From What I Remember (14 page)

I throw on a black chain necklace, very eighties. And spiky black patent heels.

Ding ding ding.
We. Have. Got. A. Winner. People.

I exit the dressing room to admire the look I’ve just curated, ignoring the tweaky stares I’m getting from tweens and their moms. I stand in front of the three-way, staring at myself from every angle, which is when it hits me. I’m actually kind of over the whole cross-dressing thing. At first it was fun—lots of shock and awe, which was a kick. But lately it’s been less satisfying as people have become slowly inured to my look.

Girls’ clothes feel different on the body. They cling, they hug, and they drape. It’s sexy and pleasurable to have a different relationship to fabric, but I’m kind of starting to miss the fit and feel of a finely tailored men’s suit. Nothing like a European-cut Tom Ford to make you feel dapper. The honest truth is, I like stylish men’s clothes as much as the next guy. Maybe even more than I like women’s clothes. Maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe I don’t have to shove my gayness down everyone’s throat. Maybe I should consider the possibility of a suit at graduation. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. The kid needs to give this one a good think.

The one thing I do know is that Kylie absolutely must wear this dress. It rocks.

“Will Bixby, what the hell are you doing?”

I turn around to see Lily Wentworth staring at me. She is wearing the exact same dress. Stokely Eagleton hovers behind her like some kind of military helicopter, ready to whisk her away in case of emergency.

Lily Wentworth? What is she doing slumming at Forever 21? She’s such a label whore.

“What’s wrong with you? You look totally gay,” Lily says.

“I am totally gay, Lily,” I remind her. “I’m buying it for Kylie.”

“I don’t think so. I’m buying this for graduation, so you might as well just put yours back,” Lily insists, like she’s the boss of me or something.

Stokely nods in solemn affirmation, as though the word of God has just been handed down.

I am suddenly back to wanting to shove my gayness right up Lily’s ass, along with the stick that’s been in there for a while now. So much for the suit.

“Kylie will be wearing it to graduation. Deal with it.” I flash Lily a toothy grin just because I know it will drive the knife even deeper. “If I were you, I’d find something a little more…forgiving. Maybe try the plus sizes or something.”

Lily doesn’t say anything. She just glares at me. I turn and sashay back into the dressing room like I’m working the runway.

“Does this make me look fat, Stokes?” I can hear Lily asking. Mess with me, beyatch, and I will mess you up.

“Not at all. You’re a size two. It looks great on you. He’s just jealous. He knows you’ll totally show up Kylie if you wear the same dress. I mean, Kylie Flores? Please,” Stokely says.

“You’re right. Besides, who cares what weird Will Bixby thinks, anyway?”

“Totally,” Stokely echoes.

Man, I hate Lily Wentworth. I can’t believe we were best friends in kindergarten. What was I thinking? I walk out of the dressing room, firmly clutching my red dress, and march over to Lily, getting all up in her grille. I am so over being called a loser.

“Hey, Lily, shouldn’t you be at Dolce or Prada?” Lily noticeably flinches. I’ve hit a nerve. “I mean, wearing a dress from Forever 21? Everything all right at home?”

Mom and Ms. Wentworth are friends from The Casino, a hideous tennis, golf, and swim club that I haven’t dared to set foot in since sixth grade. They play doubles together every week. There was a juicy tidbit of gossip that Mom let slip to Dad over dinner last week. It seems the Wentworths haven’t paid their club bill in months. Looks like someone’s family is having financial troubles. Oh, the horror.

“Go to hell, Will,” Lily says. And it’s bingo, baby. Something is definitely up over at the Wentworths’. Has Daddy gone bust?

I wave and smile as I strut off.

Mission accomplished.

e are going to die. For a fraction of a second, the four of us stare at each other. I’m sure the two guys are trying to figure out what the hell we were doing in the truck. Max and I share a quick look, both scrambling for a Plan B. We have no idea where we are or what we’re doing. There’s no one around. And we have absolutely no time to think, so it’s not much of a plan—more of an instinctive desire not to die—when we simultaneously turn and dart back up the street, running for our lives. The two guys take off after us. We don’t stand much of a chance. Max catches my eye, and for the briefest instant we are connected. I know it’s utterly inappropriate and odd, and yet I can’t help but think that it’s the first time I’ve connected to someone from Freiburg other than Will. My mind is a strange place. Even stranger when faced with imminent death.

When my computer was snatched, I had a moment to consider whether going after it was a good idea. The same could be said when I crawled into the back of the truck; I could have walked away. That’s not the case now. This is it. The end. I look back at the men—they’re closing in on us. And then I remember something. The keys are still in the truck. The keys are still in the truck. Oh my God. No way! A minor miracle. I don’t usually have the best luck, nor do I believe in fate or God watching over me. But I may have to rethink my position on all that, because there, on the dash, is a gift from…someone. I sprint toward the truck.

For the second time today someone has left keys in their vehicle and I am carjacking. I don’t have time to figure out the larger implication of this. Maybe it just means people are idiots. Or I have a bright future in car theft.

Max isn’t reacting. It’s like someone turned off his radar and he’s not picking up signals. I grab his arm and pull him toward the truck. He’s moving as if by rote, following me as a last resort. My being in charge must be pretty cold comfort to him.

