“Hello?” I called out.
Amy ducked her head out from a classroom. “Get in here!”
“What is it?”
She and Jon, spattered in dark red, were standing over a mixing bowl that very nearly looked as if someone had been bleeding into it. “This stuff is great. So much more realistic than ketchup, don’t you think?”
“You do look like you’ve sustained massive head trauma,” I admitted.
“It’s really good, though,” Amy said. She poked at her head wound and licked her finger. “Corn syrup and water and food coloring.”
Jon snickered. “That is extremely sophisticated cuisine.”
“Everything they serve us in the cafeteria is corn syrup and food coloring, right?”
“Granted. But can we really use anything this sticky? Anyone who gets splattered is going to spend the rest of the play wanting to take a shower in boiling water and dish soap.”
“It’s what all the zero-budget movies do,” Amy said. “I mean, it’s not any worse than chocolate syrup, and that’s what Hitchcock used.”
They were still debating it when I heard stomping on the concrete floor in the hallway. I turned around and saw Heather—and instead of going down the stairs, she came over in our direction.
“You working today?” she asked.
“I was just finishing up.”
“Good. Me too.” And she started back out the way she’d come in.
“You just got here.”
“It was one of those days. I’m in no mood to take on anything sharp.”
I didn’t get a good look at her until we were back out in the parking lot; her face was flushed with red and her eyes were dark.
“You want to talk about it?”
“No,” she said. “I want to . . . Say, you know the little patisserie at Trailwood and Stanley?”
“I don’t get out that way much.”
“Okay. Obviously you have not lived. C’mon.”
“I was once kissed in a motel hallway by a bass player, at three in the morning.”
“Impressive, but unconvincing. I’m buying, so get in the car.”
THEN
E
very day I had a job: thirty or forty miles, or more, or less, depending on the weather and the hills and whether I had slept on lumpy ground the night before. In the evening
,
I would add up the miles I’d done, and the miles I had left to do, and I could divide out the miles and the days to reassure myself that I was on track and on time. I could reassure myself that I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. And when I got to California, the good fairy would tap me on the shoulder and I’d be free from the ache that lurked over my shoulder and pounced when I stopped at some roadside diner, or sat in my tent at night. The ache that grew up inside my skin and seized hold of my heart so that there wasn’t room for anything else—anything else except pedaling, and pedaling, and pedaling.
It was too much aloneness. In the long stretches I’d catch myself talking to my memories of Julia, or the Julia who should have been here with me now. But I liked having my imaginary Julia to talk to. She was better company than the cars that honked at me.
Julia was saying that of course Ollie was completely in the wrong and she was not speaking to him right now. And then I had to revise it, because it wasn’t true; she’d have rolled her eyes and smiled in exasperation and said that of course he didn’t really mean anything by what he said.
That was how she was when it came to him, ever since the first day of ninth grade when she’d accosted me at lunch squeaking that Oliver—Oliver, the cute guy from drama camp, who looked older than ninth grade and held her hand once when they were roasting marsh-mallows—was in her drama class, and remembered her name. And she kept me updated on every detail: He’d smiled at her. They both had bit parts in the play. He hung out with her after rehearsal and asked what she was doing on the weekend, in a conversation that meandered without getting anywhere.
“You could ask him out,” I said. “I mean, in theory. It’s possible.”
She pursed her lips and changed the subject. Two days later, he was at our lunch table, and Julia was radiating glee and I was reflecting her glee, soaking up the happiness that bounced off her and everything was right with the world because love had suddenly become a possibility. It had become a thing that could happen to people.
But after a week, we stopped having lunch together every day. Once in a while, she went off with Ollie and left me to my homework, and I . . . didn’t have the right to be disappointed. Because I liked him. Because, if he wasn’t quite as cute, charming, and funny as Julia claimed, he was pretty close. Because Julia deserved him.
I remembered him being effortlessly charming, holding a spot in line for me when I had to run to the cafeteria from the other end of campus, and splitting the snacks he brought from home into neat thirds, and I thought that I should call him. Should try to work things out. But I made excuses. I didn’t know when I’d be able to recharge my phone battery. He was probably busy with the play right now. He didn’t need me distracting him.
