Nico. That night. Telling me to “Calm down. You’re overreacting.”
And Jackson. Six years ago. The first time he came back. Telling Mom to “Calm down. You’re getting worked up over nothing.”
Calm down.
My fingers are shaking as I search the categories of podcasts. I almost toss the phone right back at him. I almost tell him to forget it. Forget the whole thing.
Just stop here and let me out.
If I got out of the car again, would June come all the way out here to get me? Like she did the last time.
Calm down, Ali.
Stop being ridiculous.
I continue to scroll. As much as I hate to admit it, I need Nico right now. I need him to get me and this car to Crescent City by tonight. And with my data plan on the verge of empty and Mom failing to pay the cell phone bill because it was either that or the electricity bill, I need his phone, too.
“Okay,” I say, hearing the quiver in my voice. I clear my throat. “So there’s an interesting one called ‘Dozen,’ about a murder that’s solved over the course of twelve hour-long episodes.”
“No.” Nico immediately vetoes that, and I’m relieved. We’re only going to be in this car together for five and a half hours. We’d never find out who did it.
I keep scrolling. “How about this one? It’s called ‘Everything About Everything.’ ” I click on the description and read it aloud. “ ‘Answers to the most random questions about life, science, humanity, philosophy, and everything in between.’ ”
Nico shrugs. “Sounds cool. I guess anything is better than dentist music.”
He flashes me a tense, hurried smile to let me know he’s kidding. A cheap attempt to lighten the mood.
I wince.
“Dentist music” is what Nico likes to call my favorite genre of music, which basically consists of really bubbly pop songs. Nico used to say it’s so sugary-sweet, it gave him a toothache, hence the nickname.
I guess that’s another thing to add to Ali and Nico’s Rules of the Road:
4. No inside jokes.
I click on the first episode of the podcast, entitled “Where do swear words come from?” I punch up the volume on Nico’s phone and push play.
A few seconds later, a guy with a chipper, excited voice comes on, introducing himself as Linus McKee and welcoming us to his podcast.
“Why are swear words bad?” he asks. “And where do they even come from? We’ll find out in this episode of ‘Everything About Everything.’ ” A catchy music riff plays, and I lean back in my seat, grateful to have someone else talk inside this car so we don’t have to.
I turn my gaze out the window and watch the landscape stream by. The trees are already getting taller as the sloping vineyards start to fade into the rearview mirror. Northern California is like a collage of scenery. One minute you’re in wine country; the next you’re driving through redwood trees as high as cathedrals, and before you can blink, you’re cruising alongside the ocean, marveling at the dramatic, rocky coastline. When I was little, I would ask how California got its jagged shape, and Jackson would tell me that a giant cut out the state with a pair of wavy craft scissors.
“When you stub your toe, do you shout out ‘Gadzooks!’ or ‘Gadsbobs!’?” Linus McKee asks us. “Well, if you lived in late-seventeenth-century England, you might have. These are examples of euphemism swear words, words created to avoid using an offensive or taboo word, like the word ‘God,’ which is why people started using ‘Gad’ instead.”
I steal a peek at Nico to see if he’s going to veto the selection, but he looks quiet and focused, his eyes trained on the road. So I let the episode keep playing, thinking if we can do exactly this for four and a half more hours, we might just make it to Crescent City without killing each other.
3:49 P.M.
BOONVILLE, CA
INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD 400 CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($772.00)
By the time we reach Boonville, we’ve finished the end of the episode and are now well versed in the history (and possible future) of swearing.
Nico pulls into a parking spot in front of the Boonville General Store and answers my questioning look with one word: “Coffee.”
I nod. I almost forgot about Nico’s addiction. He’s a caffeine fiend. He can’t go more than a few hours without a fix. “Want anything?”
I reach into the back seat, unzip my backpack, and pull a twenty-dollar bill out of my Ziploc bag of cash. It’s still cold from the freezer. “No, but I’ll pay.”
