The Geography of Lost Things

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The Geography of Lost Things Page 19

by Jessica Brody


  With one hand on the wheel, Nico scrambles for the phone, and a moment later, the one and only ballad on Anarchy in a Cup begins to play.

  Nico steals peeks at me out of the corner of his eye. Like he’s not sure whether he can believe me. Maybe I’m purposefully trying to deceive him. Maybe I’m leading him away from the song, instead of toward it.

  But I’m not.

  This is the one. The song I’ve avoided since I was nine years old. My plan was to legally change my name the minute I turned eighteen. But in that minute I was too distracted with foreclosure notices and building birdhouses in Russellville High’s woodshop with a cute boy.

  I never got around to it.

  Which means legally I’m still named after this song.

  The ethereal wind track of the opening instrumental fades out, and the first verse fades in. Nolan’s voice sounds even raspier as he tries to infuse emotion into the lyrics.

  In this city by the sea

  The roads take us back to you and me

  The time beats like rain against the drums

  The ocean can’t remember where it started from

  Nico’s gaze is on the road, but I can tell every ounce of his concentration is on the song. Waiting. Listening. Processing every word.

  There’s a man who’s lost his sanity

  He’s waiting for the sky to sing

  I researched the meaning of the song once. Apparently Nolan Cook wrote it about Los Angeles, where Fear Epidemic signed their first record deal. It was also where Nolan Cook met a girl that he fell in love with. The relationship didn’t last. But the song continued to be their tribute to the great big state that Nico and I have been driving through for the past two days.

  He shouts into the void, “I tried to warn ya!”

  But I’d still do anything, anything, anything for California

  Nico jabs at the screen of his phone, pausing the song. He doesn’t have to listen any longer. He knows.

  He knows.

  “Anything for California,” he repeats the lyric, which is also the name of the song.

  I shiver. Somehow it sounds sweeter coming from his mouth. More earnest. Less of a pain in my side. Less of this ugly shadow that’s been following me around for the past nine years, reminding me of how untrue it is. How much of a lie it turned out to be. A thing that I couldn’t wait to legally expunge from my record.

  “California,” he says quietly. “Ali.”

  I glance out the window just in time to see the WELCOME TO OREGON sign as we officially leave my namesake behind.

  When Jackson left to tour with the band, he would only call me when he knew my mom would be at work. For the first few weeks after he left, I would come home from school, grab the cordless phone, and sit with it in my ldap, waiting to hear what exotic new location he would be calling from next.

  I’m in Bakersfield!

  I’m in San Jose!

  I’m in Sacramento!

  Then, after every call, I would race to the computer, open Google Maps, and search for the city, calculating just how far away he was and just how long it would take for him to come home from there.

  He would always tell me one fun fact about the place he was in, like he was reading them off a brochure for the city.

  Did you know that Bakersfield has the two largest carrot farms in the world?

  Did you know there’s a thirty-foot statue of Chuck E. Cheese in San Jose?

  Did you know that parts of the city of Sacramento are haunted?

  Then he would gush about life with the band. How amazing it was to be traveling. About what a good roadie he was. “They really appreciate me around here. I’m a big part of this tour. Today, I actually fixed Nolan Cook’s guitar!”

  Back then, I believed him. I wanted to think that my dad was important. That he was needed somewhere. It was the only way I could cope with the fact that he left us for them. Maybe they really did need him more than we did.

  A month after my ninth birthday, he called later than usual. Mom was already home from her late lunch shift at the restaurant. I tried to hide the call from her, knowing it would only upset her. When the phone rang, I took it into my room and hid in my closet as Jackson announced, “I’m in Eugene, Oregon!”

  Before he even had a chance to tell me a fun fact about Eugene, Oregon, my mother was in the closet, ripping the phone from my hand.

  “You cannot keep doing this, Jackson,” she bellowed as she stormed out of the room, taking my one remaining connection with my father with her. “You don’t get to walk out on us and still have some secret relationship with her.”

  I followed after my mom, wanting so badly to plead with her, “Don’t take him away from me. Please! Don’t tell him not to call. The phone calls are all I have left.”

  The words bubbled up inside of me. They were right on the tip of my tongue. And then I heard my mom say, “I don’t understand! You’re broke! Where are you getting the money to support yourself? Because I know those supposed friends of yours from the band aren’t paying you for this.”

  Money.

  The word bounced around in my mind for a few seconds before finally settling with a thud. I ran to the garage and flipped on the light. I stared at the empty spot on the cement where Jackson’s Firebird used to be. My mind struggled to put pieces together. Pieces I didn’t understand. Until now. Until the memories drifted back to me.

  The trunk.

  The spare tire.

  The roll of cash.

  The pawn shop.

  eBay.

  The secret trips to the ice-cream store.

  Jackson’s Escape Fund.

  I’d promised I would never tell her about it. It was my secret. Our secret. Jackson’s and mine.

  Then everything fell into place.

  Late electric bills. Calls from debt collectors. Mom swearing to some disembodied voice on the phone that she’d have money in another week.

  As I stood in the center of the garage, breathing in the fading scent of motor oil and car wax and leather conditioner, the guilt crawled into my bones and curled up to stay.

