When Arden smiles this time, it’s weighted. Weary. Her eyes shine, but this time because there’s tears in them. “So if I’m quiet enough and I don’t ask for anything, maybe I can just be a ghost. I can be inside myself, and be near people, even if they don’t know I’m there, and I can still be me because I don’t make a sound.”
I know what it’s like to have nobody left. What I don’t understand is why the rest of the world isn’t falling for Arden. I work my hand free and fan my fingers across her cheek. My thumb skims the corner of her lips and I tell her, “I love you.”
“Dylan—” she protests, but I cut her off.
“Shut up. I’m not talking about goo-goo kissy-face, I’m saying, you’re my friend. You’re my best friend. All my most important memories are with you. I lay around all day waiting for you to get home from school or piano practice or whatever. When you log into the game, my day starts.
“And now . . . when you wake up next to me, my day starts. And if you went along with this because you were afraid to tell me no, you should say it right now, okay? We’ll go back. We’ll go back right fucking now. Even if everybody else in your life disappoints you, I don’t want to. I won’t.”
“You don’t,” she says, and she sounds so broken. Her eyes shine, and I guess I’m not the only one who cries over shit that can’t be fixed.
Shifting, I sling an arm around her neck and pull her in. I tuck her head beneath my chin and do my best to hold her. The backseat of a cab isn’t the most elegant place to do this, but oh well. This is where we are. Soaking her up, I tighten my arms around her like I can keep the rest of the world away.
“It’s okay,” I lie, but I mean it.
Her breath is humid on my throat, and her hair slips, silky against my cheek. When her shoulders shake, I quiver; I rub her back and will away the dark for her. I can’t actually do it; she knows it, but so what?
Sometimes all that matters is that somebody wants to try.
(B A N A N A S)
I don’t kiss her and she doesn’t kiss me. We sleep in a tight, tangled knot and when she wakes up, she’s full of fire. I’m not sure what she’s doing on the computer, but she’s typing like a demon is whipping her. Me? I’m exhausted. Slept all night, and wore myself out sleeping, nice. I roll out of bed and wolf down a banana that fuck me, tastes like a banana. An actual goddamned banana.
It’s like the lights turned on. Like somebody’s lighting a fire in the boiler, and opening up the windows and letting the air in for the first time in years. That’s the best banana I’ve had since elementary school and it almost makes me weep. I want another banana. I want to eat stuff and hang out and be here. I want to keep my promises. I want to be the one who stays.
With a quick look at Arden— she’s all buried deep in the internet— I rise to my feet. Arden barely glances over before looking back to the screen. That’s when I pull my meds out of the backpack. I measure my steps, because I don’t want Arden to hear the pills rattle in the bottle. And that bottle is heavy. It’s been an anchor for a long time now, dragging out after me.
I creep into the bathroom and turn on the water. There I am in the mirror, angled out, clutching prescriptions like they’re holy. Inside, my bones and my blood protest. My head aches, just a little. Like a threat. There’s all kinds of reasons to keep these on hand. Didn’t I snap at Arden about it? I should keep them because they’re mine. Because they’re valuable. And some not-very-secret part of me has been thinking—because being better might be a lie.
Spontaneous remission probably doesn’t happen overnight, but it seems like it. One appointment, all the X-rays and MRIs look like Christmas trees, lit up with tumors and mets. But you’re stable, nothing’s getting worse so they send you home to keep dying in slow motion. Come back a month later, two months later, and somebody took the lights down.
Everybody talks low, and hushed—but nobody calls the Pope, because this happens. Not a lot. But enough that they have a name for it; enough that they make the next appointment six months out. (Last time, you didn’t have six months left.) So they write your last script for pills, and the nurse gives you a sheet so you can detox, and you’re on your own.
I’m on my own. And all this time, I’ve been waiting to need these drugs again.
“I got better,” I tell the mirror. Better, better, better, I twist open the cap and stand there— daring myself to jump. Pouring tablets into my hand, I consider popping one or two for the road. Just for old time’s sake, but no. I’m done; I’m done dying, I’m done being sick. I’m done with sleeping and giving up everything to a body that tried to kill me, no. I’m in charge now.
