The Geography of Lost Things

by Jessica Brody

  “You look really familiar,” Scott says. “Like I’ve seen you before.” He drums his fingers against the plastic tray in his hands.

  His scrutiny is starting to make me uncomfortable. I avert my gaze to the burger in my hand. He couldn’t possibly remember me from when I came here at eight years old. Could he?

  Suddenly, Scott bangs his hand down on the tray and points to a table in the far opposite corner of the restaurant. “Yes! Over there!”

  Nico curiously follows the direction he’s pointing and then looks expectantly back at me.

  “I’ve seen your picture!” Scott says. “You’re Jackson Collins’s daughter!”

  Everything inside of me freezes. My heart. My lungs. My blood. Even the chewed piece of giant burger making its way down my throat. I cough and lunge for my lemonade, taking a huge gulp.

  Apparently Jackson lived here long enough to make an impression.

  Which actually doesn’t take very long.

  Scott seems oblivious to my reaction. “He used to come in here all the time. He sat at that table.” He glances down at my burger and laughs, like the world is one big joke and he’s the only one who knows the punch line. “And he ordered his burgers just like that too!”

  Nico smiles and sips his soda. “Well, I guess we figured out the mystery of where the inside-out burger comes from.”

  I shoot him a warning look, and the grin falls right off his face.

  “Yeah,” Scott goes on. “He showed me your picture a ton of times. Kept telling me how you were going to become a veterinarian.”

  “She is,” Nico says with a pride that surprises me. It sounds so different from the resentment that has laced all of our interactions up until this point. It sounds like the old Nico. The Proud Boyfriend Nico. “She got a full scholarship to UC Davis for undergrad. They have one of the best vet schools in the country.”

  “Yeah, well.” I’m quick to interrupt. “Nothing is set in stone.”

  “What do you mean?” Nico asks, and I can feel his eyes drilling holes into my head.

  I shrug. “I mean, you just never know what might happen. Plans change.”

  “But—” Nico starts to say. I give him a swift kick under the table and a look that says Can we talk about this later?

  “That’s awesome,” Scott says. “Sounds like your dad had every reason to be proud of you.”

  I smile up at Scott, trying to figure out the polite way to convince him to leave. I don’t want to sit around here reminiscing about Jackson. This is exactly why I wanted to get out of this town as quickly as possible. Because of course we’d run into someone who knew him. And of course that person would have fond memories of him. Everyone who ever met Jackson loved him. He was just that kind of guy you instantly fell in love with. His charisma and charm were contagious. He made you feel special. Made you feel funny, important, smart, beautiful, appreciated—whatever you were needing in that moment, Jackson was somehow able to convince you you had.

  “It was really nice chatting with you,” I say, hoping Scott will get the hint. But he doesn’t. He just keeps staring at me in amazement, like he’s seeing a celebrity, or the eighth wonder of the world, right here in this booth.

  “So you’re really Jackson’s daughter, huh?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “In the flesh.”

  “What was your name again?”

  “Oh, sorry.” I offer him my greasy hand to shake. “It’s Ali.”

  But it’s almost as though he doesn’t even see my outstretched hand. He’s too busy thinking hard about something. His eyebrows straining to meet in the center of his forehead. “No,” he says absently. “That’s not it. I remember Jackson telling me, and I thought, what a crazy name.” He snaps his fingers like he’s trying to jolt his memory awake.

  Nico gaze cuts to me, immediately asking, Wait, what did I miss?

  “Sorry,” I rush to tell Scott, trying to interrupt his thought process. “You must have me confused with someone else. My name is Ali. Nothing crazy about that.”

  But Scott is still snapping his fingers. “No. I remember it had something to do with that old rock band. What was their name? Not Blind Melon. Not Nine Inch Nails. But you know, same sound.”

  My stomach clenches. If he gets the band name, he’ll get the song. If he gets the song, he’ll remember the name. I have to shut it all down.

