We Run the Tides(50)

“That’s not the reason I didn’t show up,” I say. “I didn’t come to school because I hit my head on the rocks when I was trying to save Keith.”

“Save Keith?” Maria Fabiola says. “Why does he need saving?”

“We were at Baker the other day and it was high tide and he tried to run around to China Beach, but . . .”

“But what?” She’s looking at me with mouth agape.

“I don’t think he made it,” I whisper dramatically.

“You don’t think he made it?” Maria Fabiola says. She sits upright. “Eulabee!” she says and starts laughing. “I just saw Keith on my way over here. Like twenty minutes ago!”

“What? Where?”

“He was at the park with his usual crew. Lance and White Charlie.”

“Oh my god,” I say. “Oh my god.” I want to collapse with relief on the couch next to her but when she sees me approaching, she doesn’t move to make space. Instead I lie down on the furry rug.

“That’s why you’re here?” she says. “Because you thought Keith was dead? I hope if you ever think I’m dead you don’t go into hiding. I figured you were here because of the valentines. The teachers are fucking pissed. Everyone’s assuming you’ll be expelled. Just for the ‘I miss your boobs’ one alone. And Sexo? You can do better.”

I can’t think. I want to ask about Julia but decide it hardly matters.

“But listen,” Maria Fabiola says. “I have a plan. You know how I’m supposed to be on ABC? You know how I did the B-roll?”

Again with the B-roll.

“The truth is that they asked a bunch of questions and I didn’t always get the story right,” she says. “Or I guess there were inconsistencies. So they said they were ‘doing some research’ and would get back to me. And meanwhile Mr. Makepeace is acting weird toward me now. So I had an idea.”

“But first will you please admit you made up that story?”

“I didn’t make it up,” she says. She says this with enough conviction that I know everyone but me would believe her. She is good.

“You borrowed it from a book,” I say.

She’s weighing her options. She takes off half her bracelets from one wrist and transfers them to the other. “I got the rough outline from Treasure Island. But I came up with lots of new details. Good ones.”

“Kidnapped,” I say. “Not Treasure Island.”

“Okay. Good for you,” she says. “You’re wonderful.”

I actually do feel wonderful. Because I guess her idea.

“You want me to say I was kidnapped, too.”

“It helps us both,” she says, now in a school-counselor voice. “It saves us both.”

“Kidnapped by the same people?” I ask. “Who was it again? Pirates? Actual pirates?”

“We can change that,” she says. “As long as the stories are similar. I’ll say they gave me Stockholm syndrome and you can say you already had it, being Swedish and all.”

I don’t know where to start. She is not bright enough to pull this off.

“Otherwise, Eulabee, you’re expelled,” she says.

Or maybe she is.

“You’ll never get into any high school if you’ve been expelled, but you’ll get into any high school—every high school—if you’ve been kidnapped.”

I know she’s right. Maria Fabiola scoots over to make room for me on the couch. “So what are your thoughts?” she asks.

“I thought you had a plan,” I say.

“I do, but I want to hear yours first.”

Of course she has no plan.

“I do think it should be maybe more logical kidnappers this time,” she says.

There is no way this will work with her. She is the worst possible partner for a scheme like this.

“I was thinking the Mob could be involved,” she says.

“No,” I say. “Let’s back up a second.”

“What about Melvin Belli, the lawyer?” she says.

I haven’t heard of Melvin Belli. “Listen,” I say. “It has to be realistic. You said that yourself. Let’s think of an actual situation that might have happened.”

“The guy in the white car!” she says, lighting up. I realize it’s a relatively brilliant idea. But it would mean I was lying about him when it first happened, or didn’t happen. I decide I can’t lie now about telling the truth then.

“No. Too complicated,” I say, and the light inside Maria Fabiola goes out. “We need a name,” I say. “We need something big, to erase the other stories and lies. We need a headline.”

“What about Neal Cassady?” she says. “Maybe he drugged us and made us marry him. He’s a polygamist.”

“I think he’s dead,” I tell her. “How about Jerry Garcia drugged us?”

She likes this. “Then he made us clean his guitars!”

“And tie-dye his shirts,” I say.

“And we have some dirt on him, like he’s secretly really into football.”

I’m ready to settle on Jerry Garcia but then realize at the time of our kidnapping he was probably playing a six-hour show at a stadium somewhere in Ohio.