Angie isn’t available over the weekend, so we arrange to meet up on Monday. Mom and Dad aren’t comfortable with me driving myself to Angie’s, even though I’ve had my license for a year and a half—or twenty-six and a half years, depending on how you calculate it. I’m not even sure it’s valid now. It’s a weird fluke of time travel, I suppose. The expiration date on the license is 1997, but I would argue that it’s a technicality and the license is really supposed to be good until I turn nineteen, which will now be the year 2022. Regardless, my parents argue that the roads have changed since I left, and I don’t have a phone yet to call them if my car breaks down or I get lost. What a ridiculous reason, the phone thing. I never had a phone before. I mentally add driving to the list of reasons I obviously need one. Plus, that recording feature will be super useful for interviews.
When we arrive at Angie’s house, Mom turns to me with a nervous smile. “Do you want me to come in?”
A few weeks ago I might have rolled my eyes at her for hovering like it’s my first day of kindergarten, but after listening to her story our first night back together, I understand the weight of our lost years. I wonder how long this imbalance will skew our dynamic, if I will forever feel like I have to tiptoe around her. “No, thanks.”
“All right.” She touches my wrist. “Before you go, Jenny, I want you to know we heard you the other day. I found a couple of miniseries for you to watch—one about the nineties and another about the 2000s—so you can catch up on current events. We’ll have to improvise a bit for the past ten years since there isn’t one about the 2010s yet, but at least you’ll have a better idea of what’s happened in the world.”
I purse my lips. Is she trying to keep me informed, or are these documentaries another way to prevent me from doing my own research? It’s not exactly the information I want, but it is a start, and I still intend to work on Angie.
“Thanks, Mom. Love you.” I kiss her cheek before getting out and run up to knock on the door.
Dylan answers, an instant reminder of how I humiliated myself at our first meeting.
“Hey, Jenny. How’s it going?”
“Uhh …” I stare at his bare feet, afraid to face him after I made such a fool of myself before. But that wasn’t his fault, and it’s rude for me to ignore him, so I drag my gaze over his knee-length basketball shorts and land on his T-shirt. It says “Run like the Hunger Games just started”; that seems like the perfect conversation starter. “Do you run track?”
He shifts, and I realize it’s also sort of creepy to stare at his chest, so I reluctantly meet his eyes.
“No, I’m a baseball guy like my …”
My dad. I cast a quick glance around, but there’s no sign of Steve. Thank you, God.
“Why’d you ask?”
At his question, I jerk my attention back to him and gesture at his shirt. “That. It looks like it’s from a meet you participated in or something.”
Dylan stumbles backward with his hand over his heart and widens his brown eyes dramatically. “Jenny. You have so much to learn.”
True, and while it’s a sore point, his exaggerated reaction eases my embarrassment about tackling him. He’s actually sort of adorable. I can’t help the grin that ticks up one side of my mouth. “I assume this has to do with something I missed while I was away.”
Now I’m using euphemisms for my disappearance, but I can’t help smiling.
Dylan moves back toward me. “Only one of the best book series in history.”
I raise my eyebrows. “In history?” I rack my brain for a comparison. “Like, better than Shakespeare?”
He shakes his head sadly, his lips quirked teasingly. “Weak, Waters, weak.”
I knew it was lame as soon as it came out of my mouth, naming a writer we had to read for school. But now that I put it out there, I have to own it. “Shakespeare is legendary. Everyone knows who he is.”
“You’d be surprised how many people know who Katniss Everdeen is.” He purses his lips in thought. “She’s epic, surviving unimaginable trials. So epic she deserves her own theme park. Actually … I’ve heard there are already a couple of Hunger Games rides at a park in Dubai.”
“A theme park for a book?” That doesn’t seem possible. “Wait. Who’s Katniss Everdeen?”
“The girl on fire!” He pumps his fist in the air. “We must educate you. But yes, a theme park, since the movies were so successful.”
I’m so confused right now. I guess Katniss Everdeen is the main character in the hunger books? If they made movies out of them, they must be decent, even though this girl-on-fire stuff sounds pretty violent. “Maybe I should read these books.”
“You can borrow mine if you want.” He smiles fully, and I realize that after that first mention of baseball, I wasn’t thinking about him being Steve’s son. Maybe because he doesn’t dress at all like Steve. Or because Steve and I never once had a book conversation. Huh. That’s strange considering how much I love to read. It’s still weird that Dylan resembles him, but it’s quickly becoming evident how different he is.
I grin. “I’d like that.”
Dylan is surprisingly easy to talk to.
“Jenny!” Angie strides toward me, her arms outstretched.
