I decide to embrace the illusion that everything will be okay. Maybe it’s not even an illusion! Like, right now it’s broad daylight outside. We just crossed out of Jersey into New York. And we’re in a totally nondescript vehicle that has absolutely no connection to any recent crimes in the tri-state area. As far as we know, at least. I presume Nonna hasn’t robbed any banks lately. That would be extremely out of character for her. But — oh, my God — how amazing would it be to randomly discover ten grand in the trunk during our next pee stop?
We still have every reason in the world to be freaking out. We don’t even know where we’re going other than “in the direction of Canada.” And there’s this voice in the back of my head that’s constantly whispering “you’re fucked, you’re fucked, you’re fucked.”
But it’s getting easier to drown out with every exit we pass.
I crack open the window and let the spring air flow in. “Ring the Alarm” by Beyoncé comes on, which — just like every other song on the Playlist — has taken on a whole new level of significance since last night. I spend the entire first verse and chorus nodding my head to the beat in anticipation of my favorite line, in which she tells her ex he’s never seen a fire like the one she plans on causing. But Mom skips to the next track before Beyoncé can even get the first word out.
“Hey!” I say. “It was just getting to the good part.”
“Sorry,” she replies. “Just hits a little too close to home right now.”
“That’s why I was so excited about it.”
And then we both laugh.
I’m able to relax even more as I spend the next thirty minutes of our drive obsessively combing social media and the internet for more information on the fire. The results are surprisingly tame.
I’m still a little paranoid about Big Brother (or whoever) tapping into my phone activity, so I’ve developed a rule of thumb for internet browsing: if it’s something about the news of the crime (“fire in Short Hills,” etc.) it’s okay to search. But if it’s something about the potential consequences of the crime (“jail sentences for arson,” etc.), it’s off-limits.
So here’s what I find out:
Joggy McBitch’s real name is Lisa. She was the one who posted the picture to Twitter, but it seems to have peaked at just thirty-five retweets. She gave one other news interview, but it’s clear that she basically knows nothing. She doesn’t even remember what kind of car she saw.
“It was a sedan,” she told Channel Four. “A Camry or a Maxima, maybe. I didn’t get a great look at it. But it was definitely there.”
Even Luke seems to have simmered down a bit. I sent him a response — We don’t need to talk, I’m over it — and he hasn’t gotten back to me. He’s probably too busy sixty-nine-ing with Joshua. Which, honestly? I couldn’t care less about at this point. Being an inadvertent arsonist has totally put things into perspective for me. Fuck our breakup. Fuck worrying about getting in trouble for smashing a windshield. People have those fixed all the time. It’ll probably even be covered by his insurance.
My biggest concern right now is just letting the clock run out for the week until the fire investigation blows over and we can resume our lives as if nothing ever happened. I’ll even gladly go to Rutgers in the fall. I can deal with seeing Luke and Joshua around campus. I’ll find a new boyfriend. I’ll force myself to love finance or whatever other bullshit major. I’m sure it will be at least a little better than jail. More food options and the ability to poop in private.
Mom randomly pokes my shoulder.
“Do you think it’s weird that I haven’t heard from Richard at all?” she asks. “Even if he didn’t think it was me, wouldn’t he at least reach out? He doesn’t know that many people in New Jersey.” She pauses. “The fucker. He’s probably leaning on Big Tits McGhee for support. I can’t believe I was his side side bitch.”
“Okay, I feel like you’re heading toward a dark place. The fact that Richard hasn’t reached out is amazing for us. It means he thinks you have nothing to do with it.”
“I guess.” She flicks her signal and merges into a rest stop exit lane. “By the way, I saw that text you sent.”
I shift in my seat. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Joey.”
Shit. She knows. How has she not brought it up until now?
Maybe she doesn’t think it’s a huge deal. It’s not, really. Just a harmless little geolocation tag that Luke probably deleted by now anyway. There’s no way he’d even put two and two together! Why would he think to do that?
“I know it was so stupid.” I do my best to sound like I’m not actively pissing myself. “I was just in such a messed-up state of mind from the whole night. You know? I figured that if Luke knew we were in Short Hills, he’d stop accusing us of trashing his car and —”
“Wait a minute.” Mom widens her eyes at me as we approach the rest stop. “I was talking about the text you sent to Marco from my phone. ‘I miss you.’” She pulls up next to a gas pump. “You told Luke we were in Short Hills last night? Joey! Have you lost your mind?”
I shrink down to Lego-size. I am a Lego-size human now.
“I…”
“What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking!” I say. “Obviously.”
“Well, fuck.” Mom thoughtlessly grabs a cig out of her purse. “Now we gotta hope he doesn’t go talking to the cops.”
“He won’t.” I snatch it out of her hand. “And are you trying to get us blown up? We are literally surrounded by gasoline.”
She rolls her eyes. We sit in silence for a few seconds before I realize that there is no station attendant coming to assist us.
“We’re definitely not in Jersey anymore,” Mom says. “Look at all these bitches filling up their own tanks.”
I hate them in the same way I hated that news anchor. They’re just going about their mistake-free lives. It occurs to me that even if the worst of the worst were to come of this — we get arrested, go to jail, have to somehow figure out a way to pay for a million-dollar house, go to jail again for whatever illegal stunt we have to pull to not end up homeless in the midst of all of the above — the rest of the world will just go on.
