The Way Back to You Page 10

  “You be careful, Kyle. You got that?”

  “I will.”

  “And by ‘careful’ I mean, be safe.”

  Suddenly, this conversation took a turn I wasn’t expecting. I groan. “I know what you mean and—”

  “And by ‘safe’ I mean, use protection.”

  “Dad, stop!” I’m almost yelling, but at the same time trying not to laugh. “It isn’t like that, okay?”

  “Maybe not. But you said the words ‘getting a motel’ to your father. Not to mention that Sedona happens to be the most romantic place in the country. I visited there a little less than eighteen years ago, met a pretty girl, and now I have a son. A son who might be going to Sedona with a pretty girl. See what I’m getting at?”

  The girl Dad met in Sedona (and who he moved away from Oregon and his family to be with, after he found out he’d gotten her pregnant) was my mom, obviously. But on the rare occasion when we talk about her, she’s just “Shannon.” I figure that a mother who was gone more than she was around, and who left without a real good-bye when I was ten, doesn’t get to be called “Mom.”

  Dad gave me this same “be careful” speech repeatedly when I was with Ashlyn, and there’s only one thing that will shut him up. “I’ll be safe,” I say. “I promise.” Across the parking lot, my passenger door opens, and Cloudy steps out. Lita’s done with her for now. Or vice versa. “Dad, Cloudy’s on her way over, so we should either get off the phone or you should stop talking about the sex that I’m not going to have with her.”

  He laughs. “I’ll let you go. But I want you to call me every day. And let me know if you need anything. And you should check in with your cousin. And be careful. And safe. And—”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  “Love you, Kyle.”

  “You too.”

  Cloudy approaches as I’m dropping my phone into my pocket. “How’d it go?”

  “He was pissed that I left without telling him, but he came around to the idea of me being gone for the rest of the week. He’s pretty easygoing most of the time. What about Lita?”

  “Not easygoing.” She flashes a grin. “But she won’t be a bigger problem than usual. I take it this was the cheapest motel you could find?”

  “Pretty much.” I gesture at the neon Welcome sign on the street, which advertises Vacancy/Color/Cable/Fridges/Suites/L.H.K./Pets O.K. “But more importantly, Arm is allowed here. What do you think ‘L.H.K.’ means?”

  “Love, hugs, and kisses?”

  “You think it’s that kind of a motel?

  She giggles.

  We follow the sidewalk to the front office, and as Cloudy pushes the door open, jingle bells on the handle announce our arrival. A customer is already at the counter, facing a clerk who’s behind a sliding window.

  We hang back several feet, breathing in flowery room spray over microwave popcorn and scorched coffee. I glance at the brochure stand that’s almost as tall as I am (6'1"), and displays more glossy pages of places to see and things to do than we could get to in a month. Golf courses, the Sacramento Zoo, Fairytale Town, the California State Capitol, the Governor’s Mansion, Old Sacramento, state parks. And then the museums: art, history, Native American culture, the railroad, automobiles. I never knew there was so much going on in Sacramento.

  When I was a kid and Shannon still lived with Dad and me, she once complained that she’d grown up in “the armpit of California.” As I got older, I wondered if she’d meant that it smelled bad, was sweaty and hot, or something else. I checked online to figure out which city she’d been talking about. Sacramento, Fresno, and Bakersfield came up in my searches as the armpittiest. After reading that, I’d assumed they wouldn’t be good places to visit.

  The man in front of us finally finishes at the counter, and Cloudy and I step forward.

  The clerk’s massive black mustache covers his mouth, but when he speaks, his bottom lip appears. “How can I help?”

  “Hi,” Cloudy says. “We’d like a nonsmoking room, please. With two beds.”

  “Sure thing.” The mustache lifts on both sides. “Just need a driver’s license and credit card for the reservation.”

  “I’ll get this,” Cloudy tells me as she reaches into her messenger bag and pulls out a small stack of plastic cards. She slides off the hair band holding them together and hands the clerk the two on top. His lip disappears again as he holds up the license in his left hand and types using only his right index finger.

