The Way Back to You

by Michelle Andreani

  The biscuit recipe is waiting in the printer tray. When I reach over to grab it, I knock the mouse aside with my wrist, jolting the computer from sleep mode. The monitor blinks back on, revealing Mrs. Montiel’s inbox. Revealing Sonia’s email.

  It’s not even that long. A few short paragraphs that transformed Mrs. Montiel, if not completely, then just enough. Contacting the recipients is filling in some part of her, maybe in a way nothing else can.

  Kyle flits through my mind. There was no hiding the little bit of lost in his expression earlier today. I didn’t do much for him after Ashlyn died, but what if I can give him some kind of evidence now that not everything sucks? Not for everyone, anyway, and that counts for something. If it’s helping Ashlyn’s mom, it might help him.

  I twist to check the doorway, listening closely for the sound of someone nearby.

  The subject line of Sonia’s email says: YOU’RE INVITED! And I don’t know why, exactly, but I speed-read through her wedding plans, the Las Vegas hotel her fiancé, Paco, picked out, absorbing more details I don’t want in my head. And I feel guilty for only a moment before clicking print.

  THE THING IS, you don’t just pull up to a guy’s house, present him with stolen documents, and expect him to perk up. Not guys like Kyle, anyway. He might be horrified that I printed out emails from these three organ recipients without the Montiels’ permission. And he might not care that Sonia is getting married or that Ethan is in a community theater play this weekend. All of that could mean nothing to him, because all that matters is his girlfriend isn’t here. What if it makes him worse?

  “Oh my God,” my sister grumbles from the hallway. She waves her phone around as she stomps into my room. “We left the Montiels’ an hour ago, and this thing’s been ringing nonstop since. It’s like it’s having a seizure.”

  I take the Dum Dums from the Target bag, then rip open their plastic packaging. Crisis or not, gift basket production stops for no one. “Don’t make fun of seizures,” I tell her flatly.

  “Why are fund-raisers always so chaotic? My instructions in that email were incredibly clear.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to manage twenty-two cheerleaders.” I sprinkle the candy around the basket, then carefully arrange the faux daffodils around the pencils with pom-pom toppers.

  “I still do.” The mattress creaks as Zoë flops on my bed. She’s up on her knees, checking out my lineup of small cacti on the windowsill. “But I wasn’t prepared for how needy you all are,” she laughs.

  I roll my eyes, but my own phone buzzes before I can say anything.

  It’s a text from Matty. I reread it about four billion times.

  Kyle didn’t show at the bowling alley tonight. I had to go find him. He was home. In bed.

  Quickly, I type out a message back. Is he ok?

  He’s Kyle.

  Are YOU ok?

  Pissed off.

  Damn.

  It’s one thing to skip a pep rally—weird in itself for Kyle—but he is completely devoted to the guys on the team. He wouldn’t miss a night out with them. Matty being mad at him is even more bizarre. I’ve seen Matty angry a handful of times, and while it was usually Xbox-related, it was never Kyle-related.

  Wanna talk?

  Still out with everyone. Just wanted to tell you, figured you’d get it.

  I do, I write back immediately.

  Okay. No more deliberation necessary.

  Shooting up from the floor, I go straight to my sweatshirt. After printing out the emails, I stashed them in the front pouch pocket.

  “What’s up?” Zoë is on her stomach, assessing me. “You look . . . anxious.”

  I realize I’ve been clutching the printouts and chewing my lip. “Do you mind if I leave for a few minutes?”

  “You’re going out? For what?”

  “Not anything fun.” I shove my arms into the shirt, then pull it over my head. “I need to drop something off.”

  “Where?”

  I roll the papers into a tube. “First,” I warn, pointing it at her, “you cannot say a word about this to anyone.”

  She straightens up. “Whoa.”

  “Second, if you do say a word about this, I will duct tape you to a chair and leave you at a local children’s beauty pageant.”

  “All right.”

  I drop down beside her and unroll the papers, smoothing them on my lap. “I printed these out earlier at Ashlyn’s. They’re from the organ recipients.”

  Zoë looks up at me, her eyes big, and takes the pages. “You’re not allowed to do that.”

