Prison Break

‘It doesn’t look much like a prison,’ I said. ‘There are no bars.’

We sat on a bench on a corner of grass between thick walls of glass and stone. Two flags fluttered as the space opened up to the road – the Stars and Stripes and the Californian Bear. There was a blue postbox. It was squat and had four legs and might have been an out-of-work Star Wars droid.

‘What d’you think it looks like?’

‘A hotel? But without windows.’

Jennifer gave me such a withering look, I felt my privates shrink.

‘So what’s the plan? Are we going to have to break in? Is that it? Will I need to borrow the uniform of a canteen worker and slip past the guards that way?’

‘I guess,’ she said. ‘Or we could ask at reception?’

We didn’t have to do either. At that moment Jennifer’s dad came running out of the front doors, headed straight for us. He wasn’t wearing shackles and there was no pack of police dogs chasing him. Instead he had on a smart brown suit. His round glasses made him look like a professor. He wasn’t wearing a tie, which might have been either a prison or a casual thing.

‘Jennifer!’ he said, half in exasperation, half in excitement. If you can imagine that. ‘I saw you from my office. What are you doing? What have you done this time?’

Jennifer was already up and one-arm cuddling him. And I felt like I needed to stand too because Jennifer and her dad were and to stay sitting would be awkward. Jennifer’s dad pushed her back from the embrace, his hands on her shoulders.

‘And what’s up with your arm?’ he said. ‘Are you hurt?’

Jennifer gave a ‘it’s a long story’ roll of the eyes.

‘It’s more of a fashion thing. My arm’s fine.’

Her dad didn’t even blink.

‘Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. Ah, it’s good to see you. But why are you here, honey? What’s going on?’ He didn’t wait for answers. He could read his daughter’s face. ‘Come on, Jennifer. You know what this means. You know the trouble … How’d you get here? I can’t …’

It was at this point that he acknowledged me, Mr Awks, standing there, staring at my shoes. He held out a hand, which I shook. It was an adult gesture but it had the effect of making me feel eight years old.

‘This is Jacob,’ said Jennifer, her voice weirdly constricted, quiet. ‘I got here because of him. Kind of. And he’s British, so you might struggle to understand him at first. Over time, it gets easier, though. Like riding a bike. He’s my friend.’

‘So you’re to blame?’ asked Dad, waving a fist in my face but in a pretend way, I was hoping.

‘I’m fourteen,’ I said but I’m not sure why.

‘You know, Jacob, she’s normally such a quiet girl. I don’t think she’s ever left Illinois before. Have you left Illinois?’ Her mouth dropped open. ‘You won’t believe how many times her grandmother has called.’ He turned to Jennifer. ‘You won’t believe how many times your grandmother has called. She’s worried about you, girl.’

Jennifer grunted. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Jenny. I love you, you know I do, but what’s happening here?’

Jennifer spoke like a shower. Words came raining down on her dad. About how she wasn’t running away from home, about how she’d taken her mum’s ashes, about what was really inside the urn, about reuniting the family now that Dad was back.

When she was finished, Mr Lewis looked from me to Jennifer, shaking his head. The way his mouth was slanted, though, almost in a grin, suggested he wasn’t too angry. He almost looked impressed.

‘Girl,’ he said. ‘My little girl. Look, there’s a Denny’s a block away. Let’s go and talk strategy, grab some food. Wait here while I finish off inside, yeah? On the way you can explain the whole sling as a fashion-statement thing.’

It turned out that he wasn’t a prisoner. He was a counsellor, which meant, I guess, talking to prisoners about how they felt to be locked up. I wouldn’t guess they’d feel too pleased, especially if they had to keep describing these feelings, but I was no counsellor. It was his first job outside the army, the first time he’d actually lived somewhere.

Me, I never admitted that I’d assumed he was a criminal, hoping that Jennifer thought all that earlier chat about breaking him out was only more evidence of my British sense of humour.

