One Week

ONE WEEK

Nikki Van De Car

Booktrope Editions

Seattle WA

2012

Copyright 2012 Nikki Van De Car

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Edited by Joanne Erickson

Cover Design by Loretta Matson

ISBN
978-1-935961-58-1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2012940978

It took me six days to get to New York, and one day to get back. In those six days, I starved, I stank, I hitchhiked, I broke-and-entered, I lost my virginity, I sort of found it again, and I learned that love and hate have a lot in common, really.

In that one day that it took to come back home, I learned that all that I had gone through had no point at all, except for how it meant everything to me.

“For the love of God, shut up, Bee. How many girls actually have a
chance
with Thom Derrek? I can’t believe you’re whining about this.”

I roll my eyes and hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I pick at a chip in my nail polish. For someone who has been my best friend since eighth grade, Julia has a wildly different outlook on things. “Thom Derrek is an asshole,” I say.

“He’s a hot and famous asshole. And maybe he’s not really—I bet his agent just told him to play up the bad boy thing.”

“No, Julia. Trust me, I’ve been on a date with the guy. He’s Grade-A Genuine Dick. But you’re still missing the point! Thom Derrek is older, he drinks, he’s been caught doing drugs, and he’s currently under investigation for being a date rapist! Skipping over the part where
you
think it’s a good idea to date a catch like that, my father invited this guy over to my house and practically shoved me into his lap!” I pick harder at the chip and a fleck of nail polish lands on my lap.

“Okay, with the date rape thing thrown in, that is kind of messed up,” Julia admits. “But your dad probably didn’t even know about that. He’s a busy guy—it’s not like he has time to read the tabloids. And frankly, I don’t believe the accusation for a minute. I bet that bitch is just trying to get attention.”

“Julia, please. She’s a teen pop star with augmented breasts that are probably not even done growing yet. She gets
plenty
of attention.”

“Bee, you’re a child of Hollywood. Do I need to tell you there is no such thing as enough attention?”

There is for me, but I don’t bother telling Julia that.

“Where are you now?” she asks. “It’s not even 5:30. Do you want to come over?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just going to drive around for a while. Cool off, you know? I’ll see you at school.” I’m lying. I’m not going to cool off, and I’m not going to see her at school. Ever again, if I can help it.

As I hang up, I wonder again why I even bother talking to Julia about this stuff. She doesn’t understand, and never will. And then I remember—there’s no one else.

For the record, my name isn’t actually Bee. I insisted on the change when I was five and started attending kindergarten and was laughed at for having a dorky name. Explaining to them that Bette Davis was anything but dorky was kind of a waste of time, especially since I’d never seen a single one of her movies and was just repeating my dad.

I realize that some might say that the name Bee isn’t much of an improvement, but I was five and it got my point across. Someone messed with me, I stung them. That is, I pinched them. (I may have watched some Muhammad Ali, but not enough to have any idea how to throw a decent roundhouse).

Agreeing to have dinner with Thom Derrek was a test, and my dad failed it. I wanted to see if maybe—just maybe—I was wrong, and he loves me for me, and not as the kind of Paris Hilton successor he’s been grooming me to be. Any father with any normal sense of love and responsibility for his daughter would have forbidden me from dating someone like Thom Derrek. My father invites the guy over for cocktails.

I don’t even know who my dad is, and he certainly doesn’t have the first clue who I am. There’s no reason that we would ever have anything to do with each other, except for this bizarre accident of genetics or fate or whatever. I used to fantasize that maybe there was some sort of mix-up at the hospital or something, or my mom slept with the mailman, or the homeless guy on the street—anybody would have been better. But there’s no mistaking it—I look just like him. It’s the only thing we have in common. I like mayonnaise on my fries, he likes ketchup. I like my privacy, my father wishes we had our own reality TV series. I hate everything about LA, and my father thinks it’s the holy land. 

I take several deep breaths, like I learned in the one yoga class I made it through. My heart rate is beginning to slow down. Talking to Julia helped—it made everything more normal, but at the same time it highlighted exactly how wrong everything about my life is.

So I’m just going to go. I am. I’m leaving. I’m seventeen years old, and I have a bank account with plenty of funds…that, so far, has never been used on anything but clothes and music, but still. I’m just going to go, and I won’t look back.

I’m just not sure where I won’t be looking back from.

I’m sitting in a cab and we’re stuck on the 405, so I have plenty of time to think about that. I told Mr. Cabdriver to take me to LAX, but it occurs to me that maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Then the purchase would show up on my bank statement and my dad could trace the flight and he’d see where I’d gone. It’s not like you can just hop off a plane whenever you feel like it. What about trains? Do they still let you get on and off like Ethan Hawke and Julie Delphy did in
Before Sunrise
? Probably.

“Um, excuse me?” I try and get the cabdriver’s
attention. “What’s the nearest train station?”

The driver glances at the rearview mirror blankly. I guess no one travels by train anymore. “Union Station?” he asks, sounding uncertain. “It’s back the other way.” He gestures behind us.

“Okay, that’s where I want to go.”

“But it’s back the other way,” he says, sounding insistent. I see a sign that the next exit isn’t for another four miles, and we’re sitting still. As are the cars heading the other way. I shrug.

“Well, that’s where I want to go,” I say. “I don’t care when we get there.” I pull out my iPod and close my eyes. It’ll be a while. I can hear Mr. Cabdriver muttering to himself, but honestly, what does he care? This’ll be a huge fare.

Two hours later, we pull up to the curb at Union Station. I hand Mr. Cabdriver the money, and he burns rubber pulling away. I gave him a generous tip, but he still seemed pretty pissed off.

I hoist my giant bag over my shoulder, head for the ticket booth, and get in line.

Watching the same ten people while we all stand in line for twenty minutes is
not
what I’d call entertaining. There’s a mother with a whiny baby—and in need of a diaper change by the smell of things. Behind them is an old woman with a cane and three giant bags that she’s doing her best to shove along, but she won’t let anyone help her.  Okay, she’s kind of funny, just because she’s so crabby. Does she really think people want to steal her stuff? There’s a half-assed Goth geek with cheap home-dye black hair and a ratty-ass duffle bag. He’s the most boring of the bunch, because he does absolutely nothing. He doesn’t look around, he doesn’t roll his eyes, he doesn’t check his watch or sigh with impatience or anything. He just stands there, staring straight ahead.

Oh, thank the sweet god of train stations. The old lady is finally moving on, or attempting to, while glaring at the helpful porter. I wish for her sake she’d just pay the guy his ten bucks and grab her cane and give herself a break. At the rate she’s moving those bags, she’ll miss her train.

Goth Geek is much faster. He has exact change out for his ticket, he knows where he’s going, and what platform his train is leaving on. Very well-informed.

Hey, a destination. That’s probably something I should have been working out while waiting in line. I take some more deep breaths. I’m so out of it I can’t think straight.

The trouble is, there’s really nowhere I want to go. I want to be Away From Here, I want to go to Not LA, but that doesn’t really narrow things down.

“Miss? Are you ready, or what?” the ticket agent snaps.

I jump, startled, and walk over to the window.

“Um, yeah. I’d like to go to…East. I’d like to go East.” Everything is East of California, right? I can make a more specific decision later.