  “That’s why you can’t say anything. But I thought—I think Kyle’s having a hard time lately. Maybe these will make him feel better. They might prove that something not-terrible came out of this or something.”

  She doesn’t comment, just starts reading each email, “They all live kind of close to each other. I wonder if they’ve met.”

  “What?”

  “Well, Ethan’s family must live near Sacramento if his play is at the Sacramento Children’s Theater.” She shuffles through the other papers, her eyes running across them. “This guy, Freddie, mentioned his new house in Palm Springs. And I don’t know where Sonia’s from, but she said they’re driving down to Las Vegas, so it can’t be that far.”

  Zoë reaches for her phone and opens the map app. “Oh, wait. Palm Springs is farther south than I thought,” she says, thumbing down California. When she zooms in to the cluster of cities near LA, my eyes catch on Santa Monica, nestled right on the coast.

  “That’s where Jade lives,” I say, waving a finger at the map as Zoë scrolls to the east.

  “See?” She zooms out enough to show Nevada and part of Oregon. “They still form this wonky triangle. So it’s possible that they’ve met. Or will meet.” She presses her lips together. “I mean, I’d want to, if I were them. It’s like they all have a little bit of the same person inside them.”

  My heart beats faster and faster, trying to tell me something.

  I’m up again, pacing my room, hoping the motion will help shake the pieces into place. Of course Zoë’s right; the recipients do have a little bit of Ashlyn in them—that’s the whole point of showing the emails to Kyle. But what I didn’t consider was how close they are to each other. Which is not so far from us.

  I grab her phone. There are 437 miles between Bend and Sacramento, a seven-hour drive.

  “We can go,” I say to Zoë. “We can go and find them.”

  She stills, then swings her legs around into a sitting position. “You don’t have their addresses. And even if you find out, isn’t that illegal?”

  I scratch the back of my head. “They won’t know who we are. We probably won’t even talk to them. But we can go to Ethan’s play tomorrow, and there’s Sonia’s wedding. We’ll blend in if we’re sitting with everyone else.” Then, because I know it’ll clinch it for her, I say, “Remember that movie Owen told you about?”

  Zoë’s eyes sparkle. “Maybe they’re all like Ashlyn now!”

  I smile a little because it sort of seems possible—not that it is possible, that the recipients are suddenly like Ashlyn. But a few hours ago, they barely existed, and now they’re points on a map.

  The lightness in my chest turns tight. “Forget it. You can’t be alone while Kyle and I leave town for an entire week.”

  Her face freeze-frames for a moment, then thaws out, but only slightly. “Alone?”

  “Mom and Dad are gone. You’d be stranded here on your own.”

  Zoë’s flustered; it’s how she gets when she’s working to make a point. “I know how to take care of myself, Cloudy,” she tells me, rushing the words out.

  “How? By walking a mile back and forth to the market?”

  “Someone needs to water your plants.”

  Our closest family lives in Redmond, but it’s not like I can tell them I’m crossing state lines without supervision and without my sister. Zoë would need assistance of the non-blood-related kind.

 
; Matty comes to mind first. I’m sure he’d keep an eye on Zoë, but I don’t want to unload any more on him when he’s had his share lately. Other friends and acquaintances like Lita and Izzy pop into my head, but they’re dismissed just as quickly. The only person I’d put my faith in is Ashlyn and, needless to say, this would not be an issue if she were available to babysit.

  I cannot believe I’m doing this. “You sure you’ll be okay if I go?”

  “Of course,” Zoë says. Her eyes are the same deep brown as Mom’s, introspective but sharp. “This is a you-and-Kyle thing. And I can’t wait to hear about Sonia’s wedding.”

  “Let’s not get too excited. None of this will matter if Kyle says no.”

  Plucking my phone from the carpet, I key up Kyle’s contact info. We exchanged numbers when we were lab partners, in case of a biology emergency, but texted only a handful of times. As I press the call button, I don’t even hope for his voice mail.

  He answers; his voice is gruff.

  “Kyle. Hi.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I slide onto my desk chair. “Everything okay with you?”

  “I guess.”

