by Robin Reul
“It’s going to be weird driving by your house knowing you’re not there,” she says.
I can’t take it anymore. I take my hands off the yellow, plastic foosball handles and look her in the eye across the table. “What are we doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“This.” I motion with my hands between us. “This whole back and forth sort of flirting but not flirting even though we’re broken up, hanging out with me instead of being upstairs at the party. It’s really confusing.”
“I still care about you too, Jack. I just don’t want to be your girlfriend anymore.”
Ouch.
It’s suddenly claustrophobic being alone in this room with her, like she’s hogging all the oxygen. I pull my phone out of my pocket and make a show of checking the time.
“Holy shit! I didn’t realize how late it is.”
Her brow forms a V. “It’s like—barely nine-something at the most.”
“I should go.” I make my way toward the stairs. Natasha follows me up to the main floor and outside to the fresh air where I can breathe. I need to get in my car and drive away from here as soon as humanly possible.
“It’s not even midnight. You can’t leave before the snow,” she reasons.
“I’ll get plenty of snow in New York. I have to finish packing and get up early.” It’s a weak, transparent excuse because it’s grad night and my birthday and no one would ever say Screw this party in favor of packing and getting a good night’s sleep. But I really don’t care if she’s buying it.
“If you’re leaving because of what just happened, please don’t.”
“I’m not.”
I totally am, and we both know it.
“Okay, well can I walk you to your car at least?” she asks.
“Why?”
She looks at me incredulously. “Because you’re leaving, and I’m not going to see you for a really long time.” She says it more like a question.
We don’t speak a single word all the way down the long, tree-lined driveway until we reach my car and discover that the assclowns parked on either end of my vehicle have left a scant two inches between our bumpers. Plus, we’re on a hill, which makes it next to impossible to navigate out of the spot.
Are you fucking kidding me right now?
“No bueno.” Natasha frowns, eyeing my predicament. “I can give you a ride home… Let me text Ajay and let him know. I could take you to pick up your car in the morning before you go.”
I hold up both my hands in surrender. “Just—stop, okay?”
“Stop what?”
“This. Being so nice to me like we didn’t just break up.”
“Okay. I’m only trying to help.” She looks hurt, and naturally I feel guilty because this is what I do.
Every neuron in my brain starts firing at once. I don’t want Natasha to drive me back home. I don’t want to sit next to her in the car at this moment and act like everything is fine. I don’t even know if I want to go home. It’s early. But I do know I don’t want to be here.
“I’m fine. I downloaded an app for a new ride hailing car service today—GoodCarma. I wanted to try them out anyway. I can come back for the car in the morning like you said.”
I remember my backpack sitting in the trunk with the letter and my dad’s picture and my stuff inside it. I don’t want to leave it here, but I don’t want her to see me grab it because she’ll start asking questions, or worse, make fun of me for having brought it.
“I can totally drive you—it’s not a problem,” she offers again.
“No, I don’t want you to,” I say a little more forcefully than I intend, and she backs off at last. I try to smooth things over by adding, “Seriously—I can’t have it on my conscience that I made you miss the party. It’s the sort of thing where reputations are ruined, legends are born, and rumors are started, and you have a front-row seat. One of us should represent.”
I pull out my phone and make a show of thumbing through screens until I find the GoodCarma app.
“I can at least wait here with you until your ride comes,” she offers and rests her hand on her hip. She cannot take a hint.
“No, I mean it, go back to Cade.” I meant to say the party, but at that exact moment, a flash of Cade cozying up to her by the pool flits through my brain and the two words transpose themselves on the way out of my mouth. Natasha laughs and looks at me, confused.
“Why would I want to go back to Cade?”
“I don’t know why I said that.” I shake my head and decide if I’m opting for total humiliation, I might as well go all in. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Can you honestly stand in front of me right now and tell me there is absolutely nothing here?”
She breaks eye contact. It’s only for a second, but it’s enough to know I’m right. “Jack, don’t.”
I move my face to align with hers, so she has no choice but to look me in the eye.
“Why not? Simple yes-or-no question.”
“It’s complicated.” She shakes her head and looks away. “You’re the best guy I know.”
“I’m not quite sure what to do with that.”
“I told you. We’re going to college. This is the time in our life to experiment and have all these new experiences. I don’t want us to hold each other back from that.”
“No—what you’re saying is you don’t want me to hold you back from that.”
The noise of something crashing and breaking followed by “oh shit!” erupts from the house behind us. Our phones simultaneously buzz with a text from Ajay asking where we are because there’s a guy from the swim team who is totally shitfaced and is about to demonstrate the three techniques for shotgunning a beer.
“Well, you definitely don’t want to miss that. It sounds downright educational.” I pat her once on the back like a coach would to a player after a good play. “Seriously, you should go back to the party. We’re cool.”
She sighs. “I can’t not have things be okay with you.”
She’s used to getting what she wants, but for once, I can’t offer that. “That’s a double negative. Natasha—you can’t drop a bomb like that and expect me to just dial it back to the way things used to be overnight. Give me some time to catch up, you know?”
She nods and gives me a quick hug. I stand there like I’m a freaking statue.
