Текст книги "From What I Remember"

Автор книги: Valerie Thomas

Соавторы: Stacy Kramer
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

hat part of “meet me on the front lawn at noon” didn’t Max understand? We had a date. We decided to blow off third period so that we could carve our initials on the palm tree, go to the mall for lunch and a quick shop, and then make it back for senior assembly. Somehow, I’m the only one who remembered. Alone on the front lawn. This is so not where I live. I really need Max now. This is not the time for one of his disappearing acts. Last night was possibly the worst night of my life, and I haven’t even told Max about it yet. I’ve already given up on lunch, but I need to hit the mall. I’ve got nothing to wear tomorrow. Mom’s been so completely wrapped up in her own stuff, she didn’t get me a dress for graduation. I get it under the circumstances. But still…

This is not even close to the fabulous last day of school I had in mind. I call Max for the fifth time in the past two minutes, but it goes straight to voice mail. I’m sure he’s playing squash with Charlie and completely spaced on our date, which has happened too many times to count.

Max and I have been together for almost a year now. People we don’t even know in La Jolla are always telling Mom and Dad how amazing we are together. It’s weird to find your soul mate in high school. But it happened. It’s done. And I’m not letting go. Especially not now, with things so seriously wrecked on the home front. I don’t even know the full extent of it.

When I walked in the door last night at midnight, Mom’s eyes were red and puffy. I thought she was going to tell me she and Dad were getting a divorce. I wish she had. That, at least, I could deal with, get over eventually. This is worse. Way worse. I’m not sure how I even hurdle this one. Ever.

Mom kept talking and talking. There was too much information to take in. After a while, I couldn’t listen anymore. How could I go from having everything one day to nothing the next?

“Your father is being investigated by the federal government. There’s going to be a trial.”

Those were Mom’s exact words. I’m still not entirely sure what it even means. But I know we’re in trouble. Big trouble.

“Dad is declaring bankruptcy. We’re going to put the houses on the market. We’re looking for a temporary place to live, maybe a condo somewhere downtown. We’re going to be okay. I promise. But we’ll have to rethink things. Pull back…” It was all coming at me fast and furious, like a tornado.

In a heartbeat, my life had gone from awesome to awful. We were broke. Dad was potentially a criminal, and how in the hell were we going to afford Stanford? I know I should have been more concerned about Dad, but honestly, Stanford was the first thing that came to mind. It so isn’t fair. I worked my ass off to get in, and now it seemed like it was being snatched right out from under me.

I got nearly perfect scores on my SATs. I got into Stanford, Swarthmore, Pomona, Michigan, and Williams. I took more AP classes than anyone in the history of Freiburg. I was captain of varsity tennis, I tutored inner city kids for two summers straight, and for what? So I could attend the local community college in preparation for a manager’s position at Burger King?

How could Dad do this to me? To us?

I should have seen the early warning signs. But the truth is, I wasn’t interested.

About three months ago, Dad came home from work in the early afternoon and said he was done working for people. Done with the bank. He was going to start his own business. He set up shop downstairs, in the media room. I’m not sure, but I think he may have been fired. He didn’t want to talk about it, and I certainly didn’t want to talk about it. With him. Or anyone else, for that matter. The less said the better. I just assumed he would figure it out.

He was trading stocks, I think. Sometimes he was down there all day and all night. For a while, nothing seemed to change. Mom and I still went shopping, Janice cleaned and cooked for us, we went to Cabo for spring break. And then, about a week ago, Dad got all psychotic. He took away my credit cards, stopped delivery of all the flowers, fired the housekeeper, traded in his Porsche convertible for a Ford Focus (a Ford Focus?!), and sold the yacht.

In retrospect, Mom’s news shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But it’s hard to grasp the worst-case scenario until it smacks the shit out of you. At the very, very, very least, thank God the world came crashing down on the last day of school and not any earlier, because as soon as word gets out, the vultures will be circling. Schadenfreude. Deriving pleasure from other’s pain. It’s horrible, but it’s sport at Freiburg. And I’m about to be the ball. They’re all going to take a whack at me, and there’s precious little I can do about it.

I’m not sure how Max is going to react. I’d like to believe that he loves me unconditionally, but I’m no fool. I know the bells and whistles help. He likes the yacht, my Audi convertible, the house in Aspen. What am I going to tell him? Or anyone, for that matter. Maybe I’ll just keep it a secret until it absolutely, positively can’t be kept quiet anymore. And just maybe, some kind of miracle will happen and everything will turn out okay. Like it always has for me.