  Complete awkward silence, just like in Target, but this time I can hear him breathing. “I was wondering if you were busy tomorrow.”

  “Um . . .”

  “There’s this play I really want to see”—I grimace at Zoë, who is nodding supportively—I should’ve come up with a better pitch than this—“but it’s not exactly local, and there’s no way my car can make it. And since you said you wanted to get out of here for a bit, I thought you could do me a favor. By driving. And I’ll pay for gas and stuff, obviously.”

  Oh God. Drowning is probably less painful.

  My mouth goes completely dry as I wait for Kyle’s questions: Why should I? What play? Where is it? Why would I go anywhere with you? How long will we be gone? Why would I do you a favor? Why why why?

  Because I owe you this much, I tell him, but not out loud.

  I brace myself as he takes another breath. And then he says, “I’m in.”

  Kyle

  Ever since the bizarre phone call I got last night, the same four words have been running on repeat through my brain:

  What

  Am

  I

  Doing?

  It’s ten hours later, and I still don’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense.

  Fresh snow fell overnight and it’s still below freezing outside, and yet when I turn down Cloudy’s street, she’s waiting on the sidewalk. She asked me to pick her up at “eight thirtyish,” and it’s 8:34 a.m. You can’t get any more “ish” of eight thirty, so she must be impatient to get on the road. Either that, or she hoped keeping me off her porch would also make me forget she yelled at me last time I was here: “Get over yourself! Not everything is your problem to fix!”

  As if I’ll ever forget that.

  Bundled up in her sky-blue coat, Cloudy is holding a large gift basket. She has a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a bulky pink cloud-print pillow tucked under her other arm. I park by the curb, and as I rush to meet her, the words “Sorry I’m late” come out of my mouth—even though I’m not. (Late, that is. The sorry part remains to be seen.)

  I carefully take the basket from her. Most often, when we make eye contact, she frowns and glances elsewhere in a hurry, but this time, her expression is filled with so much I’m-happy-to-see-you, I’m the one who has to look away as I fumble the basket and almost drop it onto the snow.

  “You’re not late,” she says, tucking back a few rusty blond strands that already came loose from her bun. “I did promise to drop off that tool of bribery at Lita Tamsin’s this morning so she can add the finishing touches before tonight’s fund-raiser. But I’ve padded in extra time, and we’ll get to Sacramento before the play at six o’clock no matter what.”

  “Okay, sounds good.”

  Truly, I have no idea why Cloudy wants to see a play all the way in Sacramento or why, out of the blue, she’s decided I’m the person who should go with her, but I’m not going to question it right now. Leaving this frigid weather behind for a day and (much more importantly) showing my dad exactly what it looks like when I get out of the house is too good to pass up. A break from Matty would be considered a bonus, too, but he won’t be bugging me until later anyway. Every Saturday morning by this time, he’s heading up to Mount Bachelor to snowboard all day. I haven’t heard from him since he left my house last night, so he obviously got a ride from someone else.

  I open the back door and set Cloudy’s gift basket on the seat. But when I turn to take the rest of her stuff, she’s already made her way to the rear of the vehicle and is lifting the hatch.

  “Oh!” she says.

  I join her. Side by side, we stare down at my kitten, who’s lying on top of the panda pillow and is surrounded by a disposable litter box, fuzzy toys, and bowls of water and food that I’m hoping won’t spill. The kitten gives an inquisitive, growly, “Mrroww?”

  “This must be the ‘complicated’ cat you were talking about yesterday,” Cloudy says.

  “Yeah. But things are pretty much noncomplicated now that my dad knows about her.” He seemed glad, too, like me bringing home a stray animal was an encouraging sign. (Not that I told him what I’d been doing before I found her or exactly what it was that prompted me to bring her home.) “I found her in a parking lot the other day. Her name’s Arm.”

  Cloudy jerks her head up. “Arm? As in, A-R-M?”

  My face gets hot under her gaze. I settled on the weird name last night, not thinking about how Cloudy would recognize right off that “Arm” is Ashlyn’s initials spelled out. “It’s short for”—I consider for a second—“Armadillo.”

