When we came to an intersection, I grabbed his arm and whirled him around to face me. Eye to eye. Scalawag to Ms. Straitlaced.
“Are you serious about this?” I said. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
He smiled. “You took care of the route. Let me take care of the ride.”
“Robinson—”
He shook off my grip and slung his arm around my shoulder, big brother–style. “Now settle down, GG, and I’ll give you a little lesson in vehicle selection.”
“A lesson in what? And don’t call me that.” It stands for Good Girl, and it drives me absolutely nuts when he says it.
Robinson pointed to a car just ahead. “Now that, see, is a Jaguar. It’s a beautiful machine. But it’s an XJ6, and those things have problems with their fuel filters. You can’t have your stolen car leaking gas, Axi, because it could catch on fire, and if you don’t die a fiery death, well, you’re definitely going to jail for grand theft auto.”
We walked on a little farther, and he pointed to a green minivan. “The Dodge Grand Caravan is roomy and dependable, but we’re adventurers, not soccer moms.”
I decided to pretend this was all make-believe. “Okay, what about that one?” I asked.
He followed my finger and looked thoughtful. “Toyota Matrix. Yeah, definitely a good option. But I’m looking for something with a bit more flair.”
By now the sun was peeking over the horizon, and the birds were up and chattering to each other. As Robinson and I walked down the leafy streets, I felt the neighborhood stirring. What if some guy stepped outside to grab the newspaper and saw us, two truants, suspiciously inspecting the neighborhood cars?
“Come on, Robinson,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.” I was still hoping we’d make the bus. We had ten minutes left.
“I just want the perfect thing,” he said.
At that moment, we saw a flash in the corner of our eyes. It was brown and fast and coming toward us. I gasped and reached out for Robinson.
He laughed and pulled me close. “Whoa, Axi, get a grip. It’s only a dog.”
My heart was thrumming. “Yeah, I can see that… now.”
I could also now see it wasn’t likely to be an attack dog, either. He was a small thing, with matted, shaggy fur. No collar, no tags. I took a step forward, my hand extended, and the dog flinched. He turned around and went right up to Robinson instead (of course) and licked his hand. Then the darn thing lay down at his feet. Robinson knelt to pet him.
“Robinson,” I said, getting impatient, “Greyhound bus or stolen car, the time is now.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. His long, graceful hands gently tugged on the dog’s ears, and the dog rolled onto his side. As Robinson scratched the dog’s belly, the animal’s leg twitched and his pink tongue lolled out of his little mouth in total canine ecstasy.
“You’re such a good boy,” Robinson said gently. “Where do you belong?”
Even though the dog couldn’t answer, we knew. He was skinny and his fur was clumped with mud. There was a patch of raw bare skin on his back. This dog was no one’s dog.
“I wish you could come with us,” Robinson said. “But we have a long way to go, and I don’t think you’d dig it.”
The dog looked at him like he’d dig anything in the world as long as it involved more petting by Robinson. But when you’re running away from your life and you can’t take anything you don’t need, a stray dog falls in the category of Not Necessary.
“Give him a little love, Axi,” Robinson urged.
I bent down and dug my fingers into the dog’s dirty coat the way I’d seen Robinson do, and when I ran my hand down the dog’s chest, I could feel the quick flutter of his heart, the excitement of finding a home, someone to care for him.
Poor thing, I thought. Somehow, I knew exactly what he was feeling. He had no one, and he was stuck here.
But we weren’t. Not anymore.
“We’re leaving, little buddy. I’m sorry,” I said. “We’ve just got to go.”
It was totally weird, but for some reason that good-bye hurt almost as much as the one I’d whispered to my father.
4
WE LEFT THE DOG WITH ONE OF ROBINSON’S sticks of beef jerky, then headed to the end of the block, where Robinson pulled up short. “There it is,” he whispered, with real awe in his voice. He grabbed my hand and we hurried through the intersection.
“There what is?” I asked, but of course he didn’t answer me.
