Hallie
Friday, June 4, 10:16 p.m.
I emit a single laugh and look at him like he’s just suggested we fly on a spaceship to the moon. “Drive to San Francisco? With you and Oscar the GoodCarma driver we met less than an hour ago? And you were worried about me going to visit some boy I’d met online because I might end up on Dateline?”
“Yes.” He moves his backpack aside and sits down on the bench, angling toward me. “Hear me out. San Francisco is more or less halfway to Medford. Since we’re both heading north, we might as well keep each other company. You could get your ticket changed to leave from there on a morning bus to Portland which would still probably get you there before this one would, and you’ll have a story to tell.”
He’s actually serious. I don’t even know how to respond. Aside from the fact that he and Oscar are basically strangers, most of my money is wrapped up in my bus ticket, which I’ll still need, and my funds are limited. I can’t risk taking on more.
I tell him, “I could barely afford my ticket as it was. I didn’t budget for any extra expenses.”
“There wouldn’t be any,” he assures me. “Like I said, I’m already going there. You’re basically just freeloading. Besides, your fortune did say something about accepting the next proposition you hear, right?”
I laugh. It’s a generous offer, and it definitely increases the odds I will get to see Owen before it’s too late, which is not a guarantee otherwise at this point. “So, if I go and you turn out to be a serial killer and they find my bits in a shallow ditch on the side of I-5, I can sue Panda Express.”
“Exactly. Well, maybe not you, because you’d be dead.”
“Right.” I study him for a minute, then say, “Can I ask you a question? And you can be totally honest with me. I won’t say anything.”
“Yes, I have never missed a single day of school since kindergarten. I’m that guy. The rumors are true.”
“Impressive, though not quite where I was headed.”
“Not sure what else it could possibly be,” he jokes.
I tilt my head and narrow my eyes, trying to figure him out. I’ve noticed little details that on their own look like nothing, but together they add up enough that I have questions, if not theories. Normally, I’d say it’s none of my business, but if I’m going to consider keeping company with him for the next six hours, it seems reasonable to know what I’m getting myself into. I ask him, “Truth: Does anyone know where you are right this minute?”
He laughs, but I can see the question catches him off guard. It’s obvious my gut was correct and I’m on target. “Why would you think that?”
I shrug. “Just a vibe. I’m pretty good at reading people. You’re sitting in a bus terminal alone on grad night. You’ve checked your phone about a million times. And you’re wearing your hoodie inside out, which, unless it’s a fashion statement, means you’re distracted. I think there’s more to your story.”
He bites back a smile. “You’ve really Scooby-Doo’d this, Velma. You’re here. So, does that mean there’s more to your story?”
“Of course.”
He reaches back, feeling for the exposed tag and blushes as he casually rights his sweatshirt. “You’re right. Nobody knows where I am right now, but that’s because I didn’t even know I was going to be here.”
“I see.”
“I’m supposed to be leaving for New York tomorrow to start this internship and then college in the fall, but a lot has changed since I made those plans. I’m hopeful that seeing my brother may be the key to making sense of it all. I didn’t even realize how important it is to me to go visit him until I saw you tonight. Since we both need to get from A to B, I thought it would be cool if maybe we went together. I mean—to San Francisco. Not to see my brother, obviously.”
“Oh. Wow. That sounds intense.” He seems harmless, but I still sense there’s more he’s probably not telling me. Of course, there’s plenty I haven’t told him.
He looks at me encouragingly. “Whaddaya say?”
Everything in me wants to, but my brain starts coming up with all the logical and obvious reasons why I shouldn’t. I can’t simply jump in a car with two guys I’ve basically just met, although technically it’s not all that different than hopping on a bus with fifty complete strangers. He actually looks a little surprised, if not disappointed, when I reply, “I’m sorry. I can’t. But thank you.”
“Oh. Sure. I understand,” he says. He grabs his sideburns and pulls them straight on either side of his head and smiles. “It’s my hair, isn’t it? I know—it’s way too long and does this flippy thing over my ears.”
“That’s it, you got me.” I laugh. “Plus, I never trust a guy with a side part.”
“I knew it.”
“It’s nothing personal.”
“Sure, I get it.” He stands and reaches for his backpack, sliding his arms through the straps. “Well, Oscar should be here any minute, so I should probably go wait for him out front.”
