Don't Stop Now (3 page)

“Hello?” I answered the phone, Penny's home number glowing on the caller ID. Ninety-nine percent sure it would be her father on the other end. I can't say I ever deal much with fathers, especially my own (I've got Selfish Divorced Father Abandonment Syndrome), but Penny's dad is always the one to call me or wave to us while he's watering the lawn or ask when she's going to be home, not her mom. He never seemed that nice or affectionate, but he always had this look of guilty concern on his face. Maybe he knew something was going on with her and never could figure out just how to help her either.

“Lillian, this is Mr. Nelson.” Check. “Is Penny with you?” He doesn't sound overly traumatized, just trying to figure out where his daughter is. Which is not at home. But that doesn't mean anything. He probably saw her yesterday, and this is just an everyday, ordinary Penny misplacement.

“Sorry, Mr. Nelson. She's not with me.” I feel like I'm lying, when I'm not at all. I'm not even withholding information, since I don't have any and since there is no need for any information that I don't have to be withheld. All he wants to know is if she is with me. And she's not.

“Oh. OK. Well, if you see her, can you please remind her that she's supposed to watch Annabelle today?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Nelson,” I tell him. We say goodbye and I hang up, relieved.

“What did he want?” Josh asks. I stand up, so Josh and I are almost eye to eye. I'm five eleven to his six three; a perfect match if you ask me. Sometimes I even borrow his pants.

“He wanted to know how much ransom is and if I wanted it in unmarked one hundred dollar bills.” Sarcastic look from Josh. “I don't know. He was just looking for her. She's supposed to babysit her sister today.”

“Shocker,” Josh says, and he grips the bar above again to hang.

“Dude, put the pits away,” I tell him and step back from the hairy armpit dangling in my face. Not that he smells so bad. “And no, it's not a shocker. Sometimes I think the only reason her parents had Penny was so that they'd have a babysitter for Annabelle. Like
My Sister's Keeper
, but in reverse and without the cancer.”

“That almost makes sense,” Josh chides. “Let's go sit on the swings.”

We walk over to the swing set. Two of the swings have been flung over the top of the bar, so that the seats are so high only a person of, say, approximately six feet could untangle them. “It's our responsibility to undo these, you know,” I tell Josh and point to the wrapped swings.

“Why us?” he asks, sounding accused.

“What are those poor kids going to do when they get here and see that two of the swings are out of commission? They're going to have to battle it out for the remaining swing, possibly with a dance-off.”

“Or they could just climb up the side of the swing set and whip them down,” he argues.

“Just do it,” I command. I reach up and grab the black plastic seat with both hands, then give it a good thrust forward and upward so it flies over the top. I duck out of the way, and the seat lands one roll farther down with a jangle. I grab it again and throw it back over. Josh does the same thing next to me. As the swings get lower, it gets more dangerous and inevitable one of us will get hit. I dive away each time the swing flops over the top, while Josh nonchalantly dodges. Once the swings are fully down and the chains are unchinked, Josh dusts off the seat of one swing with his hand and offers it to me. “Why, thank you, sir,” I say and sit. He sits on the swing to my right, and we kick off from the ground to start swinging.

“Why does Annabelle even need a babysitter? Isn't she, like, nine?” Josh calls from his place in the air.

“Nine isn't that old, Josh. But I don't know why they always expect Penny to do it. It's not like she doesn't have stuff to do. And it's not like her mom's ever doing anything. She doesn't even work.” Penny's mom, who is always home whenever I go over to Penny's (noted by her gigantic silver Hummer parked in the driveway, but never by an actual sighting) is a QVC addict. When Penny and I first started hanging, she told me her mom watches QVC twenty-four hours a day and orders all of her clothes, shampoo, makeup, jewelry, and food off the TV. I totally thought she was exaggerating, until the first time I entered their house. I arrived at the same time as the UPS guy, and he literally had to take six trips to his truck and fasten his heavy load belt just to carry all her boxes to the door. For Penny's last birthday, her mother bought her, no joke, an olive tree. From QVC. That's how in tune and involved her mother is in Penny's life. Thanks for that olive tree, Mom. I'll be sure to get right on that olive harvesting. Makes me glad I'm an only child with a mom whose crazy work schedule at the hospital means that she's actually happy to see me. When she's around.