  “Thanks so much for the burgers. I’m sorry we can’t chat. We’re working on a very important project.” I nod to Nico’s phone, which is lying on the table, faceup, with the Craigslist post draft still on the screen. “It’s a Craigslist thing. Long story.”

  I don’t care that I’m rambling. Or that I’m being completely rude. I can’t let this guy stay here any longer. I’m starting to lose my appetite.

  Thankfully, this time, he gets the hint and blinks like he’s coming out of a trance. “Oh, right. Of course.” He nods to Nico, then to me. “It was nice to meet you. I hope you and your boyfriend enjoy your road trip.”

  “Thank you,” I say as politely as possible. I’m so desperate for him to go, I don’t even bother correcting him about the boyfriend part.

  Nico, however, clearly doesn’t share my desperation. “Oh, we’re not together.”

  I try to shoot Nico another glare, but he’s not looking at me.

  “I mean, we used to be together,” Nico goes on. “But we’re not anymore.”

  “That’s cool, man,” Scott says, sounding impressed. “I think it’s great that you can be friends with your ex.”

  “Oh, we’re not friends, either,” Nico says, a buoyant quality to his voice. Now I know he’s doing this to mess with me. “Ali just needed someone to drive her car. She’s paying me a thousand dollars to drive it up the coast for her. Which is a much better way to earn money than being a pimp or a drug dealer, which she evidently thinks I am.”

  My mouth drops open. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “Which, of course, I’m not,” Nico continues breezily. “But there’s really no use in trying to convince her of anything once she’s made her mind up. Believe me.”

  “Oh,” Scott says, suddenly sounding extremely uncomfortable. “Well, I’m sorry about . . . all of that. I hope you guys have fun on your trip.” Then he darts back to the kitchen like he’s afraid we might start chasing after him.

  “What the hell was that?” I whisper-yell as soon as Scott is out of earshot.

  Nico stares at me, and for a moment, it feels like a challenge. His gaze is unwavering; his mouth is set in a straight line. As if he’s daring me to do something. Although I haven’t the slightest clue what it is. “It’s true, isn’t it? That’s what all of those underhanded comments were about, the money? You think I’m involved in something shady?”

  “Well, when someone refuses to tell you things, you have to make up your own explanation.”

  “And so you just automatically assume the worst possible explanation?” Nico fires back. The polite, guarded Nico has been banished from the table. And this other Nico, the one who I witnessed for the first time on the night of the comet, he’s suddenly back. Unwilling to be caged in any longer. “What does that say about you, Ali?”

  I can feel the fight rising in me. In both of us. The familiar anger billows inside of me like smoke. I close my eyes and push it down. Down, down, down.

  You’re not together anymore.

  There’s no need to fight.

  The fight is over.

  When I open my eyes again, Nico is taking angry bites out of his burger, chewing like a wild beast devouring its recent kill.

  “This was a bad idea,” I say softly.

  “What?” Nico asks, stuffing a fry into his already stuffed mouth.

  “This!” I gesture to the restaurant, the booth, us. “You. Me. In a car together for five and a half hours. Thinking we can just talk about stupid nonsense and ignore everything that happened.”

  Nico takes another bite, this one much less barbaric. He chews pensively, like
he’s thinking very hard about what I said. And then, just when I think he’s going to change his mind about helping me, announce that he’s hopping on a bus back to Russellville and I’m entirely on my own, his face lights up with excitement, he grabs his phone, and he says, “That’s it! That’s the angle!”

  FOR TRADE: One Rare Antique Cell Phone (Ft. Bragg, CA)

  Help! We’re two teenagers stuck on the road together, trying to get home. Oh, and we’re exes. #Awkward. Help us trade up to something valuable enough to get us home before we kill each other. We’re traveling north and are willing to come to you.

  Oh, and the phone is pretty awesome too. See picture.

  5:52 P.M.

  CALIFORNIA ROUTE 1

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD 400 CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($749.35), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), ANCIENT CELL PHONE (1)

  “No,” I say immediately after reading Nico’s post. We’re back on California 1, heading north, (finally!) out of Fort Bragg. “You have to take it down.”