“It was nice seeing you again, Jack. Safe travels and good luck.”
He smiles and gives me a little salute before he turns on his heel to leave. “Yeah, you too.”
I open my book again, trying to focus on the words, but I steal another glance at him, his back to me as he pushes open the door a little harder than necessary and exits the terminal. Just like that, Jack Freeman disappears all over again.
As the minutes pass, I start second-guessing my decision. I may not know Jack, but there’s a familiarity about him that makes me feel safer traveling with him versus being alone. And if seeing Owen is important to me, this could be my best, if not only, shot at making that happen. From the sound of it, I’m not going to be on a bus anytime soon.
I’m tired of factoring in what everyone else might think, playing it safe, and letting fear control me. I want to make my own decisions and not have to answer to anyone else for them. On the heels of all this upsetting news, I have never needed to feel more alive and in control. I can’t let fear win.
I think about what my fortune cookie from earlier said about accepting the next proposition I hear. Maybe it’s a sign.
Before I can talk myself out of it again, I’m up out of my seat, hoping I’m not too late.
He’s leaning against the wall outside the terminal, checking his phone while he waits for Oscar. I yell, “Hey!” as he, along with everyone else in the vicinity, looks my way. He breaks out into a smile.
I drag my Hello Kitty suitcase noisily behind me as I catch up with him. I blow my bangs out of my eyes and tell him, “I hear messing with a fortune cookie fortune is like seven years bad luck or something.”
“I’ve heard that too,” he replies as he shoves his phone in his pocket. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
“I think it does.” I smile and add, “In fairness, I believe I should provide full disclosure. No one knows where I am at this moment either, and I’m guessing we both have our reasons for wanting to keep it that way. Therefore, I’ve changed my mind, and I’d like to take you up on your offer if you’re still offering.”
“I am.”
I tip the handle of my suitcase toward him, an act of trust. “Watch my bag for a sec so I can change my ticket.”
The conversation flows from the minute we get into Oscar’s car. I have to say: in all the scenarios I’d run through my mind about what this night would be like, spending it driving to San Francisco and baring souls with Jack Freeman from creative writing class was definitely never one of them. Life is full of surprises. Perhaps not all of them bad.
Despite the rumored traffic snarl because of the fires, the freeway out of downtown LA moves surprisingly well at this hour. As we change lanes to merge onto the 101, Jack turns to me and asks, “So do you still write poems?”
“No. I haven’t written poetry in a long time. I wasn’t very good at it anyway.”
“Don’t say that—I remember your poetry was—”
“Depressing as hell?” I laugh, and he joins because we both know they were pretty dark.
“I was going to say intense.”
“Right.” I grin and tuck one leg underneath myself to get comfortable. “You are too kind.”
“I thought they were really good.”
“Thanks. How about you? Are you still writing?”
“Yeah, I’m working on something that could turn out to be pretty cool. We’ll see.”
“Is it a novel or short story or…?”
“It’s an idea I’ve been playing around with for a while. It’s—um, a choose-your-own-ending novel.” He seems to brace himself for my reaction—a laugh, a look, some indication that I think it’s a silly idea.
“You write for kids? Nice.”
“Actually, it’s for adults. I think it’s an untapped market. A story doesn’t have one de facto ending. That’s not realistic. The outcome hinges on the series of decisions that preceded it. You alter one thing and everything that follows changes. The reader is in total control of the story at all times. There are multiple stories within every story, so it has the ability to span every genre. It’s limitless.”
“I’d read that,” Oscar says.
I nod in agreement. “I like it. So, what’s it about?”
“It’s about this guy and girl who meet at this Coachella-esque music festival. She gives him this package to hold and says she’ll be right back, but then she disappears. Then there’re all these mishaps, and all these other people want what’s in the box, and they have to figure out how to find each other again.”
“So, depending on the choices you make, they find each other, or they don’t?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
“I can see the tagline now: ‘Happily ever after rests in your hands,’” Oscar says in a dramatic announcer voice, and we all laugh.
“That sounds really cool,” I tell him. “So, what’s in the box?”
“If I tell you that, what would be the point of reading it?” he jokes, raising his eyebrows. “There’s some details to still work out, but yeah, we’ll see what comes of it.”
“Are you going to be a writing major then?”
He shakes his head. “Biological sciences.”
