The Geography of Lost Things

by Jessica Brody

  The space around me starts to hum, louder and louder until I feel like I’m trapped inside a speaker with the bass turned all the way up.

  “W-w-what?” I manage to stammer. “Are you saying the car is a fake?”

  Tom clucks his tongue. “Not really. The word we use is ‘clone.’ ”

  I press my fingertips into my eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think what he’s saying . . .” Nico steps in, his voice gentle, like he’s afraid his words might break me. “. . . is that your father made changes to this car to make it seem like it was worth more than it is.”

  I shoot Nico a glare.

  “He’s right,” Tom agrees, and then, as if it’s supposed to make me feel better, he quickly adds, “Most laypeople can’t tell. You need a trained eye, like mine, to spot the differences.”

  My hackles immediately go up. Is he trying to con me? Take advantage of me because he knows I don’t know anything about cars? How on earth do I know that he’s telling me the truth right now?

  I swallow hard, trying to keep the shakiness from my voice. “Are you saying you don’t want to buy it?”

  Tom winces, like he was dreading this very question. “If I did buy it, I’m afraid I’d only be able to pay you three thousand for it.”

  “Three thousand!?” I repeat, in shock. For a second I’m certain I misunderstood.

  Tom gives me a sad nod. “Afraid so.”

  Suddenly everything comes crashing down around me. The foreclosure notices. The boxes of stuff packed away in our living room. My mom’s face telling me it’s time to let go. Give it up. Surrender to the evil bank.

  Three thousand won’t be nearly enough. It won’t hold them off. We need at least twenty-five. It’s the reason I came all the way out here—endured hours of awkward silence and terse, emotionally loaded conversations with Nico, spent the night in a hotel room with him, surrounded by a dark, shadowy pit. For a minimum of twenty-five thousand dollars. For our escape. For our house.

  Not so I could get all the way here and have Tom Lancaster take it all away!

  “But,” I argue, my voice weak, pitiful. “You said you would pay thirty-two.”

  He blows out a breath. “Yeah, that’s when I thought it was a 400. And it’s definitely not.”

  He’s lying. He’s conning me.

  Suddenly, all of my panic and desperation evaporates, replaced with only white-hot rage. How dare he take advantage of me! How dare he make me drive all the way up here just to try to pull one over on me. He probably had this planned from the very beginning. He probably could tell from my Craigslist post and my e-mails that I was completely ignorant about cars. He probably scours the postings, looking for people he can swindle.

  Nico was right. Craigslist is full of dangerous people. I was just focused on the wrong kind of danger.

  I straighten up. I speak loudly and clearly. “Well, that’s too bad,” I say. “I guess I’ll have to sell it to someone else. I’ve received a lot of other offers, you know?”

  I expect Tom Lancaster to back down. To cave. To backpedal by saying something like, “Well, let me take another look around and we can talk.” But he doesn’t. He just gives me a pathetic little nod and says, “I understand. Although, I’ll be honest with you. You’re not going to be able to get more than four or five grand for a clone.”

  Stop calling it that! I want to scream.

  Jackson would never own a fake car. He would never slap an emblem on the hood just to make it seem more valuable.

  But as soon as the thought flashes through my mind, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s exactly the kind of thing Jackson would do.

  I feel like I could slink onto the floor right now. I want to scream. I want to fight. I want to shout that they’re all in it together. Tom, Nico, the whole freaking universe. They’re all conning me. It’s one giant scam to see just how far I can fall.

  And at the center of it all is Jackson. The ultimate con man. The ultimate swindler. Making you love. Making you trust. Making you feel safe. And then pulling it right out from under you. Like a magician with a nifty card trick. You thought you had the ace of spades? Look again, it’s actually the two of clubs.

  It’s actually worthless.

  I thought this car was his final act of redemption. A gift to me to say, I’m sorry for all the “I’m sorrys.”

  But no, it was just another con. Another sleight of hand. Jackson letting me down, even from beyond the grave.

  “This baby’s not the base model. It’s the 400. It’s worth much, MUCH more.”

  I feel cheated. Out of everything.

  A car.

  A dad.

  A house.

  A life.

  You’re too trusting, Ali. That’s your problem.

  “Ali.” Nico’s voice comes from the end of a long tunnel. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay!” I snap. “Why on earth do you think I would be okay?”

  Nico shoots Tom an apologetic glance.

  Yes, Nico. Go ahead. Apologize for your ranting ex-girlfriend. Fix the situation. Smooth everything over. Make friends with Tom, and Scott the waiter, and Laurie the barista. Make everyone love you.

  “I’m sorr—” Nico begins to say, but I don’t let him finish. I don’t even know who he’s apologizing to. Maybe to Tom. Maybe to me.

  But I can’t take one more apology. “Stop!” I tell him. “Just stop.”

  “Ali,” Nico tries again, but again, I don’t let him finish. In fact, I don’t even wait around for him to try. I run right out of the shop.

  One day, when I was twelve years old, a dining room table arrived at our front door. We’d never had a proper one before. We’d always used our dining room for storage.

  To this day, I have no idea where that table came from. It just showed up on a random delivery truck. And tumbling in after it came Jackson.

