I feel the anxiety building now and know that an attack is coming. The fear creeps up my spine in little static bursts. A vise squeezes my lungs. How did she phrase it? “You need to find the good thing that makes the bad times worth it, and they don’t seem so bad.”
But what about now? What about when you can’t leave your house? When it’s just you and your brain and you don’t always get along because your stupid brain keeps pulling the fire alarm—
My phone buzzes. It’s Max. I start messaging her back and smile and I already feel better. And . . . yeah. What if it’s her?
Jonah: I am googling as we speak. Headset. Spinny chair. Stay tuned.
Max: I don’t even know if you’re joking anymore
Jonah: My chair really is pretty spinny
Jonah: P.S. Did he show you the Oscar??? Is it heavy? Please tell me you gave a mock acceptance speech. I would like to thank Jonah for his googling prowess . . .
Max: He didn’t have much to say other than he prefers stories with happy endings?? It was all very cryptic
I frown and start fishing with increasingly smaller nets: “Winter Robbins and Arlo Oxley,” “what happened to Winter Robbins,” “why is Arlo Oxley not happy about winning an Oscar.” (You never know how specific you can get. Turns out, not that specific.) And I see lots of stories about movies and some flat-out hate speech about them attending premieres together and . . . a lot of stories about HIV and AIDS in Hollywood.
But the stories are general, not about either one of them specifically. I look through their respective careers for clues and see that Arlo spent most of the late eighties and early nineties on international film sets. And Winter? He just disappears.
I find an article: “What Happened to Winter Robbins?” but the writer seems to legitimately have no clue. No obits. No honorary Academy Awards. He just . . . vanished. I eye the poster plastered on the wall above my bed. Winter’s flat eyes drift off to the side, hand resting on his revolver.
My mom loved the movie as much as I did. Winter was one of her favorite actors. She thought he was a dreamboat (her word, not mine). I always thought it was hilarious that my mom, the art curator, shared my love of gritty old Westerns. She said she loved the simplicity. The open canvas of the landscape. The characters with clear goals and priorities. The distinct split of good versus evil that was so much easier than real life. It’s partly why we were both so fixated on Winter’s line. “None of this matters anyway” seemed so . . . fatalistic. So un-cowboy-esque.
My theory was that even if it was an ad-lib, Winter meant that his character’s path to vengeance was doomed—nothing would bring back his burned farmstead or stolen herds. Mom didn’t like that. She was a perennial optimist, and she wanted the same from her cowboys. She thought it represented some grand insight . . . that all the feuds and gunfighting were unimportant. We had a million debates about it. It was our thing. Our big mystery. It feels even bigger now.
Speaking of which:
Jonah: I don’t suppose you asked Arlo about the line . . .
Max: He said it was Winter’s ad-lib, and that Winter was probably just venting. I guess he had some self-doubts about his acting or something? But apparently Winter is the one who wanted it to be included. Arlo didn’t know why but he said Winter was pretty insistent.
I squeal in excitement and almost open Reddit to share the news. But I fight the urge. I don’t know if Arlo shared that in confidence or not. It was also incomplete. Even if Winter was complaining about acting, as Arlo said, and it had nothing to do with the story, why did Winter push for it to be in the final movie? What was he trying to say by leaving it in? That was what Mom and I wanted to know. But maybe only Winter himself can answer those questions.
I think back to our nights watching Greed and Glory. Mom mouthing all the words, her face flashing blue in the TV’s light. I feel a wave of grief. Stomach squeezing. Pressure behind the eyes.
I push the thoughts away, focusing instead on the cowboy. The mystery. Arlo. Max.
Jonah: Well this is a dilly of a pickle
Max: You know . . . I often check to make sure I’m not texting an elderly client
Jonah: Sorry. I will start using more dudes and bros
Max: How about buddy?
Jonah: . . .
Jonah: My radar could be way off here, but am I sensing some hostility?
Max: No
Jonah: . . .
Jonah: OK . . .
Max: OK
Max: I’m just saying that, for the record, I didn’t think we were, like, a thing.
Jonah: A thing?
Max: I didn’t think we were, you know, talking
Jonah: But we are talking. That’s what we’re doing right now
Max: Not talking. TALKING talking.
Jonah: Is this a weird autocorrect situation or . . . ?
Max: I just think it was a little presumptuous to think you needed to “buddy” me or else I’d get the wrong idea.
Jonah: Wait, you think, *I* buddied *you*?
Max: Trust me, it’s not like I was sitting around doodling your initials on my folder
Jonah: I know. I’m totally aware that your doodling is reserved for Rick Hutton. I’m not trying to interfere with that. I swear.
Max: What are you talking about?
Jonah: Oscar winner, Arlo Oxley, knows about the apparently famous Rick Hutton. I did not know about Rick Hutton, but I get it. We’ve hung out once. It’s not like I’m going to know about every Rick Hutton in the world.
Max: . . .
Max: . . .
Max: I’m going to say this thing and you might be like: whoa, I don’t care, didn’t even ask. But . . . Rick’s not famous to me anymore. He’s D-List. C-List at absolute best. We grew up together and yes, I’ve known him since the third grade, and yes, we dated. For two years. But that’s it.