“Must be nice,” Josh says. “Not working.”

“Yeah. And you should know.” I pump my legs to catch up to Josh's swing height.

“Not for long. My dad told me yesterday that I have to get a real job or go to college. No way in hell I'm going right back to school, and no way in hell I'm getting my life sucked out of me by a nine to five. Hope it blows over.”

Josh has not worked a day in his life, thanks to his overly spoiling and accommodating (not to mention pretty loaded) dad. Not that I'm bitter, but I wouldn't have minded not having to work the last few summers in cruddy retail jobs to add to the bat mitzvah pot for college. I'm just glad my mom gave me the opportunity to choose what I want to do this summer. I can concentrate on my last summer of nothingness before I commit to becoming something for the rest of my life.

Josh doesn't seem too concerned that he has to commit to something when he yells, “Get out of my bathroom!” I start laughing so hard at the memory of being a little kid and landing in the same rhythm of another swinger and having to yell, “Get out of my bathroom!” What does that even mean?

“But I have to pee!” I scream, and we both begin pumping our legs frantically to go higher.

“We jump on three,” Josh calls. I haven't jumped from a swing in forever, and we're pretty high up considering our heights and the fact that the swing set is bucking under the weight of two full-grown teenagers' abuse. I'm game. “One…two…three!” Josh yells, and I propel myself off the swing, landing shakily on my legs. Josh lands next to me, much less planted, and falls onto me for support. We both topple over onto the woodchips, which, as suspected, do not act as a soft landing pad.

We're out of breath and laughing hysterically, and Josh says, “I think I got a splinter in my boob.”

“That's what you get for being in my bathroom,” I manage to scold him through my laughs. We're laughing uncontrollably now, when Josh pauses to say, “Your hair looks red today.” My hair has its own chameleonic way to it, sometimes more blond, sometimes light brown, sometimes reddish. I didn't even know what to put on my driver's license.

“I like it when it's red,” Josh says softly, and leans forward to touch a strand. All laughing stops. He looks into my eyes, or at least makes great eye contact, and I look into his, our eyes both so dark brown, they're almost black. We used to say we must be related. But I shouldn't be thinking what I'm thinking about any relative.

A buzz from the woodchips breaks the brown-eyed trance, and I see my cell has fallen out of my pocket. I pick it up and look at the caller ID. It's an unknown number, which I never answer because I was once suckered into a twenty-minute conversation with an old man named Hoyt who called me by accident, and after telling him I was NOT his long-lost daughter, Erma, about sixty times, I had to fake it and tell him what I'd been doing the last thirty years. Of course I couldn't just hang up. This time around I wait and assume whoever is calling will leave a message if it's anything important.

“You hungry?” Josh asks as he shakes out his shoes for possibly hidden woodchips.

“I could be. What are you thinking?”

“Chocolate chippies?” He slips on his Chucks, and I hear the buzz of my voicemail.

“Sounds good,” I say absently, pressing a button on my phone. The voicemail lady blathers on about the time. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I tell her. Then the message begins.

“Hey, Lil, it's Penny,” she whispers again, this time rushed and more urgent. “I'm flying out in a few minutes. I just wanted to make sure you got my first message and, um, beg you not to tell anyone where I'm going.”

“But I don't really know where you're going!” I yell at the message. Josh looks at me like he's about to ask what's going on, but I shoo him so I can hear the rest of it.

“I don't have my phone, so I'll call you when I get there. Promise you won't tell, OK?” Announcements mumble in the background. “I gotta go. Talk to you later.” And she hangs up.

I'm on my knees in the woodchips, trying to make sense of the Penny messages. Josh steps over to me. “May I speak now?” I nod. “What?” he prods.

