“It’s so quiet out here,” I say, just to say something. Anything at all. The silence is getting to me.
“What, are you bored? Want to play a game?” Jake shoots me a mock-serious look. “Something other than Top Three.”
“There’s always Truth or Dare.”
“Truth or Dare? Do you think I’m a twelve-year-old girl?” he says. He nudges his foot against mine.
I nudge mine back, our legs hooking together, crossed at the ankles. “Sometimes I do, in fact.”
After a beat, he says, “All right, I’ll play,” much to my surprise. He turns his head and adds, “But only if I can go first.”
“If you must.” I sigh and throw an arm over my eyes. “Okay. Truth.”
“What are you thinking, right now?”
That’s his question, of all things? I move my arm a little and open one eye to look at him. His face is completely serious, waiting me out. My arm slides down so that my hand rests at the base of my throat, and when my thumb brushes up against the thin skin there, I can feel the tick-tick-tick of my heartbeat.
“I’m thinking that…” I breathe in, just for a moment. “My sister really would’ve loved to have seen that. Fridgehenge, I mean.”
He digs out a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, looking at me the whole time. “Really?”
“Yeah. June liked that kind of stuff—I guess you’d call it ironic, right? Making art out of other people’s trash.” I smile. “She had this shirt with a can of tomato soup on it that she’d wear all of the time. She said it was by some artist, and she tried to explain to me why it was art. I never got it. It was just a can of soup.”
Jake inhales on his cigarette, the tip flaring bright orange against the descending darkness. “People see art in a lot of things.”
“I guess.” I hug my hoodie tighter around my middle. Who knew the desert could get so cold? “Now it’s my turn. Truth or dare?”
“Dare,” he says automatically. How unsurprising.
I hate coming up with dares. Laney always picks them, and there’s only so many times I can dare her to run around her front yard naked at two in the morning when no one’s looking before it gets old.
And I am not asking Jake to get naked. Even if the thought is a little tempting.
“Oh, I’ve got it!” I sit up on my elbow and grin down at him. “I…dare you…to write a song.”
“Right now?” he says, making a face.
“Uh, obviously not. But at some point. When we get home.” Home. The word churns in my stomach. It won’t be long before I’ll have to face that reality. Mom and Aunt Helen and June’s untouched bedroom and everything else I don’t want to think about right now. I’d rather be here. “Promise me you’ll at least try,” I say.
Jake looks away. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I shouldn’t be disappointed by his response, but I am anyway. Stupid of me to think I could talk him into it. That my thinking he could do it would make a difference. What does my opinion matter to him? What do I matter? I’m just some girl whose sister he knew.
“Fine.” I drop down onto my back again and look up at the immense night sky. It’s better than looking at Jake and his closed-off face. “I get to ask a truth then. Tell me. What happened to your parents?”
He takes a deep breath like he’s steeling himself. “My dad left when I was four, and he’s been in prison since I was nine. Armed robbery with a side of possession, if you’re curious.”
“Oh,” I say. I’m sort of stunned; partly because I didn’t expect a real answer, and partly because I’ve never known anyone who’s even been arrested. Aside from Seth and Devon, of course. “That…sucks.”
“It’s for the best, really. He was…” Jake hesitates. “Not a good person.”
“And your mother?”
“After a while…she got tired of being a mom. So she stopped.”
And that’s all he’ll say about it.
“So what about your parents?” he asks.
“I didn’t pick truth.”
“Okay, then I dare you to tell me about your parents.”
That’s totally cheating, but instead of calling him out on it, I say, “Did June ever tell you anything about them?”
“A little. I know they’re divorced,” he tells me. “Let me guess. Your dad had the cliché affair with the secretary? Mixing business with pleasure?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Not quite. He does have a girlfriend—her name is Melinda and she is a caterer. But supposedly it wasn’t an affair. All parties claim it happened after the divorce.”