I dump my pills in the toilet.
Panic fills my chest and I hurry to flush. It takes four, five flushes to get them to all go down. The whole time, I’m convincing myself not to reach into the pot, not to grab a couple out, just in case JUST IN CASE. But I don’t. I don’t, because I don’t need it anymore. Never again; I got better.
Somewhere, Lynne is screaming in agony and she doesn’t know why. That’s a thought that makes me feel good. Try to sell them now, Lynne. Good luck with that.
I dump the empty bottle beneath the sink. After that, I wash my hands real slow, and then my face. Then I stare at myself for a minute again. I look exactly the same. Exactly the same as I did before, but fuck it. I feel lighter. I feel alive. I feel like another banana, actually.
We’re gonna have to get more, because I don’t stop at two.
(OUTLINES)
“I’ve been thinking,” Arden says.
She slides into bed next to me. After my big adventure in the bathroom, I plowed back into the sheets to curl up. I wasn’t tired, but I had to keep my nervous, anxious energy in check somehow. I devoured all the bananas; I almost started on the last of the oranges, and thought better of it. Here we are in a hotel room; here we are with this nice bed—Maybe, I thought, Arden will lay with me. Maybe her lips will brush against the back of my neck.
Instead, she sits, her elbow stitching against my side. “How are we going to find this ship?”
I sway to the rhythms of her fingers on a keyboard. It’s a good question. A real good question; I moan and roll against her. Now her elbow mostly rests on top of my head. “I don’t know. It didn’t say in the quest text. I thought we’d just wander in the desert until we found it.”
“We’re going to find it the same way you picked this route,” she informs me. There’s a hint of pride in her voice as she continues. “Online satellite maps; I read a story on Cracked a while back. Archaeologists are finding lost cities and stuff by looking at satellite maps. They can see the outlines, even if the stuff is buried, right?”
“How do you spell that? Archaeologist?” I ask. I briefly wonder what would happen if I bit her. Not hard; I don’t want to hurt her. I just kinda wanna bite her a little bit. It’s a crazy, stupid thought, one that comes out of nowhere, and goes right back into the shadows. Maybe later, I’ll ask Arden if she wonders terrible things. That’s a topic all by itself.
Amused, she looks at me. “Are we spelling, or are you checking out how smart I am?”
“You’re really, really smart,” I tell her. I want to bury my face against her waist and fall asleep again. The shivery thrill that runs through me only has a little to do with being pressed this close to Arden. Instead, I push the pillow away and blink up at her. “Show me.”
Angling the laptop so I can see it, she jabs a finger at a darkish spot in the middle of beige. Lots and lots of beige. It takes me a minute to focus and realize what I’m looking at. It’s the desert, around the Salton Sea. Where the Colorado River used to flood into it and doesn’t anymore. There are lots of random shapes in the image. But Arden’s finger rests on top of one that looks like half a teardrop.
“That,” she says, “That could be a ship.”
Slowly, I push myself to sitting. With shaky hands, I take the laptop and lean in to look again. Harder. Closer. Holy shit.
It
could be. Why couldn’t it be? Lots of people have gone looking for this thing. Some people claim they found it and lost it again. Why can’t it be that shape in the desert, right there on an internet map? When my heart starts to pound, I feel it in my throat. “Holy shit, Arden. Holy shit.”
Excited, she tips the screen. “I know, right?”
“We gotta go,” I tell her. I’m all kinds of beauty and grace when I’m in a hurry. When I throw the blankets aside, they don’t get all the way aside. They tangle around my legs twined like ivy. Instead of landing on my feet and standing up, I hit the floor. It would be nice if the floor turned into quicksand and just sucked me down; I’d love to disappear into it and pretend I didn’t just take a header.
Arden yelps. The bed bounces and all of a sudden she’s over me. Hands under my arms, she struggles to lift me up. Now it’s twice as embarrassing, because I think she thinks there’s something wrong. She’s not half-laughing, like you do when you’re startled. She’s serious, all business, strong hands freeing me from the scourge of the bedspread and trying to set me right. “Are you all right?”
