When We Collided(62)
Sixty-six is a nice number—not a mirror image or anything, but it’s round and curly and full. But, more important, my name in capital letters makes a Roman numeral: VIVI. Okay, technically, that’s not the actual Roman numeral for sixty-six, but I think we can agree it is very close. It seemed like the magazine page was calling out to me—why, of all pages, did my eyes land on this one? So I scribbled it down on my hand and did some important work around my room. Eventually I went to see Jonah because I was craving someone’s mouth on mine the way you crave cold lemonade on a summer day, like it’s the only thing that sounds good in the world, like you’ll ache until you get it.
I’m onto something; I can feel it in my very bones. My senses tickled my arms and the back of my neck. It’s kind of like how elephants can sense an oncoming earthquake because of their hearing or vibrations or something. Only I sensed numbers. I stared between the digits on the mailbox and the ones in permanent marker on my hand. The universe, it was trying to communicate with me. What are the odds of me writing down a random number on my hand for the first time ever and then coming across that exact number? It must not have been a random number at all, but what did it mean?! The red flag was up on the mailbox, so I opened it and looked inside to find one envelope—pink, with a girl’s name and a Virginia address on it. I squeezed my eyes shut and spun the envelope around in my hand, and when I popped my eyes open, they landed on 1011, the street address written on the envelope. One-oh-one-one, I chanted to myself until I found a pen in my purse and wrote it below the 66 on my hand.
So I’m wandering through town, waiting for my arms to get goose bumps, waiting to see the next instance of 1011 that I’m sure wants me to find it. There are ghosts dancing down Main Street in the darkness of night. Everything is so quiet, oh beautiful Verona Cove, with streetlights like glowing planets, and I can almost see the town’s history—from way back when women were only allowed to wear dresses. The town swallows me up, and I hunt in every direction—the outskirts of town and the sleeping neighborhoods and the beach, because you never know. I’m everywhere, for seconds, for hours, for eternities, on the prowl. I see everything there is to see.
The sun is up when I find myself back in the center of town. Hmm. No clues. Maybe I got the last one wrong. There has to be a 1011 somewhere. I walk the length of Betty’s Diner, reading the white letters on the window. They list the hours for every day of the week, and oh my God, OH MY GOD.
Thursday: 5:00 AM–10:00 PM
Friday: 5:00 AM–11:00 PM
Sandwiched right there—1011—vertically, in the middle. I knew it; I knew the numbers would lead me forward, and I skip through the diner doors with the knowledge that the universe sees me and has something spectacular planned.
“Morning, baby doll,” Betty says as I slide myself into a booth. “You look like a gumshoe. Better button up, though.”
I glance down at my own lap, and my nightgown is visible between the open flaps of my trench coat—which, you know, I couldn’t care less about, but I fasten the coat just because Betty is my friend, and I have too much on my mind to disagree at the moment. I guess I’m still wearing the fedora I wore over to Jonah’s house last night because I was trying to sneak over there and the number sixty-six was beating around my head.
“Officer Hayashi asked about you.”
“Why?” My eyes dart to her as panic floods me. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well, of course not. He just expected you for breakfast like usual, I think,” Betty says. “You okay, honey?”
“Of course! I’m really top-notch, like sashaying around town on a mission, and I’m not a hundred percent sure where it’s leading me, but it’s going to be good, Betty, you’ll see.”
“So what’ll it be this morning? Pancakes? Veggie omelet?”
I tried to work my way down the menu at the beginning of the summer, but then I couldn’t anymore because I had to go where my feelings took me. Now I have no idea what to do. None of the meals are $10.11. The pancakes cost $4.99 and the veggie omelet is $5.49 unless I add extra veggies and then it’s . . . more, my mind is working too fast to add, I need to write it down.
“Need a minute?” Betty prompts me. I had forgotten she was standing there; God, this is impossible. How am I supposed to know? My breathing is loud in my nose.
Sixty-six brought me from the magazine to the mailbox, and then 1011 brought me here, but now what? I’m drowning in all the options because everything is too much. Nothing adds up . . . but I need a new number anyway, like I originally got 1011 from the mailbox. But what’s next? Fate! I’ll leave it up to fate.
“Betty, can you decide for me? I mean, surprise me, you know? I like everything so it’ll be swell no matter what, okay?” I exhale deeply. Whew. This is the right plan. I’ll get my next number from my bill, once it comes. ’Tis meant to be!
“All right, sugar. Wheel of fortune it is.”
I sip the coffee that I do not need because it’s something to do while I think, while I doodle all over my napkin, and I rearrange all the condiments and sweetener packets. Betty brings me a stack of waffles, and I’m not really hungry, but I eat them just so she’ll bring me my bill sooner. When she does, I scan over the numbers. My total is $7.60. Seven-sixty. My next clue. Here I come, world!