I’d been on the road for four days when I camped outside of Bloomington, at the side of the road in my compact travel tent. It wasn’t worth the money and the hassle to bother with the public campgrounds, though I had those mapped out in case someone called the cops on me; I tried to get far enough away so that I wasn’t visible from the road, and hoped for the best. And I sat down with my map and pencil and paper and worked it out, again: 2,337 miles left, and seventy-six days, which gave me thirty-one miles per day. That seemed like such a possible distance—my parents had friends who commuted thirty miles a day, and they had real jobs. So I didn’t even get discouraged when I heard raindrops start to plink down on my tent. Even in the rain I could do twenty, and make it up the next day. No problem.
I woke up in the dark, half asleep, my arms soaking in water. I pressed down hard against the ground, just to reassure myself that it was still there under me, and felt the half inch of water pooling at the bottom of my tent. Blinking hard, I started to collect my thoughts. My stuff was safe—the panniers were waterproof—but I needed to get dry and warm. It might be almost summer, but the nights were still cold, and the rain wouldn’t do me any good.
I ducked outside of the tent and saw the road running past, the headlights of cars. Rain was pouring down, and as the cars rushed by their tires spun up torrents of rain onto the side of the road, right where the tent was—right up between the walls of the tent and the ground-sheet. And somehow I hadn’t even thought about how far I was from the road, or getting up to higher ground. I crawled back inside to pack my sleeping bag and try to make a plan. Bloomington, only a couple of miles away. A motel. I had enough money for that.
The bicycle seat was soaking wet, and in the rain, the fenders weren’t much help when my tires flung up water onto the pants I’d gone to sleep in, but I was already so wet nothing would make a difference. I turned on every headlight and taillight I had until I was in full Christmas tree mode, and from then on into the city, there was nothing but a constant stream of whispered prayer to anybody who’d listen, please don’t let me be run over please don’t let me be run over please don’t let me be run over.
I counted eight honks, three blaring horns, and two screaming curses by the time I got to the first motel I could find, and my heart was hammering in my chest, but all I could think was, It’s going to be all right now.
“We’re full,” said the guy behind the counter. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, or shaved in about that long.
“I don’t even need a real room or anything, I just—I’m totally soaked. I’ll hang out in the hallway until morning.”
I wrung out the bottom edge my T-shirt and let the water puddle onto the floor.
“I’d like to help you out, but there are rules about this kind of thing.”
“Dammit.” And then: “Sorry. I didn’t say that.”
A shape I hadn’t even noticed rose from the couch. Skinny guy, long hair, with an instrument case slung on his back.
“You too?” he said.
I shook the water off of my hair and made my way over to the couch, keeping my distance enough that I wasn’t dripping on anything.
“I am perfectly fine,” I said. It came out sarcastic, though, and then I couldn’t help but laugh. “For certain values of fine.”
“And two and two is five, for certain values of two,” he said, and I smiled again, because what were the odds that a complete stranger would be telling me a math joke?
“You don’t have a room either?”
“I do. It’s just that there are people in it at the moment who do not need anyone to disturb them.” He rolled his eyes dramatically, and I nodded. Yeah, I had some idea of what that was like.
He brightened. “Hey. I do have a hallway. And a bathroom, which has a hair dryer in it and everything. And I must have a spare T-shirt lying around somewhere, so—” He went over to the elevator and took a backward step inside. “Coming?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not really that stupid, am I?”
He kept his hand on the door, holding it open. I looked back at the guy at the desk, who just shrugged apathetically as if I was no longer his problem.
I thought of going back out into the storm, where I could skid, or a car could skid, or I could go unnoticed just long enough to wind up spattered on the asphalt. There was no smart or safe thing for me to do. I might as well choose warmth.
“Okay,” I said. “Guess I am that stupid.”
He gave the room door a couple of halfhearted knocks, then opened it with his key card and herded me into the bathroom, with his hand over my eyes.