(Jennifer didn’t mention my Hollywood appointment and I didn’t want to buzzkill the reunion between father and daughter. Serious stuff was happening. You could tell by the way Jennifer had gone all quiet.)

Denny’s was like McDonald’s but an American diner with plates. The place was dotted with faces chowing down on heart-troubling food. The waitress greeted Jennifer’s dad by name (Mr Lewis).

‘Do your parents know you’re here?’ asked Mr Lewis as we slid into a booth – me and Jennifer facing him. ‘How did you two … get together? For want of a better phrase.’

‘Kind of,’ I said. ‘They kind of know I’m here.’

‘Jacob’s got a great story,’ said Jennifer at the same time. ‘Tell him, Jacob.’

The waitress appeared and flopped four A3 laminated menus down. She asked if we wanted drinks. Mr Lewis opted for a coffee and Jennifer asked for two Cokes without checking with me, which was fine.

I’ll just have something to eat and then I’ll get going. It’d be rude to get up and leave right now. I’ve only just met the man. Thirty minutes won’t make any difference, despite what the marching ants in my stomach are saying.

‘Superheroes,’ I said.

Mr Lewis looked confused.

‘Marvel,’ she spoke to me, despite fixing her dad with a toothy grin. ‘The competition. The hotel. Tell him.’

‘I’m more interested in the whole “Do Jacob’s parents know what he’s doing and where he is” thing,’ said Mr Lewis. ‘Do you live in LA, Jacob?’

‘So I won a competition to appear in a Marvel film as an extra. I wrote a poem. But, you know …’

‘Which character? Batman?’ asked Mr Lewis, sounding as if he were genuinely impressed.

Jennifer smiled and covered her mouth with a quick hand.

‘It’s top secret. They wouldn’t say. Jennifer thinks it’s She-Hulk but I don’t even care. And Batman’s DC, so—’

‘And the studio paid for his flights from England and, like, this five-star Hollywood hotel and spending money and all these touristy things,’ said Jennifer.

Mr Lewis sipped from his coffee, nodding.

‘So how was it?’ he said, mid-sip.

I turned to Jennifer. ‘I was meant to arrive on Tuesday but … haven’t got there yet.’

And Mr Lewis did something I’ve only ever seen on TV: he sprayed coffee from his mouth in shock. Jennifer was quick with the napkins, pulled from our table’s silver dispenser. Mr Lewis was almost as fast with his apology.

‘They’re shooting tonight,’ said Jennifer. ‘He’s spent the week helping me get here. It’s a long story. And journey. There was an accident in Chicago.’

‘And snow,’ I said.

‘Why aren’t you there, like, now?’ said Mr Lewis, pulling a napkin across the table. Having mopped up the coffee, he checked his phone. ‘What time tonight? It’s pretty much six already, Jacob. You know most of the studios are out of town?’ Wait. Are you two messing with me?’ We shook our heads like wet dogs drying. Mr Lewis wagged a finger. ‘Are you crazy, kid? You don’t get repeat shots at Hollywood. You’re speaking to an expert here. The prison’s full of missed chances.’

I shook my head. Even though I wasn’t entirely sure that I wasn’t crazy. Because why hadn’t I gone straight to Hollywood? I mean, I could have met up with Jennifer afterwards. For all her talk of the police we’d managed to get here without being arrested. Maybe it was my hormones again? I’d do a Google when my phone was charged next.

Already Mr Lewis was up and out of the booth, pulling out a handful of bills to pay for the drinks.

‘We’re getting you to Hollywood. You can chill with Jennifer later. Hell. No friend of Jenny’s is turning down the chance of starring in a superhero picture.’

‘I’m only an extra,’ I said, but he was already stepping away, car keys in hand.

‘Dad’s a man of action,’ said Jennifer, as we squeaked from the booth’s fake leather. ‘I so wish I took after him.’