I went to the sink to wash the racetrack grit from my face. In the mirror was a girl I hardly recognized. For one thing, she desperately needed a shower. For another, she looked… well, wild was the word that came to mind. Certainly she did not resemble a straight arrow or a do-gooder, which were the kinds of nouns I was used to.
I met her pale blue eyes and smiled faintly at her. Who are you? What do you want? I mouthed. But she only offered me that strange smirk.
When I came out of the bathroom, Robinson was already in bed, though it was barely after eight. He was wearing an ancient Bob Dylan T-shirt and pressing buttons on the remote. The TV was on but muted.
“Axi Moore,” he said, smiling at me, the blue light from the screen flickering on his handsome face.
“Robinson,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“What do you want to do now?” he asked.
I almost cracked up. That was the question to end all questions, wasn’t it?
For a moment I stood there, caught between the hallway and the bed, between fear and desire. On the one hand, I wanted to sink into Robinson. Reach my fingers into his hair. Feel his lips on my neck. Hold his smooth skin close against mine.
But then I thought of the dream I’d had among the redwoods—how something could be both perfect and terrifying, both mountain and abyss. What was the right thing to do?
“Hey, look,” Robinson said suddenly, his voice brightening. “It’s Puss in Boots.”
Just like that, the tension in the air snapped. We loved that movie, even though it’s for kids. Robinson insisted—I think seriously—that it was Antonio Banderas’s best role.
So the fuzzy orange cat with the big boots and the Spanish accent banished my questions and doubts until another day. I crawled under the covers next to Robinson. The sheets were silky white and smelled like bleach. I took a deep breath, and I scooted right up against his side. Then I tipped my head onto his shoulder.
Robinson seemed to stiffen. I froze, too. My heart sank in my chest, and my eyes closed in shame. Had I read the situation so wrong? I told myself I would count to five and then pull away to the far side of the giant bed.
But then I felt Robinson’s body shift. He curved toward me. And he leaned down and kissed the top of my head. Under the covers, his hand found mine. Our fingers intertwined.
That’s enough, I thought. That’s all I need.
For now.
13
OVER BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, Robinson told me he had something to confess.
We were in Starbucks, eating microwaved Artisan Breakfast Sandwiches, which, FYI, have nothing artisanal about them. At the table next to us, a Stormtrooper and an unconvincing Michael Jackson sipped Venti dark roasts before taking up their posts along the Walk of Fame.
“Spill it,” I said. I felt a slight fluttering beneath my rib cage. He’s going to say he’s sorry, that he should have kissed me last night.
“I want to see where Bruce Willis lives.” Robinson looked up at me from underneath his bangs, his expression only slightly sheepish.
I felt like knocking my head against the table. Why did I keep expecting some profound declaration from him? Sometimes he made me wonder if the human adolescent male was a completely different species from the human adolescent female. (Different as in significantly less evolved.)
But this was his trip as much as mine, and I wanted to be a good sport. So after breakfast, we flagged down the nearest open-top tour van. The guide promised it would give us an incredible look at the stars’ jaw-dropping homes, and a secret window onto their enviable lives.
I thought it might make me feel like a Peeping Tom, but Robinson had no such worries.
“If you don’t want strangers staring at you, don’t get famous,” he said.
“I guess I should cancel my American Idol audition, then.” I began to sing “I Will Always Love You”—a tough song for a good singer, and a devastating one for someone like me.
Robinson yelped and covered his ears.
Since we’d bought tickets for the Deluxe Route, we took our time on the tour, getting off one van, wandering around, and then hopping back on the next. We drove along the shopping districts of Melrose and Rodeo Drive; we passed beneath the towering palms of the Sunset Strip; we saw the La Brea Tar Pits and the Petersen Automotive Museum (which included a Hot Wheels Hall of Fame I never thought I’d pull Robinson away from).
It was late in the afternoon when we finally wound our way up into the hills.
“We’re getting close, Axi,” Robinson said, grinning. “Good ol’ Bruce is going to invite us in to dinner.”