  She lifts her eyebrows and I can’t tell whether she believes me. “And . . . Armadillo is coming with us?”

  “That was my plan.” My heart beats faster. Is she spotting the similarities between Ashlyn and this black-haired, green-eyed kitten? “I hope you aren’t allergic.”

  Cloudy watches Arm for a few seconds more and then gives a small shake of her head. “I’m not allergic. And this will be an adventure. Just think,” she says, in a teasing voice, “millions of boring humans go on road trips without cats. Total losers. All of them.”

  We both laugh a little. I don’t want this to be awkward, but it is.

  I close the hatch and motion to Cloudy that we should set her stuff on the backseat. “Is it still called a ‘road trip’ if it’s only for one day?” I nod toward her duffel bag. “And what’s all this you’re bringing? A pillow and a week’s worth of outfits?”

  “It might be hot down there.” A hint of panic rises in her voice. “And we don’t know what we’ll want to wear. You packed clothes, too, right? Like we talked about last night?”

  “Yup.” I have my coat on and am wearing last year’s baseball hoodie over a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. I also brought along shorts and a T-shirt to change into. From this not-so-new invention called “the Weather Channel app,” I found out Sacramento is supposed to get up to the low seventies. It’s more than forty degrees warmer than here, and it’ll be comfortable—definitely not the Phoenix-during-July type of misery that, for some weird reason, she seems to have planned for.

  After we’ve loaded her things in and taken our seats, Cloudy says, “Once we drop the basket off with Lita, we can grab breakfast to eat on the road, if you want.”

  “Sure.” I reach behind my seat for the bag of snacks I bought on my way here. “I got a few things for later, too. Still your favorite?” I ask, holding out a package of sour gummy worms.

  She gives me a look like . . . I don’t know. Like she’s amazed I would remember. The truth is, while she was always chowing down on sour gummy worms next to me in bio sophomore year (even on the day when I had to dissect a real worm by myself because she felt so bad for it), I kind of had a crush on her. She had some college boyfriend at the start of the year, and after it ended M
atty was biding his time, so I knew I didn’t stand a chance. But I do still remember what it was like when getting to talk to her was a cool part of my day.

  “Still my favorite.” Cloudy accepts the candy from me. “What about you? Still addicted to Junior Mints?”

  In answer, I show her the white-and-green king-sized box I bought this morning and ripped into first thing.

  We smile at each other and it’s nice. Maybe everything else has changed since back when Cloudy and I used to be friends, but I’m glad there’s this one tiny thing we each know about the other that’s still true.

  AT CROW’S FEET Commons, there’s always an herby-skunky pot scent that hangs in the air—even at nine in the morning when no one’s outside sneaking a joint. I kind of hold my breath against it while Cloudy and I make our way across the slushy sidewalk with food and coffees.

  Beside me, Cloudy groans. “Don’t you hate that bullshit slogan?”

  I assume she’s talking about something for WinterFest. It’s everywhere right now. With the onslaught of posters and flyers and cashiers all over town trying to sell discounted admission buttons, the reminders about Bend’s winter festival extravaganza next weekend are inescapable. I’m surprised Cloudy would want to chat about it with me, but maybe this is a good thing. Maybe we can have a casual WinterFest conversation and the whole mess that happened there last year will officially be behind us.

  I scan the huge banner flapping overhead. “There’s a slogan?”

  “Not up there. In front of us.”

  This time, I follow her glare to a sticker on the back window of a parked sedan: “My Life Is Better than Your Vacation ~Bend, Oregon.”

  Now I sigh, too. Partly because I’d braced myself for nothing, but mostly because the sticker is bullshit.

  I mean, I get the meaning behind it. Central Oregon is a vacation area for people from all over the state and beyond. The ski season here lasts six months a year, and it’s sunny most of the time (even on cold days). In warmer weather, there are tons of spots for hiking, biking, kayaking, fishing, golfing, rock climbing, caving, and just about every other outdoor activity imaginable. Being surrounded by mountains, rivers, lakes, and waterfalls in our regular lives and not only while on vacation is cool, but I don’t get why some of the residents are so smug about it.