“See you,” I say to Savannah, who’s already started toward the first Starbucks. Not a bad idea for the cliché tourist photo, but I had something else in mind.
I turn left, following a cobbled path lined with street art down into Post Alley and my reason for coming here: the gum wall.
Thousands of tourists stick their gum here every day. Gum drips from windows and doorways, strung from brick to brick, holding up brochures and business cards. It’s only been cleaned a few times in its more-than-thirty-year history, and every time, Seattleites put up a fuss about it, as though the chewed-up hunks of Bubblicious are as much a part of the city as the Space Needle or a Mariners’ losing streak.
It’s weird and it’s gross and I absolutely love it.
“Will you take our photo?” asks a man with a heavy accent I can’t place. His family, including a trio of small children, are posing in front of the wall.
“Oh—sure,” I say, holding in a laugh because this happens every time I go here. They squeeze together, blowing bubbles as I snap a few photos.
They add their gum to the sticky mosaic, and I take a photo on my own phone. A tourist doing something a local would be ashamed of doing. Another green check mark from the juniors.
Two down, thirteen more to go.
I’m examining the clues again, assuming I can grab something local, organic, and sustainable at any number of produce vendors in the market, when someone bolts past me, startling me so much that I nearly drop my phone. I turn just in time to catch a reddish blur.
“Neil?” I call out, jogging after him.
He skids to a stop halfway down the alley. “Savannah,” he pants, bending over to place his hands on his knees. “She spotted me. I only narrowly escaped. I have to—” He gestures vaguely toward the opposite end of the alley.
“Savannah ran track.”
The glare he gives me could melt a glacier. “Yeah. I know.”
Panic twists through me. We don’t have a lot of time. Savannah could be headed down the bricked path right now.
“So you can’t outrun her. But you could hide from her.” I point at the Market Theater, tucked away inside Post Alley. Ghost Alley, some call it, a nod to the rumors that Pike Place is haunted. They even offer ghost tours.
For the most part, the tourists ignore us, too focused on taking the perfect gum wall photo. I cross the alley and try the theater door. Unlocked.
McNair lifts his eyebrows, as though wondering whether it’s safe to trust me. His chest is still rapidly rising and falling, and the wind has tossed his hair out of place. It would be fun to see him so frazzled if I weren’t so distraught about his potentially impending death.
“In here,” I say, waving him over, and after a few seconds of deliberation, he follows.
“If you lock me in here just so you can give the valedictorian speech, please tell everyone I died exactly as I lived—”
“A giant pain in the ass? Got it.”
He disappears into darkness, and I shut the door behind him only a few seconds before Savannah comes barreling down the alley. Tourists clutch their belongings and jump out of her way.
“Did you see him?” she asks, barely breaking a sweat. “Neil?”
I point down the alley. “He ran right by.”
She flashes me a smile that I return easily, though my heart is banging against my rib cage. It doesn’t slow down until she’s out of sight.
I wait another minute before opening the door. “Come on,” I tell McNair, and he follows without protest.
We race out of the alley together, away from the tourists and the gum and the ghosts.
WESTVIEW HIGH SCHOOL
INCIDENT REPORT FORM
Date and time of incident: January 15, 11:20 a.m.
Location: Room #B208, science lab
Report submitted by: Todd O’Brien, chemistry teacher
Name of person(s) involved in incident: Rowan Roth, Neil McNair
Description of incident: Made Roth and McNair chemistry partners at beginning of year to encourage them to more peacefully work together. Students immediately asked for new partners, informed them assignments were final. After a few arguments early in the school year, had hoped they’d gotten it out of their systems. Was wrong. During experiment on exothermic reactions, their lab station burst into flames. Immediately grabbed extinguisher to put it out. Students could not pinpoint what went wrong in experiment, each intent on blaming the other.
