Don't Stop Now

by Julie Halpern

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” I tell him, still trying to keep what I think is his gaze but really might just be mine.

  “What—,” Josh starts, but can’t find the right words. He kicks at the ground with the peeling rubber from his Chucks.

  “I mean that by pretending that nothing is going on between you and me, and everything else, that complicates things.”

  “Kind of harsh, Lil,” Josh mutters.

  “And kind of true, Josh. I know some of it is my fault. I could have just given up on liking you and been totally perfectly fine with us just being friends. But you kind of made that hard. Friends don’t hold hands and lean against each other and, you know, sleep together? Complicated, Josh. Complicated.”

  “Complicated?” Josh repeats again for humorous emphasis.

  “That doesn’t even sound like a real word anymore, does it?” I half laugh, not wanting Josh to miss the truth in what I said.

  “You know, my dad’s not that bad,” Josh says quietly.

  “I know. But then why don’t you want to call him?”

  “’Cause I’m pissed, I guess, that he can be so cool for my whole life up until now, and then it’s, like, ‘Be a grown-up. Get a job. Turn into The Man I always wanted you to be.’ You can’t just drop that on someone and expect them to be into it, you know?”

  “I think your dad actually expects something of you, Josh. That’s a good thing. He thinks you’re capable of more than just mooching.”

  “I’m not mooching! He’s my dad. I was his kid until this whole high school graduation thing. Dads pay for their kids to do stuff.”

  “Some of them,” I remind him.

  “Well, some moms don’t send their kids texts every five minutes to tell them they love them.”

  “It’s not every five minutes. But, yeah, some moms suck, too.” We stand in the industrial quiet of the concrete street. “What happened with your mom, Josh?”

  I expect nothing from him. Maybe a joke, or something equally inappropriate or dismissive. But Josh talks. “My dad said she loved me. That she still loves me because moms love their kids. That it’s his fault, and I should blame him one hundred percent. He cheated on her with her best friend. She told him that he broke her. That she lost both her best friends because of him. I was two. Everyone said that I looked just like my dad. That’s what he said. Same hair, when he had it”—Josh tries to laugh—“same dark eyes. Same laugh. I bet she couldn’t stand the sight of me. That’s gotta be why she left me with him. Why she never came back.”

  “I’m so sorry, Josh,” I say, hating that it’s all I can come up with.

  He shrugs. “I don’t want to ever make you feel like that, Lil.”

  I don’t know if he means cheated or abandoned or blamed. What I do finally understand is why he can’t decide whether it’s safe to love somebody.

  I take Josh’s hand in mine. “You won’t, Josh. No matter what happens, I know you won’t.”

  Josh lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses it softly. I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss it, too. We stand for a minute, me looking into my own reflection, him looking, I think, back at me.

  Josh digs his free hand into his pocket. “Last penny,” he says.

  “Ha. Last Penny, get it?”

  “Ah, yes, I remembered we were here for some reason. Shall I flip?”

  “Why don’t we move over a little this time. So we don’t lose the penny. That way, maybe we can find the Penny.”

  Josh and I hold tight to each other’s hands and move into the street. “Heads is north, tails is south,” he says. Josh flips the coin, and this time I remember to call “heads.” “Why did you call it? Heads is already north. It’s not like you win anything.”

  “Shut up,” I tell him.

  We watch the coin as it flies up into the air and lands with a roll on the street. Holding hands, we clumsily follow it and will it not to stop near a sewer grate. Finally, the penny tips onto a yellow stripe in the road.

  “Yahtzee!” Josh yells.

  “Um, I believe that’s tails.”

  “Southbound we go,” Josh declares. He bends down to retrieve the penny, but I stop him.

  “It’s bad luck to pick up a penny when it’s on tails.”

  “Really? Where’d you hear that?”

  “I don’t know. Same place I learned it’s bad luck to put shoes on beds.”

  “So, you mean the School of Stupid Superstitions?”

  “Say that five times fast,” I tell Josh. And he does. Hand in hand, as we walk south, sans penny.

