"So we're going to miss this train because you have some philosophical objection to the possibility of traffic on the 118?" Lila asked. She shook her head, her knee jogging up and down in place. "That's a great plan. Really."
"It's not a philosophical objection. It's a practical objection," Beau retorted. "Surface streets are faster."
"You live in a fantasy world," Lila replied. "Surface streets have stop signs, traffic lights, not to mention speed limits. Hello."
"I had no idea you were this obsessed with the California
61
freeway system," Beau said in a dismissive way that burrowed right up under her skin and made her itch--like he was his own personal brand of poison oak and she was particularly allergic. He raked his thick, dark hair back from his face with his free hand.
Lila's jaw clenched and she ground her teeth together. Could Beau be any more condescending?
In a word: yes. He could, as she recalled pretty clearly, set records for being the most condescending, patronizing jerk around. But there was no use in letting the situation go nuclear, as their fights had often gone back in the day. She could remember, in particular, how he'd reacted when he'd found out that she'd gotten together with Erik--the day after breaking up with him.
Congratulations, Lila, he'd drawled, his eyes blazing at her, hotter than the sun above them in the courtyard at lunch. You're apparently even more vapid and pathetic than you sounded on Friday. She'd tried to apologize to him--still feeling badly, at that point, about hurting someone she'd cared about for so long--but he'd brushed her off.
Don't let me hold you back from your glorious destiny as Erik Hollander's latest groupie, he'd said, his voice so sarcastic and cutting that all these years later, the memory of it made her cringe. Lila squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.
62
She was stuck in this car with him, true, but that was a temporary thing. She hadn't somehow woken up to find herself back in time, trapped in her going-nowhere relationship with a guy determined to be as miserable as humanly possible. She restrained a shudder at the very idea.
The silence dragged out between them as Beau's car raced through the late afternoon. The hills loomed up on either side of them in the winding mountain pass, looking almost sinister against the golden sun in the western sky. Lila checked her watch: four ten. She tried to pretend that she was somewhere else, somewhere Beau-less. Like, for example, driving up to her dorm at Stanford next fall in her shiny new convertible, having left her parents and Cooper and all their assorted expectations behind. She imagined the northern California wind gently tossing her dark, blown-out hair back and forth. And then she pictured Erik running toward her across the bright green lawn of the quad, sweeping her up into his strong arms, twirling her around, and kissing her long and hard in front of the entire incoming freshman class.
She heard Beau sigh slightly, and then he clicked on the car stereo. It was worth significantly more than the car it sat in. He fiddled with the console, clicking over to his iPod connection.
Good. Lila nodded to herself. Music will make this all slide by like a dream
But the thought died away as absurd sounds filled the car,
63
jaunty and bouncy, with a scratchy voice that drowned out everything. It sounded like the circus. Like a creepy, demented circus in a horror movie. Was that an accordion?
"What is this?" she demanded. The weird music made her think of old men with thick accents, playing chess in the park in heavy sweaters no matter how hot it was.
"Beirut," Beau said defensively, glaring at the road.
"As in, the music of a foreign culture?"
"As in, that's the name of the band," he shot back. "Which I'm listening to because it's good. Something I realize you don't care about anymore."
"You listen to polka music now?" Lila demanded, scandalized. "Seriously?"
"I forgot to download my Lady Gaga collection," Beau said snidely. "My bad."
"There's nothing wrong with Lady Gaga," Lila snapped at him. "At least she can carry a tune. Unlike this crap!" She waved her hand at the stereo. The music now included what sounded like a sitar.
"Fine," Beau said tightly. He punched at the console again, and something more folky--and more melodic, at least--filled the car. "This is Fleet Foxes. They played on Saturday Night Live once, so hopefully that won't be too esoteric or weird for you."
"Right," Lila said, not even bothering to roll her eyes. She
64
channeled her annoyance through her voice. "Because if a band you like is even known by more than two people, they've sold out and are lame. I forgot."