  Cloudy’s so in charge here—like she rents motel rooms in other states all the time. The strangeness of the situation hits me yet again. I’ve never stayed in a place like this (Dad’s kind of picky), and I’ve never slept in the same room with a girl. (Ashlyn and I only “slept together” in the nonsleeping way. And she was always worried my dad would come home early, so taking a nap together or anything afterward wasn’t an option.) But this is real. I’m actually doing this, and it’s kind of a rush.

  The slow typing tapers off as the clerk squints at Cloudy’s license. “Sorry, kids. The person who reserves the room has to be eighteen or older.”

  Cloudy turns to me with her eyebrows lifted in surprise.

  “Neither of you is eighteen?” He holds the plastic out for Cloudy to take. “Then I can’t rent you a room. I’m sorry.”

  “Hang on,” I say. “Can I have my dad call to give permission? He’s fine with this. I just talked to him.”

  “Permission isn’t the problem. We need a person eighteen or over to sign for the room and stay in the room. If he can’t do that . . .” He shrugs.

  “We’re traveling from Oregon,” Cloudy says. “Alone. And we have nowhere to sleep. Can’t you make an exception? If his dad promises to be liable if we overflow the toilet or—”

  “Sorry,” he says again. “We need the contract signed in person. A minor’s signature isn’t binding, and I’m not taking the risk. Been burned too many times.”

  Cloudy’s shoulders sag as she tucks her things back into her bag and steps away. “What should we do?”

  No matter what, I’m not going home now. I ask the clerk, “Do you have any suggestions?”

  He keeps his eyes on his computer. “Try a youth hostel. Or some campground might let seventeen-year-olds rent a spot.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I say.

  Cloudy and I head back outside. “Stupid age discrimination,” she grumbles as we walk back to the car under the parking lot lights. “Do you want to try a hostel?”

  “Are you serious? Haven’t you seen that movie?”

  “Hostel? Yeah. So?”

  “So, I happen to like my Achilles tendons the way they are, if that’s okay with you.” I give an exaggerated shudder. “And my eyeballs. Say it with me, Cloudy. No hostels. Not ever.”

  She laughs. “Do you make all your decisions based on what happens to fictional characters?”

  “Not necessarily. But the thing is, in movies, fictional characters our age never have to show ID. This is uncharted territory.”

  “Real life loses this round.”

  “It really does. It’s kind of late, but we can buy a tent and find a campsite.”

  “Wait. You want to camp?”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh while she gapes at me, horrified. “You’ve lived in Bend your whole life. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of camping.”

  “I’m afraid of needing an osteopath before I’m legal. But sure, let’s sleep on the ground. It’s not like we were cramped up all day. Or better yet, why not sleep in the car?”

  I stare at the Xterra for a long moment.

  “Oh, no,” she says.

  Cloudy

  You’d be surprised how much action a twenty-four-hour Home Depot gets after midnight.

  A lot, it turns out, and enough to keep the Xterra—and the three squatters inside of it—unnoticed by security. For now.

  Shifting as quietly as possible, I scrunch my body into a tighter ball and shiver under my coat. Earlier, when he saw me messing with the passenger se
at’s adjustment handle, Kyle offered to stay up front while I took the cargo area. I turned him down, though. He’d just be origamied up where I am now, worse because he’s so tall, and I owe him a goodish night’s rest after driving all day. He also proposed that we share the back of the Xterra—with the backseat folded down, it’s big enough for the both of us. I brushed that off, too, and told him I kick when I dream, a cheerleader side effect. It’s a lie, but honestly, the image of Arm settled in safely between us, like our newborn or something, was too much.

  It’s weird enough being in the same cramped space as Kyle, but thinking that he and I have a cat baby is proof I’m close to the edge.

  I look out the sunroof—it’s steamed up like the other windows—and listen to Kyle breathe, in and out, evenly. The idea of sharing a hotel room with him seemed like a nightmare, but this is torture. Actually, being tortured with Kyle might be preferable to trying to sleep in this car with him. At least then I wouldn’t be wondering how it would feel to be next to him, to watch his chest rise and fall.

  I crane my neck to check the time on the dash—four thirty a.m.—instead of powering up my cell again. I’ve had enough phone trauma for tonight.