Jonah: That’s . . . it?
Max: And you *do* know about Rick Hutton. Stage name: the emoji bandit.
Jonah: The emoji bandit is a guy you dated for two years?
Max: It’s kind of humiliating.
Jonah: So . . .
Max: So what?
Jonah: So does this change anything? I mean there was my formal introduction
Max: What introduction
Jonah: You introduced me to Arlo as—and I quote—JUST a friend
Max: I did not say JUST
Jonah: Oh there was a just
Max: But it wasn’t capitalized
Jonah: . . .
Jonah: . . .
Max: I have to run. A new order just came through.
Thirty minutes later, I open the front door to Max Mauro standing on my driveway, groceries already on the porch.
Okay, so I totally pretended I wasn’t waiting for her. And I wouldn’t have come out to see her. Honestly. It was already kind of a questionable tactic and yes she approved the order, but that didn’t mean she wanted to see me. So I just quietly sat at my desk and stalked a 1980s film cowboy like a normal young man.
I was sort of freaking out that she would drive away without sending me a delivery confirmation text, which, ironically, would confirm an awful lot, but then, instead:
Max: Hello (I’m here)
And then I ran for the door like a maniac. And she is here, at my house, standing halfway down the driveway.
“You literally ordered while we were still talking,” she says, but not like she’s mad.
“Yes. But it’s for a good reason. I have updates.”
She doesn’t hightail it to her car, which I take as a sign that I have her attention, or maybe that she even slightly wanted to see me too.
“So, Winter Robbins falls off the map sometime in the late eighties,” I report.
“He d
ied?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe went into hiding? Maybe just quit Hollywood and became a real cowboy. I have theories. But worry not—my internet sleuthing has only just begun.”
She chews on her bottom lip. “Is this weird? Should we drop it?”
“Possibly. But to be honest, I kind of need something to do right now. And, I don’t know, it seems like a good time to do something . . . nice.”
I don’t say the rest. About how finding Winter Robbins feels like a connection to Mom right when I lost Esprit Brillants. How much she would love the idea of finding a link to one of her favorite film stars right in our own backyard. Or how maybe one love story can lead to another. After all, if Max and I have something to do together—like find Winter—then it would only be natural for us to keep talking, right? And then, if all goes well, maybe Max and I can—I don’t know, just spinning ideas here—ride into the sunset. Except six feet apart and on bicycles.
“We’re going to kick 2020 right in its soul-crushing balls.” I pluck the mega-size cherry blasters from the bag, where they’re nestled between three bags of chips and a two-liter cola. “Oh, and thank you.”
“I have grave concerns about your nutrition,” she mutters.
“Totally justified,” I say, popping a candy into my mouth and making what must be a really not attractive shit this is sour face.
I take a step toward her, not thinking, and she takes a step back.
“I’m watching you,” Max says.
“Of course.” I cup my hand like a loudspeaker. “Are we far enough away?!”
“Probably not!” she shouts back.
I can see my neighbor across the street, the chain-smoking Mrs. Clodden, frowning at us from her front porch while she singlehandedly puts a hole in the ozone layer.
“I really did have fun the other day!” I say, still shouting.
“So did I! Even though I did all the work. Typical!”
“I’ll plan something better for next time! I promise!”
Her eyebrow is like a built-in question mark.
I feel my heart dropping. Play it cool, Jonah. “Virtually! Whatever! How about tomorrow!”
Yeah, my voice is really pitch-y now. I spot more of my neighbors watching us from their verandas, most of them sixty-five-plus and living on a neurosurgeon’s 401(k) or something. Max looks around, and she must see the spectators too, because she lowers her voice . . . slightly.
“I’m busy!”
“The next day!” I say, still shouting. That’ll show the neighbors you’re not crazy, Jonah.
“I’m kind of always busy!” She screws up her face like she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do with me other than laugh—with me, at me, does it matter?
“I like you, Max!”
Max goes red. “I . . . better get going.”
She isn’t shouting anymore.
Uh-oh. The joke is over. The moment is over.
I feel my stomach fall through my socks as Max opens her car door, ready to hop in.
Then she pauses, glancing back at me.
“I like you too,” she says. Her eyes go up over me to my house, to my window with its big blue words fading in the afternoon sun, and she smiles in a way I can’t quite read and says, “But . . . from here.”
chapter nine
MAX
I know there’s a thing with teenagers about an empty house—keg parties, illicit sex, smoking weed—but let me just say that most of the time, it’s not that great. Actually, it kind of sucks.
The most conversation I’ll have with my mom today is this note stuck to the refrigerator with a gas station magnet. I peel it off. We both have terrible penmanship and are the only two people on the planet who can consistently read each other’s handwriting. It’s sort of like having a secret code. Sometimes we’ll leave notes about the characters in our building. She might write: Weird guy with the pet snake has a girlfriend! Other times about work: Found CIA badge in Ms. Landon’s coat pocket. Secret agent? We spent a lot of notes plotting where we would buy a second home if we were rich. My choices: English countryside or Aspen. Hers: Bahamas or Sonoma. But today the note just says:
Need $100 to cover electric.