  It was two years after Fear Epidemic had broken up for the second and final time, their Salvage Lot album failing to re-rocket the band into stardom.

  Jackson made a big fuss about the table. He went on and on about how he was finally providing for his family. Making amends for lost time.

  The surface was cracked. The legs were wobbly. And it smelled. Bad. Like Jackson had picked it up on the side of the road. And who knows? Maybe he had.

  “Now we have something to play board games on,” he told me, giving me that same irresistible wink that I remembered from my childhood.

  But I was wary. Two years of living without him, of hearing my mother complain about his irresponsibility, had built a hard shell around me. A shell that was quickly cracking with each day that he was back.

  “Do you still like board games? I remember you being obsessed with them.”

  That one sentence was all it took for my smile to break free. Jackson remembered. He remembered something about me. Suddenly I felt special all over again. I felt like maybe all of this time he’d been gone, he’d been thinking about me, keeping a mental log of the things he remembered, maybe even writing them down.

  “Yes. I still like them.”

  “Good!” Jackson exclaimed. “Me too! We can play.”

  “What kind do you like to play?” I asked, feeling uncannily like I was talking to a stranger.

  “Any kind. Clue. Risk. Monopoly. Chess.”

  “Chess?” My eyes lit up. I’d been wanting to learn chess for a while, but I didn’t know anyone who could play. I’d tried to read the directions online, but I ended up just getting confused. “Do you know how to play?”

  Jackson guffawed. “Of course I know how to play chess. You don’t?”

  I shook my head.

  Jackson reached out and ruffled my hair. I admit, at twelve, I was too old for hair ruffling, but I didn’t care. “Well, we have to do something about that, don’t we?”

  The next day when I came home from school, there was a chess set on the table. Once again, I have no idea where he got the chess set. He didn’t see
m to have any money. But it didn’t really matter to me.

  I dropped my backpack in the hall and ran to the table. Jackson came in a moment later, beaming. “Pretty nice, huh?”

  “Are you going to teach me?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. Sit down.”

  I slid into the chair and scanned the board in wonderment. All of the pieces were placed on their squares, like little soldiers ready to go into battle. It wasn’t a fancy set. The pieces weren’t carved from stone or wood or marble. They were plastic and chipped. But that didn’t matter. They were mine. And Jackson was going to teach me how to play.

  “Okay,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “First things first.” He picked up the white piece in the corner. It looked like a little castle. “This is called the Fortress. It never moves. It stays in one place. Other pieces are protected if they’re standing next to it.”

  I nodded, eagerly gobbling up the information.

  “And this,” he said, picking up one of the little stout pieces in the front row, “is a scout. It goes out on missions to infiltrate the other player’s Fortress. You have to have at least three scouts per mission. But you can’t take too many scouts, otherwise you leave your Fortresses unprotected, and then this piece”—he picked up the little white horse—“the Cavalary can attack the Fortress and bring it down.”

  “What’s the point of the game?” I asked. “How do you win?”

  Jackson chuckled affectionately. “By getting all of your pieces to the other side of the board before I do.”

  I bit my lip. “But how can you do that if the Fortresses don’t move?”

  Jackson reached across the board and tapped my nose. “Good question.” He paused, like he was trying to remember, and I wondered how long it had been since he’d played. “Oh, right. You can move the Fortresses if you free them with a spell.”

  My eyes widened. “A spell?”

  Jackson nodded, looking serious. “This piece right here”—he picked up the white piece that sat next to the queen—“is the sorceress. She can cast spells to protect your pieces.”

  “Cool,” I marveled.

  “But be careful. She can also cast spells on the other person’s pieces to freeze them in place or send them backward.” Jackson studied my confused expression. “You know what? Let’s just play. You’ll pick it up as you go.”

  He was right. I did pick it up as I went. And it quickly became my favorite board game ever. Jackson and I would have long, drawn-out battles, throwing curses and spells at each other’s pieces. We would play until it got so late, my mom had to interrupt the game and send me to bed.

  It wasn’t until two years later, when I decided to join the chess club on my first day of high school, that I realized—with utter mortification—that Jackson’s version of chess had been made up. In fact, he probably made it up right there on the spot. The way he made up everything.

  “Of course I know how to play chess” was just another lie he told.

  But for the next month, that dining room table made us feel like a family for the first time. We ate at it for breakfast and dinner. Mom cooked. Jackson did dishes. And after dinner, each night, Jackson and I played “chess.”

  One month later, Jackson was gone again.

  We found the exact same Post-it note pinned to the exact same fridge. Like an echo through time. A reminder of just how stupid we had been to believe him.

  I’m sorry. I have to do this.

  Two months after that, one of the legs on Jackson’s table broke, and we threw the whole thing away.

  2:12 P.M.

  CRESCENT CITY, CA

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD 400 CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($564.72), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), PIRATES VS. BRITISH ROYAL NAVY CHESS SET (1)

  I had to run ten blocks to get here, but finally I reach the water. I stop at the end of the empty road, my shins pressed up against the metal guardrail. I stare out into the rocky tide pools below me, watching the waves fill up the giant craters cut into the ground before stealing the water right back out again.

