Life Before (13 page)

I hate lying to Jill. “Jill, I can’t give you any details about New York.” Lawyer truth. Separate lawyer truth: “Just know that I’m safe here. I won’t stay a second too long, but I think it’s safest to stay away until things settle down there.”

“Fine.” Her tone suggests it’s anything but fine. “Can we talk again tomorrow?”

It’s intense, standing here in full view with no crowd protection. Talking every day would be too much of a routine. I want to be scarce and inconsistent, just in case anyone is watching. “Actually, I was thinking in two days, and maybe at a different time?”

Jill sighs. “You’re going to be gone two more days?”

That sinks in. I’m going to be gone two more days. At least. “I’m not coming back until I feel safe.”

She’s quiet, digging for something to compel me back. “Gretchen’s not gonna wait forever, you know.”

Low blow. “Have you seen her?”

“She comes over every day. She is dying for details, not that it matters since you’re so secretive. I’ve hinted that you’re somewhere you’ve never been before, but that doesn’t exactly narrow it down, you know? And, if I’m being honest, you coming back wouldn’t really fix things with Gretchen because her dad has forbidden her to see you. He thinks you’re a fugitive.”

Most parents love me, so being banned is a sort of trophy, in addition to a huge bummer. I press my finger into the outside of my backpack, right at the pocket. Gretchen’s lip balm creates a little bulge from inside.

Jill says, “What if something happens tomorrow and you could be
home
by Wednesday?”

After a lot of back-and-forth, we agree I can use social media, but not from her iPod and only passively. No logging in, not even creating a fake account, because if Gary’s really watching, he might catch on to some random person who starts following all my friends online.

If anything significant happens, Jill will post a photo of herself with a number somewhere in the photo. The number is the time I should call her at Pizza Works. If Gary is caught, she’ll just post that he’s caught, and I can call her cell.

“Please insert additional funds.”

Crap. “Jill, I’m out of quarters. I’ll call in two days—Monday afternoon, okay?”

“I think nine at night would be better.”

“Nine p.m. Got it. Give your Mom a big hug for me … but maybe don’t tell her it’s from me, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Please insert additional funds.”

I try to pull both our moods out of the mire with my tone. “Okay, I’ll talk to you then! Bye Jill!”

My phone is halfway to the receiver when Jill shouts, “Xander?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Jill,” and I do. I want nothing more than to share Oreos, and harp on her music, and discuss the little problems of our small town. “Think of this as a trial. When I’m at Tulane and you’re at Oberlin, we won’t see each other ten times a day. This is like a test to see whether we can breathe without each other.”

“Please insert additional funds.”

“I guess.”

She knows, as I do, that this isn’t a trial. She can’t call me. We can’t talk every day, and there are no video chats. No instant messages, witty online quips, or loquacious emails. But this is the best I can do for now.

Jill says, “Okay. You have to be—”

Her end of the line goes dead, so I have no idea what I have to be.

Okay. If Jill really thinks I’m in New York, perhaps I can stay hidden for a while. Now, with a new lifeline. During tomorrow’s kick out, I’m heading straight to the Internet so I can see what everyone else is talking about. That’s awesome.

_______

The dorm has come alive in my absence. Two guys are poring over a giant map, discussing route options. A threesome clusters together in the opposite corner: a tall, lanky guy in Birkenstocks strumming a guitar and humming occasionally, a guy with dreadlocks reading, and a third staring off into space.

The map boys swat mosquitoes every few seconds.

“Where you from?” Guitar asks.

“Georgia.” The lie is no easier the second time around. “You?”

“Berkeley. Name’s Bingham.” He thrusts an enormous bony hand toward me.

I take it. “Graham Bel.”

One of the map guys says, “Alexander Graham Bell! Thanks for the telephone, buddy.” He might be drunk.

Hearing
Alexander
is unsettling. “I get that a lot. But I’m just Graham.”

Everyone else chimes in. Brad. Paul. Oscar. Reed. Oscar and Reed are the map gawkers.

Bingham, the trio’s ringleader, strums his guitar. “Hey, uh—”

“Graham?”

“Graham, right. What’s your plan for tomorrow?”