  Nico glances at the phone quickly before returning his eyes to the road. The highway has already started to get curvier, hugging the edge of high cliffs as we head up the coast. According to Google Maps, in about thirty miles, California 1 is going to head inland and cut through a forest to hook up with the 101 at Leggett. Then we can take the 101 all the way up through Eureka to Crescent City.

  “Why not?” Nico asks with a frown.

  “Because it’s . . . it’s . . . personal.”

  “Exactly. People like personal stories. They want to get involved.”

  “And it’s not true,” I point out.

  Nico twists his mouth to the side. “It’s semi-true.”

  “Semi-true is still a lie.”

  I see a flash of annoyance pass over Nico’s face, and the familiar fire ignites in my gut. It’s the same fire that’s been turning off and on since the night of the comet.

  Apparently nothing has changed in a month. And why should it? People don’t change. They’re stuck in the same cycle—the same personality—over and over again. They answer mostly As, mostly Bs, or mostly Cs for their entire life. And they’re fine with it.

  “So what?” I say. “You just expect someone to respond to this Craigslist ad and want to trade some random thing for an old phone that probably doesn’t even turn on anymore?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah.”

  I sigh, drop his phone into the cup holder, and turn to stare out the window. I can’t talk to Nico anymore. He’s infuriating me. And I can tell I’m not doing much for him, either. That’s what that whole charade back at the burger joint was all about. Dumping our problems out on poor Scott. Inviting a stranger into our past. That was Nico lashing out. That was Nico getting fed up.

  With me.

  Well, fine. I’m fed up with him, too.

  He can do whatever he wants with that relic. Let him have his little Craigslist project. At least he has something to keep him occupied and out of my hair. I don’t care if he’s able to trade that old phone in for a castle in Scotland. I’m still selling this stupid car.

  The view as the sun starts to set over the Pacific Ocean lightens my mood a bit. The landscape is rugged yet soothing at the same time. All rocky cliffs and crashing white waves. It makes you feel like no matter how dramatic your life is, it will never be as dramatic as the events that shaped this coast.

  As we drive, putting more and more distance between us and Fort Bragg, I can feel my muscles finally start to unclench. The fire inside me starting to simmer. And everything starts to feel normal again.

  This temper thing is new to me. New since Nico.

  I’ve never been the kind of person to get worked up, lose my cool, yell. But Nico brings out the worst in me. Just like Jackson used to do with my mother.

  Some people are just not meant to be together.

  Of course, that’s not how it felt at first.

  At first, we were magic.

  “So,” Nico says, crashing into the silence. “About what happened back at the burger place.”

  For a moment, I think he’s going to apologize for what he said to Scott. For completely humiliating—not to mention insulting—me. But then he goes on.

  “It sounds like your dad really was proud of you.”

  Oh no. He’s not doing this. He’s not going there.

  There’s nothing he can say to change my mind about Jackson. Whatever he has to say, I guarantee, I’ve heard it before. I’ve heard it all before.

  People are complicated. You might want to give your father the benefit of the doubt. (June.)

  Your father had a difficult childhood. His own father left when he was very young. He doesn’t always know how to be a parent. (Mom.)

  Just because your father left doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. (School guidance counselor.)

  Actually, that’s exactly what it means. When someone walks out on you to go on tour with a bunch of washed-up musicians starving for a comeback, there’s no other way to interpret that.

  “My dad left us. Twice. Once when I was nine, and again when I was twelve. He doesn’t get to be proud. He doesn’t get to be anything.”

  Nico opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about him,” I say as sternly as I can, leaving no room for doubt or misinterpretation.

  Because honestly, I will talk about anything else.

  “Okay,” Nico says guardedly. “So what was that whole thing about your name? Is Ali not your real name?”

  Anything except that.

  My muscles immediately tighten again. So much for unwinding.

