From What I Remember (15 page)

Okay. I’m starting to get frustrated. I’m turning left and right, no clue where the streets will lead, seemingly going in circles. So much for handling the situation. My brief moment of control has been snatched from my clutches all too quickly. There seems to be no way out of this labyrinth.

“Where are you going?” Max asks, in an accusatory tone. Like I know. Like there’s something I’m not telling him. And just like that, the mood sours again.

“I’m trying to find a road or a sign or something that will tell us which way to go. Feel free to contribute any ideas you have.”

“I don’t have any. I didn’t get us into this in the first place,” Max says.

Oh no, here we go. Back to the blame game. We’d taken a brief respite, but Max is eager to play again.

“I don’t remember you thanking me for saving our lives. I didn’t see you punching anyone in the face, or getting behind the wheel.” I turn away, annoyed. I mean, really. We’d be lying in a ditch right now, our bodies riddled with bullets or knife wounds, if it were up to Max.

“Thanking you? For nearly getting me killed in Mexico? For bringing me along on your psychotic road trip?” Max stares at me, incredulous.

Connection officially severed.

“No. Thanking me for the fact that you’re alive,” I spew.

“You are unbelievable, Kylie. I wouldn’t be in this huge freaking mess if it weren’t for you. I’m pissed. I’m supposed to be with Lily at the mall.”

“Oh my God. The horror. I had no idea I screwed up your big plans to go to the mall. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Maybe if you ever had any plans, you’d understand.”

“Screw you, Max,” I say, for the second time in two days.

“Screw you, Kylie.”

I don’t bother to tell him that’s not the most original comeback. I let him have the last word. I’m too exhausted, mentally and physically, to keep going at it. Max could probably go another few rounds, but I’m no one’s punching bag. I know it’s my fault, but, really, what’s the point of going over the same particulars? Been there. Done that. We need to move on and focus on getting out of here.

There are no lanes. No signs. No one follows any rules, as far as I can tell. People bolt across the street whether there’s a car coming or not. A minivan is actually parked in the middle of the street, with no one in it. It takes all my concentration not to collide with the various elements coming at me—bicycles, clumps of schoolkids in blue uniforms with little backpacks, old ladies carrying armloads of plastic bags full of stuff. I watch as a guy in a window a few stories up dumps a bucket of dirty water onto the sidewalk below, disregarding the fact that he’s dousing a crowd of people. Toto, we’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.

And then, as if by some weird intuition, I take a left down a wide, tree-lined boulevard, at the end of which the tangle of downtown Tijuana clears and we find ourselves on a highway. Before we can do anything about it, we are motoring down what appears to be a major interstate that rings the city, heading God knows where.

“Why are we taking this road?” Max wants to know.

“Doesn’t look like we have a choice.”

Max seems to think I’ve got this whole plan to go on some crazy Mexican road trip, with him as my hostage. Uh, news flash, dude, I’m so done with this country. And you. I’m like a charred steak at this point, just get me off the grill. I want to go back to never speaking again. At Freiburg.

“We’re heading away from the border,” Max says, agitated.

He’s right. I look to my left and realize we are going in the wrong direction, heading farther into Mexico, away from the States. But there’s no off-ramp. This road seems to only go in one direction.

“Yeah, well, this is our only option at the moment.” I take a deep breath and stop myself from saying anything snarky, which is so my inclination. It’s not going to do us any good. Our annoyance with one another hangs in the air like humidity, thick and sticky.

“I have no idea where we’re going, but at least we’re getting away from those guys. Besides, I can’t imagine it’s a good idea to try to cross the border in a truck that we stole, filled with stolen electronics that we didn’t steal. We’d have a hard time explaining that one to the border police. We need to find a bus or something back. I’m sure there’ll be some kind of sign soon. And we’ll figure it out from there. Right now, we just need to stay on the move.” I’m proud of myself for my composure and restraint. I’m thinking so clearly under pressure, it’s kind of trippy.

“You’re right,” Max concedes. “It’s just…all so epically insane.”

“I know.”

He’s right. It is. There’s no denying it.

“Maybe we’ll find it funny in a few days,” Max says. “If we’re still alive, we can have a drink in San Diego and laugh hysterically about how we thought we were going to die in Mexico.”

Max is offering up an olive branch, I think.

“If we’re dead, I’ll take a pass on the drinks.”

Max smiles. The clouds part again, letting in a little bit of sun.

After a few silent minutes, we pass a sign that reads ensenada…83 kilometers.

The sign whizzes by, but I’m sure I saw it correctly.

“We should head to Ensenada,” I say, gesturing back at the sign.

“Ensenada? Why should we go there?”

“My father grew up there. My grandmother used to live there. According to the sign, we’ll be there in less than an hour. I know there’s a bus we can catch back to San Diego. My grandmother took it all the time. We’ll leave the truck and get on the next bus.”