He guffaws. “You most certainly will not pay.”
I roll my eyes. There he goes again with the gentleman act. “Nico. You’re doing me a favor by driving me. At least let me pay for gas and food.”
“I’m not doing you a favor,” he reminds me, his voice turning cold. “You’re paying me, remember?”
“Yes. I remember. And I’m paying for your coffee, too.” Before he can argue again, I walk around him and enter the shop.
The Boonville General Store is cute, with a small-town vintage feel. Outside there are wooden picnic tables shielded from the sun by red umbrellas. Inside, old wooden wagon wheels decorate the yellow-and-blue-striped walls.
Nico orders a plain black coffee, as always. It was something I used to tease him about. He liked to say it was classic. I liked to say it was boring. Then he would turn toward me, brush a strand of hair behind my ear, and whisper, “You’re classic, and you’re far from boring.”
It drove me crazy when he did that. Whisper things into my ear. He did it all the time. Sometimes compliments, sometimes flirtatious comments about what I was wearing, but most of the time it was just mundane, everyday things like, “The vending machine is out of Snickers.”
That was one of Nico’s skills. To make me, the least-sexy person I know, feel sexy, just from a brush of breath against my ear. His breath. His words. His scent. His playful smirk as he pulled away, leaving a secret between us that only we knew. Making that secret feel important. Even if it was just about the vending machine.
The woman working the counter pumps coffee into a to-go cup, slaps on a lid, and hands it to Nico. He glances at me before taking a sip, as though he’s waiting for me to comment on his drink choice like I always used to do.
But I simply hand the twenty-dollar bill to the cashier. As she gives me my change, she cranes her neck to see out the front window of the shop. “Is that a Firebird out there?”
Nico beams, clearly pleased with the attention. “Yes! 1968. 400 convertible. Isn’t it killer?”
“Gorgeous!”
I roll my eyes, stuffing the change into my pocket. I had to listen to this exact same encounter for the first nine years of my life. Every time I went anywhere with Jackson, everything was always about the car.
What year is that?
1968.
Is that a 400?
Sure is!
What a beauty!
Isn’t she, though?
Whenever that car was around, I may as well have been invisible.
And now, even though Jackson is dead, it’s happening all over again. I watch as Nico and the cashier both gaze appreciatively out the window. I push roughly past Nico as I head to the door. “C’mon. We need to get back on the road.”
I hear Nico exchanging a few more pleasantries with the cashier before following after me.
When we sit back down in the car, Nico automatically hands me the coffee cup and I automatically take it, realizing a few seconds later that we’ve just done it again. Fallen back into another routine without thinking.
Nico’s truck doesn’t have any cup holders. Which means that whoever rides shotgun has to be a human cup holder.
My mind suddenly flashes back to long drives. Winding roads. Blue and red dashboard lights. His hot cup of coffee warming my cold fingers. Nico bringing the cup to his lips, then returning it to my hand, then bringing my hand to his lips . . .
Jackson’s car, thankfully, does have cup holders. Two of them. R
ight between us in the wooden console. I set the coffee down in one. Nico notices and flashes me a sheepish grin, before opening his mouth to say, “Oops,” but I turn away before he can go there. Before we can share any sort of mutual embarrassment.
5. No sharing of mutual anything.
Nico starts the engine, checks the mirrors, and shifts into reverse, placing his arm over the back of my seat as he turns to glance out the rear window.
I can feel the proximity of his hand to my head. Every follicle of my hair waking up on instinct. Like each one of them has memory.
I instinctively scoot farther away, toward the door. Nico finishes backing up and returns his right hand to the stick shift, putting the car into first gear.
“So,” Nico says as we glide along the highway, the blue sky stretching out before us like an open invitation. “I’ve been thinking.”
I feel my body instinctively tense up. “About what?”
A thousand possible answers stream through my mind at once, each one worse than the last.