My grin slips. When I make no move to reach for Angie, she drops her arms. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She stands there, waiting. She has her hair in a ponytail today. I wonder if it’s an attempt to channel her younger self or a style she wears often. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say. I planned out how I’ll interrogate her on all the issues Mom and Dad refuse to discuss, but I failed to consider this I-haven’t-forgiven-you-but-I’m-standing-in-your-entryway moment. Finally I say, “Yep. I’m here.”
Dylan’s gaze darts between us, but he remains silent, as if Angie’s presence muzzled him.
A mean-natured chuckle sounds from outside our circle. “This isn’t awkward.”
Oh, great. Now JoJo’s here. I didn’t miss the interaction that first day. I heard what Dylan said about JoJo draining his gas tank so I’d find out about Angie and Steve in the most humiliating way possible.
“JoJo!” Angie says brightly. “I’m taking Jenny shopping for school. Wanna come with us?”
No! That’ll completely derail my plans. Besides, I don’t see JoJo becoming my twenty-first-century style guru. Her shirt declares that “Zombies have feelings too,” and she doesn’t even have a skirt or anything over her shiny, skin-tight leggings. It’s like wearing workout clothes in public, some weird goth/Jane Fonda mashup.
“Like I want to hang out with you two.” JoJo loops a lavender lock of hair around her finger. “Swapping stories about your crushes on Dad. Ew.”
“JoJo!”
Angie’s tone makes me want to duck into the coat closet, but JoJo doesn’t budge.
Angie continues, “When I get home we’re having a serious discussion. In the meantime, I’ll take your phone.”
JoJo’s mouth drops open. “No way.”
I may be new here, but I already understand confiscating JoJo’s phone is a major punishment.
“I might return it after our discussion.” Angie wiggles her fingers.
JoJo sulkily gives Angie the phone and stomps out of the room. Angie stuffs the phone in her purse and turns to Dylan with a grimace-smile. “Thank you for welcoming Jenny the way I’d expect.”
“Sure, Mom.” He blushes a bit. It’s sweet.
“I’ll be back in a couple hours.” Angie pushes up on her tiptoes to kiss his temple. I hadn’t really noticed his height before, but he has several inches on her.
“’Bye,” he says, waving.
“See ya,” I reply.
I’m determined to keep the conversation away from a rehashing of the Angie-Steve situation, so as soon as we climb in Angie’s gigantic car, I pick an easier topic. Because if I jump to the big stuff too quickly, she’ll be onto me. “So where are we going? Chesterfield Mall?”
Angie peers at the rearview mirror, then bites her lip. “I wish. I miss that place.”
Miss it? “What do you mean?”
“It’s empty. Probably will get turned into something else soon.”
“Empty?” Chesterfield Mall had more than a hundred stores plus a food court. We used to spend hours walking its two floors, pausing for lunch, sometimes catching a movie. “How is that possible?”
“Too much retail on the market,” she says. “They kept building more around it; plus people buy so much online these days, and the mall died.”
I recognize the words she’s saying, but they’re the words of an adult, not my Angie, who would never talk about “retail” or “the market” unless she was giving a school report. It emphasizes the gulf between us, and I’m suddenly less sure of my ability to put pressure on this version of my friend.
I weave my fingers into my hair. “I feel like I’m in some sort of alternate universe.”
Angie glances at me. “You sort of are.”
Yeah. Guess I am.
“Anyway,” Angie says, “I’ll take you to the outlet mall.”
I perk up. “We have an outlet mall?”
She nods. “Two. They’re pretty good—but also helped kill the regular mall.”
“Oh.” I waver between excitement at the prospect of outlets and longing for my mall. I mean, I know twenty-five years is a lot, but a mall is, like, an institution.
“They have good stores, though,” Angie adds.
I make a noncommittal sound. I don’t know what to say to her. We’ve been friends for ten years, but I’m at a disadvantage. She knows everything about my life, but from my viewpoint, hers changed in the blink of an eye. I have to completely relearn my best friend, and I’m not even sure I want to. To forgive or not to forgive … it’s a big question. Mom and Dad think it’s so easy, but their best friends didn’t morph from talking about SAT results and the cute guy at work to “the market” and driving a car meant to haul around a baseball team.
I flip the air vent toward me. “So why aren’t you at work on a Monday?”
Angie brushes a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I don’t work.”
“Whaaat?”
Angie jumps at my overly loud response. But this news shocks me nearly as much as Bradley being married with kids.
“What about law school? Making partner by thirty-five?” I don’t give her time to answer. “I thought it was weird you lived out in the suburbs and had kids. What happened to you?”
“What happened to me?” She glares, and I catch a glimpse of my Angie, the Angie who led the mock trial team to a state championship by reducing the other team’s star witness to a stuttering mess. “My best friend disappeared, and Flight 237 became as legendary as the Challenger explosion. I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I … well, my priorities changed.”