If things went on like this, we’d have to have a little talk—because I didn’t want a traveling companion who paid attention to 50 percent of whatever came out of my mouth. If I wanted to be ignored, I could just stay in Klamath Falls with my idiotic classmates and my alcoholic father.
“There is the answer,” Robinson said finally, sighing so big you’d have thought he just fell in love. He turned to me and bent down in an exaggerated bow, sweeping his arm out like a valet at some superfancy restaurant (the kind of place we don’t have in K-Falls).
“Alexandra, milady, your chariot awaits,” Robinson said with a wild grin. I rolled my eyes at him, like I always do when he does this fake-British shtick with my full name.
And then I rolled my eyes again: my so-called chariot, it turned out, was actually a motorcycle. A big black Harley-Davidson with whitewall tires and yards of shining chrome, and two black leather side bags decorated with silver grommets. There were tassels on the handlebars and two cushioned seats. The thing gleamed like it was straight off the showroom floor.
Robinson was beside me, whispering in some foreign language. “Twin Cam Ninety-Six V-Twin,” he said, then something about “electronic throttle control and six-speed transmission” and then a bunch of other things I didn’t understand.
It was an amazing bike, even I could see that, and I can hardly tell a dirt bike from a Ducati. “Awesome,” I said, checking my watch. “But we really should keep moving.”
That was when I realized Robinson was bending toward the thing with a screwdriver in his hand.
“Are you out of your mind?” I hissed.
But Robinson didn’t answer me. Again.
He was going to hot-wire the thing. Holy s—
I ran to the other side of the street and ducked down between two cars. Adrenaline rushed through my veins and I pressed my eyes shut.
There was no way this was happening, I told myself. No way he was going to actually get the thing started, no way this was how our journey would begin.
I had it all planned out, and it looked nothing like this.
Then the roar of an engine split open the quiet morning. I opened my eyes and a second later Robinson’s feet appeared, one on either side of the Harley.
We’re breaking the law! I should have screamed. But my mind simply couldn’t process this change in plans. I couldn’t say anything at all. I just thought: He’s running away in cowboy boots! That is so not practical! And: Why didn’t I bring mine?
“Stand up, Axi,” Robinson yelled. “Get on.”
I was rooted to the spot, my chest tight with anxiety. I was going to have a heart attack right here on Cedar Street, in between a pickup and a Volvo with a MY OTHER CAR IS A BROOM bumper sticker. So much for my great escape!
But then Robinson reached down and hauled me up, and the next thing I knew I was sitting behind him on the throbbing machine with the engine revving.
“Put your arms around me,” he yelled.
I was so heart-and-soul terrified that I did.
“Now hang on!”
He put the thing in gear and we took off, the engine thundering in my ears. My dad was probably going to wake up on the couch and wonder if he’d just heard the rumble of an early-summer storm.
We shot past the Safeway, past the high school football field, past the Reel M Inn Tavern, where every Friday night my dad hooked himself up to a Budweiser IV, and past the “Mexican” restaurant (where they put Parmesan cheese on top of their burritos).
Yeah, Klamath Falls.
It was the kind of place that looked best in a rearview mirror.
Seeing it flash past me, feeling the rush of the wind in my face, I suddenly didn’t care if we woke up the entire stinking town.
Eat my dust! I wanted to shout.
Robinson let out a joyful whoop.
We’d done it. We were free.
5
THIS WASN’T ANYTHING LIKE THE MOPED I rode once. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before. We weren’t even on the highway yet, but already it felt like we were flying.
Then above the roar of the engine I heard Robinson’s voice. “I don’t want a tickle / ’Cause I’d rather ride on my motorsickle!” It was an old Arlo Guthrie song. I knew the words because my dad used to sing them to me when I was a little girl.
“And I don’t want to diiiiie/Just want to ride on my motorcy… cle,” I joined in, even though I can’t carry a tune to save my life.
Robinson leisurely steered us past strip malls on the outskirts of town. He was whistling now (because if you ever want to blow out your vocal cords, try singing loudly enough to be heard over a Harley). He was acting like it was no big deal to be zipping away on a stolen motorcycle.