"I don't like Top Forty music," Beau said, his voice clipped. "So sue me."
"You don't like it because it makes you feel superior not to," Lila countered. "Not because you actually dislike the music. You've probably never listened to a Fergie song in your life."
"Do I really have to listen to every overproduced piece-of-crap song to know they all suck?" Beau asked, and laughed disdainfully. "That they're an offense to anyone who's actually interested in real music?"
"As defined by you, Beau Hodges," Lila pointed out. "You get to decide what's real and what's not. You think it makes you cool to hate on things that other people like."
Lila had no idea why she was acting like pop music was this important to her. It was something in the way Beau dismissed it, like it was beneath him--while he was listening to glorified polka music. What gave him the right to decide what was good and what wasn't?
There was another silence between them, as the music soared, surprisingly crisp and beautiful, between them.
"What the hell happened to you?" Beau asked finally, as if the question were being torn from him. Lila had the feeling he would have given a lot not to ask it.
65
"Britney Spears fried my brain," she replied dryly. "Is that what you want to hear?"
"I'm serious," Beau said, and for once he didn't sound like he was trying to trap her into saying something he could misconstrue. He sounded puzzled. "I mean, you used to love music. You used to live for it. Real music--and now you're mounting a defense of bubblegum pop? I don't get it."
"People change," Lila said. Because there was nothing else to say. How could she explain the choices she'd made? To him, of all people? It either made perfect sense why she'd had to do what she'd done, or it didn't, and no amount of explanation could bridge that gap. It had never made any sense to Beau. Because he was a guy, maybe, but also because he was Beau. And it wasn't about pop music. Obviously. It was about...having the kind of life that you could look back on and be proud of. That would make sense on yearbook pages ten years later. She had wanted her life to matter.
"Tell me about it," Beau said with another snotty laugh. Because Beau thought even wanting that kind of thing was a sign of weakness. "I guess becoming Miss Popular, Queen of North Valley High, means you have to give up everything you love. Sounds like a great bargain. Really"
"You don't know what you're talking about." She eyed him, taking in the proud, defiant tilt of his chin and the way his dark hair fell so messily over his face and neck, then looked back
66
at the road. The dark pavement stretched out before them, the mountains rising in the distance. The sun was lowering in the sky. "I didn't give up anything."
"Uh-huh." Beau was shaking his head again. "Look at yourself."
"So?" she demanded, opening her arms and looking down at herself, pleased with what she saw. Her silky, dark brown hair was pin-straight past her shoulders--she had her blowout down to a science. She knew her Dior mascara was perfect, because she'd slept on it before and it had still maintained its curl. She had chosen this particular pair of Lucky jeans because they hugged her tennis-toned legs.
But she knew that wasn't what Beau was getting at. What he meant was that back in the day, she would have been rocking matching ratty Converse and a ratty sweatshirt, the better to look like a homeless person.
/>
Oddly, not a look she was all that thrilled to remember.
"You look like you belong in a magazine," Beau said, and it wasn't a compliment. "All glossy. I can't even imagine how long it takes you to get dressed in the morning, to make yourself look like that."
Something cold bloomed between Lila's shoulders and slid its way down her spine. While Lila knew for a fact that Carly just rolled out of bed three minutes before homeroom looking perfectly adorable, she, on the other hand, had to get up pretty
67
early to prepare the Lila Beckwith she wanted everyone to see. Sometimes it was exhausting, but she still did it, because she had to.
"And the only thing I've heard you talk about in the past three years is your boyfriend and how popular you are." He made a derisive noise. His eyes were on the road. He wouldn't even look at her when he said it. "But the funny thing is, I don't think you actually like your supposedly cool new friends, do you? Because you never look happy. Not the way you used to."
Lila gave him a cool look. "Let's get real, Beau," she suggested mildly enough. "You probably spend just as much time on your careless hipster costumes as I do on looking normal, and we both know you go out of your way to act like you're allergic to the very hint of popularity of any kind. Which takes a whole lot more energy than just...hanging out with people."
