“Sorry. She’s my mom. I couldn’t not tell her.”
“At least she was nice about it. My mom screams at me all the time. I’ll bet yours never yells at you.”
“In defense of your mom, I’m a bit old for that.”
“But when you were a kid, I’ll bet your parents didn’t yell.”
I thought about it. “Probably not much. We Parkers aren’t big yellers, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t come down on me if I deserved it.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. What’d you ever do wrong?”
“Plenty.”
“Forget it. You’re too goody-goody. I bet you never did anything bad your whole life.”
“Sure I have!”
“Like what? What’s the worst thing you ever did?”
Maybe it was the taco soup or the thought that I’d be seeing Troy Jones in mere hours, but Marissa was on my mind, and before I even thought about it, I said, “I killed someone.”
“I mean serious.”
I’d regretted it as soon as I said it, so I tried instead to come up with some other crime I’d committed to appease her. Unfortunately, sneaking into the spiked punch and puking at Kathy Berz’s graduation party was the best I could do, and it seemed downright charming compared with killing someone. I sputtered and stammered until Deedee said, “Shit, you did kill somebody!”
“Nah, I was—”
“Bullcrap—don’t take it back now. You did.”
I sighed. “You’re right, I did. It was an accident.” I turned my attention to picking a loose thread from the comforter. “Only it was my fault, so I don’t know if ‘accident’ is the right word.” I told her about giving Marissa a ride and the car crash. At Deedee’s urging, I went into the details: from the dresser toppling off the truck, to how I’d veered, to my first ride in an ambulance. Of course, I didn’t mention that Marissa was Troy’s sister or anything about the list. The last thing I wanted was for Deedee to suspect she was part of it.
“So how did she die?” Deedee asked when I’d finished. I gave her a blank stare, and she said, “I know it was a car crash, and the dresser falling, but what exactly killed her?” She said it without a shred of pity or empathy. She wasn’t being ghoulish, either. It was simply information she wanted that I hadn’t adequately provided.
“She wasn’t wearing a seat belt, so when the car rolled, she got tossed.”
“Like through the window?”
And here was the strange thing: I felt as if I could finally say it. The details of that night that I’d kept from Susan, my boyfriend Robert, my parents…everyone. It had always been my fear of their kindness. That their sympathy would have been more than I could bear. All I’d admitted to them was that Marissa died when the car rolled—as far as they knew, that was it. “The windshield,” I told Deedee matter-of-factly. “She crashed through the windshield.”
“She got cut to death?”
“No. As I understand it, she died because my car…” I took a breath before continuing, “It landed on her.”
“On what part of her?”
“I don’t know—all of her, I suppose.”
“Gross. What’d you do?”
“Nothing,” I answered, yanking the last of the stray thread from the comforter. “I did nothing.”
Granted, I’d been pinned by the air bag with a banged head and no clue about where Marissa was. But really, all I’d done was hang there. Twiddling my thumbs. Singing la-de-da. Waiting to be rescued while the entire time I crushed Marissa Jones to death. The worst part: At no point did the police or hospital staff comfort me with “She died quickly.” They always say that, and in its absence, I was left to assume that the opposite must be true.
I stood to leave. “Well, it’s late, I’m going to sleep,” I said as I clicked off the light, and out of habit I repeated what my mom said to me every night even when I’d been too old for her to tuck me in. “Sweet dreams.”
THE ALARM SOUNDED, and I smacked it off. Ugh. I felt nauseated from sleepiness. Three a.m. Why didn’t I pull an all-nighter? At least I’d already be up instead of having to wake up.
After dragging myself out of bed, I dressed in the jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt that I’d left out. I yanked my hair into a ponytail, then went to check on Deedee, who sat on the edge of her bed looking as if she’d been pulled from the dustbin and set there. “It’s the middle of the friggin’ night,” she groaned. She wore the same clothes she’d slept in and—after throwing on her tennis shoes—pronounced herself ready. Then she crawled under the covers and told me to wake her up again when it was time to go.