Staying alive.
“Not sure. I just came in from New York yesterday. I thought I’d poke around some tomorrow.”

“We’re headed to the beach in the morning. Try to find some locals. Want to come with?”

“I’ll think about it.” And just as it did when that phrase came out of Mom’s mouth, it means no. Mia said I can stay here until eleven, so I’m staying here. Until eleven. No way am I spending a single second out there when I could be hidden in here.

“So what did you think of New York?” Bingham’s interest is genuine.

“I loved it.”

“Visit any museums?”

I will sound like an idiot if I confess I was there for less than three hours. So I lie. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art.” I furiously pick around my brain, hunting for any other museum Gretchen has mentioned. All I come up with is Glockenspiel, and I know that’s not it.

“Ah, the Met. We spent a whole day there and I still barely scratched the surface.”

“Yeah.”

“My family spent Christmas in New York last year—that’s when we hit the Met—and I wound up going back to the Natural History Museum because it was so fascinating. Put me in front of a dinosaur, and I’m like six years old again.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s kind of what we’re doing this summer: searching for the fascinating bits of the country. It’s a totally organic experience, you know? We’re going wherever we want and just soaking stuff in. Soaking in the mountains, soaking in museums, soaking in the people we meet.”

The only thing I’m soaking in is Bingham. I want a worldly life, and Bingham is actually living one. I want to know everything. “So what are you soaking in here?”

He strums for a minute. “We chartered a boat today, for fishing, but that was our only concrete plan. The experience won’t really be organic if we plan the whole thing, you know? So, we’ll check out the beach and the school. Maybe find some local people we like enough to hang out with.

“That’s the important thing, you know? Find the local people so you’re not really a tourist. Most people who live in New York City have never been to the Statue of Liberty, you know? But they can take you to a really chill bar. And the greatest used clothing joints. And a cup of coffee that’s not burnt and doesn’t cost eight bucks a cup. Real people sharing real lives.”

Bingham is a real hippy, but I like him. What a brilliant way to travel! I want to do
that
. Jill would totally be down with meeting new people and living like a local.

Bingham plays the same melody a few dozen times, altering one particular note up and down with each iteration. He is creating new music right in front of me.

When he’s happy with the riff, he says, “What’s your story?”

I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to tell my life story, either. Instead, I go with an infinitely relevant truth: “This is my first time traveling.”

He stops strumming to study me. “Why’s that?”

“It wasn’t a priority, I guess.” Complete lie—it has always been my dream. “Plus my family never really had the money.” And there’s the truth.

“You’re doing it now,” Bingham says. “That’s what’s important. And Paul can teach you how to do it on the cheap. He is a genius of frugality.”

Bingham’s fingers return to the strings. He’s so good that he’s exercising his fingers relentlessly while he fills my head with ideas about traveling on the cheap. I think I’m doing a pretty good job so far, but this is my first time, so what do I know? My bus ticket was cheap. Hostel is cheap, and includes breakfast. I’m sort of proud to be in my first sort-of-hotel.

For two days, at least.

This is cool. I can do this. The privacy of my dorm, Mia guarding the entrance, and Gary absolutely clueless to my whereabouts.

I hope he’s clueless. And hundreds of miles away.

I can do this.

Bingham focuses on his guitar and I whip out “Save Ur Ash.” I’m nowhere near winning, but I can’t stop playing. The game isn’t even that good! The edge of the radioactive zone is just out of reach. Two hours ago, I was within eleven miles of safety when my car ran out of fuel and the ash rained down. Maybe next time I’ll make it. One more try. One more mile. Once more, once more, once more.

Oscar-or-Reed stands up. “Mia will kill the lights in half an hour. I’m going out for a smoke. Anyone else?”

Brad follows Oscar-or-Reed out of the dorm while Reed-or-Oscar lies down on his cot with a coverless book. Either speed reading or seeking a really important passage, he flips a page every twenty seconds or so, and the constant flip, flip, flip is distracting. I can’t get back into my game.

It’s Saturday night, so Tucker is probably treating all our friends to homemade root beer floats. Or actual beer, hold the ice cream. If Jill is off house arrest, she’s with him. Or with her girlfriends at the movies. Without me.

What’s Gretchen doing, without me, at this very moment?