As she backs away from me, she opens and closes her hand like she’s catching something in midair and crushing it—my heart maybe—then turns to walk back up the driveway.
So that was a shit show.
I’m grateful actually—she’s made this so much easier. At least I leave knowing the truth of it. It’s exactly what I should expect from a girl whose name spells Ah Satan backward.
I open the app and punch in Carly’s address. It asks for a destination.
Where doesn’t even matter right now as long as it’s not here or home. I just need a place where I can chill for a few hours and not need to run a tab; the people-watching can keep me entertained, and I’m unlikely to see anyone I know until the party slows down and I can get my car out.
A car passes, and the headlights illuminate two statues of greyhounds on either side of the black wrought-iron gates of the property across the street. It makes me think of the logo on a Greyhound bus.
The bus station would be perfect. It’s only about twenty or so minutes away—and definitely off the radar for anyone I’d know. I’m glad I thought to bring my journal and a pen at the last minute. I can find a bench and brainstorm ideas for the choose-your-own-ending novel I’ve been writing.
What if I actually jumped on a bus and went somewhere?
My mother would freak. I’m so busy enjoying the image of her potential reaction that I accidentally select the GoodCarma pool option, but whatever. It’s only
a car ride. My phone battery descends a percent and dips into the red as I am informed that my driver, Oscar, will be here in five minutes and is driving a yellow Kia Soul. Natasha’s car but in a different color. The universe is basically twisting the knife.
I grab my backpack out of the trunk and lean against my car, waiting. Moments later a sunshine-yellow Kia Soul with the image of a giant smiling Buddha and the words GoodCarma written on it rolls up alongside me. The o’s in Good are both yin-yang symbols. The dent in the front bumper does little to instill confidence about my immediate safety.
The driver rolls down his passenger window, and the strains of Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” spill out. He’s in his midtwenties with perfectly tanned skin and a smile straight out of a toothpaste commercial. His dirty-blond hair is slicked back into a man bun, and he peers at me over the brim of his thick, black plastic-rimmed Clark Kent glasses. Quintessential aspiring actor who drives a car and is also a bartender at some trendy hole-in-the-wall in Los Feliz hoping to cover all his bases and get discovered. Typical LA. He asks in a thick Australian accent, “Are you Jack Freeman?”
I nod. “Oscar from GoodCarma?”
He smiles and winks at me. “The very same. Any bags, mate?” He jerks his thumb in the direction of the trunk.
“Just the backpack. I can keep it with me,” I tell him. I make out the silhouette through the tinted glass of another passenger with short hair in the back. I open the door and duck my head as I climb in. As I’m looking down, I catch sight of my co-passenger’s shoes—black flats embroidered with the face of a cat, its two triangle-shaped ears standing up. I look up, curious to see the sort of person over the age of five who would choose this sort of footwear, and my mouth falls open like a fish.
It’s the girl—the one from this morning at the Pancake House, with the spiky, purple hair.
Chapter 5
Hallie
Friday, June 4, 9:10 p.m.
The car pulls up in front of a fancy house to pick up another passenger. I’m halfway to the bus station, and I’m getting cold feet. Literally, because I’m wearing the wrong shoes, and also because this is beyond irresponsible and a million and one things could go wrong.
And, to be honest, I’m kind of scared to see Owen. Aside from making me think about my own mortality when I’m feeling really vulnerable, can I honestly handle seeing him like that? Is this jumbled feeling in my gut just nerves or coming to my senses? There’s only a small window to make a choice here, so I’m hoping the universe will magically deliver an answer.
The driver jumps out to help the person with their bag, and then the passenger door opens, and a guy climbs in. But not just any guy—it’s Monosyllabic J.
His eyes dart to mine. They’re this cool shade of grayish-blue like the ocean after a storm. He smiles and says something, but I can’t hear him. I reach up and pull out my earbuds, raising my eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“I said ‘don’t panic,’” he repeats with a crooked smile.
I can’t say I’ve ever been greeted that way before. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”
He huffs a laugh, clarifying, “I was quoting a line from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I think I saw you this morning at the Pancake Shack reading it? I recognize your hair.” He gestures to my head.
“Right.” So he saw me too, but he doesn’t seem to recognize me from school. I narrow my eyes. “Does that line usually work?”
“What?”
“I’m messing with you. You looked terrified there for a minute.” I laugh and self-consciously curl a strand of hair behind my ear. “I remember. You’re the birthday boy. I didn’t recognize you at first without the condom in your hand.”
I can see him blush even in this dim light. “It was a gift. And technically it isn’t my birthday until eleven forty-seven, though I felt pretty confident the manager of the Pancake Shack wasn’t gonna ask to see my birth certificate.”
“Unlikely. She’s pretty trusting.” I smile knowingly. “I’m glad to hear that it’s actually your birthday and you weren’t just trying to get free pancakes. So many people have no problem lying for free stuff. There’s a guy who comes in every week and orders something, eats half of it, sends it back, and orders toast. Of course, it gets taken off the bill, so all he ends up paying for is the toast. They still serve him every time, but of course they know.”
“You go there every week?” he asks. “Impressive.”