Pride forced me to make at least a cursory attempt at makeup. My eyes were slits, so I tried as best I could with mascara and eye shadow. Later, when the puffiness receded, I’d get to see if my aim was on the mark or if I wound up resembling Bette Davis in All About Eve. Whatever. If Troy was hoping for foxy ride-along companions, he needed to switch to the afternoon drive-time shift.
The Van Nuys Airport was small and catered to commuter planes and helicopters. Deedee and I made it there a few minutes early and easily found Troy’s hangar. He was there already, dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, drinking coffee and looking over some papers. Outside the hangar we passed a bright yellow helicopter with “K-JAM—Getting L.A. Jammin’” emblazoned on its side.
“Morning, ladies!” Troy called when we approached.
“Morning implies sunlight,” I replied grouchily. “This is not morning.”
“So,” he said, clapping his hands together, “let me show you around. How about I start with the coffeepot?”
He showed us the operation there. His circumstance was unusual, he explained, because most traffic reporters worked for a traffic reporting service—he was an independent who worked directly for the radio station. K-JAM was the top-rated morning show. That’s why Lizbeth had been drooling to get on air.
“You ever meet Fat Boy?” Deedee asked Troy, referring to K-JAM’s morning DJ, who—at least based on the billboards I’d seen around town—had earned his nickname legitimately. He was about four hundred pounds of pure wacky Latino, and in the billboards he wore thick glasses, a hat, and nothing else but a Speedo.
“Sure. I’ll be on air with him this morning, but we won’t see him. He’s at the radio station.”
“Fat Boy’s so funny,” Deedee said. “I like it when he calls people pretending to be a old lady.”
“You listen to K-JAM?” he asked her.
“Yeah, while I get ready for school.”
“So what’s your opinion of my traffic reports?” he asked her, leading us toward the helicopter.
She gave it some thought, then said, “You could be funnier. Crack jokes. You do a good job talking about the traffic, I guess. I can’t be sure since I don’t drive yet.” She grinned at him. “For all I know, you make it up—there’s not any traffic at all.”
“So you’re on to me already.”
A stocky man sporting a baseball cap and a beard came over holding a doughnut bag. Troy introduced him as his co-pilot, Dickie Ruiz. “Dickie and I need to go over a few things. You might want to hit the ladies’ room,” Troy suggested. “You won’t have another chance for a couple of hours.” Deedee and I must have looked panicked, because he said, “I can make an emergency stop if you need it.”
“I gotta pee every ten seconds these days,” Deedee whispered as we made our way to the bathroom.
“How are you feeling?” I asked. “You going to be up for this?”
“Oh yeah. This is the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”
We met back up at the helicopter a few minutes later. Troy said, “Good news, June. We’re down a sponsor, so I’ll have a chance to throw you a couple questions in the seven o’clock hour. Anything you want me to focus on?”
While I was trying to decide, Deedee said, “Ask her what’s her favorite song.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but it needs to be more about ridesharing. Maybe you could ask about the ne
w rail line to downtown?”
“Boooooring,” Deedee said.
Troy said he’d see what he could do to keep things lively and then opened a door to the helicopter. “Ready?” he asked. He and Dickie helped us climb in back, where there was just enough room for Deedee and me to sit comfortably.
“Where are the parachutes?” I asked as I buckled in. “Does my tray table serve as a flotation device?” I was babbling because my belly was starting to do nervous flips. I’d never been in a helicopter, and even though I’m not afraid of flying, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Plus I’d be talking live on the radio, so it was a double whammy of nerves. I felt I had a lot riding on this, knowing Lizbeth’s position was open.
Troy fiddled with some controls, and Dickie handed Deedee and me headsets—the huge kind that fit like earmuffs. Each one had a thin microphone that pulled forward. “Once he starts those chopper blades, it’s going to get loud in here. You’ll need these to hear what’s happening on the radio station. Use the mikes to talk to us here in the chopper—it’s easier than shouting. June, we’ve powered the mike on yours so you can talk on air, too.” He smiled. “Do I need to remind you of the words you can’t say on the radio?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“I wanna hear them!” Deedee said.