“That was Penny. She was at an airport. I mean, I assume because she said she's flying out in a few minutes. But she didn't say to where. I wish I was a better listener. I mean, not like I care normally, but this time…We would have a lead!” Josh snickers at my detective-speak. “Work with me here. I know she has cousins in L.A. that she was kind of close to as a kid. And she once told me her mom has a sister in Austin, but they never speak. But that Portland guy…She seemed to really dig him.”

“Enough to fly away into his arms?” Josh considers.

“Maybe.” I'm stumped. “She said she doesn't have her cell phone and made me promise not to tell anyone where she's going. Which shouldn't be hard since I don't have a solid idea myself.”

“So you're not going to tell anyone what you don't know.”

“I don't think I'd tell anyone if I did know anything.”

“But you kind of know something.” This circular conversation is making my head spin. “You know she's going wherever she's going and you know she doesn't want anyone to know that.”

“Right. What?” I feel exhausted by the brain over-exertion when my phone rings. “Maybe that's her,” I gasp and fumble with the answer button before I get a look at the caller ID. “Hello?” I anticipate a hushed Penny on the other end. But it's not Penny.

“Lillian? This is Mrs. Nelson.” Penny's mom. Something about her voice makes me look around, as if she's somewhere nearby, watching. She doesn't sound like the old film diva that I expected, but more like a tired housewife. “I'm looking for Penny,” she says, continuing when I don't reply. “I don't know if I should be worried, but I checked her room to see if maybe she was just sleeping in, and her clothes were everywhere. Maybe that's just how messy she always is and I never noticed. I'm probably just worrying for nothing.” That hits me right in the gut. Her mom is already worrying. And she thinks it's for nothing. But it really is for something. That must be that whole mother's intuition thing.

“Do you know where Penny is?” she asks. I try to remind myself of Penny's plea, and I convince myself that everything I do from now on is in Penny's best interest. Remember the Hummer? QVC? The babysitting for a mom who should just be there? I ask myself.

“Um, sorry, no,” I finally manage to answer. Can she tell I'm lying with her mother's intuition? Am I even really lying? I don't know where she is at this moment. Not a lie.

“Oh, OK. Do you think she's with Gavin?” She doesn't wait for my answer. “She doesn't want us to call her when she's with him, so I don't even know his number. Do you have it?”

“No, I don't, sorry. We're not really friends.” I wonder if she can detect the disdain in my voice.

She doesn't let on, but sounds distracted. “Well, when you see her, can you have her call me?”
When
I see her? Does she think I'm in on this? That I know where to find her? I'm worked up when I realize she just means that I'll probably see Penny before she does, since, well, she doesn't really see Penny.

I nod at the phone before I manage a “No problem.” We say goodbye and hang up.

Josh is looking down at me, waiting for the story. I stare at nothing. “Penny's mom. Looking for Penny. Don't know where she is, Mrs. Nelson. I'll let you know if I see her, Mrs. Nelson.” Josh extends his hand to help me off the ground. I brush woodchips off my knees and note the blemished pattern they left on my legs. Still holding Josh's hand, I say, “We're accessories, you know.”

“What? Have you been watching
Law and Order
marathons again?” He squeezes my hand and says assuringly, “Lil, how can we be accessories? As far as her parents know, nothing is even going on. And we don't really know anything anyway. You're making a big deal out of nothing. It'll blow over while we eat our pancakes. No worries.”

We walk over, hand in hand, to Josh's car, a surprisingly old and beat-up Chevy Eurosport, boxy and white with slick red and black trim on the sides. His dad has offered to buy him something newer and nicer, but Josh doesn't think he'd look right in a new car. Of course his dad paid for this one, too, but Josh's excuse is that he saved him money. I'm just glad one of us has a car so we can go places other than the local jungle gym.

I slide onto the velvety blue seat, chewing the inside of my mouth nervously. Josh starts the car, and the engine roars like a sports car. He turns to me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and looks into my eyes. “No worries. Right, Lil?”

I'm not so sure.