My God, what in the world did we think we were doing? We were supposed to be on a bus, and instead we were on a stolen motorcycle that cost more than my dad made in two years. Escape was one thing, but robbery took it to another level. Suddenly I couldn’t stop picturing the disappointment on my dad’s face when he posted my bail, or the headline in the Klamath Falls Herald and News—GOOD GIRL GONE BAD—next to an unflattering mug shot that washed out my blue eyes and pale skin.
I tried not to imagine a cop around every bend as we headed south of the Klamath Falls Country Club, where my mom used to go for sloe gin fizzes on Ladies’ Poker Night. And I kind of freaked out when were actually acknowledged by another motorcycle rider, heading into town. As he passed, the biker dropped his arm down, two fingers angling toward the road, and Robinson mirrored the gesture.
“Don’t take your hands off the handlebars!” I yelled. “Ever!”
“But it’s the Harley wave,” Robinson hollered.
“So?”
“So it’s rude not to do it back!”
Of course, manners are useless when you’re flat on your back in the bottom of a ditch.… I didn’t say that to Robinson, though, because I had to admit, Robinson was driving the motorcycle like he’d done it a thousand times before. Had he? Didn’t a person need a special license to drive a motorcycle? And what about the hot-wiring? It would’ve taken me that long to figure out how to start the motorcycle with a key. Yeah, we had a few things to talk about, Robinson and me.
Past the Home Depot and Eddie’s 90-Days-Same-as-Cash, Robinson yelled something, but the roar of the engine swallowed his voice. I think it was “Are you ready?” I didn’t know what he was talking about, but whatever it was, I was probably not ready. Then I noticed that the speed limit went up to fifty-five, and Robinson pulled back on the throttle.
This may be obvious, but the thing about being on a motorcycle is that there is nothing between you and the world. (Or between you and the hard pavement.) The wind roars in your face. The sun shines in your eyes like a klieg light. There is no windshield. There are no seat belts. We were going sixty-five now, and the little white needle was rising. I tightened my arms around Robinson’s waist.
“What are you doing?” I yelled.
Eighty, and the roar of the wind drowned out the sound of my screaming.
Ninety, and tears were streaming from my eyes. I clung to Robinson for dear life.
One hundred, and I might as well have been on a rocket ship blasting into the stratosphere.
Adrenaline coursed through us like liquid fire. We were charged. Dangerous. The motorcycle shuddered and gained even more speed, and the wind was like a giant’s merciless hand trying to push me off the back of the bike.
My life flashed before my eyes—my small, sad life.
Good riddance!
The fear was electrifying. It was terrifying and amazing, and if I’d thought I was having a heart attack before, I was definitely having one now.
And I was totally, dizzyingly, thrillingly loving every second of it.
In those brief moments, I shed my small-town good-girl reputation like an ugly sweater, and I burned it in the flames of the Harley insignia. We were runaways. Outlaws. Me and Robinson. Robinson and me.
And if we died in a fiery crash—well, we’d die happy, wouldn’t we?
6
BUT WHETHER IT WAS LUCK OR FATE OR Robinson’s driving skills, we didn’t die. We rode for hours along twisting back roads, until I felt like I’d molded myself to Robinson’s back. Like I’d become some kind of giant girl-barnacle he’d need to pry off with that screwdriver of his.
At lunchtime we finally stopped in the town of Mount Shasta, California. It was tucked into the lower slope of a mountain, a giant, snow-streaked peak that’s supposedly some kind of cosmic power center.
Yeah, you heard me right.
If you believe local legend, it’s home to an ancient race of superhumans called Lemurians, who live in underground tunnels but surface every once in a while, seven feet tall and decked out in white robes. In other words, Mount Shasta is totally unlike Klamath Falls, which is the world’s capital of monotony and is home to guys with names like Critter and Duke.
Also, UFOs have allegedly landed on Mount Shasta. And that’s just the tip of the bizarro iceberg.
Even the smiling attendant at the Shell station was wearing a giant amethyst crystal around his neck and had a chakra diagram on his T-shirt.
