says. “You left out the Reylands. I mean that was the whole point of it, Lennie. There have to be Reylands in there.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s my poem. And it would be great if you’d actually stop calling me Lennie.”

We spend the rest of the walk rhyming with Reylands until we reach the corner of First Street. The British lady announces our arrival—“Turn right, First Street, you have reached your destination”—from inside Jaycee’s pocket. I glance at my cell. It’s nearly two-thirty. We’ve been walking for more than an hour.

“This is it,” she says. “You have the number?” I pull out the papers from my backpack.

“Yeah, I programmed it in, 3625.” I nod toward the GPS in her pocket, proud of my contribution, then double-check the paper just in case.

“We can turn this off then.” She reaches in to silence it, takes a deep breath, and looks up at me. “You’ve got the book, right?” I pat my backpack. She must be nervous—she handed it right to me, watched me put it in, back at the hotel.

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