“Your family’s lack of scandal is shocking. And a little disappointing.”
“I know, it’s a boring story. I guess they just stopped loving each other. How mundane.” I sigh, shifting on the metal hood. “My dad is pretty much happy to pretend what little is left of his former life doesn’t exist. My mother made up her mind that all men are evil and conniving and out to destroy you.”
“I wondered where you got that philosophy from,” Jake says. He’s probably only half joking.
I swat him on the shoulder. “Whatever. It’s my turn.”
“Truth. Take your best shot.”
Oh, I will. I’ve been waiting to ask this since Chicago, since Anna so casually mentioned knowing my sister. This is as good a time to ask as any. “June,” I say. “Were you—were you like her secret boyfriend, or something?”
Jake stiffens beside me. “Why would you think I was her boyfriend?”
“I don’t know, let’s see.” I roll my eyes. “Maybe because you clam up whenever I ask how you knew her. Maybe because I know she met Anna and your friends, on at least one occasion.”
“Anna told you that, huh?” he says, but he doesn’t sound mad. He takes a hard drag on his cigarette and goes quiet for a minute. “I was never. She only met them a few times. We hung out sometimes. She wanted to—get out of the house, I guess. I know things were…intense. With your parents. With college. It was hard on her. And she’d just dumped that loser jock boyfriend of hers.”
“You mean Tyler.”
“Tyler, is that his name? Yeah.” He frowns. “Anyway. One of Seth’s friends was playing a show in Detroit, so we drove up there together.”
This is news to me. “A show? Like, a punk band show? “ I sit up again, surprised. “June went to see a punk band?”
“Well, they were a shit excuse for a punk band, but yeah. Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure she hated it. Said she ‘didn’t get the scene.’” He laughs. “It’s so weird. Sometimes I can’t believe you two are related. You’re nothing like her.”
That’s just what I need. Another damn comparison. Another person stating the obvious.
“Thanks,” I say. Yeah, I’m bitter.
“It’s not an insult,” he clarifies. I don’t know what he means by that, but then he explains. “I know I didn’t know June as well as…some people, but she always seemed. I don’t know. Uncomfortable in her own skin. Maybe that’s why she wanted to spend time around me. Do things she didn’t usually. Maybe she had an identity crisis or something.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” It would make some sense—June hated the life she’d constructed, so she tried something new, hoping it would fit better. But it didn’t. So she gave up. I slide out the pack of cigarettes from my hoodie pocket, and say, “So, you’re saying that I’m what? Comfortable?”
“I’m saying,” he says, leaning over to light my cigarette on cue, always on hand to corrupt the youth of America, “that you’re not fragile like she was. God, she was like a china doll.”
Easy to crack. Unlike me.
“And I’m just made of metal. I don’t feel anything.” I take a sullen drag off my cigarette. “You never answered my original question. Okay, so you were friends with June, but you and her. You never—”
“Never,” he answers sharply. He says it in a way that makes it clear this round of Truth or Dare is officially over.
He slowly rolls off the hood, and
a second later I hear him open the driver’s door and climb in. The slam of the door shutting makes me wince. I feel kind of bad, and kind of pissed at the same time, because why should he be angry? He has no right. None.
I swing my legs over and slide off the hood, walk around to the driver’s side. Jake’s window is rolled down, and he’s draped over the steering wheel, chin tucked on top of his hands, staring straight ahead.
“I have one more,” I say. I curl my hands over the window frame’s edge. “Truth.”
He doesn’t blink. “Game’s over, Scott. Not your turn, anyway.”
“One more,” I insist, louder, and grip the rubbery strip around the car window frame. I wait until he eventually turns his head to look right at me. “I want to know. Did you have any idea—with June, that she would—or why she would—” My voice shakes. I’m looking right at him, but it’s all one big blur.