Robinson returned the attendant’s blissed-out grin, but his didn’t come from Mount Shasta’s cosmic power rays. It came from the Harley. He struck a pose, one hand on the gas tank, a thumb hooked in his belt loop, and offered me a goofy Hollywood sneer. “Am I James Dean or what? Rebel Without a Cause?”
I squinted at him. Though I would never admit it, Robinson kind of looked like he could be a movie star. Sure, he was a little on the skinny side, but that face of his? It belonged on a poster tacked to a tween girl’s bedroom wall.
“James Dean died in a car crash. You know, because he was speeding,” I said. My legs were trembling so much I could barely stand. The thundering rumble of the engine had burrowed into my bones.
“I only sped once,” Robinson countered. “I had to see what this bad boy could do.”
“Once was plenty,” I shot back, trying to sound stern. I’d loved it, sure. Because ohmygod it felt like flying. But I was pretty sure that—like paragliding or jumping out of an airplane—going 110 on the back of a stolen Harley was the sort of thing you only needed to do once.
Robinson walked into the station to pay for the gas and emerged with two Vitaminwaters and a Slim Jim, which, if you ask me, is like eating a pepperoni-flavored garden hose. But Robinson had loved horrible food for as long as I’d known him.
We took a little stroll into the town center. There was a guy wearing a sandwich board that read ARE YOU SAVED? But instead of a picture of Jesus or angels, there was a drawing of a green-skinned alien holding up two fingers in a peace sign. Robinson stopped to talk to him. Of course.
I ducked into a health food store that smelled like patchouli and nutritional yeast and got some vegetables for our dinner. When I came outside, Robinson was reading a flyer that the man had given him.
“We could go on a spirit quest,” he said. “Meet our Star Elders.”
“No way, Scalawag,” I said, snatching the pamphlet from him and tossing it into a recycling bin. “As fascinating as that sounds, I spent months planning this trip, and last I checked, communing with our so-called Star Elders was not on the to-do list.”
“Well, neither was stealing a motorcycle, and look how well that turned out.”
He looked pretty proud of himself for that comeback.
“Okay, fine,” I acknowledged. “It’s been great so far. But we can’t ride a hot bike
across the country. For one thing, we’ll get caught. And for another, I don’t think my butt can take it.”
Robinson laughed. “You actually look kind of annoyed right now. Are you?”
“No,” I lied. “But next time, I pick the ride.”
“Oh, Axi—” he began.
“I don’t want this trip to be a huge mistake, okay?” I interrupted. “I’m not interested in jail time.”
Robinson leaned over and plucked a swirly glass orb from the sidewalk display in front of the Soul Connections gift shop. He waved it in front of my face. “By everything that is cosmic and weird and awesome, I banish all doubts from your mind.” He glanced at the price tag. “Only five ninety-five. A bargain!”
He dashed into the store and a moment later reappeared with the orb nestled in a purple velvet bag. He placed it in my hands. “This is magic,” he said. “It will keep you from ever being annoyed at me again.”
“Don’t count on it,” I said drily. But I couldn’t help smiling at him. “Thanks. It’s really pretty.”
“Axi,” Robinson said, his voice softer now, “if this trip is a mistake, it’s the best one we’ll ever make.”
And somehow, by the look he gave me then, I knew he was right.
7
BY THE TIME WE STOPPED AT A CAMPGROUND in Humboldt Redwoods State Park, we’d been driving for seven hours. Robinson had stuck to the back roads, and I wasn’t complaining. My fear of getting pulled over by cops looking for a black Harley with an Oregon plate hadn’t completely disappeared, but I was thinking about it less as we got farther and farther from home.
The sun was low above the horizon when we pulled into the park, and it vanished completely as we entered the green canopy of trees. Robinson let out a low whistle as the shadows enveloped us.
Old-growth redwoods. How can I even describe them? They towered above us darkly, and they felt alive. Not alive like regular trees, but alive like they had souls. Like they were wise, ancient creatures, watching with only the faintest hint of interest as two road-weary teenagers walked beneath them. The air was cool and slightly damp, and the silence was profound. I felt like we were in church.
First Love Page 2
