Текст книги "From What I Remember"

Автор книги: Valerie Thomas

Соавторы: Stacy Kramer
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“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.”

“Totally agree.”

“And…it’s majorly queer, but I secretly love Shakira and Enrico Iglesias. And…Gloria Estefan. It’s a Latino thing.”

“Yeah, must be.”

I laugh, because it is queer. And no one I know would ever admit anything like that without a gun to their head.

“‘You know my hips don’t lie. And I’m starting to feel you boy…’” I sing, shimmying my hips as best I can in a car seat. Okay, so I know the song.

“The boy knows his Shakira.” Kylie smiles, really smiles, with her whole face.

“Shakira is seriously hot. I mean, I wouldn’t turn down a private concert.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Langston. I’m talking about her music. I have a total soft spot for Latino pop. I’m genetically inclined toward it. That and Israeli folk songs.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m kidding. Though my mom is Jewish and made me listen to them when I was little. But they’re awful.”

Thwack. A seagull hits the windshield, recovers, and then zooms away. It’s so surreal and surprising that Kylie and I start to laugh. And soon, neither of us can stop, we’re releasing the stress. It feels good. Scratch that. It feels great.

Eventually, we both catch our breath and chill.

“Wow. Kind of beautiful,” Kylie says, pointing outside the window.

We’ve been talking so much I haven’t even noticed the awesome coastline that stretches on, endlessly.

“Some nice swells out there,” I say.

I can spot surfers in the distance waiting on the waves. It would be nice to come back and shred. Like maybe when I can come by choice, on a vacation or something, instead of having been abducted.

“So what’s in this amazing speech we almost got ourselves killed for?” I ask Kylie.

“You know, just lots of brilliant insights and sage advice that will change your life.”

“That really paints a picture for me.”

“I can’t give it all away now. You have to be surprised tomorrow.”

“Just tell me one thing you’ve got.”

“Okay, well, I quote a lot of people. You know, like Winston Churchill, Bill Clinton, Desmond Tutu. And one of my favorite quotes is from Golda Meir. ‘Create the kind of self that you will be happy to live with all your life. Make the most of yourself by fanning the tiny, inner sparks of possibility into flames of achievement.’ I kind of use that as a jumping-off point.”

“Sounds interesting.” And that’s all I say, which is probably not what Kylie wants to hear. But the truth is, I’m thinking she’s not blowing me away. I mean, do we really care what Golda Meir has to say? Who even knows who she is? And the quote sounds pretty standard-issue graduation speech.

“What? You don’t like it?”

“No. It’s good. It’s just…I’m sure it’ll be great. Really.” I so don’t want to get into it. I know less than nothing about graduation speeches, except the shorter the better. “Seriously, it’s a good quote. I know you’ll do an amazing job tomorrow,” I say, eager to put this conversation to bed.

“You bet I will,” Kylie says. She looks out at the road. I can tell she’s annoyed.

I never should have brought it up. Jesus, she’s sensitive. Conversationally, we’ve hit a standstill. Luckily, we don’t have much farther to go. I see a sign for Ensenada on the left. Kylie pulls off the highway. End of the road.

Kylie flags down a guy crossing the street, and in impressively fluent Spanish asks for directions to the bus station. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says “Jessica Bernstein’s Sweet Sixteen—June 16, 2007.” It’s pretty hilarious. I mean, I probably went to that stupid party, and somehow the T-shirt ended up on this guy’s back. Most likely some cleaning lady who takes the hand-me-downs from rich people gave it to her brother’s family back in Ensenada. What a long, strange trip that T-shirt has been on. I pull out my iPhone and snap a quick picture of him.

We drive about a mile down the road, turn in to the center of town, and park on a street that runs along the side of a big plaza. Kylie throws the keys onto the front seat.

“I am so done with this truck.”

“Tell me.”

“Now we just have to find the bus station and we’re good to go.”

“If you say so.” It’s all too easy to be believed, after the day we’ve had.