  I switched off the light. I closed the garage door. I sat down on the couch and waited for the conversation to be over. I waited for my mom’s angry, trembling voice to quiet. I waited until her tears stopped. Then I walked into her bedroom. She was sitting on her bed with the phone clutched in her hands. Tears streaked down her face.

  I saw the bravery in her eyes.

  I saw the strength she was struggling to hold on to.

  I saw the way her face was fighting a battle between being stoic and being real.

  And then I made another promise. This time to myself.

  I swore I would never lie to my mother again.

  Despite my mother’s warnings, Jackson continued to call me when she was at work. But I stopped picking up. I would see the number on the caller ID. I would watch the names of the cities flash on the small screen of the phone.

  Portland, Oregon.

  Boise, Idaho.

  Salt Lake City, Utah.

  I would feel him getting farther and farther away each day.

  Until finally, he stopped calling altogether.

  5:55 P.M.

  BROOKINGS, OR

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($529.10), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), GIBSON ELECTRIC GUITAR (1)

  “What can I get for you guys?”

  We’ve found a coffee hut called Dutch Bros—which features a blue windmill on the menu—and are standing at the outdoor counter.

  Nico looks at me. “She’s ordering for me.”

  “You’re serious about this?”

  “Dead serious,” he says.

  “Okay. You asked for it.” I scan the menu, once again searching for the most ridiculous-sounding drink they have. My eyes light up when I land on something called the Banana Cream Pie Freeze.

  I point to it. “He’ll have one of those.”

  I turn to Nico, watching his face pale as he sees what
I’m pointing to. “Does that even have coffee in it?”

  The barista shakes her head. “The freeze doesn’t, but the Banana Cream Pie Latte does.”

  Nico looks positively horrified.

  “Yeah,” I say excitedly. “He’ll have that one.”

  He covers his reaction with a totally fake smile. “YUM! Another winner!”

  “You’re so full of shi—”

  “Shih tzu!” Nico interrupts loudly, glancing at everyone in line behind us to make sure they heard his PG version of the word that almost slipped from my mouth. “She was going to say ‘shih tzu’! The dog breed.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t.”

  “You know,” Nico says diplomatically, “if you’re going to be choosing my beverage, I think it’s only fair that I get to pick your drinks from here on out too.”

  “That wasn’t part of the deal,” I say.

  He shrugs. “I’m changing the deal.”

  “You can’t change the deal.”

  “And you still can’t drive stick. Life’s a Bitcoin sometimes.” He grins at me, waiting for my praise of his new euphemism.

  “Did you just come up with that on the spot?”

  “Actually, no. I thought of it a while back. I’ve just been waiting for the right time to use it.”

  I sigh. “Fine. Whatever. Pick my drink.” I glance up to see the woman behind the counter staring at us like we just crawled out of a hole in the ground.

  Nico rubs his hands together as he studies the colorful blue-and-white menu with stylized pictures of giant red slushies, frozen espresso drinks drenched in chocolate syrup, and steaming hot cups of coffee nestled among a bed of artfully scattered coffee beans.

  “Alrighty. Today, Ali is going to be enjoying a . . .” He pauses for effect, stretching out his finger and running it up and down the board like he’s trying to build suspense. He stops and announces his pick. “A Cotton Candy Mocha!”

  My stomach rolls at the very sound of it, but I attempt to duplicate his nonchalance, painting on a smile and saying, “That’s exactly what I was going to order anyway.”

  Nico sees right through my charade. “That’s because I know you so well.”

  The barista makes our drinks, and we bring them back to the Firebird parked nearby.

  “Where are we meeting this guy with the typewriter?” I ask, taking a tentative sip of my mocha. It tastes like someone melted flavored sugar right into the cup and then poured a drop of coffee on it. I have to force myself to swallow.

  Nico sets his drink in the cup holder and swipes on his phone to check the e-mail again. “The Chetco Community Public Library. I think it’s only a five-minute drive from here.”

  “Even so,” I say, reaching out and plucking the phone right from his hand, “I think I better choose what we listen to next.”

  “Excuse me?” Nico feigns insult.

  “After that little stunt you pulled with the Fear Epidemic playlist, I don’t trust you with the listening selection anymore.”

  He chuckles. “Fair enough. What are you going to put on? Another podcast?”

  I scroll through one of his music apps, flashing him a smile that’s about as sugary as the mocha in my cup. “Maaaaaybe.”

  Realization dawns on his face. “Oh God! You’re going to put on the dentist music, aren’t you?”

  “Maaaaaybe.”

  He tries to snatch the phone back, but I pull it out of his reach. I press play on the song I was looking for and blast the volume.

  The next moment, a bubbly, synthesized melody filters through the phone speaker, sounding like the start of a bouncy workout video. It’s so loud, some of the customers still standing in line at Dutch Bros turn to look for the source of it.

  Nico covers his ears. “Gah! Make it stop!”

  “This is your punishment!” I scream over the music.

  The first verse kicks in, and the lead singer of my favorite British pop band starts singing excessively upbeat lyrics about being yourself and never giving up.