Jesus. Dad isn’t actually going to go to jail, is he?

When I asked Mom what Dad did wrong, she said, “He didn’t do anything everyone else wasn’t doing. He just got caught.”

That didn’t clarify things at all. And the morality of that statement was questionable at best. But I didn’t even go there with Mom.

“Don’t worry. We’ll fight this, and we’ll win,” Mom insisted in that Pollyanna way of hers. But her unflagging enthusiasm was flagging, for the first time ever. She knew things weren’t going to be okay and she didn’t have a clue how to deal. Her thinly veiled horror was written all over her face.

“People are just jealous of me, pumpkin. They want what we have. We’re going to come out on top, though. Don’t worry,” my dad told me a little while later when he came up to my room. It was probably one in the morning by then. It all sounded suspiciously like the words of a guilty person. When I asked him about Stanford he said we’d “figure something out.” I’m pretty sure it was his way of just pushing off the inevitable difficult conversation.

I want to believe he’s innocent. I mean, he’s my dad. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he did something wrong. He’s never played by the rules, even with us. When my brother was spending too much time on the bench in basketball, Dad took his coach out for dinner, and after that, Jordan never warmed the bench again. He once paid three times the fee for some stupid horse camp that was full so I could get in. Another girl was probably yanked out to make room for me, and I don’t even like horses. Dad always gets what he wants, one way or another. And Jordan and I have learned to do the same.

I curse Max again for making me wait. I don’t want time alone today. I don’t want to have to be thinking, ruminating, worrying. I want to keep moving. I call Max again. Surprise, surprise. Voice mail. Screw it. I’m going to the mall with Stokely. She won’t blow me off.

t’s fourth period and I am standing in the dressing room of Forever 21, surrounded by piles of discarded clothes. I had to flee the festivities at Freiburg. It’s insufferable enough on a normal day, but the last day of school is truly beyond. Seniors were marching around singing the Freiburg anthem, like brainwashed North Korean soldiers. The library had been strafed with toilet paper, and everyone was wearing green and blue. Gag me. Maybe if Kylie had shown up for school today I could have handled it with aplomb and a dollop of snark, but on my own, it was just too much. Which brings me to the burning question: where the hell is Kylie on the last day of school?

I hold a formfitting, black spandex mini-thing up to my body, the sixth outfit I’ve considered. I can’t help but wonder if I’m making any progress. The question is, would Kylie rock this outfit the way I could? It would have been enormously helpful to have her here with me as I try to find her the perfect graduation dress. But we can’t always get what we want. How well I know that old adage. It should be my theme song.

I’m on a mission, with or without Kylie’s blessing.

I’m surprised Kylie didn’t show up for first period, or second or third, for that matter. I can’t remember the last time my little chica missed school. She’s really anal about attendance. Hopefully, she’s not sequestered in her bedroom, rewriting her speech for the thirtieth time. She’s been working that thing like it’s the inaugural address. I keep telling her that it wouldn’t be so bad if she riffed a little bit at graduation. Maybe everyone else would realize what I already know: girlfriend rocks the house with her brains and beauty. She could talk her ass off without ever preparing a thing, if she’d only trust her instincts. But Kylie’s not into doing anything on the fly. Her life is all about planning and über preparation. I’m just worried that if she reads the speech straight off the page, it’s going to be missing soul. Kylie is full of soul and I want everyone to know it.

Predictably, she hasn’t responded to any of my fifty texts to meet at Forever 21. She is relentless in her quest to look sexless. But I am going to pack her smoking-hot bod into a fabulously sexy frock for the ceremony, or die trying. I like playing Kylie’s own personal stylist. It gives my life purpose and shape—at least for the next hour—something that is sorely lacking from most of my day. The ennui and the existential angst will set in again when I leave the mall. But for now, I’m dancing to the party in my mind and having a swell time.

I stare at myself in the mirror and realize that Kylie will never go for this black number. It’s too tight, too sexy, too too. Maybe I should buy it for myself. It would definitely be a game changer. This look is even more outré than usual. As a rule, I don’t do dresses alone. We all have our limits. I usually try to tone things down with jeans, combat boots, a blazer, or a necktie. Something masculine. Something feminine. Something borrowed (from my sisters). Something blue (usually my mood). It’s my own secret homosexual recipe.