"That's what you call your mission to be best friends with Carly Hollander?" Beau asked, laughing slightly. " 'Just hanging out'? What about the part where you had to completely turn your back on the person you'd been for your whole life in order to get her to be your friend?"
"She is my friend," Lila said quietly.
"Yeah, now," Beau said. He braked, letting the car roll to a stop at a red light. He turned to look at her, his blue eyes dark in the suddenly way-too-close interior of the car. "Once you completely changed. What was wrong with you before?"
68
Lila didn't know how to answer that. How could she tell him that everything was wrong with who she'd been? How could she tell him that, when he'd been such a huge part of it?
The more Beau had disappeared into himself and his misery over his family, the more she'd felt alone. She hadn't really had him anymore--he'd been too angry and too closed off. So she hadn't had anything. She'd wanted more. And once she'd started wanting more, she saw what she had--and who she was--in a brand-new, highly unflattering light.
Suddenly, he leaned toward her.
"What...?" She flinched away in surprise.
But he was only rummaging in the backseat. He pulled a hoodie from the rubble on the floor behind him and shrugged into it.
"Just a little cold," he murmured, sliding an amused look Lila's way. "Relax."
Lila ignored him. Her attention was on the backseat. "You have another guitar?" she asked, incredulous. It was nestled by the back passenger seat, in a case on the floor. Lila was surprised the guitar didn't have a blanket wrapped around it, the way he usually babied his instruments.
"It's my backup," he said.
"You have a backup guitar, which you keep in your car," she said. She laughed. "Wow. So you're, like, a traveling minstrel or something?"
69
Beau threw her another unreadable look as the light changed from red to green. She braced herself for one of his zingers.
"You never know when you might need a guitar," he said, in such a matter-of-fact way that Lila bit back her next sarcastic comment. What did she know? Maybe in Beau's world, he was often called upon to leap out of his Ford Escort and serenade people with his music.
She was trying to keep from snickering at that mental image when Beau pulled into the Simi Valley train station parking lot. The station looked identical to the last one, and Lila had a strange and unpleasant sense of déjà vu. She snuck a quick peek at her watch: Four seventeen. The train left the station at four twenty-one.
Beau pulled the car into a parking space. Before he'd even opened his door, Lila was out of the car. Her feet flew over the crumbling cement parking lot, and she was aware of Beau's breathing right behind her.
"Which track do you think it's coming in on?" Beau called.
Lila felt like they were on The Amazing Race as she shouted back that they'd figure that out inside. She hurled open the surprisingly heavy station doors, narrowly missing a set of suitcases on the floor.
"Come on." Beau grabbed her hand and guided her out to platform three.
They stumbled out into the late-afternoon sunlight. There
70
was the train, right on the tracks. But it was on its way out of the station. The back window seemed to laugh at them as it disappeared down the track.
Lila watched the flash of silver until the train became a smaller and smaller point in the distance. She slumped against one of the cement platform columns, letting her hair fall down and cover her face.
"This sucks," Beau muttered, his eyes still on what was left of the train.
"I guess we have to keep going," Lila sighed, feeling angry and defeated. Again. But there was no time to spare. She straightened, shoved her hair off her face, and pulled the crumpled train schedule from her jeans pocket. "Next stop, Oxnard," she read. "Let's gun it."
"Hold on." Beau pulled his iPhone from his pocket.
"We can't hold on," Lila argued. "We have to hurry!"
"We're not going to catch a train," Beau said, looking up from his phone briefly, the screen reflecting blue on his face. "We can't chase it from station to station--trains are faster than cars, and they don't have to stop."
"So, what?" Lila asked, ignoring the patronizing tone of his statement. She slumped back against the column, annoyed. "What are we supposed to do?"