  Nico lets out another cry of agony. “I think my teeth are falling out! Shut it off!”

  “Nope.”

  He lunges for the phone again, but I keep it safely in my right hand, tucked between the seat and the door. Nico sprawls across the console, leaning right into my lap, his hands grappling for the device. When his fingers fail to reach the phone, they find my waist instead. He starts to tickle me. I squirm and giggle and thrash, nearly dropping the phone.

  “Stop!” I squeal.

  “Give me the phone!” He tickles me harder.

  “No!”

  I twist in my seat until my back is to him and try to jab him away with my elbow, but he leans even farther over the center console, his chest pressing against my back, his arms reaching around me.

  “Give it up!” I tell him. “You’re not getting the phone! You’re going to listen to this song and you’re going to like it!”

  He tickles me harder. Through my fits of giggles, I somehow manage to turn the volume up even higher just as the chorus revs up and all seven members of the band start singing.

  “No!” Nico cries. “There go my molars!”

  I turn around to flash him a self-satisfied smirk before realizing what a colossal mistake that was. Because suddenly his face is only inches away from mine. His lips are only inches from mine. His scent pushes its way into my nostrils. His gaze latches on to me. And for a brief moment, it’s as though we’re suspended in midair. Not crushed together on the passenger side of the car.

  If the gravity in the hotel room last night was an issue, it’s nothing compared to the gravity I’m experiencing right now.

  I try to block it out by pushing my thoughts back to the night of the comet. Back to the lies. The glove box. The heated words shouted at each other.

  But it’s no use.

  The memories won’t come.

  It’s like I suddenly can’t remember what we were fighting about. Ever. All I can remember is what was good about us. The shimmering cocoon. The playful banter. Nico’s eyes sparkling in the dashboard lights.

  Suddenly the music stops, and at first I think Nico somehow got hold of the phone. But then I realize it’s still clutched in my hand.

  BOOOOOOMMM

  The deafening sound of that foghorn ringtone blasts through the car.

  The one that caused Nico to freak out after we left Fort Bragg.

  The one signifying a text from Rachel.

  Nico’s eyes fill with panic, and he makes one last attempt to reach the phone. This time, however, it’s not a playful attempt. It’s a desperate attempt. It’s a real attempt.

  His hand dives into the crevice between the seat and the door and rips the device right out of my hand. He pushes himself back to his side of the car. His side of the world.

  And just like that, the spell is broken. My body stops thrumming. My heart stops pounding.

  BOOOOOOMMM

  BOOOOOOMMM

  BOOOOOOMMM

  Three more messages blare onto Nico’s phone. With the volume turned all the way up, they seem to vibrate the entire car. Like little bombs dropping onto the console between us.

  And just as he did before, Nico works frantically to delete them.

  The phone falls silent. And the shadowy pit descends around us once again. Making itself comfortable. Filling in all the empty spaces between us.

  “Another wrong number?” I ask, stealing furtive glances at Nico.

  For a long time, he doesn’t answer. He just stares blankly at the phone in his hand. His body is all hunched, his shoulders up to his ears, his head low. It’s a protective posture. He’s readying himself for another attack.

  When it doesn’t come, he tosses the phone into the compartment in the driver’s-side door and starts the engine. “Something like that,” he mutters.

  There was nothing official to mark the day Nico and I got together. No questions asked, no tiptoeing around labels, no hours spent agonizing with my best friend. Are we
or aren’t we? Is he or isn’t he?

  It just happened.

  One moment we were virtual strangers; the next we were a couple. And we both knew it. I walked away from that night at June’s party knowing, without any doubt or hesitation or common early-relationship insecurities, that I had a boyfriend.

  That’s all there was to it.

  I’ll always remember that day because it was the day the first foreclosure notice was pinned to our front door. I saw it before Mom did. She was still at work when I got home from school.

  I stood on the front porch and stared at that notice for what felt like centuries. I swore suns set and seasons changed behind my back, but that piece of paper refused to go away. I knew things had gotten bad. Mom never hid our declining financial situation from me. But I didn’t realize they had gotten this bad. Notice-on-the-front-door kind of bad. And I don’t think Mom did either. Because when she got home and I showed her the toxic piece of paper, she started to cry. Then, once she’d collected herself, dried her tears, put on her reading glasses, and read the fine print carefully, she assured me that there was nothing to worry about. This was just a warning. We still had plenty of time to set things right.

  That was back when she still had hope. Back when she was still convinced something miraculous would happen and we wouldn’t be kicked out of our house like squatters from a condemned building.

  That was before she gave up completely.

  June’s parents were out of town, and she was throwing a party that night in her junkyard. June lives on five acres, just outside of Russellville, and you can barely see the ground anywhere. Her family has lived there for three generations, and I don’t think any of them has thrown anything away in all of that time. So it’s basically like a hundred years’ worth of junk.

  But June’s junkyard parties were everyone’s favorites. There was always something new to discover—a new surface to dance on, a new centerpiece to talk about.

  I didn’t want to go. I called June to tell her what had happened and that I wasn’t feeling up to a party, but June refused to let me back out. She said this would make me feel better. It would get my mind off of things. It would give me something else to think about.

 

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