Illness or injury involved: No
How was incident handled: Students sent to principal’s office, said they were happy to serve detention as long as incident wouldn’t go on their permanent records. Incident appears to have been an accident, and as students are first-time offenders and top ranked in their grade, no further disciplinary action recommended. Roth and McNair will be assigned new partners.
Signed:
Principal Karen Meadows, M.Ed.
2:02 p.m.
WE END UP in the market’s basement, in a shop I can only describe as a punk-rock five-and-dime. Orange Dracula sells all kinds of retro goth novelties, from buttons and patches to vampire incense and shrunken heads. They hold live tarot card readings, and a sign in the window reads YES, WE SELL GUM. As a kid, I thought it was the coolest place in the world. Seattle has no shortage of kitschy weird shit, and this is among the kitschiest and weirdest.
“You saved my life.” McNair says it almost with a question mark at the end, like he’s not convinced it actually happened. Frankly, I’m surprised too.
I turn down an aisle of magnets made from old pulp paperbacks with titles like Half Past Danger and Sin Street, most of them with half-nude women on the cover. We figured we’d be safe from Savannah in here, since she’d likely assume McNair fled Pike Place.
“It’s not fun for me if you’re eliminated this early,” I say, which is the semi-truth.
He’s acting fidgety, jamming his hands into his pockets, then immediately drawing them back out. I’m not sure if it’s the near-death experience or if he’s just a fidgety guy and I’ve never noticed.
“Ah. Now everything makes sense.” McNair flips through an assortment of off-color postcards. An animatronic witch cackles at us, and a few giggling preteens pile into the shop’s photo booth, the one that uses real film, not digital.
His back is to me, and without my permission, my gaze maps the terrain of his shoulders, the way they curve and slope before dipping into his arm muscles. It’s a nice pair of shoulders, I decide. A shame they’re wasted on someone like him.
“And let’s be real,” I say to his shoulder blades, “who else stands a chance against us?”
He turns around, shifting the straps of his backpack, drawing my attention to the flex of his biceps. He’s been hiding these muscles for at least a year and a half, and they’re more distracting than they have any right to be. I’ve got to figure out a casual way to ask about his exercise routine. Surely, if I solve this mystery, then I’ll stop staring.
“Accurate,” he says.
Then both our phones buzz at the same time.
HELLO, SENIOR WOLF PACK
WE HOPE YOU’RE HAVING FUN
YOU HAVE 20 MINUTES
TO GET TO SAFE ZONE ONE
An attachment links to a map of Hilltop Bowl, a bowling alley in Capitol Hill.
“Already?” McNair says, and though his phone has the time, he checks his watch. “Wow. We didn’t have our first safe zone until at least five o’clock.”
Safe zone means Kirby and Mara and talking about the vacation they’re taking without me. And, inevitably, thinking about the life I’ll have without them next year. As much as I’d like to delay all of that, the safe zones aren’t optional.
“Well,” I say as we make our way out of the store. It’s always hot in the market basement, even on the coldest days. And it feels entirely too bizarre to have spent ten minutes inside Orange Dracula with Neil McNair. “See you in twenty minutes, I guess?” If I bus back to my car and drive to Hill
top Bowl, I’ll be able to make a speedier getaway when our safe-zone time is up.
“Right. See you there,” he echoes, but he falls in step with me.
“Are you following me?”
He stops. “We’re going to the same place. Except I don’t have a car, so I’m taking the bus. I’d hate for it to get delayed, which would mean I’d risk getting kicked out of the game… and now I know you want me to stay in it so badly.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “No,” I say emphatically. The idea of Neil McNair in my car is unacceptable. There’s so much he could judge: my music, my cleanliness, the mangled front bumper. “I’m not giving you a ride.”
* * *
“Nice car,” McNair says, fidgeting with the air-conditioner dials and then rolling down the window when he notices the AC doesn’t work. I’m back in my cardigan, self-conscious about the stain on my dress again. It’s not that hot anyway—McNair must run warm.