I’d love to wear this dress simply for the sheer impact of the visual at graduation. It’s not that I like women’s clothes so much—it’s more that I like shaking up the status quo in our traditional little town. But I’m not sure I can do it to Mom and Dad. They’ve finally stopped badgering me about my clothes, but do they really need their son wearing a black spandex mini to his high school graduation? Seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

Mom and Dad have come a long way since they sent me to Dr. Chan in ninth grade, after I renounced my heterosexuality and officially proclaimed myself as gay as the Roaring Twenties. I’ve known forever. I kind of figured they must have figured it out somewhere along the way. I just thought it was high time to get it all out in the open.

While they weren’t particularly surprised, they were both disappointed to have it articulated so clearly. They were hoping I’d have a change of heart.

Enter Dr. Chan. Handsome in a professorial way. He was my first real crush. Dad insisted I could talk through “my issues” with him. I insisted I didn’t have “issues,” just “preferences.”

“Same thing. It’s all semantics,” Mom said.

Hmmm. Methinks, not so much. Dad thought I was “confused.” Mom called it “conflicted.” They both chalked it up to adolescence, not nature. It was kind of soul crushing to realize my parents couldn’t accept me for who I was. I mean, I was fine with it, why couldn’t they be? So, like it or not, off I went to yak it up with Chan, who was, fortunately, easy on the eyes, thus making the hour a lot less painful than it otherwise would have been. The good doctor and I spent weeks trying to work out why I “thought” I was gay. He urged me to try and date women before coming to any rash conclusions. He talked in this very slow, calm way that often lulled me to sleep during the session. He’d wake me by nudging me with his foot.

It soon became clear to both of us that I yam what I yam: a devout and dedicated homosexual. Chan threw in the towel and we quickly changed course. We spent our time discussing the best online shopping (Chan was a bit of a metrosexual), new music, and my rage and resentment at my parents.

I’ve never been so mad at them. They didn’t like who I was. It was insulting, offensive, hurtful. I expected more from them (or at least from my mother). At one point, I stopped speaking to both of them for sixty-two days, which for me was quite the feat. I’m a champion chatterer. I literally had to bite my tongue at times to stop myself from talking to Mom.

Before Chan, Mom and I were the best of girlfriends. We could hang together without getting all shrill on each other, like she does with my sisters. I listened endlessly to her litany of complaints, unlike either of my sisters, both of whom are way too self-consumed to ever bother with someone else’s issues.

During the “Silent Talks,” as I fondly refer to those sixty-two days, I would e-mail or text in emergencies. Otherwise, my lips were sealed. It broke my mother’s heart. She went into therapy herself. Eventually, Chan told my parents that I was fine. Not the least bit “confused or conflicted.” And the sessions ended. I’m here, I’m queer, get used to it. And they have, mostly.

I knew Mom would come around, but Dad surprised me. He’s a little bit to the right of Attila the Hun. It’s a minor miracle how well we’re getting on these days, considering who and what he is—a Republican to the core. I think he came out of the womb in khakis and a blue blazer. His great-great-great-great-grandparents came over on the Mayflower. He was in an eating club at Princeton. He is so white, they’ve named a shade of Benjamin Moore paint after him (Bright, Uptight White #7). He runs a private equity firm that specializes in crushing the spirit of middle management. He buys companies, strips them of all their employees, and then sells off their assets, leaving people unemployed, hapless, and helpless, all in the name of making money. Lots of it. It’s kind of unconscionable. And yet, I blithely live off the proceeds, which kind of makes me hate myself at times. But the alternative, not living off it, is a nonstarter.

Despite it all, Dad and I have come to terms with the fact that we are inextricably father and son. We’re loving each other the best we can. It’s not always a perfect scenario, but what is?

I’m coming up empty-handed on the Kylie front, and starting to feel frustrated, when a red dress calls to me from the hanger. I hold it up to my body and immediately feel I’ve found a friend. It’s a T-shirt style and surprisingly demure, despite the fact that it’s screaming red sequins. It’s not too plunging, not too short. It would show off Kylie’s curves without strangling them. I love it immediately. It’s the perfect podium look. It says, “I’m smart, chic, and sassy. Call me.”

The problem is, Kylie’s not really a red sequins kind of girl. Or a dress girl. Kylie’s not really an anything kind of girl. She is an extremely fluid concept. For once, I’m happy she’s not here, negative nabobing in my ear. I’m inclined to buy one for her and one for me. We should show up to graduation in matching red sequins. It would sure give Freiburg something to remember.

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.

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.