  Lita was practically foaming at the mouth when I spoke to her. And by the end of our conversation, I’d managed to convince her that:

  No, Kyle did not kidnap me.

  No, Kyle and I were definitely not eloping.

  Yes, this was all last minute, spur of the moment, unplanned, etc.

  Yep, Zoë will tell Coach that I won’t be at practice this week. Coach won’t be thrilled, but she won’t punish me for it, either. She’ll give me the Responsibility Lecture when I get back and her eyes will go soft in that way they have since Ashlyn died. Adults never let it go. They hold on to things like a brand, with them all the time. I see it in the way teachers treat me, even months later. As if I’m wearing a Dead Girl’s #1 Best Friend T-shirt. Not that it’s a bad thing, people handling you more carefully because you’ve had a shit time of it. But it doesn’t make moving on any easier when someone’s pinning you in one place.

  And finally, of course I would tell Jade that Lita said hi.

  I wasn’t serious about that last one, obviously. Since the drama threat level has been downgraded, Jade won’t ever know Zoë threw her name into this.

  My blood is still humming with residual aggravation. Yesterday was supposed to be easy. I didn’t have to worry about my parents since they were somewhere in the middle of the Pacific, and my pretend illness would’ve kept me off the radar at home for at least a couple more days. Except less than twelve hours into the trip, Zoë crumbled. From now on, the less I tell her, the better.

  It’s impossible to get comfortable, so I sit up to check over the backseat. The light from the lampposts ringing the lot is enough to show Kyle passed out like a pro, his head on the panda Pillow Pet. Arm is pressed to his bicep. After how he reacted to the email from Ethan’s mom, I’m relieved he’s taking this so well.

  But there’s been an undercurrent rippling through me. Ever since he agreed to see the other recipients. Dread or bitterness or something else that stretches my skin taut. I’d thought seeing Ethan was like having Ashlyn nearby. Now I realize it wasn’t—not at all. She isn’t nearby. The only parts of her that are still alive on this planet are inside of Ethan and the other recipients. They’re here because she isn’t; they’re with their friends and families, and she’s not. I’ll never be with her again.

  I inhale deeply, slowly breathe out.

  I punch my cloud-print pillow, fluffing it up.

  It’s the worst at night. When there aren’t daytime things to distract me, my thoughts always drift to Ashlyn. They creep in to catch me, drowsy and unguarded, but I chase them away before they gain any real ground.

  Arm’s supersonic ears must sense me moving around because she picks up her head.

  “Hey, kitty,” I whisper, carefully reaching over the seat to pet her with my pointer finger. “Some slumber party, right?”

  She yawns and stands, her tiny body vibrating as she arches into a stretch. Without hesitating, she leaps onto Kyle’s chest and curls up. He jerks awake immediately, then blinks down at Arm and up at the roof, before bending his head to catch me. The near darkness and quiet make it painfully intimate when he gives me a groggy smile. It’s a moment before it registers I should smile, but Kyle has already fallen back to sleep. The whole sky could fall on the Xterra and I’d be okay with that.

  Then my body temperature goes up a few degrees, and I consider smothering myself with my pillow.

  UNLIKE ETHAN, FREDDIE Blackwell isn’t debuting at any local playhouses. But his email did mention the street where his new house is, so after a few minutes of Google stalking, it wasn’t too hard to find him. Now all we have to sort out is what to do when we get there.

  At least we have time to work on a plan.

  “Palm Springs is, like, seven hours from here. We could be there by dinnertime,” Kyle tells me, tearing at the corner of a sugar packet for his coffee.

  Maybe it’s the sunlight coming in through the diner window, but Kyle looks awake. He’s zinging with a new energy this morning, excited to get the day started, despite the rumpled chic of wearing the clothes he slept in. We were both able to clean up in the Home Depot bathroom, but the store was unfortunately lacking in a menswear department. So our first stop on the way to Palm Springs will be a seriously needed shopping mall.