We sort of have a relationship, right? If you count the time between our first (horrible! I am such a moron!) kiss and the attempted kisses in Jill’s kitchen, we dated for seventeen days … which by her rules means she is already over the 10-percent mourning period. Ten percent is just 1.7 days less, if you count the actual hours between the first kiss and my lame I-can’t-do-this exit.

Her warm mouth could be on someone else’s this very instant. Someone else could be trying to decide exactly how her mouth tastes, a combination of pizza and beer and sweet Gretchen. Some other guy could be discovering those dimples above her perfect butt.

Is it sacrilegious to think about a girl’s butt when my mother is very recently in the ground?

I reach into the front pouch of my backpack for the blue plastic lip balm. Smearing it on my lips, I wonder whether Gretchen is doing the same.

Maybe she’s sharing a new tube with someone else.

What have I done? If I make it home alive, running away will be worth losing Gretchen. But if I can never go home again, I will have lost twice.

What have I done?

I should be grateful to be alive, with or without Gretchen. I should be grateful right now, but I guess abject fear is stronger than gratefulness. Paper covers rock.

So, what is scissors? What is greater than fear?

Pure exhaustion. Pure exhaustion is greater than fear, and finally I find dreamless sleep.

T
WENTY-ONE

An accented voice wakes me. “Halloo Halloo! Eleven o’clock!”

The dorm is empty, and I’m late.

“Sorry, so sorry!” I rip off my sheets and pick up my bags, stuffing papers and Jill’s iPod into my backpack. Without a shower or the gratis waffles I was promised, I check my duffel at the desk.

The girl at the desk—not Mia—shames me for missing breakfast. I resist the urge to mention that a nice girl would have woken me for waffles. A bone fide hotel would have let me hole up all day. But then, that’s someone else’s road trip.

I check my bag with not-Mia, who is far too chipper for my taste.

“Have a great day, Mr. Bel.”

“Yeah.”

I head down the staircase. Almost out into the world, I spot the bright blue Mustang directly across the street.

I can’t breathe, in or out. My body is suspended in space and time.

When the suspension ends, I suck in a thin line of air. I have nowhere to hide. I run back up the stairs, but not-Mia is not at the desk.

I fumble inside my backpack for the knife. Why isn’t it in my pocket at all times? Haven’t I had this conversation with myself before? I open the blade and position it in my pocket.

At this hour, the front door cannot be opened from the outside. Telling myself I’ll just take a peek, I creep back down the stairs. The Mustang is parked and empty, so that’s something.

Gary could be anywhere. He could nab me right outside this door. Or wait until I’m halfway down the block.

Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.
I can’t go out there.

I holler up the stairs. “Hello?”

A few seconds later, she looks down the stairs at me. “Yes, Mr. Bel?”

“What’s your name again?”

“I’m Kiki.”

“Kiki. Right, sorry.” I’m panting now. “I can’t. I—I can’t go out there.”

She steps down two stairs. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bel. Those are the rules. I need to clean up here, and you need to be out.”

I plaster myself against the wall just inside the glass door. A giant, translucent sticker designed to block out the sun is peeling at all four edges. It offers zero protection.
Shit.

Kiki glares at me. “If you don’t clear off, you will be blackballed for life.”

If I do clear off, I may not
have
a life.

“Out!”

Breathing is difficult, and talking is nearly impossible. “Could you—could you just do me one favor? One?” Leaving the knife in my pocket, I pull out my wallet and shove all my cash toward her, even the Gretchen Sixty, the cash from Mom I didn’t want to spend on anything but us. This is desperation. “I’ll pay you. I will give you everything if you just go out ahead of me. Can you poke your head out first?”

She comes halfway down the stairs, glances at the bulge in my pocket, and decides it is something innocuous, like a phone.

Please don’t be afraid of me.
Uttering the sentence aloud would have the opposite effect. I can’t slow my breathing. I can’t calm down. “I know. I know I sound like a nutjob. I know this is strange. It’s just that—”
Deep breath.
Crap, what version do I give her? “Kiki, someone has been following me, and his car is right across the street. I promise you, if you poke your head out and see no one waiting, I will leave.” And run to Curt’s, where I can figure out what to do next.