“Sure,” I said snidely. “Then we’ll have dessert at Jennifer Aniston’s house.”
Robinson looked hurt. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, GG.” But then his irrepressible smile shone again. “I bet Jen makes a wicked crème brûlée. She probably makes nice coffee, too, which is cool, because I like coffee with fancy desserts.” He sounded utterly, completely sincere.
Crazy as it was, I loved this about Robinson: how he was capable of believing in something he didn’t actually believe in. Does that make sense? He knew what he wanted to be true, what he felt should be true, and for a certain amount of time, by the power of his will (or his humor, or his stupid, boyish hope), it was true.
Believing in believing. Robinson was exceptional at that.
“On the left you will see the house formerly owned by Arnold Schwarzenegger,” the tour guide called, interrupting my thoughts about Robinson and, no doubt, Robinson’s thoughts about dessert.
Robinson leaned in close to me and whispered Arnold’s most famous line: “ ‘I’ll be back.’ ”
“ ‘Come with me if you want to live,’ ” I hissed—an Arnold quote from Terminator 2.
“Wait, I’ve got one—” He slapped his forehead, unable to recall it.
“ ‘Hasta la vista, baby’?” I asked, smiling smugly.
“Gaah, it was on the tip of my tongue!” Robinson reached out and tickled me in the ribs, which made me squeal.
The tour guide kept talking, but we’d stopped listening. We drove through lush green neighborhoods, peering past iron gates and elaborate landscaping to catch glimpses of enormous mansions. The air smelled like roses… and money.
The driver slowed down around a particularly steep curve and then stopped to let a group of cyclists pass.
I grabbed Robinson’s hand. “Let’s split.”
He turned to me, uncomprehending.
“Over the side,” I whispered. And because he still didn’t seem to get it, I showed him. I swung a leg over the edge of the open-top van and dropped down to the street.
If the other passengers noticed, they didn’t say anything. A second later, Robinson landed beside me, looking utterly baffled. The van started up again and pulled away.
“So what’s the brilliant plan now, Axi?” Robinson’s hands were on his hips. “We don’t know where Bruce Willis lives, and we’re probably ten miles from our hotel.”
I only smiled. “Follow me,” I said. And I led him toward what I’d seen: a FOR SALE sign and a gate left open.
“Oh, duuuude,” Robinson whispered, sounding suddenly like a K-Falls cretin. “Really?”
I looked up and down the street. Except for a lone gardener, whose back was to us, it was utterly deserted. We crept up the driveway, then alongside the vacant house to the back gardens. Whoever had lived in this ornate Mediterranean (estimated asking price: a cool five to ten mil) was gone, but the pool was still full, its water glassy and aquamarine blue.
The sun was on its way down and the sky was the color of persimmons. Robinson turned to me. “GG…,” he began.
I threw my arms out and spun around. “If this hasn’t proven to you I’m not a GG anymore,” I asked, “what will?”
Robinson didn’t say anything, but I already had an idea.
In one fluid motion, I stripped down to my underwear, tossed my clothes in a heap, and dove into the pool. I swam all the
way to the bottom before rocketing back up in a cascade of glittering water droplets.
“Come in if you dare,” I called to Robinson. “Scalawag.”
He hesitated for a moment, but Robinson could never back down from a challenge. He took off his shirt, revealing his broad, pale chest, his flat stomach, and the low V of muscle there. I’d never seen that much of his skin before, and the ivory smoothness of it was startling.
Seeing him on the lip of the pool, naked now but for his boxers, I thought of Michelangelo’s David. Not because Robinson had a perfect David-like body (though it was very nice) but because he had that combination of power and vulnerability that Michelangelo had given his sculpture. See, Michelangelo didn’t show David triumphant, the way every other sculptor did. He showed David before he fought Goliath—when David believed he was doomed and went into battle anyway.
Robinson reached up to plug his nose, and he no longer looked remotely like a Renaissance hero. “Cannonball,” he yelled on the way down. He came up spluttering. “Oh my God, it’s cold!”