“Fuck’s a no-no,” Dickie replied. “You can’t say fuck.”
“What about shit?” Deedee asked. “Because I swear that sometimes they bleep it out, but there are other times—”
“Shit’s not allowed,” Troy cut in. “But you’re right, it sneaks through once in a while. And June, feel free to talk all you want about how incredibly good-looking I am. There’s no ban on words like stud…sexy…godlike…”
“Egomaniac,” Dickie added, passing his bag of doughnuts back to us. “It kills him that he’s stuck in radio and the ladies don’t get to see that pretty face of his.”
We dove into the doughnuts until Troy gave us a one-minute warning; then we got ourselves ready. When he kicked the helicopter into gear, the sound of whirling blades was deafening, even to us inside with the doors closed. “I always thought that was fake!” I shouted. “That you sat in a studio and played a tape!”
Dickie answered by pointing to his ears and mouthing, “Headphones.”
“Oh, right.” Deedee and I scrambled to pull on our headphones, and I adjusted my microphone.
Troy asked, “Can you hear me?”
Deedee nodded. I gave a thumbs-up.
“Here we go,” he said, and the helicopter lifted. It hovered for a moment and then flew up and forward. My insides did a dip, and Deedee gave an excited whoop.
“Everybody okay back there?” Troy asked.
Deedee nodded again. I gave another thumbs-up.
I could hear Troy chuckle in my headphones. “You guys can talk,” he said. “I’ll give you plenty of warning when we switch over to on air. And Deedee, you don’t need to worry. Only June’s mike goes live.”
Did he have to say the word live? Arrrgh, as I’d have said in my eye patch days. The doughnut danced in my stomach.
There’s nothing to be scared about, I told myself. It wasn’t as if Troy would ask me tough, probing questions. I could handle this, especially after living through the gas giveaway debacle. My brain seemed to be buying the pep talk. My digestive system remained doubtful.
I forced myself to concentrate on the view while I listened to the radio station, which was playing that Black Eyed Peas song that, now that I’d heard it, would be stuck in my head all day. The night sky was taking on a grayer hue, and it looked as if the sun were considering making an appearance. (And I didn’t for a second forget this was a twofer for the list: both #10, Ride in a helicopter, and #18, Watch a sunrise.)
Our flight had started in the Valley, and within minutes we were making our way over the hill. I’d flown in planes over Los Angeles plenty of times, but this was close enough that I could make out the sights. Dodger Stadium…the Getty Museum…the mansions along Mullholland Drive. Even the 405 Freeway seemed lovely, winding as it did up the hill, dotted with the headlights of early morning commuters.
Troy turned to us. “What do you think?”
“Who’d have thought traffic could be so pretty?” I said.
“Well, if you find this traffic pretty,” Dickie remarked, “wait until rush hour hits. It’s a freakin’ work of art.”
Deedee pressed her face against the window. “This is so awesome. Nobody’s gonna believe me when I tell them.”
Troy did the first few traffic reports, and as he’d warned me, the radio feed shut off in my headphones. I could hear Troy’s voice, but Fat Boy’s responses were dead air. Troy put on his “radio guy” voice—huskier and more enthusiastic than how he usually sounded. So far, traffic was moving smoothly, and it sounded odd to hear only one side of their banter. At one point, Troy said, “I don’t know, Fat Boy, it’s been a while since I’ve looked that closely at a monkey,” leaving me to wonder what could have prompted that sort of response.
We buzzed past the Hollywood sign as the sky changed from gray to orange. The letters looked every bit their forty-feet height from this vantage point. “Thought this might be a nice view for the sunrise,” Troy said to me, the only acknowledgment he’d made of the list.
Then the helicopter veered left, and Troy said, “I’m heading to check on the 101—I’m getting word of a crash there. June, I’ll probably bring you in on the next go-round.”
“Sounds good!” I chirped.
Barf.