“Please don’t touch anything.” I’m boxed in, so I have to wiggle out of the parking spot inch by agonizing inch. The car in front of me has a parking ticket, which we both crossed off our Howl lists.
He examines the parking stickers stuffed in the passenger-side door pocket, a few stray receipts on the floor. I wonder what he’s thinking. It’s so clearly not a nice car, even if I love it. We approached from behind, so at least he didn’t see the damage. I hope he doesn’t say anything about the weird smell. It’s not bad, exactly, just mildly unpleasant.
McNair scratches at some parking-sticker residue, then finds the adjustment bar beneath the passenger seat. He moves it back—too far back—and then too far forward. Then—
“Are you always this twitchy?” I ask.
He returns the seat to its normal position and drops his hands in his lap. “Sorry. Still anxious from the Savannah chase, I guess.”
“This is a onetime thing,” I say as I turn onto Pike Street. While I’ve never driven him anywhere, we’ve ridden on buses and carpooled with other kids to school events. “Only because it would have taken you too long by bus. And if you even think about criticizing my driving, you can get out right now.”
“I actually don’t drive,” he says, “so I can’t really criticize you.”
I… didn’t know that. I can’t imagine McNair not acing a test. “Foiled by the written test?”
“I never took it.”
“Oh.”
“And I’ll be in New York in the fall, so there’s no point taking it now.”
“Right.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes, and it’s not a comfortable one. Apparently, we’ve both forgotten how to sustain a conversation. I have never felt so awkward in my own car.
“This is the trip home from quiz bowl regionals all over again,” I say.
No one said a word on the ride home from the Tri-Cities after we lost last year. Darius Vogel and Lily Gulati were in the front seat, leaving Neil and me in the back. Somehow, even a quiet McNair annoyed me. He claimed he got motion sick, but I assumed he was miserable (rightfully so) over losing.
“Except we still have a shot at winning,” he says.
“Because now you know the final battle of the Revolutionary War was Yorktown, not Bunker Hill?”
He groans. “Trust me. It’s burned into my memory forever.”
I’m a little surprised he isn’t defending himself, but then, plenty of this day hasn’t made sense. He shifts in the seat again as though trying to get comfortable, something that may not be possible in his rival’s car, and when we’re at a red light, I notice one corner of his yearbook peeking out of his backpack. It’s enough to make me grip the steering wheel tighter. I should have just signed it.
Then he picks up his phone, scrutinizing the Howl list. I wonder if he knows any I don’t.
“Did you know the world ‘clue’ comes from Greek mythology?” he says. “A clew, C-L-E-W, was a ball of yarn. Ariadne gave Theseus a clew to help him out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth. He unraveled it as he went so he could find his way back.”
I vaguely remember the myth from world history. “So it used to be literal, and now we’re metaphorically unraveling a ball of yarn when we try to solve something?”
“Exactly,” he says, nodding vigorously.
“Huh,” I say, because while it’s not unlike McNair to spout an etymology fun fact, this is maybe the first time I’ve noticed how excited it makes him.
At last we pull into a parking spot a few blocks from Hilltop Bowl.
“Thank God,” he mutters, and I’m not sure if he’s glad we had an easy time finding parking or relieved to be getting out of my car. Getting away from me. Probably both.
“Well… good luck, I guess,” I say when we reach the bowling alley entrance, slightly unsettled but not entirely sure why.
He sticks his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Same.”
After Logan Perez checks our names off a list and announces that we have forty-five minutes of safe-zone time, we go our separate ways. I’ve never been so excited to put on a pair of shoes that have been on hundreds of other people’s feet.
Kirby and Mara are waiting for me in a lane at the end.
“You want bumpers, baby Ro?” Kirby asks.
My bowling skills are about on par with my left eyeliner skills. It’s a miracle if I break fifty. “Ha ha. Maybe.”
“Let her have bumpers if she wants,” Mara says, fiddling with the controls.