I laughed. “You mean invigorating,” I said. “Revitalizing.”
Robinson rolled his eyes at me. “Nerd. I can still call you word nerd, can’t I?” Then he swam toward me, smiling, and he put his hands on my shoulders. Suddenly I was sure he was going to kiss me. He was so close, and his fingers were on my skin, and there was nothing—nothing—but water between us (and some flimsy, soaking-wet clothes).
He moved forward another step, and then he stopped. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something. But then he vanished under the water. The next thing I knew, he was picking me up and tossing me backward into the deep end, and I was squealing, gasping, laughing, and he was saying, “Shhh, shhh, we don’t want the cops to come.”
We swam as evening fell and distant lights from the inhabited houses flickered on through the trees. I looked over at Robinson, who was floating on his back in the shallow end, and I wondered what it would be like to live in one of these castles.
I’d have everything money could buy, but it wouldn’t be the same as having everything I wanted. Not even close.
14
WE WERE LUCKY THAT NIGHT. NOT ONLY did we get away with trespassing, we got a ride home. The gardener from across the street had seen us emerge, wet and shivering, from the gate, and offered to drive us back to town.
“Estás invadiendo,” he said, smiling. “¿Si?”
Robinson nodded. “Si,” he said. “Somos traviesos.” He turned to me. “That means ‘we’re naughty.’ ”
I was pressed up against his side in the front seat of the truck, trying to find the warmth of him through our damp layers of clothes. “See? You totally can’t call me GG anymore,” I said sleepily.
“Maybe BG,” he suggested. “For Bad Girl.”
My eyelids were so heavy, and then they were closing. “Or MB. Mixed Bag…,” I murmured.
And honestly, that was the last thing I remember. I must have fallen asleep in the truck, and Robinson must have carried me up to the room and laid me down on our shared bed. Maybe he fluffed up the pillows for me, and maybe he even kissed me. But if he did, I’ll never know.
I woke several hours later to find him staring at me.
“Before we leave, we should actually see a star,” he said. “Not just a pink symbol on a sidewalk, or the house where one lives.”
I burrowed under the covers. “Why can’t we just turn on the TV? There’re plenty of them there.”
“We need to see one in real life,” he insisted.
But this isn’t real life, the old Axi Moore insisted. This is a crazy adventure. And as great as it is, it can’t last.
Of course, as both the old and the new Axi well knew, real life didn’t necessarily last, either.
I peeked my head out from the blankets, then ducked it back under again. Robinson was at the end of the bed, and he suddenly yanked the covers off me. I tried to grab them, but he was too strong. “Did you bring a nice dress?” he asked, raising one dark eyebrow at me.
I scoffed. “Runaways tend not to pack formal wear.”
“Well, put on whatever you’ve got, because we’re hitting the red carpet.”
I assumed Robinson was pulling my leg, but I rose and took a quick shower, then put on the Forever 21 wrap dress I’d packed just in case. I put on a little mascara, too, and a dab of lipstick.
His eyes lit up when he saw me emerge from the bathroom. “You clean up good, Axi Moore,” he said. Robinson did, too. In a slightly rumpled oxford and a clean pair of jeans, he looked like an ad for Levi’s 501s.
He led me down the hall and out to the street, where we hopped into a cab. “Now it’s my turn to surprise you,” he said. And then he held his hand over my eyes until we pulled up in front of the Hammer Museum. “Ta-da!” he said.
Ahead of us snaked a long line of black limos. There was red carpet laid over the sidewalk, and a bunch of people milling around, and a giant banner that said CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL LOS ANGELES ANNIVERSARY GALA.
I saw the word hospital and my stomach suddenly felt like it was full of stones. “What is this?” I asked.
“A benefit,” Robinson said brightly. “A party. Major star power, because as you can imagine, no one in Hollywood wants to be accused of not helping sick kids.” He climbed from the cab and held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
“You are a sick kid, Robinson,” I said. “Mentally, I mean. They don’t just let randoms crash the red carpet.”
