How to Disappear(39)

It’s going to sound like I’ve completely given up on personal safety and all of the rules of survival. Yet again.

This would be correct.





41


Jack


I’m driving a dirt-encrusted Prius with eighty-five thousand miles on it, and it looks it. I bought it unwashed, and I haven’t remedied the situation. I can’t say what I’ll find under the dirt, apart from knowing that whatever shade of charcoal gray it turns out to be, it’ll be less conspicuous than Don’s red shitmobile.

Nicolette walks all the way around it. “Are you sure this is your car? If you didn’t just do that, I’d be totally nice. I wouldn’t mention the existence of soap.”

“If I weren’t such a spectacle of self-control, I’d tell you to zip it. If you want to go somewhere that’s not teeming with frat boys, you’d better get in.”

“How do you know I don’t love and adore frat boys?”

I open her door, realizing that the passenger side handle is sticky.

“I was flattering you. I was assuming that if you wanted to be with a frat guy, you’d be with a frat guy.”

She climbs into the front seat, stows her pack in the backseat, and wriggles. “Do uncomfortable seats save energy, or do tree huggers just like to suffer?”

“We like to make our passengers suffer. And where I come from, they have more cacti than trees.” This is a slip but not a grievous one. I say, “Arizona,” and hope she hasn’t been there.

“I’d say something mean about hugging and cactus and what you deserve, but it’s almost cheating to slug that slow a pitch.”

“You’re not a very forgiving girl, are you?”

“Excuse me!” she says. I’m getting used to her punches on the arm. “I’m totally forgiving. But people have to pay. Then I’m forgiving.”

She shuts her own door and lets me lock the car from the driver’s seat, not even checking to see if she can get herself out. I’m still thinking, Don’t. Don’t get into cars with strangers. Don’t take Nutella sandwiches from strange men. Don’t go to bars with Manxes. Which is some heavy-duty sexist shit but applicable under the circumstances.

She puts the bottoms of her sandals up against the glove compartment.

She says, “Just so I don’t feel like Miss Bad Judgment out drinking with a guy who loses it over tiny forks, you want to tell me why?” There’s a long pause, when she touches my arm very lightly, just where the sleeve of my T-shirt ends, her favorite spot to sock. “Just tell me. If that had been a three-pronged serving fork, would I be dead?”

Yes. No. Maybe. I’m not in a good frame of mind. I can hear Don coaching: End her.

She says, “Tell me what’s wrong.” These are maybe my least favorite words from a girl’s mouth, any girl, under ordinary circumstances. This is worse.

“I wish I hadn’t explained.” I more mutter this than say it. “Clearly the wrong path in the yellow wood.”

“Not poetry! First you impersonate King Kong, and then you give me poetry?”

“Sorry.”

She closes her eyes. I want to tell her to keep them wide open. “You don’t get to hold girls down and quote poems. Worst of both worlds. Brute butthead who tries to intimidate girls or deeply sensitive butthead who likes poems. You have to pick one or the other.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that next time.”

“You’re welcome.” She looks up through her bangs. “And don’t even think next time. No next time.”

“Sorry.” She certainly provides ample opportunities to apologize. I’m rubbing my shin under the dashboard. I’m driving along waiting to be forgiven by the girl who cut Connie Marino.





42


Cat


When you drive inland from El Molino off the interstate, you hit Crothers. Beyond that, Los Arroyos. Meaning creeks. Except there aren’t any. We drive over a gully on a wooden bridge, but there’s no water in there.

We pass a 7-Eleven, a gas station, and a feed store.

I say, “Not to complain about the field trip, but aren’t we getting kind of far from civilization?”

J drives exactly at speed limit. When it says to go twenty-five around curves, we go twenty-five. When a sign shows a family of cows in the road, he slows down in case there’s a parade of heifers just around the bend.

He says, “There’s a bar down the road where they’re not picky about ID.”

This bar would be a shack if it was made of wood, but it’s concrete. The only light is a flashing red-and-blue neon sign. Fifty motorcycles parked in front. Guys with club jackets hanging outside the door. Women far more trampy than Cat will ever be glued to them.

I mean, get a room.

I’m sitting in the front seat, facing karmic justice. The Circle of Life. What goes around comes around. I knew I shouldn’t tell Luna my biker boyfriend beat me up. Also, it occurs to me that while I’m a killer beer-pong player, I’ve never been in a bar. Not a real bar.

Not the scary kind of bar with bikers swarming it.

J opens my door, very old school. He says, “You don’t like it? We could go somewhere else.”

“Like the feed store?”