  “Of course it’s my real name,” I say dismissively. I stare out the passenger-side window at the jagged cliffs looming next to us. I can feel Nico’s gaze darting to me every few seconds.

  “That guy back at the burger joint didn’t think so.”

  “Who are you going to believe? Me, or some random guy from a burger joint who’s never met me before?”

  Nico falls silent, like he’s carefully considering the question.

  “Seriously? You have to think about that?” I ask.

  “Well, you are acting kind of shady about it.”

  “I am not acting shady.”

  Nico skillfully maneuvers the car through a series of tight hairpin turns. We’re getting deeper into the mountains now, leaving the ocean behind, making our way inland. I peer out the window and then immediately regret it. There’s a five-hundred-foot drop inches away from us. From my view from the passenger seat, it looks like it’s literally beneath us. I can’t even see the road on my side of the car.

  Hasn’t the state of California ever heard of guardrails?

  We finally get to a straightaway, and I release my breath.

  “Maybe,” Nico goes on, like there was never a gap in the conversation, “you’re the one involved in some shady moneymaking scheme. And that’s why you go by a fake name.”

  I groan. Why is he doing this? Is he bored? Is he trying to get under my skin again? But when I glance over at him, I see he’s smiling. And not in that infuriating, patronizing way. In that fun, playful Nico way. The way I used to love.

  And that makes it infuriating.

  “It’s not a fake name.”

  “What was it that guy said back at Jenny’s? Something about you being named after a song?”

  I ball my hands into fists, cursing Jackson in my mind.

  “If I guess the song, will you tell me?”

  “No,” I say too quickly.

  “So you are named after a song!”

  Damn it.

  “So Ali is not your real name.”

  Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

  “Which means you lied.”

  Once again, I cut my gaze to Nico. His eyes are intently focused on the road, which is heading into another string of terrifying curves. The playful smile is still on his face, letting me know that he’s teasing me. Trying to make light of everything.

  I don’t know how he does that.
r />   How can he possibly joke about that night?

  Unless he doesn’t feel the sting of the cut like I still do.

  Unless he never felt the cut to begin with.

  “I didn’t lie,” I say in a measured tone. “I just never told you that my real name wasn’t Ali.”

  “So, omitting the truth is not lying.”

  You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. . . .

  “I’m just trying to get the rules straight,” Nico says.

  I grab Nico’s phone from the cup holder and scroll through the available episodes of “Everything About Everything.”

  “How about we listen to another podcast?”

  Nico ignores me. “So, it’s a name of a famous song by some band that sounds like Nine Inch Nails. Who sounds like Nine Inch Nails?”

  “How about this one? ‘Would a Flashlight Work at Light Speed?’ ”

  “Smashing Pumpkins?”

  “ ‘The Five-Second Rule: Fact or Fiction?’ ”

  “Alice in Chains?”

  “Oh, this one looks interesting. ‘How Does Déjà Vu Work?’ ”

  “You’re really not going to tell me your real name.”

  “I’m really not.”

  “Wait a minute,” Nico says, thinking hard about something. “What did the license plate of this car say? ‘Epidemic’ or something?”

  “Here’s a good one!” I say quickly, reading aloud the very next episode on the list before I even have a chance to make sense of the words. “ ‘The Anatomy of Kissing.’ Oh wait . . . never mind.”

  Nico grins. “That one does sound interesting.”

  “No.” I veto it and continue scrolling through the list. “Not that one.”

  “Why not? It sounds enlightening.”

  I feel myself growing flustered. I scroll backward and select an episode at random. “I’m putting on the déjà vu one.”

  “But I want to learn more about kissing.”

  Trust me, Nico. If memory serves, you don’t need to learn anything about kissing.

  I clear my throat. “Déjà vu it is!” I’m about to push play when a strange sound stops me. A long, deep blast, almost like a foghorn. It’s so unfamiliar, it takes me a moment to realize it’s coming from Nico’s phone. But it doesn’t sound like any of the ringtones I remember him using.