“We just have to hope the bus won’t be hijacked.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem for you. You’ll just do a Keanu and take it over.”

“So, what? You’re like a connoisseur of action movies? Speed, The French Connection?”

“Not really. But I know stuff. Yeah.”

We leave it at that.

As we walk toward the bus station, I keep looking over my shoulder, thinking the dudes are going to pop up at any moment and shoot us dead. But it doesn’t happen, and we make it to the station in one piece.

I feel a huge sense of relief as I watch the woman slide two tickets for the three o’clock bus to San Diego under the glass divider. It’s all good. Everything is going to be okay. An hour ago, I was shaken to the core, shivering in my own sweat, convinced I was about to die. And now, all I have to do is kill a few hours in Ensenada.

Sweet.

The ticket seller leans forward and says something to Kylie in Spanish. I watch as a look of concern sweeps across her face, wiping away her smile. It’s like a shade being drawn. Kylie slides the tickets back under the divider and then looks at me. Jesus. I don’t know if I can take another hitch in the plan. I’m already running on fumes.

“What?” I ask. I hate not being able to understand. I should have studied Spanish and just ignored Dad. I live on the border of Mexico. I can say maybe ten words in Spanish, and one of them happens to be the word for hand-job. Pathetic.

“She asked me if we have our passports or birth certificates,” Kylie says.

“Jesus, I didn’t even think of that. We can’t get over the border without them?”

“No.” Kylie takes in a sharp breath and doesn’t seem to exhale.

I feel dizzy, like the floor is spinning. This day is really beating the shit out of me.

Kylie thanks the ticket seller and walks away. What is she thanking her for? Reminding us that we are once again totally screwed?

Kylie heads over to a wooden bench in the corner and collapses onto it. I sit down next to her. I can feel myself slipping into the panic and fear. The sitting is only making it worse. I get up and walk out of the station, leaving Kylie behind. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want to talk to her. I’m back to being pissed at her for getting us into this. I can’t help myself. I don’t want to be here. And it’s starting to look like there’s no way out.

I wander out to the street. My mood has dipped dangerously low. I look around the town. It’s not a bad place. There are bars and restaurants everywhere, and little pastel houses. It’s the kind of place I expect to end up in on some crazy spring break during college, slamming back shots of tequila and cruising the streets all night. But not today. Not now.

“I know this sucks. I’m really, really sorry. I should have never gotten you into this,” Kylie says, appearing at my side. She seems eerily calm. And genuinely sorry.

“It’s not all your fault. I mean, I’m a big boy. I could have bailed,” I say.

I both do and do not mean this. She didn’t want any of this to happen any more than I did. At least she’s not whining about it like me.

“What are we going to do?” I ask. Because hell if I know.

“I have a passport at home. But I can’t call my parents and tell them what’s going on. I just can’t. They’ll freak.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Couldn’t you tell them you came to Mexico on, I don’t know, some kind of senior prank or something, and they could come down with our passports, or meet us at the border?”

“Not gonna happen. Listen, I can’t let them know any of this. It’s just…it’s a long story. Trust me. It would be a very, very bad idea.”

My eyes meet hers. I want to make sure I’m getting my point across.

“Shit.” That’s all Kylie says. And then she walks across the road to a little park. There are about a million pigeons and a few old guys playing dominos. Kylie sits down on a mound of grass and stares out at the harbor. I lie down on the grass next to her, staring up at the sky. It’s a cloud-free day, perfect for surfing, biking, running. Instead, I’m stuck at a dirty bus station waiting on a miracle.

“Things are, like, hanging by a thread at my house. I seriously think this would push my mother over the edge.” Kylie lies down, rolls onto her side, and stares at me. “Just when we thought everything was going to be okay, it all goes to hell again.”

“What do you mean, hanging by a thread?”

Kylie heaves a sigh. “My brother Jake is special needs. He has Asperger’s syndrome. He requires a lot of attention. I mean, he goes to school and stuff, but everything is really hard with him. It’s practically my mother’s full-time job to worry about him, except for the fact that she actually has a full-time job as a nurse. And my Dad is always away, working out of town.”

