UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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On the drive home, I huddled into my coat, going over everything we’d found out. It would be wrong to assume that something wasn’t going on, that I was blowing all this up in my head. Something really was wrong with McCoy, and if we were the only ones who knew about it, we had to do something. But who would believe me? Who would believe Miles?
I stole glances at Miles whenever I could, wondering why it still shocked me that he was the boy from the lobster tank. I simultaneously wanted to kiss him and hit him for leaving.
Pressure built behind my eyes, a lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t let him see me cry. He’d scoff at me or roll his eyes—he didn’t seem like the kind of person that suffered tears gladly, and I didn’t suffer anyone making fun of mine.
“You okay?” he asked after a half hour of silence.
“Yeah.” My voice was definitely too high. Tucker would mock me so much.
“Hungry?” He scanned the horizon. “How does Wendy’s sound?”
“Sure.”
He drove into the Wendy’s parking lot, to the drive-through. I picked out the cheapest sandwich on the menu. When he pulled around to the window to pay, I fished my money from my pocket.
He took one look at it and pushed it away. “I don’t want it.”
“I don’t care, I have money, so take it.”
“No.”
I flung the ten-dollar bill at him, and he snatched it up and flung it back. This sparked a money-throwing war, which ended when Miles paid for our food, passed the drink carrier and bags to me, and then folded up the ten dollars and wedged it under my thigh. I scowled at him.
He backed into the parking space so we could sit in the bed of the truck and have grand view of the highway. It wasn’t much warmer in the cab, and stretching our legs seemed like a good idea.
“You’re so skinny, I don’t know how you’re not turning blue,” I said as I settled against the cab, sandwich in hand. Miles had already devoured half his french fries—the kid could definitely eat when he had food in front of him.
“It’s this jacket,” he said between fries. “So warm.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“My Opa—sorry, again, grandpa—had it from World War II. He was a pilot.” Miles took a bite of his sandwich. “We lived with him in Germany. He gave me some of his things before he died. Uniforms and old newspapers, medals, all sorts of stuff.”
“So, after the war, he stayed in Germany?”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t come back to America. Did he like it there, or something?”
Miles stared blankly at me for a second, and then he laughed. “Oh, you thought—no, no, Opa wasn’t in the United States Air Force. He was in the Luftwaffe.”
All the heat drained from my body.
“Well, don’t look so shocked. I told you he was German.”
“But that’s a U.S. bomber jacket.”
“Yeah, he got it from a U.S. pilot,” Miles replied, and at my horrified expression, added, “What? He didn’t kill the guy! They were friends! Why are you freaking out; you’re supposed to be the history buff—you of all people should know that not all Nazis wanted to be Nazis.”
I knew. Oh, I knew. That didn’t stop me from being scared of them.
“You would’ve liked Opa. He was very down-to-earth.”
“So is that why everyone calls you ‘the Nazi’ at school?”
“No. No one knows about Opa. They call me that because when I first started school here, I still had my accent, I liked to speak German a lot, and when I started running jobs, they thought it’d be a funny nickname. After a while, it stuck.”
“Oh.” I lowered my blushing face to my french fries. “So, um. What was the real reason you guys came back to the States? Your mom was acting sort of weird about it.”
Miles curled his lip at his sandwich. “Cleveland. He wrote her letters for a long time, trying to persuade her to come back. I know she wanted to go, but Opa made sure she remembered why we were there. And when he died, it was the perfect excuse to leave.” He rolled his eyes. “What’d she talk to you about?”
“Huh?”
“When I went to the restroom,” Miles said. “What did my mom say to you?”
“Nothing important. Mom stuff.”
Miles gave me a look that said he knew that much already, and he didn’t want to ask the question again.
“She asked if you were doing okay in school. What people thought of you . . . if you had friends . . . if you were happy . . .”
Miles stared down at his sandwich, waiting.
“And I, you know, told her.”
“Told her what?”