“I go there every day.” I reach into my purse to pull out a stick of gum. I pop it in my mouth, wadding the foil wrapper into a ball and rolling it between my fingers. “My family owns it.”
“Wow, that’s cool. You must eat a lot of pancakes.”
“Actually, I hate pancakes.”
I take in the dream catcher hanging down from the rearview mirror along with a pair of red, fuzzy dice and a St. Christopher medallion. The two front cup holders are filled with piles of plastic-wrapped fortune cookies, like the kind they shove in your bag at Panda Express. In fact, I can make out the logo from here, and they are from Panda Express.
Oscar pipes up from the front seat as he pulls away from the curb. “Should take us about twenty-five minutes or so to get to the bus station. Traffic is light. I think a lot of people left on holiday early. Are you heading on holiday?”
Great. He’s a talker. Monosyllabic J and I look at each other and smile awkwardly and then both start to respond at the same time. “No, go ahead,” he apologizes.
I clear my throat. “Not exactly. I’m visiting a friend in Oregon, but it’s not actually like a vacation or anything so…”
“I hear they get a lot of rain up there. I have a mate in Portland. He owns a company that makes custom-scented inserts for shoes. They can smell like anything you want—freshly baked cookies, pineapple, roses—I mean they literally extract the scent of roses from the petals and incorporate it into the material of the liner. It’s fantastic. It’s a Kickstarter thing right now, but it’s genius. Who doesn’t worry about foot odor, am I right?” Oscar fans his fingers in front of his nose for emphasis.
Aaaaaaand now we’re all thinking about foot odor. I’d probably go with s’mores for my custom scent.
Monosyllabic J realizes we are both waiting for him to respond. “Ummmm—” he replies and then stops, either unsure how to answer or not wanting to.
Oscar laughs, shaking his hand in the air like he’s erasing his words. “Sorry, sorry, I ask a lot of questions. I’m a Virgo. Virgos tend to be inquisitive. You can tell me to bugger off.”
“No, it’s okay.” He seems to take a beat to consider it and then bobs his head. “I’m going to visit my brother in San Francisco.”
“No kidding! I’m heading to San Francisco tomorrow myself,” Oscar says with a smile. “Going to a wedding. My ex-girlfriend’s, actually. Nikki. I’m about to stop her from making the mistake of her life.”
“You’re stopping the wedding?” I ask and then look at Monosyllabic J, mouth agape.
“If I play my cards right, there’ll still be a wedding—just with a different groom.” He smiles and puffs out his chest, clearly proud of his plan.
“You’re breaking up her wedding and proposing to her? That’s very romantic. I didn’t think that kind of stuff happened in real life. At least—not to me.” Spoken like the true cynic I’ve become. I used to believe in all that stuff. Funny how someone can be interested, but then they find out I have an incurable disease and quickly disappear.
Oscar looks back at me in the rearview mirror and shrugs. “You can’t sit back and let life pass you by. Sometimes you gotta go all in, you know? Otherwise, what’s the point? The timing sucks though. The weekends are my busiest time, and I’ll miss the money.”
“Bummer,” Monosyllabic J replies with a nod. It falls quiet except for the sound of an old Katy Perry song turned low on the radio. He turns to me and says, “I once re
ad that Douglas Adams came up with the title for Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy while lying drunk in a field.”
Color me impressed. The boy knows his Hitchhiker’s trivia. “I heard that too. So, you’re a fan?”
“It’s definitely in my top five favorite books.”
“Mine too.” I feel a rush of excitement. The only other person I know who has ever read this series is Owen. My face lights up. “Arthur Dent’s life is like the perfect metaphor for the human experience. We’re all exactly like him: constantly traveling, roaming aimlessly about the universe, grappling to find our place in it.”
“Except we’re not hopping rides on stolen spaceships.”
I angle myself toward him slightly. “Do you ever wonder if maybe we’re just some alien teenager’s science fair project gone rogue?”
“Only all the time.” A huge grin spreads across his face. “Seriously, do I know you from somewhere? The fact that we’ve seen each other twice today…pretty weird coincidence, right?”
He doesn’t remember. “I don’t know… I think that sort of stuff probably happens all the time. Who knows how many times we’ve both been at the mall simultaneously or in the drive-through at Starbucks? Only today, we both happened to notice.” I pull at a loose thread on the ripped knee of my black jeans. “Also, we were in the same creative writing elective sophomore year. With Dawson?”
I watch the recognition register as Oscar chuckles and says, “You two know each other? That’s awesome!”
Monosyllabic J shakes his head, studying me. “Wow. You look really—”
“Different?” I self-consciously run my fingers through my short, spiky purple hair and wrinkle my nose, smiling.
“Yeah.”
His comment shouldn’t make me feel overly sensitive, but it does. I’ve changed so much from the girl I used to be that I’ve rendered myself nearly unrecognizable. I’m very aware I’m too thin, and I can’t freaking wait until my hair grows out. Cutting it all off was a mistake, but I wanted to try something extreme and completely different in the hopes that afterward I would feel different. All it did was leave me with purple dye stains in my bathroom grout and ten inches less of hair. I wonder what he thought of me before and am sure he thinks I look worse now.