“So you what?” I know that pursed-lip, refuse-to-look-me-in-the-eye expression. There’s more to that statement.
She shrugs. “When I took the prelaw classes, my heart wasn’t in it anymore.”
“So what did you do instead?”
She doesn’t answer until after she maneuvers the car off a looping exit. “I did some writing.”
“You? Writing?” That’s my thing.
She pauses at a stop sign. “It made me feel closer to you.”
“Oh.” Her answer shuts down all the questions I was about to ask, about what sort of writing and for whom. It also makes me feel like the gum on the bottom of a shoe for orchestrating this outing to grill her.
I wonder what I might have done if our roles were reversed, how I might have tried to feel closer to Angie. Dad asked if I’d envisioned myself married to Steve, and I honestly don’t know. We could have ended up on different sides of the country for college, with my goal being Columbia, and deep down, I know I would have picked school over Steve. Perhaps we would’ve kept in touch, or perhaps we would’ve met up at a reunion someday. I don’t know, and the fact that all these possibilities have been snatched from me still rubs me raw. I see Angie’s point about holding a part of me close, but it also seems like she stole parts of my life I didn’t give her permission to take over.
She turns into the outlet mall, and I’m distracted by the stores. “Where do we even start?”
She smiles. “I have a plan.”
Five minutes after we park, my shirt is sticking to my chest and I’m wiping beads of sweat off my forehead. I never considered the discomfort of outdoor shopping during August. It’s only ten thirty a.m., but it’s already eighty-five degrees, and the storefronts offer little respite from the harsh sun.
“JoJo likes this one,” Angie says, opening a door. “I’m not sure you will, but it’s worth checking out.”
I’m so relieved to be inside with the air-conditioning I take a moment to bask in the coolness before walking toward the first display. “Um, where are the shoulders?”
Angie smirks at the crochet-trimmed rose top. “It’s a style. I think they call it cold shoulder—so you can wear off-the-shoulder but it won’t fall off because you have straps.”
“Oookay. I mean, it’s cute, but does the school still keep the air set at sixty-five degrees?” I shiver and move on to the next display. “And this one? It’s missing the sides.” The shirt I point at has the sides cut out and Xs crisscrossing to hold it together. “If I came home with this, Dad would either order me to return it or go find a sweater.”
“He so would.” Angie snorts. “Do you remember that all-white outfit you got with the super-short skirt? It looked so great on you! And when you came out, your dad went into the kitchen and came back with a ruler. He held it up to your leg”—she deepens her voice—“ ‘Here is the appropriate length for a skirt. That’s a good six inches below the length of this skirt. So you either need to find a way to lengthen the hem or change, but you’re not leaving this house.’ ”
I’m giggling by the end of Angie’s impression. It’s so spot-on. But also … that was, like, three months ago for me. It was an outfit I bought special for the end-of-school-year awards banquet. It’s like my Angie is stuck inside this older body. I keep catching glimpses of her.
“It’s because of your dad I don’t get in the middle of JoJo’s wardrobe choices,” Angie adds. “I remember how mad you’d get when he’d make you go change.”
Her comment stops my laughter. I mean, yeah, my dad’s strict about what I wear, but it’s only because he cares. It’s weird, though. A week ago I would have been commiserating with her. I was really ticked when he wouldn’t let me wear that outfit. I loved it. I bought it with money I saved up from my job at Frosty’s. But now I don’t like the way she’s ragging on my dad, even if it’s out of shared memories. I can’t joke about my parents with Angie because I feel empathy for them. Like after what they’ve been through, they deserve extra respect. Plus, there’s a part of me that feels like Angie’s lost the right to side with me against them. Our dynamic is so off. All my dynamics are off.
I’m not ready to figure that out, so I focus on another point that interests me.
“What’s the deal with JoJo anyway?” I finger a silky tassel hanging from a sleeve. “She seems to really have it out for me.”
Angie gazes out the window. “We shouldn’t have named her after you.” She heads for the door. “I shouldn’t have done a lot of things.”
I follow her. “What does that mean?”
A swirling in my gut says she isn’t talking about Steve.
Angie holds the door for me. “New store?”
I nod, eyes narrowed. Apparently she’s ignoring my question, as she turns out into the concourse. Giving up—for now—I scan the shops and spy a familiar store. “Finally something I remember!”
I’m surprised Angie didn’t mention this one. But when I reach the door, I deflate. The clothes are similar to what we saw in the other place—cropped tops and shirts with holes strategically cut out of the sides and back.
“What’s with all the holes?” I ask dejectedly. “I’m not a holey person.”
Angie snickers. “Actually, I’d say ‘holy’ is a rather apt description for you.”
“Ha ha, a church girl joke.” I roll my eyes, but I actually don’t like it when she turns my faith into a joke. “Where can I get some clothes with no holes and no sparkles?” I pat my shoulders; I’m wearing the navy shirt Kelly got me again.