I’ve just come up with an actual plan, and I, for one, am psyched. Max just stares at me blankly.

wake up. I must have fallen asleep, as Kylie’s been driving. I look at my watch. It’s only been about twenty minutes. Cool of her to let me sleep. For the first time in two hours my body is relaxing. My shoulders are so sore. They’ve been scrunched up around my neck for, like, an hour. Man, I could totally use a beer right now. Maybe this nightmare has a happy ending. Maybe Kylie’s latest plan is better than some of her earlier ones. I look over at her. She’s staring at the road. I feel bad. I should cut her some slack. She did save our asses. If it had been up to me, we’d be in a Dumpster somewhere in Tijuana. Instead, I don’t say anything. I’m too proud to beg. It’s one of my less attractive qualities. Besides, I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for her. Then again, nobody held a gun to my head. I was right there with her all the way over the border. So, really, I’ve got no one to blame but myself. I’d just prefer to blame Kylie. It’s a shitload easier.

It’s embarrassing that in the moment of truth, I caved and she rallied. It’s my dirty little secret—cool on the outside; soft, wimpy center. It’s the reason I never leave La Jolla. I like things to be predictable. It’s a lot easier to be a player when you know the game.

I look out the window, taking in the scenery. I’m not sure I’ll be passing this way again, might as well try and enjoy the ride. The highway stretches out like a lazy black river. The tar ripples in the distance as the heat bears down on it. It’s pretty much a desert landscape, spotted with the occasional beaten-up roadside attraction—a taco stand, a souvenir shop, a run-down motel. I see a roadrunner clipping along, his legs pumping so fast they blur. A hand-painted sign reads gasolina.

I crane my neck to check the gauge. It would really suck if we ran out of gas. The last thing we need is to end up by the side of the road, crouching under the truck, bait for bandits. Half a tank. Should be enough to get us to Ensenada, and then we’re on a bus back to San Diego. I have never been so excited to get to school.

Okay. I’m being a prick. It’s been, like, five minutes and I haven’t said jack to her. I should say something. This sucks as much for her as it does for me. I turn to Kylie and am just about to get it together for an official apology when she flips on the radio. Mexican music blares, fast, syncopated, and hyper.

She punches another button—a sad ballad in Spanish. Weird place to land, but she seems to like it. Kylie starts to sing along.

“You know this song?” I ask.

“It was one of my grandmother’s favorites. It’s about a guy whose best friend stole his wife. He can’t seem to get over her.”

“That’s pretty dismal.”

“Yeah. We Latinas love us our melodrama. You ever seen a
telenovela
?”

“Heard of them. Never watched one.”

“They’re these serial television shows, kinda like soap operas. My grandmother watched them constantly. You can figure out the entire plot in the first three minutes. There’s always the cheating wife, the jilted lover, the bereaved widow, usually with heaving breasts. They’re awesome. They make
Desperate Housewives
look like
Dora the Explorer
.”

“I wouldn’t think that would be your thing. Cheesy romance.”

“I like all kinds of stuff,” Kylie says, a little defensively. “I’m full of surprises.”

“Yeah, you are.”

I mean it in a good way, but I’m not sure Kylie’s picking up on that.

“So who’s this guy singing?” I ask her.

“Luis Miguel.” Kylie looks at me expectantly, as if I know who that is.

I stare back at her.
“No comprendo, chica.”

“Ahh, ¿habla usted español, amigo?”

“Not at all. I’m taking Chinese with Bernstein. So that’s pretty much the extent of my Spanish.”

“Chinese? Really? You and Sheila Nollins.”

“They’re taking over the world. Or so my dad tells me.” What I don’t say is that it was his idea. And in our house, Dad’s ideas rule.

“’Kay. Whatever. I still can’t believe you don’t know Luis Miguel,” Kylie insists.

“I’m a serious gringo. In case you haven’t figured that out.”

“Actually, I have.” Kylie smiles. She’s not being bitchy. I’m pretty sure of it.

“He’s not bad,” I concede.

“He’s, like, one of the most famous Latin singers ever. He’s won about a million Latin Grammies.”

“Yeah, I’ve missed the Latin Grammy Awards these last few years,” I say, wondering why I would ever watch them.

“You’d be surprised how good the music is. Luis Miguel is amazing. I mean, it’s not like I go running to him or anything, but I really like his storytelling and the passion. At least it’s about something real. I mean, Lady Gaga could learn a thing or two from this guy.”

“Lady Gaga wouldn’t know a genuine emotion if it hit her in the face,” I say, which seems to surprise Kylie. She grins.

“So, who do you listen to?”

“I don’t know. I am into lots of different stuff. I’m kind of all over the map. I like Johnny Cash, Jack’s Mannequin, Vampire Weekend, Thirty Seconds to Mars, Radiohead, PiL, Fleet Foxes, Led Zeppelin.…”

Kylie looks like she’s trying to make sense of it. My music taste isn’t as one-dimensional as she assumed. I’m totally into music. Latin music as well. Award ceremonies just aren’t my thing. Music and old movies help me escape my shit, even if it’s fleeting. Nothing else takes me out of my head in the same way.

“What are you into?” I ask. Not because I’m trying to be polite, like in Starbucks, but because I actually want to know. The girl is a total mystery to me.

“I like almost everyone you just mentioned, with the exception of Radiohead, who I just don’t get. I’m a little annoyed by how precious those boys of Vampire Weekend are, but I can’t help liking their music.”