The Princess Returns
Los Angeles, California

I arrived in LA. Around two days later than originally planned.

‘Evening starts at six, right?’ I asked Jennifer as we got off the bus. ‘It’s the same here as Britain?’

She didn’t answer but I knew I was running out of time. It was like playing a video game and being saved from GAME OVER by winning an extra life, only to lose it a second later by falling into a pit of spikes.

Still, they call it the City of Angels because it’s where miracles happen.

We said to the Greyhound guy behind a computer that we’d accidentally left our baggage on an earlier bus and was there any chance he had it? We filled out a form with one of those pens chained to its holder.

‘I’ll look,’ he said when we were done.

He disappeared through a door behind his desk and came back with the Princess and the rest of our stuff.

I’d never seen Jennifer look so surprised. She was kind of more shocked than anything. The first thing we did was to check our phones. Both were out of battery. The second thing was to put on our coats. They smelt weird – I think because they were clean.

Pulling the Princess behind me, we left the bus station to be reborn into the Californian afternoon. If our possessions had been returned so easily, maybe everything would work out okay in the end? Like with me being a famous actor, for instance?

‘Anyway, are you on Facebook?’

I knew I sounded like someone’s awkward uncle. I didn’t care.

Jennifer blinked, confused, like a GIF.

‘One: what’s that got to do with anything? And, two, who uses Facebook?’

I persevered. Sometimes you’ve got to take the risk that you’re going to look stupid. I let go of the Princess and she clattered over behind me, like the bag was causing a scene, desperate for attention.

‘I’ve not really been using it since my parents got an account, but there’s Instagram or WhatsApp, like, if we wanted to keep in contact? Snapchat? We wouldn’t have to worry about streaks or anything. I’m just saying.’

‘You don’t have to list all the social media apps,’ she said, but smiling.

I tried to think of others because that might be funny.

‘Umm …’ But I couldn’t and this made things more awkward than they should have been. ‘I mean, I could give you my number? Is there an international code? You’ve got a phone? I’ve seen your phone. Okay. But you know—’

Her features jumped – a sudden thought.

‘I owe you something!’ she said and, looking left and right, grabbed my arm to lead me and the Princess away from the bus station. ‘Before we split up. I almost forgot.’

The neighbourhood looked like it was between jobs. Opposite was a row of shopfronts, but only two were open. Of these, one was a ‘punk store’ with a BMX propped up outside, the wheels tied together with a heavy-looking chain. The other, a few spaces down, had a sign above its dirty canopy, reading VICKY’S 99-CENT STORE. The other shopfronts had metallic grilles rolled down. Tags had been sprayed on everything like an overeager mother with your uniforms the day before a new school year.

But where was Jennifer taking me? And what would she give me? Obviously a kiss goodbye would be inappropriate. Maybe she had her number on a piece of paper and wanted to hand it over? Why she’d want to do this in secret, I didn’t know, but Jennifer was puzzling. That was (partly) why I liked her.

We stopped on a side street that cut between the fenced-off Greyhound lot, its huge sign casting a shadow over us, and a ‘city center’ car park (empty). And as I looked up at the corporate logo of a running dog, I thought I could do without travelling on another one of their buses. For a few years at least.

‘Why are you staring at the sky?’ asked Jennifer. ‘The action’s down here. Take this.’

And I felt weirdly disappointed when she pulled out cash.

‘Two hundred,’ she said, thumbing the money out like people do with American banknotes. ‘I took it from the stash. It’s only fair and Dad will pay it back. My grandmother won’t even notice. Just to see you safely to Hollywood. Because I owe you.’

Why were people suddenly desperate to give me money? I was about to do the decent thing and refuse it or, at least, only take enough to not seem rude …

But then …

There was a sharp pain in my side. Jennifer gasped and a strange hand, smelling of coffee, clamped over my mouth. I saw light flashing off a blade.

‘Give me the cash. All the cash. Give me your phones too. Any jewellery? Give me that. I’m mad as hell – don’t mess with me, kids.’

He took his hand from me and I spun away, a frantic ballerina. I bounced into Jennifer. We now both faced the mugger, our three figures frozen like a drama lesson tableau called ‘inner-city crime’.

The knifeman wore a suit and tie but maybe that was an American thing. Approaching us, he took a step over the Princess, who lay on her side, terrified.

‘Come on, kids, I’m not joking here.’

He looked frantically left and right. His free hand waved beckoning fingers. Jennifer still gripped the dollars in her hand. Her eyes flicked from the man down to the Princess and moved to me. I nodded, understanding.

We each pushed a flat palm against the man’s chest. The two of us created sufficient force to bump him backwards, his heels meeting the pink skin of the Princess, his body flying backwards and crashing down on to the sidewalk.

‘Rescue the Princess,’ hissed Jennifer and I did. ‘Run!’ she yelled, and I did.

We raced back on to the main road, the suitcase’s wheels bouncing behind us. When we judged we were far enough away, we slowed down. Despite all the recent exercise, I was panting and could feel an embarrassing armpit wetness.

‘If anyone’s a superhero,’ smiled Jennifer, ‘it’s the suitcase. Did you see her take out that dude?’

I nodded, returning the smile.

‘I never used to be a fan.’ I patted the Princess. ‘But that’s changed. Maybe I’ll buy her a cape or something. By the way, I can send you back the cash when …’

My voice faded. We smiled. A car passed. The Princess, as modest as ever, sat there saying nothing.

‘I guess this is it, then,’ said Jennifer with a shrug. ‘I’ll watch out for you in the theatre. Not that I ever go. It’s been fun.’

‘What theatre?’

‘For your movie.’

My stomach churned and, this time, it wasn’t because of the Vegas breakfast.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘So you actually don’t want to come with me?’

‘I’ve got to see Dad, Jacob. Before they catch me again and I’m sent back. We’ve been through this.’ I narrowed my eyes as I studied her. ‘But you’ve got to go. Don’t stop believing and all. Your big chance.’ A pause. ‘You can’t miss your movie, Jacob.’

But she made it sound like a question. Like she was asking if I really had to leave her. Right now, she looked younger than fourteen.

Silence filled the space like a giant wedge. She held out her good arm in a hug invitation. I didn’t need further encouragement to dive in.

We stood on a downtown corner, in LA, cuddling. She was warm and smelt of travelling. A car sounded its horn. The driver shouted, ‘You go, bruh!’

I pulled back.

‘Your dad’s –’ I hesitated, trying to think of a better word than ‘prison’ – ‘place is straight up a road called S Alameda Street. I borrowed this kid’s iPad on the coach. It’s, like, half an hour’s walk.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jennifer. ‘Appreciated. “S” is for south FYI.’

‘My email address is jacobbowserjacob@gmail.com. I used to be into Mario. Like, really into Mario. But it’s easy to remember, so …’

She laughed. I decided that I liked the sound.

‘Thanks, Luigi,’ she said. ‘I won’t forget it. There are worse things to be into. Like superheroes, kidding, kidding. And I think we made a pretty good team. You and me. So … just … good luck with your movie. Don’t forget me when you’re famous.’

And she turned. And she walked away. Because, and Jennifer will tell you this too, there aren’t always happy endings. Because there’s always going to be that scene when you’re left on your own.

And I’m sure she was kidding about the superhero comment.

‘Honestly, I’m still sorry about your wrist,’ I called, but my words bounced against her back, lost to LA.

I pulled up the Princess and got going. And it felt like her wheels turned in the wrong direction.