Other than being humiliated, I’m great. I roll my eyes at myself, and try to get her to smile. “I’m fine. I just wanted to see if you’d feel me up.”
She doesn’t laugh. Instead, she asks, “Are you sure?”
Maybe I’m not funny. I kinda always thought I was. Fingers tangling in her hair, I nod. “I’m good. I’m clumsy; that’s all.”
My sweat smells sharp; I’m still wrinkled from sleep. My morning-banana breath has got to be epic. And in spite of all that, Arden pulls me close and leans down to kiss me. The glimmer of electric fire washes over my lips, and I want it. I want this kiss, right now, because either she’s the most desperate motherfucker in the universe or she really likes me.
But I nudge my forehead against hers and ward it off. Last night wasn’t right; this isn’t either. I know there’s a moment out there. It’s suspended, flickering like a star just at the horizon. That kiss doesn’t taste like worry or concern; it’s just honey. It’s pure. But I don’t want Arden to think I don’t want it, because I do. More than anything. I murmur to her, “Not yet, okay?”
When she breathes, her body presses against mine. Her fingers press into my bony shoulders. “Not no?”
“Not no,” I say.
So I don’t kiss her, and she doesn’t kiss me. Not yet.
(ROAD CONVERSATIONS)
Stupid, morbid things are funny sometimes. Out of nowhere, Arden asks, “Did you ever watch that show, Dead Like Me?”
It’s out of her mouth before she realizes what she said. Oh shit, oh no. She mentioned the D-word. Mortality is real out here, oh hell no—it’s one thing to do it in the game, but not now. She telegraphs worry; no, she waves those flags. Her face is bright and open with it.
In the split second before she takes it back, I say, “Nah. Too busy watching The Walking Dead.”
Arden catches on quick. This is a game we’ve played before: link up the words, run with it as far as you can take it. One night, we had an epic thread of baby that started with titles and ended with sick dead-baby jokes. Warming up, her smile turns sly. “Not nearly so good as Secrets of the Dead.”
“That’s what you think,” I say. But I concede, “Neither one is good as Drop Dead Diva.”
“Oh no you didn’t,” Arden replies.
I snap at her. It’s her turn, or she’s out.
Scrambling, she snaps too, but it’s more to stimulate her brain. She looks so pleased when she says, “You think they’ll ever make Shaun of the Dead into a TV show?”
“No, but that movie The Dead Zone was good.”
“I liked Dawn of the Dead better.”
“Evil Dead was the best,” I counter. Then I break the game when the best movie in the history of movies comes to mind. Technically it counts; it’s part of the Evil Dead family. Way too excited, I slap the dashboard. “Oh man, Army of Darkness!”
“Shop smart!” Arden shouts, racking an imaginary shotgun.
I cry back, “Shop S-Mart!”
We can do this shit for hours.
(OUTSIDERS)
We take a cab into the suburbs to pick up the SUV. I stand on the curb, because I’ve got nothing to add to the conversation Arden’s trying to have.
All I am is the shotgun seat, here to (allegedly) keep her awake on the drive to Grand Junction. It’s like a fifteen-hour drive; we have four days to get there. Even I could manage that.
However, Mr. Elliot—which is how this guy introduced himself, even though he looks to be in college at best—is walking back on the deal now that he’s seen the two of us. Like most people, he doesn’t say what he’s thinking out loud. It’s not flashing on a digital sign above his head or anything.
But I rolled out of the cab first, and you already know I look low-rent. Then comes Arden, fresh and high-end. Even though she wears a lot of black and white, it’s always with prints, little embroidered stars, giant poppies, swirls and loops. Mr. Elliot actually pulled a double take, like he blinked, shook his head, and blinked again.
That’s how the conversation got started, Mr. Elliot trying to confirm our identities, and Arden dancing so fast to prove it before he called her dad.
“I’m just really surprised that you’re the courier,” says Mr. Elliot. Then, he glances toward me again. Like I might try to boost his hubcaps while he’s standing right there. The way he’s sniffing, with his nostrils flared and his spine shock-straight—well, let’s say I might have been willing to steal this car, just to piss him off.