I guess that’s obvious. But it doesn’t seem fair.
We both jump out of the car — Mom to pump gas, me to execute a snack run.
“Here.” She hands me two twenties and pops open the gas cap. Her getaway outfit consists of an oversized Victoria’s Secret Pink tank top, black leggings, and high-heeled suede boots that go all the way up to her knee. The thought of her pumping gas is hilarious. I kind of wanna stay and watch. “Tell them to put thirty dollars on our pump. I took out four hundred before we left Jersey, which has to last us —”
“Got it.” I’m not in the mood to think about how we’re not only on the run, but we’re also broke and incapable of using credit cards (because they’re all traceable and shit). “Thanks.”
I flash the attendant my best I’m-definitely-not-running-from-the-law-right-now smile as I walk into the QuickMart. Scanning through the bottled water selection, I remember that my Luke secret is now out in the open. Was Mom pissed? Or did she actually accept “He won’t say anything” as my final answer? Maybe she’ll just drop it altogether. Once again, this whole thing could have been avoided if I had just thought for, like, two seconds before opening my mouth. Obviously she was talking about the Marco text! I literally sent it from her phone. Honest to God, I’m a dumbass.
Wait a minute.
Marco.
Duh.
That’s where we’re going.
We’re already headed in that direction. It’s meant to be! We’ll be safe with him. We always were. Even if we do become suspects, the cops would never think to look for us at a random lake in upstate New York. We’re Jersey Shore beach people! Total lake virgins.
I run across the pavement and slide back into the car. Mom is in the driver’s seat, blotting her face with a Clean & Clear oil-removing wipe in the rearview mirror.
“Maybe this Luke thing isn’t so bad,” she says. “Even if he does try to say something, you could say you lied to try and save your ass from getting in trouble for the windshield. Then it’s just your word against his.”
Oh. She’s still on this. I consider coming totally clean and telling her that it would actually be my word against the irrefutable geolocational proof I sent to him, but you know what? It’s not even important anymore.
“Forget about Luke.” I toss the plastic QuickMart bag — full of Combos, Dasani, and Altoids — on the floor. “I figured out where we’re going.”
“Where’s that?”
The seat belt alert dings as Mom zooms back onto the highway.
“Marco’s.”
She doesn’t react to my brilliant idea.
It is a brilliant idea, right? Yes. We can tell Marco we’re on a spontaneous spring break vacation — popping our lake cherries — and thought we would stop by since we’re in the neighborhood. Then we’ll get drunk and pass out on his couch, thereby ensuring we have a place to sleep for the night. Then Mom and Marco will fall back in love and he’ll ask us to move in with him! I gotta say: Living on a lake sounds so chill, so peaceful, so I’m-definitely-not-running-from-the-law. We’ll leave New Jersey behind altogether. I’ll drop out of school and find a new bakery to work at during the day while I perfect my act. College would have sucked anyway. I’ll save up all my money and move to LA in a couple years, where I’ll be discovered and become the next Ali Wong (except less pregnant and more gay). Maybe I’ll even talk about this whole story in my debut Netflix special. By then our crime will be two years old and I’ll be rich enough to buy us out of whatever potential punishment might still strike us.
“Think about it!” I continue. “Even if we are wanted, no one’s gonna find us in some lakeside cabin out in the middle of nowhere. Maybe Marco can even help us —”
“Now I know you’ve lost your mind.” Mom scrunches her (perfectly matte) face. “We can’t just pop back into his life after eight years without any notice. What would we even say to him?”
“The truth.” Ding. “Shut up!” I scream at the dashboard. It can be such an asshole with those dings. I hastily jam my buckle in. “Okay. Maybe not the truth truth… but. Like, the version of the truth that we told Nonna.”
“He’s gonna know something’s up.”
“Yeah, maybe he’ll be surprised. But in a good way. And even if he did think it was weird that we’re showing up out of the blue, you know he would never tell us to get lost.”
She exhales.
This is good. This means she’s thinking about it. Granted, I’ve done enough thinking about it for the both of us, but I guess I can appreciate her need to roll it around in her head before admitting that I’m a genius and this is the perfect solution to all our problems.
“It’s not like going to Marco’s hasn’t already crossed my mind,” she finally says. “It just seems a little unfair to get him involved in this. And I don’t want to lead him on, you know?”
“He won’t know that he’s harboring two runaway fugitives,” I say. “So he’ll still be innocent. And I’m sorry, but leading him on is just a risk you’re going to have to take to keep us both out of prison. Small price to pay, I think. And who knows. Maybe you’ll fall back in love. Maybe we’ll be able to move in and live with him permanently… I’m just spitballing, here.”
“Did you smoke some crack in that QuickMart?” she says. “He has a life of his own. He’s not just sitting around waiting for us to barge back into it.”
“Forget the whole falling-back-in-love thing. That’s not important. What’s important is that we call him and find out his address.”
Mom exhales again — this time longer and louder — half defeat and half relief. “All right.”
“Yes! Thank you.”
I reach for her phone from the cupholder and it immediately starts buzzing.
Shit.
It’s a text.
From…
RICHARD: You wouldn’t happen to know anything about my house burning down, would you?