Josh and I are finishing up our Festival of Grease (apple pancakes, chocolate chippies, turkey sausage, hash browns, home fries, and coffee). Breakfast convo consists mostly of Josh selecting the fantasy-tour lineup for his hypothetical band situation this fall. I nod a lot, slurp my coffee, and try to look like I'm listening. “…And that's when I stuck my foot up that tiger's butt,” I hear Josh punctuate a sentence.

“Wait, what?” I shake my head, confused.

“Yeah, not listening.” He sips his coffee and looks away, faux offended. He's wearing one of my favorite T-shirts (forced to put on after the perky hostess politely flirted with him but before the gelatinous manager kicked him out for the no-shirt issue), a Bob Dylan concert T of his dad's, complete with genuine holes and fading from years of love and wear. No Urban Outfitters imposter here. I love how the frayage on the neck highlights his Adam's apple and the barely there sprouts of chest hair that make him mannish enough, but not old man furry. What am I going on about?

I break my thought pattern by stuffing the last bite of apple pancake into my mouth, fully aware that my shorts are already screaming against my loaded stomach. I groan. “Must. Get. Up. Stomach about to connect with booth…”

Josh and I stand up to leave, and he drops some cash on the table for the check and tip. I used to think when Josh paid it was something of a date, but not after I watched him pay for everyone else he has ever eaten with. “Thanks for the grub, Dad,” I say. Josh wraps his arm around my shoulder, something he does often and not in any way that means anything but good friends, and we walk into the summer warmth.

“What do you wanna do?” I ask, sliding on my gigantic brown sunglasses. Josh and I made a decision a while back when a lot of our friends were “borrowing” designer sunglasses from the mall that we should only purchase our sunglasses from drugstores, thus ensuring that they will always be just a little out of style, but consistently hilarious. Josh's are what we refer to as “dick shades,” alluding to the fact that they could be detective/cop sunglasses, but more because they look like something a dick would wear. I check out my reflection in his big, square, silver lenses.

“Why don't we go for a drive?” he suggests. I love being with Josh in the car. Sometimes we drive for hours, going to towns far away just to check out the snack array in their gas stations. Other times we drive nowhere all day, just to watch the town move around. And sometimes we just park and talk. Magic always happens in his car. Well, not
that
kind of magic. At least not with me. And I refuse to prod about any of his past girlfriends, particularly because I know all of them. I don't ask, and he don't tell.

As we drive around, I feel antsy. Something isn't sitting quite right. Maybe it's the chocolate chippy/double potato combo. Or maybe it's the fact that, as much as I love the freedom I have declared for summer, there's still the loom-age of college in the back of my mind. But, really, I'm thinking about Penny.

“I feel like a turdball from outer space,” I announce.

Josh turns down the radio, some college station playing obscure and unpleasant ambient noise that Josh thinks is music. “Don't. You made a promise to Penny. That's very commendable in this day and age.” Josh must also have Penny on the brain, since he knew what I was thinking about without explanation. Great minds.

“As opposed to another day and age, oh wise one?”

“I'm just saying that she didn't have to trust you and you didn't have to be trustworthy, but you chose to be and that's really cool. I totally respect you for that. Among other things.”

“Really?” Compliments are supposed to be warm and fuzzy, but there's no need for my cheeks to feel so heated. Josh's smoothness always catches me off guard. Perhaps it's the fact that he actually causes a complete physical reaction, something I can't hide. But back to the matter at hand. “I don't know what else I could have done. Why would I tell her parents if I knew anything anyway? The only reason they give a crap about Penny is because they're out one babysitter. I'm sure they'll forget all about her once they find a replacement.”

“A replacement daughter?” Josh laughs.

“You know what I mean. Penny told me that for her sixteenth birthday, her parents gave her a brand-new Honda Civic. She was so stoked until the follow-up gift was a calendar of all of Annabelle's gymnastic, voice, and piano lessons. She's like Annabelle's personal chauffeur. Hey—speaking of, I wonder if she took her car to the airport.” Then they could just find her car, and I'm off the hook, I hope.

“Let's do a drive-by.” Josh knows the way to Penny's because he's dropped me off for numerous consolation occasions. She lives in one of the nicer subdivisions in a house big enough to have a three-car garage and enough pimped-out parent cars to play with that Penny always has to park in the driveway.