“The truth. Did you think I would lie to your mom?”
“No, but what exactly is ‘the truth’?”
“Well, it was pretty easy,” I said, annoyed now. “People think you’re a jerk—”
Miles snorted derisively.
“—because they don’t know you, and you don’t let them. And I said yes, you do have friends—”
He scoffed. “Who, exactly? I was under the impression the entire school hated me.”
“The club? You know, the people you hang out with all the time? The ones you talk to?”
“I don’t know what jungle wilderness you’ve joined us from, but they are not my friends. Ever notice how none of them use my name? Even Jetta says ‘mein Chef.’ I’m just the person they’re obliged to take orders from.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I wanted to both laugh and slap him, hard. “I don’t even know how you can say they’re not your friends. Are you trying to deny it so you don’t get attached to anyone? Are you . . . I don’t know . . . how can you say that? Do you not want friends or something? Even I want friends!”
He crammed the rest of his chicken sandwich into his mouth and stared off at the highway as he chewed. The rest of the meal was quiet, me pondering why anyone, even him, wouldn’t want friends, and him glaring, the lights of the highway reflecting in his glasses. We cleaned up in silence, tossed the trash in a nearby bin in silence, and climbed back into the cab in silence.
And when Miles tried to start his truck, the engine clicked.
“I don’t think that’s supposed to happen,” I said.
“No, really?” Miles shot me a look. He turned the key again. Click. Click click click. He stared at the dashboard for a few moments, tried the key once more, then went to open up the hood.
This isn’t happening. A cold chill settled itself along my stomach lining. I didn’t want to be stuck here, with Miles Richter, in the middle of nowhere, at night. You are dreaming an impressively lucid dream, and you will wake up soon, and it will be okay.
“I have no idea what’s wrong,” Miles said, his voice hollow. I got out of the cab as well and shouldered him out of the way.
“Lemme look. . . .” I took a careful look at the engine, trying to remember what my dad had taught me about cars. I couldn’t find anything, either.
Miles leaned against the side of the truck, scratching his head, gazing down at the ground like he’d lost something. Tucker had said Miles was awful with cars, and I thanked all that was holy that this hadn’t happened while we were on the interstate.
“I can call,” I said, flipping open the emergency family cell phone my mom had given me. “Do you know any auto repair places?”
“Do I look like I know any auto repair places?”
“You know everything else, so I figured I’d ask.” I started to call home.
“Car trouble?”
I turned around; an older man, probably in his sixties or seventies, approached the truck with a concerned smile. For a split second I thought I knew him—his eyes looked exactly like Miles’s. Miles clenched his jaw, so I figured I should do the talking. I looked the man over for any microphones or other strange objects.
“Yeah. It won’t start, but it doesn’t look like anything’s wrong.”
The man nodded. “Mind if I take a look?”
I shrugged, and the man shuffled over and stuck his head under the hood.
“Really, though,” I said to Miles, who turned around, looking angry and confused. “If I had that many people as friends, I wouldn’t be trying to act like I don’t like them. And don’t say you don’t, because I know you do—”
“Why do you care so much?” he asked.
I gazed stonily back at him. “Really? You haven’t figured that out yet?”
Deep breath, jaw clench. “They are not my friends,” he said. “They don’t want to be, like, everyone else in that school. They’re there because they have to be. Will you drop it?”
“Fine, How about this—you know your mom’s last question? Are you happy? I told her that earlier today was the happiest I’ve ever seen you. That’s a little pathetic, honestly.” I couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of my mouth. “You could have friends, you could be happy, but you choose not to be.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” he barked so loudly I was sure the old man kept his head ducked out of courtesy. “Who are you to lecture me on being happy? You’re the one taking your pills and all those stupid pictures, hoping the world doesn’t go to hell when you finally slip up and someone finds out you’re crazy. And you’re trying to help me with my life when yours has been falling apart all year? Not to mention you’ve been dragging everyone else down with you—look at Tucker, who follows you around like a dog, and I’m sure you felt so bad about that job, so bad you couldn’t even tell him what you did. So you know what? If I’m an arrogant douche bag, then you’re a fucking hypocrite, and we’re standing in a parking lot at a Wendy’s in the middle of nowhere arguing about nothing, basically, and—and—” His voice lost steam. He dropped his arms, defeated, his expression was no longer full of rage, but guilt. “And I made you cry.”