  It’s seven thirty and we’re at a diner that smells like coffee and bacon, and looks exactly like the diners everywhere else—chrome and vinyl, a long counter, and everything covered with a thin layer of maple syrup. It’s kind of nice. Cozy, even. Like this is any other Sunday morning and we’re having any other Sunday breakfast.

  Except there’s nothing really any-other about being here alone with Kyle and a cat in a duffel bag, sitting at a table that overlooks the Sacramento River.

  From the corner of my eye, I spot our waitress, Wendy, strolling back to our table. She’s probably around fifty years old, with her curly, dark hair tied back. Her bright red lipstick made me like her right away. “Ready to order?”

  After Kyle asks for the eggs Benedict and bacon, and I settle on an egg-white omelet, Wendy takes our menus and examines us. “You know, we usually don’t see anyone under retirement age here this early.” She gestures to her left, where a large group of older men are seated at the counter, bent over newspapers.

  “We haven’t been to bed yet,” I say. Kyle’s eyes narrow on me. He doesn’t want Wendy lingering because she might notice Arm, but I can’t help myself. “We’re celebrating.”

  Wendy braces a hand on the booth, near my ear. “Oh, yeah?” She smiles, curious. “Celebrating what?”

  I rest on my forearms, scooting forward, and point at Kyle. “My brother got into Harvard. Early decision.”

  Which is so clearly not true. Aside from Kyle not having a “plan,” neither of us can even apply to college for months.

  “Harvard!” she says to him, all giddy. Kyle, on the other hand, tosses her a queasy-looking smile while shifting to block the duffel beside him. He shoots me a discreet glare that could propel his knife across the table.

  “Yale, too, but”—I wave my hand—“everyone knows that place barely counts.”

  Wendy laughs. And while Kyle scratches his head, the distress in his expression shifts to challenge.

  “My sister’s being modest,” he says to Wendy. “Sitting right there? Miss Teen Royal Galaxy Cheerleader.”

  What a dick.

  I choke, unable to stop the grin that breaks across my face. When I notice Wendy eyeing me, a cheerleader with a title, I nod. “My Herkie is out of this world.”

  Wendy tilts her head. “I’m not sure what any of that means, but I better get those orders in. Don’t want to keep my most talented customers waiting,” she says with a knock on the tabletop.

  “It’s a cheer stunt,” I call to her back, then shrug at Kyle. “My
Liberties are even better.”

  “You’re out of control,” he says on an exhale.

  “Come on, Wendy bought it.” I take a sip of coffee, flattening my grin. “She might give us extra home fries now.”

  “Only in your mind could I get into Harvard.”

  “No kidding. ‘Miss Teen Royal Galaxy Cheerleader’? No Ivy Leaguer would ever quote Jacob Tamsin.”

  Kyle absently scratches at the light stubble across his jaw. “What was that all about, anyway? He said something about you winning a cheer award?”

  “It’s not an award. It’s just an interview in this cheer magazine.”

  “Just an interview?” he laughs. “You’re aware they don’t give those out to everyone, right?”

  “They might as well. It’s stupid.”

  He dips his head. “Is it the same magazine Ashlyn’s article was in? The one she wrote about you two?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say, tracing the scalloped edge of my paper place mat. “I think so.”

  I know so. Last year, Cheer Insider put out a call for stories about cheering with your best friend, and Ashlyn had been all over it. She’d submitted a short essay about how we’d been competing and cheering together since we were kids—with nothing but glowing things about me, she promised. It was a hideous coincidence that they published it the same month she died. When I saw the issue on Ashlyn’s desk, most likely placed there by her mom after it came in the mail, I tucked it into a drawer without ever flipping it open.

  “She was going to display it,” Kyle says, smiling again. “She had the frame all picked out.”

  I shake my head. “She must be so pissed she never got to use it.”

  Kyle pauses at that, then says, “Her mom stopped by my house one day to give me a copy. I was really glad to read it . . . you know, after. Weren’t you?”

  The coffee and cream have congealed in my stomach. “Totally.”

  “I read it more times than I could count at first. The way she wrote it was like listening to her talk. Like she was reading it out loud. I could even hear the weird way she pronounced ‘family.’ Faaamily,” he says, drawing out the As like a sheep would. “Where did she get that from?”