A few lanes down, McNair bowls a seven-ten split, that trickiest of bowling shots, and his friends let out a chorus of groans. McNair just laughs and shakes his head. The four of them have an ease to their interactions that makes me wonder again what’s happening to all of them after graduation. If they’ll spend this summer together before autumn obliterates them, and if they’ll stay in touch after that.
“Mara and I decided to team up for the rest of the game,” Kirby says after she throws a gutter ball. “We don’t have each other, so we figure we’re safe for now.”
“Team up with us too!” Mara says, a little too eagerly. “The three of us! That would be fun.”
Kirby bowls another gutter ball in her second frame. “Maybe I need bumpers too.”
“Says the girl who mocked the bumpers.” Ordinarily, I’d love to team up with them. But… “I’m not sure. About teaming up.” And it’s not just because I’m intent on destroying McNair by myself.
Kirby slides into the plastic seat across from me. “Is this about the vacation?”
There it is. “Yeah, Kirb, you know what? It is. It’s about the two-week vacation you two are taking without me when you’re going to have an entire year of college to be together.”
“I’m sorry,” Mara says, more to Kirby than to me. She wipes her palms on her khakis before picking up the purple ball. “I really didn’t think she’d be this upset.”
She bowls a strike, but she doesn’t look happy about it.
“I guess it feels like there are so many Mara-and-Kirby things I can’t be part of,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “You’re in love, and I’m happy for you both, truly. But it’s like sometimes you forget I’m here too.”
They exchange an odd look. Mara puts a hand on the back of Kirby’s seat. “Rowan,” she says softly, “that’s how we feel about you.”
I scrunch up my face in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve been so wrapped up in Neil this year,” Mara says, slowly gaining volume. “You had to spend all weekend on your physics project to make sure it was better than his. You had to attend every single school event so you had more face time with the voting public or whatever. Even this morning, when I asked if you were okay after the fender bender in the parking lot, you thought I was asking you about him. And… did you two get here together? Maybe this isn’t easy to hear, but… I think you’re a little obsessed with him.”
“Obsessed?” I throw the word back at her. “I’m not obsessed. McNair—he’s not my friend. You two are. There’s no comparison.” I lo
ok to Kirby, hoping she’ll be on my side.
Kirby sighs. “We thought for a while that you liked him, and that would have made more sense. You know you can tell us if you do, right? We could talk about it, maybe help you—”
“We’re not in third grade.” I nearly yell it, but I can’t help it—Kirby’s theory is that absurd. A cluster of kids at the next lane over swivel their heads in our direction, and I lower my voice. “We’re not taunting each other because we secretly like each other. And that shouldn’t be a thing, anyway.”
“Fine. You’re not obsessed with McNair,” Kirby says flatly. “Can you remember the last time the three of us hung out?”
“I—” I break off when nothing comes to mind right away. Last weekend, McNair and I had to meet up with Logan to hand over some student council responsibilities. And the weekend before that, Mara was at a dance competition. Then we were studying for AP tests, and Mara and Kirby were at prom, and even farther back, I was with Spencer.…
“The senior auction,” I say. It was back in early May, but it still counts.
“A month ago,” Mara says. “And even then, you had to solve a crisis with him, and you abandoned us for most of the night.”
I rake my fingers through my bangs. “I’m sorry. It’s—you know how hectic the end of the year has been.…”
But I’m thinking about how I used to tell them everything, and yet they don’t know I’m writing a book. Mara’s pursuing an artistic career too, but we all know she’s a great dancer. There’s plenty of video evidence. All I could do to back myself up would be a tiny whispered confession: I think I could be good at this. A confession I’m now wishing I spilled the first time I closed a Delilah Park book and thought, Maybe I could do this one day too. Maybe I could write a book like that. Then there would be the need to convince them romance novels aren’t the garbage they think they are.
I think about my phone background again, the photo I’ve had there for nine whole months.
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