  I can hear the voice of that man from the beach in Fort Bragg echoing in my head.

  “The ocean forgives.”

  And I want to scream, No, it doesn’t! It doesn’t forgive. It just gives and takes, gives and takes. Like the ultimate thief, the ultimate con man: promising fulfillment, then leaving you empty.

  I pull the amber-colored sea glass out of my pocket and run my fingertips over the smooth edges. Maybe it’s not smooth because the ocean is patient and forgiving and kind. Maybe it’s smooth because the ocean is neglectful. Taking things in and then spitting them back out again.

  Jackson used to try to smooth things over. He’d use soft words and empty promises. I’ll be better. I’ll stick around. I’ll help with the bills. I’ll stop hoarding money and using it to fund my unsustainable lifestyle.

  For a while, it worked. On both of us. For a while, we believed him. Because we wanted to. Then we simply stopped wanting to.

  We learned the natural rhythm of his movements. Like ancient people studying this very tide.

  He came, he left.

  He came, he left.

  And we were the ones who had to learn how to forgive. Or at the very least, forget.

  I hear the sound of an engine behind me. It’s so familiar, I don’t even have to turn around to confirm that it’s the Firebird.

  The worthless, piece of crap, cloned Firebird.

  The sound of that engine is engrained in my memory. The sound of those tires crackling on the asphalt is like a permanent piece of my soul. Jackson’s ghost haunting me from beyond the grave.

  But when I turn around, I don’t see Jackson behind the wheel.

  I see Nico.

  And the sight of him unnerves me. But to be fair, everything about him on this trip has unnerved me. The way he looks. The way he talks. The way he walks. The way he jumps in and out of the car, flips his hair, runs his hands along the steering wheel.

  Because everything about him is Jackson.

  They’ve merged into one person. One bad memory. One lying, deceiving disappointment.

  It was something I fought throughout our entire relationship. The comparison. The hardwired inclination to distrust everything he said. And for eighty-eight days I managed to keep it at bay. I managed to tell myself every day that they weren’t the same person. That Nico was nothing like Jackson. That I would never let myself fall for the same person that my mother had. That Nico would never lie to me.

  Until he did.

  And then it was like glass breaking.

  The beautiful, shimmering dome of our relationship came shattering down around us. And I was left with the cold, harsh reality that I’d somehow managed to ignore for eighty-eight days.

  They are exactly the same.

  They both lied and broke my heart. They both let me down.

  Because apparently that’s what people do.

  They make you trust them, and then they bolt.

  Except Nico is still here, a small voice reminds me.

  But I ignore it.

  Nico isn’t here for me. He’s here for the thousand dollars I promised him. He’s here for the money. Nothing else.

  Nico kills the engine of the Firebird, and my gaze falls on the car. Jackson’s perfect, immaculate car, with its shiny blue paint and soft white leather seats and the license plate that reads FEPDMIC.

  You find out your irresponsible, flighty, unreliable, reckless, lying father has let you down, yet again! What do you do?

  A Snap.

  B Snap.

  C Snap!

  With a roar that sounds like some kind of ancient clan battle cry, I run full speed at the car. I kick the tires repeatedly and pound the hood with my fist. I’ve never been in a fight before, and I never imagined my first time would be with a 1968 Firebird convertible. But it doesn’t last long.

  “Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!” Without opening the door, Nico jumps out of the car and grabs me, wrapping his strong arms around my
waist and pulling me back, out of striking distance. I struggle against him, turning my rage against Jackson onto him. Kicking and twisting and jerking. “Ali!” Nico says in a tender but firm voice. “Stop. Stop.”

  His arms tighten around me, holding me close. So close I can smell him. The scent is familiar. Comforting. Even though I don’t want it to be. I want it to be repulsive. I want to hate it. I want to hate him.

  I do.

  I hate him.

  I hate Jackson.

  I hate this stupid, stupid car and that stupid, stupid band.

  Again I try to twist out of Nico’s grasp, but all I manage to do is twist into him, until I’m facing him. Until his gaze latches on to mine. Until his mouth is inches away. Until I can feel his heart beating under his shirt, through his skin.

  Until I melt.

  And collapse.

  And he catches me.

  Always catching me. Always fixing me. Always there.

  Stupid, stupid Nico.

  “We’re stuck.” The words choke out of me. The realization overwhelms me. Will my mom and I ever get out from underneath his mistakes? Will I ever escape Jackson Collins? My mother divorced him. I changed my name. We kicked him out. He died.

  And yet he’s still there. Digging the dirt out from under us with each step that we take. So that we’re always sinking.

  “We’re stuck,” I say again. I no longer know if I’m talking about Jackson or the road trip or something else entirely. But it doesn’t really matter. It seems to be a catchall phrase right now. It seems to be the sentence that perfectly encapsulates my life.

  “Nothing he had was ever as valuable as he made you believe it was,” I tell Nico.

  For a long time, he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t ask who I’m talking about. It’s obvious. He doesn’t ask how I’m feeling. That’s obvious too. But eventually, he asks, “Why are you so desperate to save this house, Ali?”