I nod. Not surprising it’s something brainy. “Where are you going to college?”
“Columbia University.”
“That makes sense.”
He laughs. “Why is that?”
“I remember you. You were the kind of guy who filled your free periods with extra science and AP classes, joined all the right clubs, and were on a first-name basis with the entire faculty including the janitors. I’d even go so far as to bet you probably had your entire high school schedule figured out before you even went to freshman orientation.”
“On behalf of all supersmart kids who take extra science and AP classes everywhere, I’m pretty sure I should be offended,” he tells me. “Also, Phil was not just a janitor, he was a mentor.”
I smile and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s not a bad thing. I’m just saying it was unusual to see someone like you in a throwaway elective like that when you could be building a satellite or learning Mandarin for fun.”
He winces. “Ouch.”
“It’s a compliment?” As if that wasn’t obvious.
“Oh.” He smiles. “I didn’t actually look at it as a throwaway elective. In fact, it was probably my favorite class.”
“Mine too. Well, Columbia sounds exciting.”
He nods. “I guess. My dad went there, and the idea of my going there meant a lot to him. It means a lot to me too, but… I don’t know. I’ve been working toward going to Columbia and doing this internship this summer for so long, and now that it’s happening, there’s a part of me that wonders if it’s what I even truly want. Columbia represents everything my dad was and who everyone expects me to be, and I want a chance to define myself on my own terms. I don’t know that I can do that there without feeling like I’m being measured against him. It’s a lot of pressure. So it’s got me thinking, is all.”
I nod. “Basically, you’re in a real-life choose-your-own-ending novel featuring you as the protagonist.”
“Ballsy,” Oscar pipes up.
I draw invisible spirals on my thigh with the edge of my thumbnail. I’m sure whatever Jack’s grappling with is very real for him, but our lives are so different. His is filled with opportunity and options. Jack is waffling about having to go to one of the finest universities in this country, and meanwhile I’d kill to go to any college.
It bothers me when people who have everything don’t realize how they sound to someone who has nothing. Normally I would tell him to check his privilege, but he seems like a genuinely nice guy; I know he’s not consciously trying to be an entitled jerk. I don’t know the whole story.
“So, are you considering not going then?”
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t.”
He huffs a laugh. “How about you? Are you headed to college too?”
“No, maybe someday. For now, I have work, and it’s just too hard with my schedule. It can be hectic sometimes,” I tell him without getting into the details. I change the subject and bring it back to him. “So, if you didn’t go to Columbia, what would you do?”
He shakes his head side to side, as if weighing his options. “At the moment I am plan-lite. I have no idea. This is all sort of developing minute-by-minute.”
“And when you think about it, isn’t that the way it should be? Whatever you want to do should be based on who you are and what you’re vibing with in that moment.”
“Totally.”
I root in my purse and pull out the water bottle he bought me earlier. As I raise it to my mouth to take a sip, my engraved, silver chain bracelet edges out from underneath the cuff of my flannel shirt.
He squints, trying to read the three words etched on the metal band joined to the chain.
“Alis volat propriis. She flies with her own wings,” he says. “Nice.”
“You actually understand that?” This impresses me more than his getting into Columbia University.
“I self-studied for the Latin AP.”
Of course he did.
He smiles, and he gets this cute little dimple right where he showed me the lollipop stick impaled him. His earnest nerdiness is disarming. I always felt inadequate by comparison to kids like Jack who consistently went above and beyond while I was simply trying to get through. I worked my ass off for my grades, and it all seemed to come so effortlessly for them. I’m plenty smart, though it was never reflected in my grades, and then at some point, I stopped caring because it didn’t matter the same way. College wasn’t on the radar anytime soon. I often wonder what I might have done differently, how my life might have been if I hadn’t gotten sick.
“I could try to impress you with saying that’s how I know this phrase too, but the true story is I actually found it on a Pinterest board, and it resonated with me,” I tell him.
“In my defense, Latin, along with Greek, is the language of medical terminology, which is why I learned it. My parents figured it would be helpful,” Jack tells me.
I rub the metal strip on my bracelet between my thumb and index finger. “I made this. I like making jewelry. This is my mantra right now. It’s kind of like saying I want to live my life on my own terms. I think you just have to reach that point where the alternative is unacceptable.”