Kylie pauses to make sure I’m still with her. I am.

“I’m kind of the glue that holds things together. Between taking care of Jake and working as a nurse, Mom doesn’t get around to doing things like making dinner or laundry. Anything, really. So that’s all me. I don’t know what they’re going to do tonight if I don’t get home.”

“That’s a lot of shit to deal with.” No wonder Kylie never smiles.

“Usually it’s okay. I’ve got systems for getting things done quickly. And I really like spending time with Jake. The worst part is the mental stuff. I feel like they’ve got all their hopes pinned on me, since Jake will never become the doctor they wanted him to be. I’ve already kind of disappointed them by choosing film school over premed at Brown. So I try not to stress my mom. If I call and say I’ve been smuggled into Mexico illegally in the back of a U-Haul, I might as well be hurling my entire family in front of a moving train.”

Heavy.

“I’m sorry. That sounds shitty. I’ll give you an eighty-nine on the life-sucks scale,” I say.

“I didn’t even crack ninety? Are you grading on a curve?”

“Totally. You get an A minus in overall suckage.”

“Cool. I feel so much better. Okay, your turn.”

“My Dad is sick, with cancer.”

I blurt it out, just like that. I’m not sure why. Maybe because we barely know each other. And, most likely, we’ll never see each other again after today. It’s easier to be honest.

Kylie looks startled. Cancer has a way of doing that to people.

“My Mom, who kind of has a compulsive need for everything to be perfect, is in denial. So she never talks about it. My older brother is an outcast because he refused to go to law school and join my dad’s firm. Instead, he plays guitar in a crappy band in dive bars around Seattle. I am the last remaining beacon of hope, kind of like you, I guess. I’m expected to go prelaw at UCLA and join the firm. If I do what I want to do, like my brother did, it would be the ultimate blow to my dad.”

“Wow. That sucks.”

Kylie looks at me with such sad eyes that I actually feel bad. So I lie to her.

“You know, they cure cancer all the time these days, so, hopefully, he’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, hopefully.”

Neither of us says anything for a minute.

“So, what do you want to do?” Kylie asks.

“I don’t know. Lots of stuff. I’d like to try a few different things. Just not law.” I hedge. I don’t want to go there.

“Congrats. You’re the big winner, Max Langston. Cancer trumps disabled sibling. Cancer trumps everything. I’d say that’s a ninety-seven on the suckage scale.” And just like that, Kylie changes the mood. I’m grateful, because I’m not sure I could have done it.

“Excellent. I love winning.”

I don’t mind talking to Kylie. In fact, I’m digging it. If this were any other day, I’d say we should kick it and grab lunch. But it’s not any other day. It’s the last day of high school, the day before graduation, and we’re stuck in Ensenada, Mexico.

hat if I ask Will to drive down?” I say. “He’ll be totally into it. He can go to my house, get the key from under the mat, and then grab my passport. Can he get into your house?”

“Definitely. Our housekeeper’s always there.”

“He can probably cruise down here in a few hours,” Kylie says.

“That’s very cool that he would do that.” Max sounds surprised.

“Whose best friend wouldn’t do that? Charlie would do it, no?”

“He would. He totally would. Should I call him?”

“No, Will would be mad if I didn’t call him. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. You might call him Weird Will—”

“He knows about that?”

“He’s not an idiot. Anyway, he’s an amazing guy. And an amazing friend. He’d do anything for me. Besides, he lives for a good story. He’ll dine out on this one for years.”

“Okay, I’ll call the housekeeper and tell her a buddy of mine is coming by to pick up something. She’s gonna be a little weirded out about the girl’s clothes. Any chance Will will wear jeans and T-shirt?”

“Not a prayer,” Kylie says.

“Man, I do not get that. What is up with the cross-dressing? It feels like he’s just making things more difficult for himself, you know?”

“He likes to make a scene.” That’s all I say because explaining Will Bixby to Max Langston is like explaining quantum theory to Jessica Simpson.