I wiped my eyes and looked at the hood of the truck, wishing very much that the old man wasn’t there. “Yeah, well, isn’t the first time.”
I turned away and started walking.
Crazy. Falling apart. Hypocrite.
He was right. That’s exactly what I was. I called him and Tucker and Celia and McCoy crazy when it was just me who was crazy, I was the crazy one, I was always the only crazy one.
I followed the red taillights. I didn’t know where I was going, or what direction I was going in, or even where, exactly, I was right now. I was, as he’d so rightly pointed out, in a Wendy’s parking lot in the middle of nowhere, and I was going there—nowhere.
I could feel him watching me as I walked away. Maybe a few words passed between him and the old man. I plopped down in the snow at the edge of the parking lot, about fifty feet away from the truck, pulled my knees up to my chest, and stared out over the highway. How many times had I tried walking away from Miles? Once at the bonfire—he’d stopped me—again when Erwin had died—and he’d stopped me again. This time he knew I had nowhere to go.
Shoes crunched a path behind me, and the sleeve of Miles’s jacket tapped me on the shoulder.
“Here,” he said.
I pushed the jacket away. “Don’t want it.” I wiped my eyes again, tried to stop my shivers. All those layers of sheepskin, it was probably like a toaster oven inside.
“I’m sorry I called you crazy.”
“Why? It’s true.” I pulled my knees tighter. “I’m probably going to end up inside the hospital with your mom.”
“No you’re not.” He sounded exasperated. “Your parents—”
“Have already considered it.”
That stopped him.
“So you can take your stupid jacket ’cause you’ll probably freeze without it. What’s your body fat percentage? Negative point-zero-zero—oomph.”
He’d knelt down and flung the coat over my shoulders. Not looking at me, he pulled the coat tighter and said, “You’re so damn stubborn.” Though he tried to hide it, he shivered. “Come on, let’s go.” He offered a hand and I took it, using the other to keep the jacket on.
Strangely, he didn’t let go of my hand when we got back to the truck. As an experiment, I squeezed a little. He squeezed back.
The old man peeked around the hood and smiled when he saw me wearing Miles’s jacket.
“Well, it looks like your battery might need a little juice,” said the man. “I’ve got jumper cables, should only take a second.”
He popped the hood of his car and pulled a pair of jumper cables out of his trunk, and after a bit of instruction on his part, he and Miles set to work. I almost fell asleep standing up, and Miles had to prod me out of my stupor when it was time to go.
“Thanks again,” he said to the old man. Miles’s voice was weak, brittle.
“Really, it was no trouble.” The man smiled and waved, stowing his jumper cables again. “You kids enjoy the rest of your night!” He got into his car and drove away.
Miles stared after him, a small crease between his eyebrows.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, one hand on the passenger side door handle. Miles shook his head.
“It’s nothing, I just . . .” He made an exasperated noise, his shoulders drooping a little. “He made me think of Opa.” He walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
“Oh, wait.” I shrugged the jacket off, climbed into the truck, and handed it across the seat to him. “Seriously, your lips are turning blue. I’ll be fine, really,” I added when he started to protest. He feigned reluctance well as he slipped the jacket back on.
“He told me to give it to you,” Miles said after a solid minute of staring out the windshield.
I was about to make a joke about how good that was, because someone needed to teach him some manners, but then I saw the look on his face.
“Let’s go,” I said softly. “We shouldn’t be too far from home, right?” Miles nodded and threw the truck in drive.