He leans in closer, inspecting my handiwork. He points to the two wire-wrapped stones on either side of the band. “It’s pretty. What kind of stone is that?”
“Tourmaline. For protection from negative energy and spiritual grounding,” I tell him. “I’m a big believer in the energy of stones.”
I wonder if he’ll think that’s way too crunch-granola New-Agey, but he actually seems interested, and we end up having a long discussion about the meanings and healing properties of different stones. We continue talking until we’re way out in the country, well past Santa Barbara. The headlight beams from passing cars are the solitary source of light slicing through the darkness.
The song “Dancing Queen” by ABBA comes on the radio, and I ask Oscar to turn it up a little. It’s one of those tunes that I can’t help but sing along with when it comes on. It always puts me in a good mood.
Oscar starts belting out the lyrics, and then Jack and I join in. The three of us are singing at the top of our lungs and laughing because all of us are slightly off-key, which only makes it more awesome.
When it’s over, Jack says, “My friend Natasha loves that song.” He pulls out his phone, checks for texts, and clicks it off again with a smirk as Oscar and I discuss what current musicians will stand the test of time and one-hit wonders of the last decade. Jack leans his head against the glass, looking out the window, lost in thought. I can tell by the look on his face that he’s definitely reacting to not hearing from someone. He reminds me of how I was after my ex-boyfriend Ryan and I broke up.
“So is Natasha the girl?” I ask.
Hearing me say Natasha’s name seems to take him by surprise. “What girl?”
“The one who has you staring all melancholy out the window and checking your phone every five minutes.” I grin. His cheeks flush. Busted. “I notice small details. C’mon—it’s a long car ride. We have to talk about something. I’ll tell you my deep, dark secrets if you tell me yours. Who can I tell that would even care?”
“With an offer like that, how can I refuse?” He tucks his phone back in his pocket. “She’s my ex-girlfriend. As of today, actually. We were friends first, and then we dated for around a year and a half, but it didn’t work out.”
“Unless she’s the one and you’re letting her get away,” Oscar interjects. “And then you spend the rest of your life comparing everyone to her and realize you should have fought harder for her to stay.”
“That’s actually not making me feel better,” Jack replies.
“It’s hard to go back to being friends once you’ve crossed that line,” I tell him. Thinking about Ryan stings a little even though we broke up two years ago. Not because I still care about him, but because it still bothers me how I gave my heart so freely to someone who didn’t deserve it. “Sometimes severing ties is the best thing.”
“Did you know that love has similar effects on the brain as cocaine?” Jack offers. “And a breakup, on a chemical level, has a lot of the same side effects as drug withdrawal.”
“That makes total sense,” Oscar says. “Love is science. I was never any good at science. Always a drama kid.”
A patch of lights crops up in the distance, and I realize how badly I need to pee, stretch my legs, and find caffeine. The feeling is unanimous. Oscar tells a funny story about the time he played a barista in a TV spot for urinary incontinence. Laughing while talking about peeing only makes me have to pee more.
I make out a CHEVRON sign as it comes into view on the horizon, and Oscar accelerates the car ever so slightly. By the time we pull into the gas station and Oscar rolls up to the pump, I’m gripping the door handle, ready to jump out.
The lights around the perimeter of the buildings cast everything in a soft, tangerine glow. The air is brisker than I anticipated. Jack and Oscar trail right behind me to the mini-mart where we obtain the restroom keys and then divide and conquer.
When I’m finished, I wait for them inside the warmth and fluorescence of the mini-mart. I pour myself a cup of coffee that the attendant assures me is fresh despite how it looks and the fact it tastes like the bottom of the La Brea Tar Pits. After I doctor it with enough creamer to make it semipalatable, I peruse the snack aisle, assessing my mood: Bugles or Pringles, Mike and Ikes, or M&M’s.
Jack comes up alongside me and reaches for a Kit Kat. Always a good choice. He glances at the clock on the wall and says, “It’s well past midnight, which means my birthday is officially over. I’d always felt ripped off as a kid because my actual time of birth was eleven forty-seven, so it was only my actual birthday for thirteen minutes before it was an entirely different day.”
“Happy belated birthday,” I tell him as I settle on M&M’s. Plain. No, wait—peanut. No—plain.
He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a candle. It’s broken in half, held together by the wick. It looks familiar.