I’m terrified. Nonetheless, my synapses are firing on all cylinders. I know exactly what to do. Even though I’ve never been in this situation, something about it feels familiar. I’ve been training for this moment most of my life. Obsessively watching and writing action movies just might save my life today. And Max’s.

I jump into the truck and start it up. Max hops in shotgun. As soon as I turn on the engine, the guys charge us like a hurricane. We slam the doors shut. I jerk the gearshift into reverse. We buck backward. Shit! How do you drive this thing? My budding confidence starts to ebb.

The short guy grabs on to Max’s door and tries to pry it open. He’s screaming in Spanish. Max presses down the lock and pulls the door toward him for good measure.

“Forward. Go forward,” Max yells, as if I don’t know that.

“I’m trying!” I scream.

Shit! The gear is stuck. As I wrestle with the gearshift, the tall guy reaches through the open window and tries to pull my hand off the wheel. I let out a kind of animalistic, guttural screech. It doesn’t even sound like it’s coming from my mouth. And then, without thinking, I smash my fist into the guy’s face. It’s right out of a Jet Li movie. It’s like I’ve been body-snatched. The guy falls back, grabbing his face. His nose is bleeding. I’ve just bought us a few crucial seconds.

Max thrusts his hand on top of mine and throws the gear into drive. I hit the gas. We plow forward, crunching the bumper off the car in front of us and nearly swiping several parked cars. I have never, in my life, punched someone. Sure, I’ve screamed at people during one of my angry spells. But nothing like this. I slammed this guy with a fury and force I had no idea I possessed. I’m equal parts scared and excited by my newfound powers. I’d almost believe I’m part superhero if my hand weren’t pulsing with pain.

Out of my peripheral vision I see Max gaping at me, as stunned as I am. We are both silent. This is no time to talk.

I keep the pedal to the metal as we career down the street. In the rearview mirror I see the two guys chasing after us. They’re receding into the distance. They’ll never make it on foot. Miraculously, we have survived. Against absolutely the worst odds imaginable.

We are moving at a pretty fast clip when I suddenly realize that the street is about to end. I nearly crash into an old man selling food from a metal cart. I jerk the wheel hard to the right. We hug the corner. The truck lurches dangerously to the left, threatening to overturn. Max slides into me. I slow down a little and the truck rights itself.

“Just keep driving,” Max tells me.

“What did you think I was going to do? Stop for an enchilada?”

“Who knows? You’re pretty unpredictable.” A smile creeps up the side of Max’s face.

Max isn’t so bad. As it turns out, neither am I. I just saved our lives, by the way.

The situation, however, is a whole ’nother thing.

We speed down a street, somewhere in Tijuana, no idea where it will lead. It doesn’t matter. We are alive. We are not going to die. Maybe in five minutes, an hour, but not right now.

“That was pretty awesome! I cannot believe I hit that guy. And hard!!” I blurt out. And then, because I can’t hold back, I let out a quick little holler and slam my hand down on the steering wheel. “I’m like La Femme Nikita. Jason Bourne—”

“Uh, let’s not get carried away.”

“Angelina Jolie in
Salt
?”

“Tina Fey in
Date Night
?”

“Shut up. I saved your ass, white boy.”

Max bursts out laughing. I laugh along with him. The tension ebbs.

“You definitely did. It was like that chase scene in
The French Connection
.”

“I’ve never seen
The French Connection
,” I say.

“Wait. You’ve never seen it? You’re the film snob, not me.”

“Yeah, well, we all have gaps in our education. I can’t believe you’ve seen it.”

“Guess I’m not the cultural retard I appear to be.”

“Guess not. And I’m not the social retard I appear to be.”

Max and I share a quick smile, followed by silence as we absorb what just happened. We may be safe, for now, and my performance was outstanding, if I do say so myself, but the whole thing was so stressful and scary, I think we’re both still reeling.

As we take in the streets of Tijuana, heaving with people, merchandise, and smog, I’m feeling pretty stoked even though my hand is throbbing. Kind of like I saved the world. I’ve never felt particularly cool, but I’m feeling it now. For once in my life, my academic career is the last thing on my mind.

“So, now what?” Max asks.

“Dunno. We try to figure out a way out of here, I guess.”

“This is way messed up. The last day of our senior year and we’re in Tijuana!” Max’s mood suddenly shifts.

I couldn’t care less about the last day of school. I mean, I want to get back, but I’m hardly broken up about it, like Max. It’s just another day in the salt mines for the socially obscure, like me and Will. But it’s a momentous occasion for a high school celebrity like Max.

“We’ve got no GPS, no cell service, no passports, and no plan, a truck filled with stolen electronics and two dudes who are extremely pissed at us,” Max reminds me. As if I need to be reminded.

“Yeah, it’s probably not the best way to see Mexico.”

I can now recall the only other time I’ve been here. When I was four or five, my Dad and I took a bus from San Diego into Tijuana. We met my grandmother and went shopping. We made our way through the colorful, winding alleys, and my dad bought me a tiny clay donkey painted white, some castanets, and a beautiful wooden doll. It was one of the nicest days I can remember having with my father. He seemed comfortable and relaxed, in a way he doesn’t in San Diego. I remember wondering why we didn’t come here more often. My grandmother moved to San Diego soon after that, and we never came again. In my mind, Tijuana was a magical place. Beautiful, dynamic, spirited. It wasn’t the crowded, dirty, chaotic noisy place I am encountering now.