“About the episode.”
This was not what I expected him to say. “What episode?”
“The one we just listened to,” Nico says, as though it’s obvious.
And it’s so obvious, I didn’t even think of it.
“Oh, right. The episode. What about it?”
“I think we should come up with our own euphemisms.” He flashes me a look to make sure I’m following. “For swear words.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Just for fun.” He says the word tersely, like he’s implying I’ve never experienced it before. “To have something to do. To avoid offending little old ladies in the supermarket.”
“Is this a problem of yours?” I challenge. “Offending little old ladies in supermarkets?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Maybe.”
I can’t help but chuckle. It comes out before I can stop it. Nico’s gaze swivels to me for a second, as if he has to get visual confirmation of my reaction.
“Okay. Whaddya got?”
He scratches his chin, like he’s thinking really hard about it. “Hmmm. How about ‘fuuuuu . . .’ ” He draws out the sound, before finally finishing it with, “ ‘. . . ngicide.’ ”
“Fungicide?”
“Yeah. As in, ‘Fungicide! I forgot my lunch!’ ”
“Well, the ultimate test is whether you can make it into a verb.”
Nico shifts into fifth gear. “Stop fungiciding around and get to work!”
“Not bad.”
“Your turn.”
“Maybe we should just listen to another episode,” I suggest, because I don’t like where this is going. It feels too much like we’re dancing around another Rule of the Road:
6. No creating fun, new memories.
“What’s the matter?” Nico says. “Can’t think of anything to top ‘fungicide’?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s appealing to my competitive side. He knows that’s the best way to convince me to do something I don’t want to do: turn it into a contest.
But it still works.
“Fine. Um. How about ‘shiiiiii . . .’ ” I rack my brain, trying to come up with something clever. “ ‘. . . tzu.’ ”
“Shih tzu?” Nico repeats skeptically.
“It’s a breed of dog.”
Nico grabs his coffee and takes a sip. “Use it in a sentence.”
I roll my eyes. “The dog was a shih tzu.”
Nico slows to steer around a sharp curve. “No. Use it as a swear word.”
“Okay, how about, ‘If we don’t get this figured out, we’ll be up shih tzu creek without a paddle’?”
“Will you get your shih tzu together and stop crying?”
“That last curve in the road scared the shih tzu out of me.”
Nico laughs. “Okay, that’s a pretty good one, but I think I can do better.”
I cross my arms. “Go ahead.”
“ ‘Shiiiii . . . take mushroom.’ ”
“No,” I say automatically.
“What do you mean, no?”
“It’s too long.”
“It is not.”
“What? Are you going to say, ‘You don’t know shiitake mushroom about science’?”
“Yes,” Nico replies. “That’s exactly what I’m going to say. Or even ‘This car is the shiitake mushroom.’ ”
I give him a thumbs-down.
“Fine.” Nico admits defeat. “I’ll give you that one. But seriously, this car is the shiitake mushroom. Are you going to tell me how you came into possession of a 1968 Firebird 400 convertible? Or are you going to leave me to come up with the most far-fetched assumptions in my head?”
I berate myself for not putting the podcast on again the moment we got back into the car. For leaving this opening, this gap for Nico to fill with silly games and probing questions.
Although I honestly didn’t think we’d be able to get all the way to Crescent City without this topic coming up.
“That depends,” I reply coolly.
He takes another sip of coffee. “On what?”
“On what those far-fetched assumptions are.”
“Hmm. Well, let’s see. My favorite one is that you conducted a hit for the mafia, the car belonged to the mark, and the mafia let you keep it as a bonus for a job well done.” He returns the cup to the holder. “Oh, and the body is still in the trunk.”
“Nope.”
He nods. “Okay. How about this one? You’re best friends with a crazy white-haired scientist who created a time machine out of a 1968 Firebird but then got trapped in the past, leaving the Firebird to you.”