I tried to quell my nerves, restricting myself to happy, ridesharing thoughts. Plug the 800 number…plug the 800 number…
Whatever you do, don’t swear…and definitely don’t say fuck. Fuck, now I have it in my head…it’s like that Black Eyed Peas song, and I won’t be able to get it out! Oh, shit…I mean, fuck…Oh no, I’ll be spewing cusswords as if I have Tourette’s and—
“All right, we’re good to go,” Troy said. “I’ll start with the traffic news. From there, June, I’ll intro you and then toss you a question or two.”
“Make them easy,” I said queasily.
He turned his head briefly. “Nothing but softballs, baby.” Looking back at his control panel, he said, “Now, it’ll be the same as before. You’ll hear my voice in your headset. You’ll hear yourself, too. And I’ll be able to hear Fat Boy, but you won’t. Don’t worry—he knows to only let me cue you. Got it?”
“Got it.”
The radio sounds disappeared, and I again heard Troy’s voice describing a traffic tie-up on the 101, the 405 at the Sepulveda Pass, and the sluggish 90 past Riverside. Then he continued, “If you’re getting tired of traffic, I’ve got with me here in the K-JAM JetCopter a lady who can tell us about how to avoid the mess…June Parker with Los Angeles Rideshare.”
Here it came. My heart thumped. My stomach growled from nerves so loudly that I was afraid it could be heard over the helicopter blades.
He continued, “So, June, what would you say to somebody who’s sitting alone in their car right now, wishing they were anywhere but on the freeway?”
“Well, Troy,” I said, and as soon as I said it, Dickie whipped around to face me, his expression a complete panic.
“We’ve got dead air!” he hissed. “I can’t hear you!”
Not knowing what to do, I continued, “I’d tell them—”
But Troy’s voice cut me off. “I mean, besides get out and walk. Heh, heh. Right, Fat Boy?”
“What the f—” Deedee began, but stopped short. I could hear her voice in my headset. She figured it out at the same time the rest of us did. Her mike was on, and mine wasn’t.
Dickie picked up the wires leading from the controls to us. We must have switched the headsets when we took them off to eat the doughnuts. I froze with panic: What should I do? Troy put a finger in the air to say, Wait…and then he said, “That’s a good point you’re making there, Fat Boy.”
With that, Deedee sat up straight and bleated
into her microphone, “June here! You know what, Troy? I always say that traffic is a lot like the weather. Everybody talks about it, but nobody does anything.”
Troy didn’t miss a beat. “So true. And what should they do?”
“For starters,” she said, her eyes wide with excitement as she continued, “they should carpool. I mean, if they’re lucky enough to have a car. Especially since gas is, like, a million dollars a gallon.”
“Remind me not to go to the same gas station you do,” Troy joked. I was a wreck, but he seemed to be taking it in stride. Dickie reached back and gave Deedee’s arm an encouraging squeeze.
“Bus,” I mouthed to her.
“And if they don’t got a car,” she continued, “then they can take the bus. Shoot, my mom is blind, so she’s gotta ride the bus everywhere, and she does fine.”
“Good for her,” Troy said.
I’d reached into my purse and grabbed a pen, and I quickly wrote the company’s 800 number on the back of the doughnut bag and held it in front of Deedee.
“Yeah, so I don’t want to hear nobody complaining that they can’t do it. If she can ride the bus and she can’t even see, then somebody who’s got everything going on ought to be able to do it, too.”
“I can’t tell you how glad I am that you came to share that with us today, June,” Troy said. He could hardly hold back his grin. He was enjoying this!
“You’re welcome,” Deedee said proudly. “Oh, and if they got any questions, they need to call 1-800-RIDESHARE. Which is more than seven numbers, but I guess it works okay anyway.”
Troy wound up the report, thanked the sponsors, and then the radio came back in my headset again.
“Deedee, that was great!” Troy exclaimed. “You’re a natural.”
Dickie slapped her leg in congratulation.
I tried to sound enthusiastic when I said, “You did better than I would have.”
“Can I do another one?” she asked eagerly.
Dickie shook his head. “Let’s not press our luck.”
“Shoot. I wanted to give a shout-out to my girlfriend Rebecca.”
The Next Thing on My List Page 15