“Hey. What exactly—”
“Just stay here a sec.”
I was not going to stay here a sec, because the situation was getting weirder by the minute, and I was beginning to think that I’d just as soon take my chances in the rain.
Especially when I heard the moaning. And the squeaking. I made up my mind to wait outside. I glanced over for only a moment at the dimly lit shapes on the bed—then left, and closed the door behind me.
The guy with the guitar case—who no longer had his guitar case—followed after me. “See, yeah, that was kind of traumatic, right?”
“I didn’t really see—”
“So, we’re on tour, and at least we have enough money for a hotel room now. One hotel room. Doesn’t allow for much privacy, but his girlfriend drove all the way up from Ohio to see us play, and—these things happen. Oh—I got you a T-shirt . . .”
“Thanks. Can you let me in so I can change?”
He fumbled at his pockets. “No way. I must’ve left the key . . .” He slumped down against the wall. “I’d bang at the door, but it wouldn’t do any good.”
I took the shirt he was holding and started to mop off my hair. Pointedly looking—at the wall, at the floor, definitely not at me in my really unfortunate wet T-shirt. “You change, I’ll go get some sodas. Very far off down the hall.”
It was deserted in the hallway, at three in the morning. I turned toward the wall and quickly switched my rain-soaked shirt for the almost dry one, and even though my legs were still wet it felt like crawling under warm sheets on a cold day. The shirt was black and red and much too big for me. It said NUCLEAR SUMMER on it in careful type.
He came back bearing two bottles of soda in one hand and held out his other. “Kris Stott. Nuclear Summer, on bass. You haven’t heard of us.”
“You’re right. Cassandra Meyer, on bike.”
“Should I ask?”
“Nah. But—thanks for getting me out of the rain.”
“Thought it would make a good story. Which is the best revenge for getting kicked out of my room. And it’s not so often that girls in need of rescuing come around.”
“What makes you think I need rescuing?”
He shrugged in an elaborate way that suggested he wanted to get out of that particular minefield as quickly as possible.
“Everything I really need is in a waterproof bag, and some changes of clothes too. A little water’s not going to kill me. But it sucks, so thanks.”
“Do you have anybody you could call?”
I looked down. “I don’t need to call anybody.”
“If you were on your bike in that storm, something bad could’ve gone down.”
“If I had to . . .” I sighed. “If I had to, I could work something out. But it’s far already.” And I couldn’t even conceive of admitting defeat. Of coming back with my tail between my legs, asking for help. Because it had only been four days, and everything was going just fine.
I grinned. “Besides, it’s more interesting if I have to get myself out of the situations I get myself into.”
“And I guess being outside in the rain is interesting?”
“That’s not the word I’d use,” I said. “But this part is.”
“Glad to be of some entertainment value, then.”
We both turned quiet, sitting in the hallway beside each other with knees and elbows touching. I felt like I could fall asleep right there—with the rainfall against the windows, and the sound of branches whipping themselves in the wind. The air was humid and sticky with a tang of air conditioner, and I nursed little sips of my soda, which was intensely sweet, delicious even though I was still half shivering with cold.
“Normally I’m not allowed to drink soda.”
“Are you allowed to run away from home?”
“Not normally. But this is an exception.”
Kris looked over at me like there was something I was supposed to do, or say, and I didn’t know what it was. “You really don’t want to go into details, do you?”
“It’s not some horrible family situation or anything. It’s just life. I’m dealing.”
“By yourself, though.”
“There are worse things.”
He moved from his place next to me with his back against the wall, out into the hallway at an angle across from me, and reached over to brush the water from my hair, his hand nearly skimming my cheek. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. All day long I’d been thinking about Julia, and Ollie, and what it had been like when they’d first started dating, and this weird combination of feelings—how happy I was at her happiness, and how much I didn’t want her to go away and leave me by myself. How desperately I wanted what she had, and how I didn’t know if I really did after all, because she didn’t think clearly when it came to him, and how I could somehow just not imagine myself into her place.