Fortunately, Arden’s in charge, and she’s smooth. Assured and warm, she says, “I understand. This is your car, you’re paying for this service. Trochessett & Tyler wants you to be a hundred and ten percent satisfied.”
Supermodel Elliot (that’s his job, I decide, he models high-end menswear and does photoshoots for cars and expensive liquor) says, “I’m glad you understand,” and my heart sinks.
Just like the rental car that never was, we’re about to lose out on a sweet Escalade because we’re too fucking goofy to pull it off. If we’re lucky, the Civic will be where we left it. I think it’ll make it through Missouri and Kansas, maybe. They’re flat states. The street-view ride through both of them shows mostly stubbled fields and asphalt stretching toward the horizon.
No way the Civic would make it through Colorado, though. Not mountains and valleys and shit. We’d try to get up the first incline, and it would be the little engine that tried and couldn’t. But that’s something to worry about tomorrow. The day after.
Arden pulls out her phone and starts messing with it. The little beeps seem to pierce my brain. A Dylan-whistle, straight into my ear. I know it’s not turned up that loud. The frequency or the tone or something, it’s painfully vivid. Not vivid, that’s for colors. Audible, whatever, I don’t know. My anxiety puts me right on the edge of hyperaware.
“Okay, good news,” Arden says. “We can get someone else out here next Monday. We do have an express service. We’ll put a new driver on the next flight to St. Louis.”
Now Mr. Elliot frowns. “How much would that be?”
“Cost of the ticket—discounted, of course—give me a second, I’ll look it up in our travel database—”
Abruptly, Mr. Elliot says, “Let me see your driver’s license again.”
When Arden hands it over, Mr. Elliot studies it. He runs his fingers down the front, shuffles, then flips it over. I don’t know what he thinks he’s gonna find out looking at the reverse side. Who cares? He’s obviously hemming. I understand. It’s hard to walk away from a bargain.
She quoted him five hundred bucks; if he wants to bail on us, he’s gonna pay a thousand plus airfare. I know what I’d pick. If I was in the business of hiring courier services to drive my cars for me, that is. Which I am. All the fucking time. I sit back in Village Estates, counting money, hiring couriers all day long. Last month, I shipped my Fabergé eggs to Gulfport, Mississippi, and back
, just for the hell of it. Not my Monets, though; those I keep in the storage closet under the stairs.
I roll my eyes at myself; better than moaning. The tension is killing me, standing, listening, the wind in my hair, fuck, fuck, fuck, please just shut up and give us the fucking keys. C’mon, Mr. Elliot, you’re rich, but rich people are still cheap bastards sometimes, right?
“You’re fully insured?” Mr. Elliot asks, returning Arden’s license.
“And bonded,” Arden says. “It’s the family business. My father wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Oh, glory, fuck me, hallelujah! The keys come out, and Mr. Elliot hands them to Arden like he’s doing her a favor. Reluctantly, a little irritated, he produces green bills, counting them fast, then looking away. The dude’s acting like he just paid for a hooker instead of a courier.
All charm, Arden reassures this guy that his SUV will make it to Grand Junction on time, without a scratch. I want to snatch Arden back, and whisper warnings right in her ear. Don’t promise shit like that, come on! Doesn’t she remember what happened when I said it would be fine if I drove from Cincinnati to Indianapolis? She’s mocking the gods, predicting the future like that.
We’re going to crash and die, I decide. Running new anxiety through my veins doesn’t make me feel better. It adds, because if I haven’t mentioned it, now that I’m not gonna die, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go down into the dark. Maybe my life isn’t much compared to other people’s. No money, no prospects, probably just another future fry cook at the diner where my mother works, but damn it, it’s mine.
“Are you okay?” Arden’s voice startles me. It’s suddenly in my ear. She’s a ventriloquist, or she teleported.
Doesn’t matter how she got from there to here so fast. Gathering up my stuff, I nod. “Let’s go before he changes his mind.”
“Seriously, are you okay? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
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