Girl Out of Water(72)

“An airplane also crashes infinitely less often than you do.”

“I do not crash often.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Woah, okay you guys,” Wendy says. “Maybe you should continue this conversation on the road. In private. Where I don’t have to listen to it. Because it’s really annoying.”

“You’re right,” Lincoln says. “We really do need to get going.”

“Yeah, time sure is flying by,” I say.

Lincoln shoves me in the arm. I shove him back. And then we grin at each other.

“You guys sicken me,” Wendy says. She gives us hugs again. Lincoln and I climb into the car as Wendy calls after us, “Text me when you get there so I know you’re alive and shit!”

“Will do!” Lincoln says.

As we start to pull away from her house, Wendy stands in the yard, waving. I would have enjoyed staying at her house longer and hanging out. I guess new places aren’t all so bad.

? ? ?

“Do you want me to drive for a bit?” I ask. We’ve only been on the road an hour, but I’ve spent most of that hour napping. I figure Lincoln deserves some sleep too, and it’d probably be safer for both of us if he didn’t get that sleep behind the wheel.

“Isn’t that…how do I say this…illegal?” Lincoln asks.

“As your dear friend Wendy would say, it’s only illegal if you get caught.”

The car ahead of us keeps slowing down, so Lincoln shifts his grip to the left side of the wheel, bracing his hand against it, while flicking the turn signal with his fingers. I’ve watched him do this dozens of times now, the ease of the movement showing impressive dexterity.

“I’ll tell you what,” Lincoln says. “Instead of driving, why don’t you keep me awake by telling me a story?”

“A story?” I ask. “What about music instead?”

“I like your sunshiny voice better.”

I roll my eyes but smile. “I can’t think of a story. I’m not the creative type. Too bad Parker isn’t here.” Just saying his name makes me miss him. And Nash. And Emery. If they were in the back of this car right now, no one would ever have to worry about falling asleep.

“So read me something,” Lincoln says.

I reach into my tote and pull out one of my Detective Dana novels. It’s the third in the series, my personal favorite. I’ve read it at least five times. “The Zebra Zodiac,” I read the title. Then I pause.

“Keep going,” Lincoln says.

I open the book. The pages are so well-worn that I can fold the spine open from page one. “The call came at five in the morning,” I begin. “Detective Dana rolled over in bed, her left arm sore from sleeping with it tucked under her head, and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello. This is Detective Dana. What did you say? A dead zebra on the subway? Again?’”

I read thirty pages. Thirty slow pages because reading to Lincoln is frustrating. Every page or so he interrupts with a question, and every page or so I remind him that it’s a mystery novel, and the whole point of reading a mystery novel is to have your questions answered at the end.

“But you already know what happens,” Lincoln says. “So why can’t you tell me?”

“Because!” I say. “I’m not going to ruin the book.”

“It won’t ruin the book.”

“How could solving the mystery for you thirty pages in not ruin the book?”

“Because then I get to mock Detective Dana every time she takes a wrong turn.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“You’re pretty.”

“Ugh!”

“Okay,” Lincoln says. “No more reading. Why don’t you tell me about your friends?”

My friends. My friends who I’m about to see in less than a day. My friends who may or may not currently hate me.

My throat feels tight. “I’ve told you about my friends.”

“Not really. You’ve told me their names, but tell me what they’re like.”

I hesitate. Of course I want to tell Lincoln about my friends, but at the same time, thinking about them makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat. I hope I didn’t mess up too much. I missed a few phone calls and texts, but lifelong friendships don’t end over that, right? So I start talking, working through the tightness in my throat and the uneasiness in my stomach until the words slip out like I’m reading them from the pages The Zebra Zodiac.

I begin with Tess, of course. I ramble about our friendship for a solid half hour, from a description of our never-ending sleepovers during the summer between third and fourth grade to that time we ordered one of everything from the Shak, spending two months of allowance each on our meal. Then I dive into describing the rest of my friends—Cassie and her excitement about joining the navy. Spinner and the time we tried to scoop little fish from a shoal and sell them to tourists. Eric and—

Oh. Should I tell Lincoln about Eric? Tell Lincoln there’s this guy who happens to be one of my best friends who I kissed less than twelve hours before leaving for Nebraska? Tell him this guy might be mad at me for ignoring him all summer, which means he might no longer be one of my best friends? Tell him—

“Food?” Lincoln asks.