“No,” he says quietly. He sighs and rubs his face with both hands. “I think. Some people are just sad, all of the time. Too sad to deal with—everything. Life, I guess. I don’t know. There doesn’t always have to be a reason.” His face softens. “I wish I knew.”
“Yeah, well. I guess if June wanted us to know, she would’ve said something, or at least left a note,” I reply bitterly.
I start to step away when Jake catches my wrist and draws me back, flush against the side of the van.
“Hey.” His other hand reaches out, pushing a stray lock of hair off of my face and behind my ear. “You’re not, you know.”
“Not what?” My voice is barely a whisper. My heart races wildly, like I’ve just finished a ten-mile marathon.
Jake shifts forward so that his face is only inches from mine. If he moved forward just a fraction, our mouths would be touching.
“Made of metal,” he says.
Kissing him would be a stupid move. Monumentally stupid, epic levels of stupid—the kind of stupid that gets written down in the history books. And I’m not going to, but in that moment, I think if he closed the gap between us, I’d probably kiss him back. I can blame it on a number of things: the dry, cold New Mexico night air getting to my head, homesickness (okay, not that), temporary insanity. If he kissed me, then I’d just be reacting, which would be beyond my control—isn’t that like one of Newton’s laws or something? And then maybe I could live with myself. If I had physics on my side.
But Jake doesn’t make a move to kiss me. He just looks at me for a really long time, his fingers sliding down my wrist and grabbing my hand.
My chest tightens, and suddenly I feel like crying, for no reason at all. “Like you would even know,” I spit at him, then yank out of his loose grip. I turn on my heel and stalk away, shivering. All of a sudden the night seems so much colder.
chapter eleven
“Daddy, I know. I didn’t think you’d be so upset. No! We’re not in any trouble. I just thought we could use a little…vacation.”
The sound of Laney’s voice stirs me out of sleep. I sit up on my elbows and look over to see her perched next to me, legs crossed yoga-style, talking into her cell phone. She winds one of her loose curls around her finger absent-mindedly. When she notices I’m awake, she glances over briefly, but doesn’t quite smile.
“Yes, I’m telling the truth,” she says into the phone. “No, we don’t need any money. Okay, I will. I promise! Tell them everything is cool. Daddy, it’s just an expression. All right, I know. Of course. Love you, too. ‘Bye.” She clicks off the phone and holds it out to me. “You need to call your mom.”
I wrap the blanket around my shoulders. What I really want to do is hide under it and pretend I didn’t hear any of that conversation. It only serves as a reminder of what is waiting for me back home. “Why?”
“Because if you don’t, our parents are going to sic the cops on us.”
There’s a motivation if I ever needed one.
“They’re bluffing,” I say, but I don’t really believe myself.
Neither does Laney. “Harper, I’m serious here,” she says. “My dad is not happy about this.”
“Did he freak out?”
“He’s not exactly jumping for joy at the moment. Especially since your family is flipping out. He was all, ‘I know you and Harper are close, and you need this healing time, but you’ve worried everyone and have a responsibility to come home and cope with this properly, blah freaking blah.’ The only reason he’s sympathetic is because he read too much Jack Kerouac in his twenties.”
I worry at my bottom lip. “Do you really think they’re going to call the cops?”
“Apparently your aunt Helen keeps threatening to call them herself, but he’s managed to prevent her from doing it so far,” she says. “But he says he can’t keep stalling if you won’t call to let them know you’re okay. I hate to say it, but he’s right. You owe them a phone call.”
My stomach tightens in knots. “I’m going to,” I tell her. “When we get to California.”
“No,” Laney says adamantly. “You’re calling now.” She starts to dial, and before I can steal the phone from her hands, it’s ringing. I glare and press it to my ear.
On the third ring, someone answers. “Hello?” It’s my mom, her voice surprisingly breezy, like I’ve caught her just coming in or about to leave. I breathe a sigh of relief. I can’t handle another conversation with Aunt Helen.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Harper?” Her tone changes. At least she doesn’t sound angry—but then, how much of someone’s mood can you infer from two syllables? “Is that you?”
