The Music of What Happens(38)

“Whoa!” he says as I sprint toward the car. “Careful. I break easily.”

I keep running, half enjoying the burn and half wishing Jordan weren’t such a wimp.

We get to the car, I unload him, open the car door, set the prickly pears in the back, start up the motor, and put the AC on full blast. The seats scald our legs, and even touching the black rubber steering wheel makes me pull my hand back.

“You know, some people have those window shades for their cars, so that it doesn’t feel like sitting on the surface of the sun when you get in.”

I give him my deadliest look, which he catches right away. “Jeez,” he says. “Sorry. Man. That’s a fuckin’ lot of pasta.”

We drive in silence for a bit. I’m thinking about how Jordan sounded when he was hyperventilating. That whole “I can’t I can’t” thing.

You know who he sounded like?

His mom. That first day.

And that’s something I’d never say to him. Ever.





It’s awkward in the car after Max saves my life.

There’s no water, and I need water. But what super sucks is that getting water means stopping at a Circle K or something, and honestly I’m not getting out of the car again. I hate to ask him, but I kind of want him to get out and get me a drink. Or better yet, I want him to like pull into a garage, pick me up, and deposit me on a couch and turn up the AC until we’re freezing.

Which is a lot to ask of someone who just saved your life.

Seriously. I’m pretty sure he did, because there’s a reason the population was much smaller here before air-conditioning, as he explained. The land is uninhabitable, and today is particularly awful — 124, Max’s dashboard temperature reads now — and there’s simply no shade in the desert. Also it’s still just about the hottest time of the day. No wonder we were all alone out there. Terrible, terrible idea, Max had. I’m a little pissed at him for bringing me out there. Next time he asks if I want to hang out, I’m going to insist on an indoor, chilled, and well-ventilated activity for sure.

The silence has a tone to it. Is he mad at me? Embarrassed for me that he had to carry me? Well join the club. And then I realize that I didn’t even thank him for carrying me, and my throat catches. I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder about me.

“Thanks, by the way.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and my brain does what my brain always does — makes up a story about what he’s thinking.

Jordan is a pussy boy. I can’t believe I even wanted to hang with him in the first place. Get him and his useless ass out of my truck.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, and I recline and close my eyes. My throat is totally parched, like sandpaper.

“No really, thanks. I’m aware I’m the worst.”

“Seriously, dude?”

“What?”

He sighs. “Never mind.”

I crease my forehead. I hate when people do that. Edit themselves because they think I can’t handle something. “No. Tell me.”

He shrugs. “You sound just like your mom sometimes. She says she’s the worst too.”

I laugh and fold my arms over my chest. How come I always forget? When someone says never mind, you should always believe them. I’m so stupid.

“Well there ya go. I’m not perfect. I get that you are, but I’m an actual flawed human being. Thanks for the important life lesson.”

“Dude,” he says.

I turn toward the window and take in the mostly empty strip malls. “You can just drop me off at home,” I say. “Thanks for everything, but I think I’m gonna chill in the relative comfort of my bedroom, with the air on blast.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s heading east on Elliot, and he doesn’t say anything, so I assume that’s what’s happening. Aborted hangout on account of pussy boy. I can hardly blame him. I’m fucked up, and on top of that, I’m overly dramatic. I suck.

The truck passes I-10 and then Priest, and then he gets in the median lane and pulls into a Sonic Drive-In. I used to love Sonic. Worst hamburgers ever, but where else can you get a blue coconut slush with candy bits mixed in? Nerds, they use. How ingenious is that? I wonder if we should add that to our menu, or if we’d get sued if we did.

“Drinks on me,” I say, my throat scratchy.

“Okay,” Max says, and I wonder two things: One is if this is how real boys make up after a little argument. If it is, I’m truly okay with it. Two is if this is his way of letting me make it up to him. The whole life-saving episode. Fine with me.

“Whataya like?” I ask.

“We’re doing a lemonade flight.”

“A wha?”

“You never had a bacon flight?”

“A what?”

“Dude,” he says. “My mom took me to this awesome place called the Oink Café. South Tempe. They do this bacon flight where you sample, like, all eight kinds of bacon. Jalape?o. Apple cider, maple.”

“Do they include a defibrillator?”

He rolls his eyes and smiles a little. “God. Could you be any more like a cranky eighty-year-old? Here. Repeat after me: ‘Get off my lawn.’ ”

I laugh and my shoulders loosen up a bit. I imitate the grandfather from The Simpsons. “Get off my lawn.”