Wet Pasta

As I lay in a wheelie bin, abandoned spaghetti soaked through my coat. The stink of cheese sauce was overwhelming, especially as this coffin’s* lid meant the smell had nowhere else to go.

(* Not an actual coffin.)

It’d be bad to die this way, overcome by the toxic fumes of melted Cheddar. My death might become a meme. It’d be all over Twitter like a rash.

‘Stop fidgeting,’ hissed Jennifer. ‘They’ll see.’

I wasn’t fidgeting. I was as still as a corpse, even though we’d been in here for at least ten minutes. I counted to two hundred in my head. It took my mind off the smell and meant there was a verified pause before I spoke next.

‘Let’s get out,’ I whispered. ‘I’m going to vom.’

Given the choice, I think I’d prefer to die than throw up over Jennifer. Imagine how embarrassing that’d be.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said. ‘Are you, like, six or something?’

As she spoke, late-morning light flooded the bin. Someone had opened us up.

A thin teenager, wearing the red-and-white stripes of the Italian restaurant that owned the hiding place, stood holding a black bin bag of doom above us. He let out a high-pitched scream.

‘What?’ said Jennifer. ‘Some privacy maybe?’

He shook his head. He said sorry. He let the lid drop.

‘I guess that means it’s time to leave,’ groaned Jennifer from the gloom.

We pushed the lid up and rolled out. As we straightened ourselves, spaghetti plopped to the ground in a shower of dead worms. The teenager stood gawking.

‘You’ve not seen any police, have you?’ I asked. ‘Or a cowboy?’

He shook his head, probably trying to process my accent.

‘They had a vehicle here five minutes ago but it left with its siren blasting. I’ve got to return to the kitchen, guys.’ He tapped his nose. ‘I won’t tell the manager about you, though.’

He deposited his bag in the bin and disappeared through a fire exit. Jennifer pulled off her (stolen) coat and flapped it free of pasta. I took my coat off and copied Jennifer. With each shake the smell of cheese grew stronger.

After we put the coats back on, she looked at me and I looked at her and she pointed at my face.

‘You’ve penne on your forehead,’ she said. ‘Penne head.’

I flicked it off, smudging the white zombie make-up underneath. If Jennifer’s face was anything to go by, I must have looked a nightmare. Half Halloween, half dinner.

‘So why were you in the police car?’ I said, definitely not admitting that ten minutes ago I was about to hand myself in, sounding like I was making conversation and was, like, totally chill about everything.

‘Why do you think? The Cowboy gave me a choice. Either I go back to Illinois with him or I go with the cops. I chose the cops. I figured it gave me a better chance of escaping. And it looks like I was right. Hot dog!’

‘Where?’

I ran my fingers through my hair.

‘No. You know.’ She slapped a thigh. ‘Like, hot dog!’

Occasionally I wondered whether Jennifer was crazy. Or maybe acted that way down to all this being a huge prank with me as the victim and hidden cameras everywhere?

‘You might be free,’ I said, ‘but you’ll never escape … a criminal record?’

(I remember a visiting police constable using that in assembly once.)

‘Yeah, Grandmother won’t ever let that happen. Anyway, you’re a criminal too now. Destroying police property like that. I saw a new side to you. The real Jacob. Scary.’

‘The bumper fell off,’ I said. ‘It just fell off. I didn’t do anything. It. Fell. Off.’

Jennifer laughed. She had a particular sense of humour: anything that made me look bad was funny. I decided to tell her something that’d stop her laughing.

‘Anyway, I saw the Cowboy. He had your box and was saying how it was worth more than the hotel.’

Instantly: ‘What hotel?’

‘The one up the road.’

‘And he had the box?’

‘He did.’

And, once again, she was off. And as I watched her braided ponytail sweep like a metronome across the red shoulders of her stolen coat, I wished I’d said nothing. Don’t tell anyone, though: I was pleased she was back.

I caught up with her as she headed directly for the hotel, like a shark rocketing towards a surfer’s leg.

She stopped, eyes flashing. ‘Are we a team, Peter Parker?’

‘Don’t call me that,’ I said. ‘It’s cringe.’

‘What’s “cringe”?’

‘You know, like cringe-worthy? Like awkward. Like that feeling under your skin.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s cringe: are you with me or not?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Yes what?’

‘I’m with you.’

‘You know I’ll get you to Los Angeles, right? We’ve all got appointments to keep. And you’re going to be a movie star, remember.’

I didn’t see how chasing after the Cowboy was going to help but, stranded here in Oklahoma, I had little alternative.

Before we entered the hotel, I was expecting Jennifer to brief me. Gang leaders do it in films with chalkboards. I guess modern gangsters use PowerPoint. Something, anyway. Some plan of attack.

Nothing.

‘Hi, I’m Henry, and—’

Jennifer spoke over the receptionist. His smile vanished in the blink of an eye. I stood behind her, having never felt so far away from home, wanting to turn invisible so badly right now.

‘We’re looking for a cowboy. He has something that belongs to us.’

(Us.)

Henry narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s company policy not to—’

Jennifer broke in again. This time, her voice had all its edges rounded off.

‘He’s my grandfather,’ she said, ‘and he gets confused. Thinks he’s a cowboy. It’s so very sad.’

Henry stared. I looked down to my feet as the air around us grew awks. There was spaghetti on my left toe. I scraped it off with my other foot. I had a sudden panic that we’d left a trail of pasta that the police could use to track us. But a glance over my shoulder showed the entrance to be spaghetti-free.

‘Okay, so he’s in the restaurant, finishing his breakfast,’ said Henry. ‘He insisted on bacon. Is he always so … Western? It is sad. No offence.’

‘None taken. Because it is so sad.’

‘I’m soooo sorry,’ said Henry, his eyes dropping to his screen and his fingers tapping at an unseen keyboard. ‘That can’t be fun.’ He paused. ‘So sad.’

Jennifer thanked him and pulled me away.

‘You distract the Cowboy,’ she hissed. ‘I’ll grab the box.’

A sign on the wall pointed in the direction of the restaurant.

‘Distract him how?’

‘Dress up as Buffalo Bill? I don’t know. You’ll think of something. You’re creative. With the poem and the …’

The Cowboy sat with his back to the wall, spooning yellow into his mouth and holding a folded newspaper. He wore half-moon glasses at the end of his nose. They made him look more like a grandparent than a US marshal (retired).

On his table, next to half a glass of orange juice and a bottle of ketchup, was the box, as innocent as your mum’s Amazon delivery.

Jennifer spun us to the opposite wall, shutting off the Cowboy’s side of the restaurant from sight.

‘Ready?’ she hissed.

I looked to the wall ahead. It was as blank as my mind.

‘I …’

Smiling, she pushed me forward.