Beau plucked the schedule from her hand. He frowned at it, then fiddled with his phone, quickly tapping around on the
71
screen. Lila waited as patiently as she could, trying not to bite her nails. Or launch into a screaming fit that would be anything but productive. Though it might make her feel better.
"The train takes seven hours to get up to Oakland," Beau said finally. "But we can drive up the I-5 and be there in like six hours. Five or five and a half, maybe, depending on traffic." He slipped the phone back into his pocket and cocked his head slightly as he looked at her. His shaggy dark hair fell over to one side. "Makes more sense than trying to catch the train at every station, don't you think?"
"Sounds great," Lila said absently. Because what sounded even better was the plan she was quickly outlining in her head. Oakland wasn't too far away from Stanford. After she captured Cooper and beat him to death, she could meet up with Erik. And then she could drive back home with her sweet, attentive, perfect boyfriend, and never have to spend another moment with Beau ever again.
It sounded pretty much like bliss.
72
Chapter 8
*** NORTHBOUND INTERSTATE 5
NORTH OF LOS ANGELES
DECEMBER 22
5:03 P.M.
***
The I-5 was gridlocked as far as the eye could see. The December sun had started to set, and cars snaked ahead of them, a line of red taillights in the growing darkness. Beau drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, muttered under his breath, and stomped on his brake with more and more force.
"This is ridiculous," he said loudly.
"It's rush hour and it's a holiday," Lila said with an unconcerned shrug. After all, they were only about an hour into the seven hours they had before they caught up with the train in Oakland. "Traffic would be terrible either way, but when you combine them..." She let her voice trail off.
Beau glared at her.
"I can't stand traffic," he said. Like it was Lila's fault.
73
"I don't know how to help you with that," Lila replied, reveling in being the calm one for once.
They inched along, eventually making their way past Magic Mountain and Santa Clarita, then up and over the Grapevine, the stretch of I-5 that snaked into the mountains
to the north of the San Fernando Valley and down to the San Joaquin Valley on the other side. Still, the traffic persisted. The 5 was a major highway, but it was only two lanes, and, apparently, the preferred route of many truck drivers. An enormous Mack truck loomed over them, cutting off their vision. Its bumper displayed a cheerful red and yellow sticker asking, How's My Driving?. Lila had a feeling, given the way the driver had barricaded them in, that he wasn't overly concerned.
"Screw this," Beau said finally. "I'm taking Route 1."
"Route 1?" Lila stopped pretending to be blithely unconcerned, sat up, and looked at him sharply. "The Pacific Coast Highway is on the coast. We're in the Central Valley." The undertone of her statement was, duh.
"Well, now we're headed west toward the water." Beau inched the nose of the Escort forward. They were in the slow lane, and he squeezed his way through a tiny opening, pulling the car into the breakdown lane on the shoulder of the road.
"What the--" Lila's voice was drowned out as the cars around them exploded into an orchestra of honking. She locked eyes
74
with two irate guys in a Lexus and shrugged, sheepishly. Like she had any control--
"Aack!" Lila let out a sudden, unexpected squeal as Beau shifted the Escort into reverse and gunned it. The car shot backward, down the road on the narrow shoulder. Hurtling in reverse, Lila felt like she was going to be sick. Finally, Beau hit the brakes and put the car back into drive. He pulled off the gridlocked freeway onto a bumpy, muddy path. It was far more random-farm-path-through-an-orange-grove than back road.
"You're insane," Lila said, twisting around to watch the 5 disappear into the dusk behind the car's taillights. Beau followed the "road" under the freeway and toward the coastal mountains that separated the Central Valley from the ocean and all the famous little beach towns. "Why don't you relax about the traffic? So what if we sit for a while? We have seven hours!"
"We're not sitting in traffic if we don't have to, and we don't have to," Beau said, like that ended the discussion right there. He slammed his foot down on the gas. The old car shuddered in protest and then shot forward, bouncing along the bumpy road.