I read it twice and turn it over to look at the back because I’m half thinking this note is garbage—something that was dug out of the back of my closet from three years ago and got stuck on the fridge by accident. Only I’m not sure how that would happen. The more likely scenario is that this note is real.
And the sensation of a cold finger running the length of my spine is that niggling “what if” trying to worm its way to the surface. Like: What if that old saying is true? What if history is destined to repeat itself?
My eyes travel the apartment. The old bookcase with my mom’s paperbacks, white lines creasing their spines. The cool rug in the living area, the only one my mom and I could finally agree on and that fit in our price range and that therefore we both believed was some sort of very specific miracle rug sent from god because, like Imani’s grandmother Sweets says, he does act in mysterious ways. And our new couch from Ashley Furniture that only took us six months of payments before it was 100 percent ours, free and clear.
And I try to remind myself that these are all proof that our life’s different now, that we are okay, that the thing that happened before isn’t going to happen again. Because we worked hard and we got ahead.
I click the mobile app to the bank account I opened as soon as I got my first job at fifteen. It’s linked to our family account, just in case, and in two years, there hasn’t been a case, an instance where we’ve needed to dig into my personal funds. But, if the last week of a worldwide pandemic has made me think about anything, it’s how one case can quickly become a whole lot more. But this is different. I punch in my password and push the money over in one go.
We’re in this together, I remind myself. I’m bigger and older now. They can’t take me away again.
Jonah: So Winter Robbins wasn’t his real name. Shockingly. It was really Ernest Ralph Robbins.
Max: I have to say: he definitely upgraded.
Jonah: And I found out where he was born: Miami.
Max: They don’t even have a real winter.
Jonah: Exactly. The average temperature in Miami in January is 79. Even we don’t get that.
Max: What else?
Jonah: Did I mention the average temperature in Miami?
Max: Jonah! You tracked me down in like five minutes with just a first name and that’s all you’ve got?
Jonah: OK that was 99% Olivia and it was still like an hour.What’s our end game here anyway? Like what if we find Winter? What then?
Max: I don’t know. I just keep getting the feeling that Arlo is lonely and I hate that. I guess . . . is it a total invasion of privacy to want to find Winter and try to reconnect them?
Jonah: You want him to have a happy ending, don’t you? OMG, do you like rom-coms? You love rom-coms, don’t you? This is so unexpected.
Max: OK. Fine. I love rom-coms!
Jonah: Exclamation point! You know, I like you even more now that I know you’re really just a sentimental, hopeless romantic in disguise
Max: Sure you don’t want to put that in all caps? That seems more your style.
Jonah: Au contraire. See the problem is that I usually play everything so cool. Like: what’s he thinking? He’s such an enigma. What an international man of mystery. So that’s why I took it upon myself to *shout* my feelings at you in my driveway.
Max: Oh so it was a public service. That’s why you made it so . . . public. I see.
Jonah: Can I ask you a serious question
Max: . . .
Jonah: In the interest of clarity, your answer was meant to imply *emotional* distancing, not just social . . . right? i.e. I like you OVER THERE
Max: Wow.
Jonah: Do girls still like confidence?
Max: You better hope not.
Max: *social* distancing. But just in the interest of clarity
Jonah: So like six feet apart outside? That kind of thing?
Max: In theory . . .
Jonah: Great! I have the perfect spot. Jazz hands.
Max: Wait
Jonah: Coordinates to follow.
Jonah: Don’t wear heels.
Max: What about a cocktail dress?
Jonah: Let me think.
Jonah: OK, yes, that’s acceptable. I’ll see you soon.
* * *
• • •
By my calculations, there’s a less than zero percent chance that Jonah Stephens is planning on murdering me.
I mean, he didn’t seem like a serial killer, but I hear that’s sort of serial killers’ whole plan. Contrary to what teen slasher flicks would lead one to believe.
Honestly, though, I could use a distraction. I’m still sticky from the end of my shift, not to mention a hundred dollars poorer. Wisps of hair cling to my forehead and the back of my neck as I follow the virtual pin that’s been texted to me. There’s no one around. It’s like someone has turned the world upside down and shaken out all of its people. The shadows grow long across the sidewalks while my flip-flops slap at my heels.
“Arrived,” says a soothing voice from my phone.
I survey the potential crime scene, which, in fact, looks like it could be an actual crime scene. Limp yellow caution tape wraps pathetically around the perimeter of an empty playground. Dome-shaped jungle gym, dangling swings, merry-go-round, blue slide. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to one of these.
“Bonjour.”
It’s then that I see Jonah sitting on top of the monkey bars, shoes dangling off one side. He looks less Jonah-y, but in a good way. Like maybe he’s decided to go wild and unbutton his top button, that sort of thing.
I cross the spongy mulch to look up at him. “Are you sure we should be doing this? It looks kiiiiind of off-limits.”
Hello (From Here) Page 7