“That’s the plotline for the Back to the Future trilogy.”
“Dang it. I thought maybe you hadn’t seen that.”
“Who hasn’t seen Back to the Future?” I ask incredulously.
“People who died in 1984 before the movie came out?”
“Exactly.”
He huffs, takes the coffee cup again, sips. “Okay, here’s a good one. You challenged someone to a drag race; winner gets the other person’s car.”
“And I won?”
He nods. “Naturally.”
“In my mother’s 2001 Honda Civic? The one still sitting in the parking lot of the high school because it wouldn’t start?”
“It’s possible.”
“No, it’s not. That car is a piece of shih tzu.”
Nico toasts me with his coffee cup. “Dude, good one!”
“Dude?” I repeat incredulously.
He glances at me. “Would you rather I call you what I used to call you?”
And just like that, whatever light breeze we managed to create inside this stuffy, claustrophobic muscle car is suddenly gone. My chest squeezes. I don’t say anything.
He peers at me again and scoffs. “I didn’t think so.”
One month into our doomed three-month relationship, Nico decided that calling me “Ali” was no longer good enough.
“Cuddle Cakes.”
“No,” I said immediately.
“Georgia Peach?”
“No.”
“Cookie Monster?”
I gave Nico the stare of death. “Monster? Really?”
He crossed that one off his list and kept reading. “Frou Frou.”
“Nope.”
“Honey Bunch.”
“Ick. No.”
“Honey Bunches of Oats.”
“Worse.”
“Lamb Chop?”
“Seriously?” I tilted my head to try to look at the list, thinking this would go a lot faster if I could just veto everything at once, but Nico slid it away before I could get a peek. We were sitting in the Russellville High cafeteria with our sack lunches spilled out onto the table in front of us, untouched.
“Cupcake?”
“Why are ninety percent of these food-related?” I asked.
Nico shrugged. “Nature of the game, I suppose.” He scanned his list. “Oh, here’s
one that’s not food. ‘Muggle.’ ”
“As in non-magical folk?”
He made a face and scratched it off. “You’re right. Main Squeeze?”
“No.”
“Love Boodle.”
I groaned. “Anything but that.”
“Okay. Lover Pie?”
“And that.”
A tray plopped down next to my untouched container of yogurt, and a second later, June slid onto the bench. “What are you two doing?”
I rolled my eyes. “Nico is insisting that since we’ve been dating for more than a month, he has to come up with a pet name for me. And I said—”
“Oh cool!” June exclaimed. “Let me see the list!”
Nico slid the piece of paper across the table to her, and she scooped it up and quickly scanned the options.
I shot Nico a look of disbelief. “What? You’ll let her see the list but not me?”
I leaned in to try to read over June’s shoulder, but she leaned back, shielding my view.
“June can help,” Nico defended.
“That’s right,” she agreed. “I can help. Ooh, I like Pancake and Pudding Pop.”
“Pudding Pop?” I repeated in disgust, and turned to Nico. “Where did you get this list?”
“It’s cute,” June insisted.
“What’s cute?” Tyler said, suddenly appearing behind June and kissing the back of her neck. “You’re cute? Yes, I would have to agree.” He walked around the table, dropped his tray down, and slid onto the bench next to Nico.
“Nico is choosing a pet name for Ali,” June explained.
“Ahhh,” Tyler said, his eyebrows shooting up like little arrows. “The pet-name selection. Big step, my man.” He slapped Nico on the back. “What are the choices?”
I sighed. “This is not a democratic decision.”
June ignored me and passed the list to Tyler. I propped my elbows on the table and buried my face in my hands.
“Dude, why is PB and J crossed off? That one is perfect.”
“No,” I moaned into my hands. “No, it’s not.”
“That’s why,” Nico said, leaning over the table and tapping my head.
“Pookie!” Tyler said, getting way too excited. “I like Pookie.”
The Geography of Lost Things Page 6