“Is that the candle from our restaurant?” I ask as I swap the M&M’s for a Milky Way.
“Yeah.”
“I thought so. I picked those out. I liked the rainbow stripes.”
“They’re very festive.”
“Your candle has seen better days.”
“It still works though. I’m thinking I could cut the wick at the broken part and get two wishes out of it.”
“This is exactly the sort of out-of-the-box thinking that got you into Columbia, no doubt,” I kid as I toss the subpar coffee and grab a fresh bottle of Evian water out of the adjacent cooler. “Did you ever notice that Evian spells naive backward? Which explains why they get away with charging like, two bucks for a bottle of this stuff.”
“Do you think a birthday wish can still come true if it’s not actually your birthday?”
“I’m sure there’s some sort of grace period,” I assure him.
He spots a two-pack of Hostess chocolate cupcakes on the shelf and reaches for it, then holds the package up in one hand while dangling the broken candle in the other. “Then we should celebrate. I have two cupcakes and an extra wish. Plus, it’s my birthday, so it would be bad form to say no.”
We make our way to the register with our bounty. The twentysomething, scruffy-looking guy behind the counter looks annoyed at having to drag himself away from watching closed-captioned ongoing fire coverage on the TV hanging on the wall long enough to ring us up.
“Any update? Are they any closer to putting this thing out?” Jack asks him.
He shakes his head as he punches at the register keys. “Still zero percent containment. It’s already destroyed two hundred structures and is threatening more, jumping ridgelines.”
The network shows a graphic of a map of the fire’s path, and it has definitely edged closer in the direction of home since I left. It’s still miles and miles away, but with these powerful, unpredictable wind gusts, you never know. It only takes one ember.
Jack buys everything, including my bottle of water and candy and a black lighter with a picture of a green alien head on it. He holds up the candle and asks the attendant if he has anything that can help us cut the wick. Wordlessly the guy pulls out a Swiss Army knife, places the blade against the exposed ropy center, and gives it one swift tug. It splits in two, and he immediately returns his attention to the television. I imagine there are a lot of people besides us who aren’t going to be getting much sleep tonight.
Outside, Jack tears off the plastic wrapper, shoves a half of the candle into the chocolate frosting of each cupcake, and hands one to me.
“I’ve got it on good authority that making a wish on a birthday candle when it’s not your birthday results in the same likelihood of said wish coming true,” he says.
“Happy birthday!” We clink cupcakes.
“Happy unbirthday. You ready?” He holds up the lighter. “You gotta be all systems go because there’s a very small margin of time and space between lit candle and lit cupcake.”
I laugh, brushing away a mosquito, and then nod. “Yep, ready.”
“One-two-three-go!”
I close my eyes tightly, concentrating hard on my wish. I wish that everything will be all right. It’s sort of broad and general, but it covers a multitude of things. I blow out the candle and then look at Jack as he blows his out too.
Oscar emerges from the mini-mart with a sixty-four-ounce fountain drink in one hand and a hot dog that’s probably been spinning on the roller grill since six thirty yesterday morning in the other.
“No.” Jack shakes his head. “Everything about this visual indicates we won’t be getting far down the road before Oscar may need to stop again for a different sort of gas.”
“Let’s hit the road, comrades,” he says in a thick cockney accent. “That guy in there asked me if I was from the UK. I gave him some story about how I’m on a US tour with my band, and we got into a whole thing about how Brits lose their accents when they sing. Never really thought about it, but he’s right.”
“Phonetics,” Jack tells him, and Oscar and I look at him like he’s spoken in a foreign language. “It’s about the way the words and syllables are more drawn out when someone is singing versus speaking, plus the air pressure used to make sounds is stronger when you sing.”
“You should be on…Jeopardy or something,” I shake my head in amazement. “No joke, you’re like…Human Google.”
He laughs. “I can honestly say I have been called many things but never ‘Human Google.’”
Oscar takes a bite of his hot dog and washes it down with a sip from his drink, barely slowing down enough to chew as he starts recounting a list of British recording artists that sound completely American. “Rod Stewart, Elton John, Eric Clapton, Sting—”
We follow him around the corner toward the gas pump where he left his car, and he stops abruptly. I nearly bump into him, and then I realize what he’s looking at. Or rather—isn’t looking at.
Oscar’s car is gone.
And all our stuff is in it.