“Who else would it be? Unless you have some illegitimate children you’d like to tell me about,” I say, trying to keep it light.
“It’s good to hear your voice.” Okay, pleasantries. I haven’t really prepared myself for that. I expected something more along the lines of vicious screaming, maybe some drunken sobbing and how-could-you-do-this-to-me-you-ruin-everything ranting. “Are you okay?” she presses. “Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. We’re both fine.” I can’t quite keep the note of surprise out of my voice. I clear my throat and glance at Laney, who gives me a supportive smile. “Um. How are—things? With you?”
She pauses for a really long time before saying, “I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer that, Harper.”
Point taken. I pick at the hole in my jeans at the knee, pulling up white strings of thread. “So…have you gone back to work yet?”
“What? Have I—? Harper, I just lost one daughter, and the other has run away. What do you think?” She sounds incredulous.
“Yeah, stupid question, I guess.” This is even harder than I thought it’d be. “I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it. “This isn’t about hurting you. I know you don’t believe me, but I mean that.”
“Does this mean you’re coming home?”
I can’t yet. “I will soon,” I promise. “I swear. I just—I have to do this first.”
“Do what?”
“It’s for June,” I whisper. “Trust me on this. Please, just trust me.”
Her breath hitches. I expect crying, but instead she says, “Okay. Okay, I trust you, Harper,” the sound of her voice like shattered glass.
By the time we hang up, I’m pretty sure I’ve convinced her to keep Aunt Helen reined in for a little while longer. I hand the phone back to Laney with a long sigh.
“She must be really freaked out,” Laney remarks. She sounds almost…jealous.
“You’re lucky your parents let you do what you want,” I tell her.
She shrugs and tucks her phone into her jeans pocket without answering. When she looks back up at me, she’s smiling.
“Totally,” she agrees. She climbs out of the van before I can say anything else.
I never would’ve thought in any universe, existing or alternate, Laney Sterling would ever be jealous of me. She always acts like she loves her freedom. Her parents basically give her free rein, as long as she keeps her grades up, and turn a blind eye to eve
rything else. I don’t think she’s ever been grounded in her life. Really, even after this whole mess, her father seems more mildly annoyed than actually angry.
Laney makes me feel like a shitty daughter, and an even shittier friend, and the worst part is that if I asked her if I was either, she’d tell me to shut up and stop being an idiot. Even if secretly she thought it was true.
And I’m pretty sure it might be true.
Apparently Jake has decided we aren’t talking, because he barely says a word to me when we pack up our things and drive out, just hits the highway and turns the music up loud. No Behind the Music-esque history lessons for me today. I do see the front of the CD case before he tosses it on the floor—Fleetwood Mac. They have some corny lyrics, but the melodies are enjoyable enough.
Being on the receiving end of Jake’s silent treatment isn’t so bad; at least New Mexico is a nice change of pace. We drive by long stretches of desert, sparse bushes, and I can make out some rocky areas in the distance. I don’t mind leaning my forehead against the window, letting the vibrations chatter my teeth and thrum through me as the scenery flies by.
Laney pulls out her bag of nail polish colors and begins to work on her nails. I look down at my feet, remembering the last time I painted them. The color has somewhat flaked off, but I can still pinpoint that zigzag red smear on my big toe, from when June interrupted me and—
I force myself to not think about it. The next time we stop, I’ll pick up some polish remover and take care of it once and for all.
“Hey, Laney, can I have some?” I ask over my shoulder.
“What color?”
“Black.”
She snorts. “I’m shocked.” But she searches in the bag and withdraws the small bottle, drops it into my outstretched palm.
I brace my hand against the dashboard, unscrew the bottle top and very carefully swipe the brush over my thumbnail. The process is tedious; Joplin’s rattling over every little bump in the road doesn’t help matters.