We drive for five minutes through the gridded streets, homes perfectly alternating gray, tan, white, gray, tan, white, when we turn down Penny's street. Already I can see a swarm of cars down the block. As we creep closer, I recognize they're not just parent cars. There's a police car there, too. Lights on. Two cops stand on the driveway. I watch her mom and dad and Annabelle, wrapped in the mom's arms, talking to the police, a man with a mustache (duh) and a woman with a low ponytail. They both wear sunglasses comically similar to Josh's. Penny's car is there, and the passenger door is flung open.

“I don't want them to see us!” I yell.

“Calm down. They won't see us.” Josh is driving slower than the already-slow twenty-five mph speed limit.

“Dude,
accessories
, remember? Go faster!” I'm panicked that if they see me, they'll suspect I know something. Not that I'm chock-full of info, but it's more than they have. Or more than they think I have.

“Chill. If I go faster, they'll definitely see me. If I keep going slow, I'll just look like some nosy neighbor.”

“Just get me out of here.” I want to duck, but they might see that, too. So I just face Josh and pretend to play with the stereo while minimizing the amount of my face they can see. Thank god for my gigantic Walgreen's sunglasses. “Have we passed them yet?”

“Uh-oh. They're flagging us down. They want me to stop. What should I do?” Josh asks wildly.

I look up, only to see that we're already a block and a half away. Josh is smiling a big ol' cheesy grin. “Turdsicle,” I say, relieved. “What do you think the police were doing there?”

“How do you think she got to the airport?” he counter-asks.

“Do you think they saw us?”

“Do you think the cops got their sunglasses from Walgreen's, too?”

“Can you please just get me as far away from Penny's house as possible?”

We drive for a while, and I let the whooshing of the wind competing with the music on the radio drown out my thoughts. The Eurosport has no AC, so open windows are a must. We glide onto the highway, and I relax a little with the speed and distance.

The yellow dashes zip past, and I bite my teeth in between each line, making a clicking rhythm in my brain. We're going so fast that I can't keep up, so I quit and allow my eyes to close.

The carb coma kicks in, and I fall asleep for I don't know how long. I'm jolted awake by the vibrating in my pocket. Damn cell phone. I pull it out and see a phone number, still our area code, that I don't recognize. “Who is this?” I hold the phone in front of Josh's face, and he tries to decipher the number while trying to stay in his lane.

“Not sure,” he says. “Just let it go to voicemail.” I let it and wait for the message buzz.

“How long was I out?” I ask.

“About an hour. We're in Wisconsin now.” Josh laughs.

“We made it across the border,” I joke. “Did I miss the Mars' Cheese Castle?”

“Nope. We're just about there.” The Mars' Cheese Castle is a landmark just over the Illinois-Wisconsin border. It's actually a major letdown if a castle is what you crave, although cheese fans will not be disappointed. When I was little, I used to believe it was an actual castle built entirely of cheese and inhabited by a glorious cheese-making princess. Josh and I finally stopped there after a day at the Britsol Renaissance Faire last summer, and my cheese fantasy was broken. At least their cheese curds are tasty.

“Shall we stop for some curds?” I ask.

“I gotta whiz,” Josh proclaims.

“Then that's a yes?”

We pull into the parking lot, which is packed with cheese enthusiasts. Josh heads to the bathroom while I step inside and browse the freezers of cow-shaped cheddar. I purchase a pack of cheese curds, which is kind of like wet cheese nuggets in a bag. I know it doesn't sound it, but they're really good. Like concentrated cheese.

If I hadn't been here already, I might feel the need to peruse the tchotchkes and cheese tidbits, but once you've seen the inside of this so-called castle, the cheese curds are all you need. I wait for Josh back at the car. I hop in and see my cell phone on the seat where I must have left it. There's a message.

I hit the listen button and pray for a message from old man Hoyt. Instead, I get, “Ms. Erlich, this is Sergeant Sundstrom of the Deer Grove police. I'm calling about Penny Nelson….”

Crap.