I rush back into the bus station and buy a phone card. Max is right behind me. I slip into a tiny booth with an old-fashioned phone. It’s caked with years of dirt and grime, a leftover from 1985.

Max stands outside, leaning on the glass. Damn, he’s sexy.

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t see me the same way. Guys find me neutered, detached, invisible. I’m Switzerland. The girls Max dates are Brazil. Still, it’s hard to ignore the facts that 1) I’m stranded in Ensenada with him, 2) he’s not the total asshole I assumed he was, and 3) he’s undeniably hot. I push out this train of thought. I can’t let myself go there. What’s the point? He’s got a girlfriend. We’re worlds apart. And, technically, I don’t even like him.

I call Will on his cell. He picks up immediately. Just as I predicted, he’s thrilled with his task, positively giddy that I seem to have found myself marooned in Mexico with Max. He acts like I’ve just won the Nobel Peace Prize. He can’t stop telling me how proud he is of me. It’s so Will, I have to laugh. I tell him where to find the extra key and the passport at Max’s house, and before I can say good-bye he’s out the door and on his way. He sounded a little too excited at the chance to paw his way through Max’s bedroom. I just hope he’s discreet. I look at my watch; it’s a little past one. He should be here by six, at the latest.

I exit the phone booth and Max squeezes inside. His large frame looks pretty funny squished into the diminutive booth. He calls his housekeeper, and we are good to go.

“I cannot believe my new hero is a dude who wears dresses and combat boots,” Max says.

“It’s true. Will is a superhero.”

I slip back into the phone booth.

“Who are you calling now?”

“My mom. I’ve gotta come up with a reason I can’t watch Jake after school today.”

I’m dreading this call. Dad will have to pitch in. At the very least, he’s a warm body in the house. I shut the door to the booth for a little privacy, and dial Mom’s cell.

“I’m gonna be a little late,” I say.

“How late?” Mom sounds irritated, frustrated.

Wasn’t she ever in high school? I mean, really, it’s the last day of school. I shouldn’t have to get home right away. If I were even the least bit normal I’d be going to one of a million parties. Of course I don’t say any of this. I never do.

The conversation is blessedly short. When I tell her I have to attend a “valedictorian meeting,” there’s not really much she can say. We hang up and I exit the booth.

“How did it go?” Max asks me as we leave the bus station and walk toward town.

“My dad is going to have to watch him.”

I can’t help but wonder if Mom would be concerned for my welfare if she knew the truth, or just worried about what time I’d be punching in tonight. Sometimes I feel more like her star employee than her daughter. She has complete faith in my competence, and since I never complain, she assumes it’s all going well. Well, it’s not. And I’d really like to talk to her about it, but I know it would just stress her out. She needs to see me as independent and strong and happy. The complaint department is closed, and I just have to deal.

“Excellent. Problem solved,” Max says.

“Jake is probably going to freak out. He likes things to be predictable. If his schedule changes at all, he usually throws a tantrum.”

Nothing I can do now. Got to put it out of my head before my brain travels to the worst-case scenario: Jake lying dead somewhere in the house. Dad completely oblivious.

I shake my head to clear out the bad juju. That’s just absurd. Dad may be out of it, but he’s not going to let anything bad happen. Is he?

“Your dad will deal with it.”

“Maybe. But not particularly well. My dad doesn’t really deal with much. Especially not Jake. I think Jake scares him. My dad just wants a kid he can toss a ball around with in the backyard. Jake is not that kid.”

I stop myself because I feel like I’m about to vomit out all my family drama, and that could get messy. I’ve already said way too much. There’s no need for Max to know any of this. Why am I even telling him? No one knows anything about me, except for Will. It’s better that way. Max and I may be sharing stuff for the moment, but I remind myself that it’s just an illusion. We’re not friends.

“Aren’t you going to call your mom?” I ask, changing the subject. “You should let her know you’re not coming home.”

“Nah, she won’t notice.”

He obviously doesn’t feel the same need to over-share.