“But we’re not randoms, as you so ungenerously characterize us. We are Axi and Robinson, the G-rated Bonnie and Clyde.” He lifted me into the sunshine and smiled his dazzling smile. “If we don’t belong here, who does?”
What could I do but laugh? “I think stealing a Harley ought to at least earn us a PG,” I said.
“I’m in complete agreement,” Robinson said. Then he held up a finger, signaling me to wait. “As the kids say, BRB.”
He walked up to the nearest gatekeeper, a middle-aged woman dressed all in black. I watched as men in suits and women in jewel-colored cocktail dresses filed past her through the doors. The gatekeeper was trying to ignore Robinson, but I knew she wouldn’t last. When Robinson turned on the charm ray, few could withstand it.
Sure enough, a moment later, she nodded and beckoned me over. As I approached, she looked at me with… concern, or maybe even pity. I shivered under her gaze. What exactly had Robinson told her? “You two go in over there,” she whispered, and pointed toward a side entrance.
And then we were inside, and there were famous people everywhere. I saw Matt Damon talking to Mark Wahlberg by a potted fern, and Tina Fey posing in front of a giant stand of paparazzi. Camera flashes popped like fireworks, and in a matter of seconds, I was no longer worrying about what Robinson had said to the gatekeeper. All around us were bona fide superstars, talking and laughing and guzzling free drinks, just like regular people.
“I’m seeing a lot of excellent facial work,” Robinson noted. Somehow he’d gotten his hands on a flute of champagne.
“ ‘I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They’re beautiful. Everybody’s plastic, but I love plastic,’ ” I said.
“Huh?”
“Andy Warhol said that.”
Robinson held out his arm, and I tucked my hand in the crook of it, as if we were on our way to prom. He leaned in close, and I could feel his breath in my hair. “I told you we’d get in, didn’t I?”
“And you were right,” I said.
“Which makes you…?” He waited, an expectant smile teasing the corner of his mouth.
I sighed. “Wrong.”
He laughed and pulled me close. “Axi admits fallibility,” he said. “I’m going to treasure this moment forever.”
My cheek pressed against his shirt, I smiled up at him. I would, too, I thought, but for a wholly different reason. Just days earlier we were in Klamath Falls, and now we were on the red carpet. What couldn’t we do, as long as we were together?
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15
THERE IS A LIMIT TO THE SUCCESS OF any partnership—and we discovered ours later that evening, when Robinson decided it was time to teach me to drive.
I said, “Robinson, I can’t learn how to drive in a stolen car.”
He shrugged. “It’s just like any other car. Gas pedal on the right, brake on the left. Four gears forward, one reverse.”
He was always so confident. But maybe that was because everything came easily to him: he could hot-wire a Harley, sweet-talk just about anyone, and play whatever musical instrument he was given. His free-throw percentage was ridiculous, and no matter where he was, he could always find true north.
Me, I was not so sure of myself. About anything. “I don’t know how I feel about this,” I said softly.
Robinson reclined the passenger seat and pretended to close his eyes. “I feel good enough for the both of us. Time for me to relax and enjoy riding shotgun.”
I clenched my hands on the steering wheel. You can do this, Axi, I told myself. You’ve played Grand Prix Legends! Then came the other voice: Yeah, and you sucked at it. You always crashed right out of the starting gate.
“Ready?” Robinson asked.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t. Robinson had to lean over and start the car, because I didn’t know how to work the screwdriver.
“Okay. So check your mirrors and see if it’s clear. Then you’re going to step on the brake and shift into drive.” He made it sound so easy, like I wasn’t behind the wheel of a two-ton death machine.
I must have said this out loud, because Robinson said, “That is a slight exaggeration. We’re in an empty parking lot, Axi. How much damage can you do?”
“I don’t know,” I said grimly. “We’ll see.”
For a second I thought of my physics class, the one I’d skipped the day I met Robinson at Ernie’s dusty old counter. A body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it. That’s Newton’s First Law. In other words, I was totally safe—until I stepped on the gas.
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