“I can think of a couple places.” Angie hooks her arm through mine, as if she didn’t make a cryptic comment about her mistakes that left me hanging. “Come on. We’ll find a compromise between your comfort zone and the twenty-first century.”
This feels more like old times, walking arm in arm through the, er, mall. As long as I don’t look at Angie and the crinkles around her eyes. Or think about how we’re way past trying on the same shirts in different colors so we can almost match or giggling over inappropriate items in Spencer’s. The trickle of sweat running between my shoulder blades is unfamiliar too, but I can deal. I have a goal for today after all.
The next store is Tommy Hilfiger. I dig in my heels outside the door. “I can’t afford Tommy Hilfiger.”
Also, it feels pretentious to me, like only private school kids shop there.
Angie sighs. “It’s an outlet. Besides, you don’t have to worry about money.”
I’m so startled by this statement I allow her to pull me inside. “I don’t?”
I wonder if my parents won the lottery while I was gone. Their living conditions don’t seem any different.
“Nope. Your parents never closed your savings account while you were missing. Didn’t they tell you?”
I’m sure I resemble a gaping fish by now. “No. But even if they did, I’m saving my money for college.”
“That’s covered too,” she says brightly. “I guess you guys have had other things to talk about.”
“I didn’t even ask them for money for this shopping trip. I don’t know what I was thinking.” I completely forgot the practicalities of shopping.
Angie laughs. “Don’t worry about it. We’re good.”
We’re good. There have been moments today where I’ve experienced small glimpses of the Angie I know, but mostly she’s a stranger. She hasn’t become the person I expected her to be, and that baffles me as much as the person she’s turned into. Not to mention this odd imbalance where she’s trying to pick up where we left off when she was still seventeen.
No, we’re not good, but maybe we’ll be okay—if she’s straight with me.
It’s time to ask my questions. “So ever since I got back, my family’s been keeping me in a bubble. They won’t let me watch the news or even take me to the library.”
Angie fingers a T-shirt. “They’re a bit paranoid after what they dealt with before. When you disappeared.”
I narrow my eyes. “You remember what high school’s like, right? I can’t stand the thought of people whispering about me and having no clue what they’re saying.”
Angie bites her lip. She’s silent for several moments, as if she’s fighting an internal battle, but she still doesn’t face me when she asks, “What do you want to know?”
“Bradley said some people called us a hoax. What’s that about?”
Angie shifts back and forth, then exhales. “It’s just a bunch of wackos making noise. A couple scientists and politicians and such.”
“But why? Bradley said Agent Klein made some sort of statement about our blood tests.”
She shakes her head, making her ponytail swing. “She did, but they’re not releasing the test results to the public.”
“What do you mean they’re not releasing the results?”
She tips her head sideways. “Do you want the FBI handing your medical records to the media?”
“Well, no.” That would be creepy, if everybody watching the news knew my blood type or could make a copy of my fingerprint. “What about the plane? Did they do tests on that too?”
Angie nods. “The FBI and a team of forensic specialists examined it thoroughly as soon as you landed. Everything lines up with the age of the plane at the time it took off—the paint, the fuel, the equipment.”
I throw up my hands. “Why won’t Mom and Dad just let me see this stuff for myself?”
“Because they got mercilessly hounded by the media when you disappeared.” There’s a grim twist to her mouth. “You’re lucky the FBI is taking the heat this time.”
I cross my arms. “For now. But is that really working? Is everyone keeping quiet? What about family and friends? Does it extend to them? Because a reporter showed up at our house trying to talk to Dad.”
“They’ve shown up at my house too.” Angie grimaces. “But at least as concerns you, we’re all agreed not to talk to anyone. Other passengers, well”—she shakes her head—“some of their family members haven’t helped the situation, and that’s part of why those conspiracy theorists are out there.”
“I don’t blame them!” I pace between two racks of clothes. “I want to know what happened! I’m sure to them their wacko theory that we’re a hoax makes more sense than the truth, but meanwhile, I still don’t understand what the truth is. There has to be somebody who does.”
Angie sighs. “The FBI is working on it.”
“Are they?” I stop and look at her.
She starts gathering clothes. “They must be. They haven’t told you to go ahead and tell your story yet, have they?”
A good question. I’m not sure my parents would tell me if they had. “You’re sure you haven’t seen any of the other passengers talk?”
“Not even when they try and ambush them.”
Then at least that’s one thing my parents aren’t keeping from me. “Is there anything else? Because Mom and Dad keep acting weird, like there’s more they’re hiding.”
Angie presses a stack of tops and shorts into my arms and turns me toward a changing room. “I’m sure they’re just being protective. I can’t think of anything else you need to know.”