  Ethan. I didn’t tell Lillian that we were just friends. That we hung out at the pool all day and I talked and talked about Gavin. Ethan told me about his ex and the debate team and his plans for college and to become a famous screenwriter. I told Lil that he was sweet and romantic. Which I bet he is. But not with me. ’Cause who’d be romantic with a girl who is so in love with someone that it consumes her?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  South takes us down a lovely walkway called the Eastbank Esplanade, which sounds so old-fashioned and fancy but is actually a nice bike path. Part of me believes that if we just keep walking, we’ll run into Penny. The rest of me thinks I’m an idiot and that I will have to face facts and call the police soon enough. For right now, the sun is shining, my hand is only a tad sweaty from all of the Josh holding, and my head is just a bit clearer than it was when this whole trip started.

  We walk until the esplanade comes to an end, and farther than that toward signs leading to the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. “I wonder how much it’s like the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry,” I consider.

  “Yeah, like do they have a weird miniature castle, filled with expensive crap some crazy person collected throughout their life?” Josh asks.

  “Or that freaky coal mine, where it’s so dark and you’re always afraid there’s going to be a dead bird, signifying a gas leak.”

  “Nevermind the fact that you’re just technically underneath a museum.”

  “Technically.”

  We reminisce about school field trips and museum memories and decide to check out the OMSI as long as we’re there. When we walk into the lobby, however, we both realize that the museum could take an entire day to explore, and it’s not far from closing time.

  “Let’s just do one of their special exhibits, and then we can run through the rest of the museum. We’ve seen all this stuff anyway in Chicago.” I look up at the weird dinosaurs flying above me. “What are dinosaurs doing here? Shouldn’t they be their history museum?” I’m thinking of Chicago’s Field Museum, where the dinosaurs live.

  “Dinosaurs are sort of sciencey, aren’t they?”

  “Scientifically historic,” I argue.

  “Historically scientific?”

  “Whatever. What do you want to see?” The pricing board offers a special exhibit on space, which seems too generic. But there’s a sign that catches my eye. “Laser light shows?”

  “Check out the list: Pink Floyd, Rush, Michael Jackson!”

  “We have to do this.”

  When we approach the cashier, we’re sadly informed that the main musical light shows aren’t held until evening, so we settle on tickets for a light show titled “Laser Space Odyssey,” which sounds almost as sweet, promising “Brilliant laser imagery choreographed to music ranging from rock to classical.”

  We have about a half hour to kill before the show starts, so we stop by the food court and pick up some hot dogs. Josh orders his with ketchup (Chicago-style blasphemy), and I ask for mine with pickles and mustard. We sit on a bench in the museum and watch people walk by. “Do you think they know we’re from out of town?” I ask.

  “It’s a museum. Probably a lot of people are from out of town.”

  I agree and bite off a hunk of hot dog. Josh watches me with a smirk. “What?” I demand, mouth full of food.

  “You look pretty sexy eating that hot dog.” Josh grins.

  “Perv,” I say
.

  “Especially with that mustard all over your chin.” Josh laughs and wipes it off with the side of his hand.

  When we finish eating, we get in line for the laser show. The room we enter is circular, with rows of reclining seats. I’m surprised at how crowded the place is on a weekday, but then I remember we’re not the only people in the world who are out of school. We find two seats in the front row, and I nestle into mine, waiting for the ceiling program to begin.

  “You know,” Josh leans over and whispers in my ear, “I think we’re mandated by the state of Oregon to make out during a laser light show.”

  I consider this. “Have you been studying state constitutions again?”

  Josh nods in a little-kiddish way.

  The lights dim, the music blares, and for the next half hour, Josh and I are the only people in the world.

  After the laser show, I start to get anxious. Whether or not we actually find Penny, we have to at least do something. Our car is miles away, our home is thousands of miles away, and the police and FBI, not to mention Penny’s worried parents, still need information.

  “I think we should buy a car charger for the phone,” I tell Josh.

  “Guess so. We’ll probably pass a store on the way back to the car.”

  Reluctantly, we leave the OMSI without seeing anything but the laser show, and that we didn’t even really see.

  We take the bike path north this time, back toward where we came. About a half hour later, we end up near the skate park again, signifying the bridge to return us to our car. The same familiar scraping and rolling sounds greet us, and we both slow down to watch some of the tricks the skaters are attempting on the ramp. As if we never left, the exact same gorgeous blond-haired, blue-eyed skater rolls by. This time, he rolls up to us and flips his board with his foot into his hands. “Can I help you guys?”

  I’m struck silent by his directness of question and gaze. Can he help us? I look at Josh, and he looks at the skater with suspicion. But we’re here and have nothing else to go on, so I ask, “Do you know a guy named Ethan?”

  The skater surprises me by answering, “Maybe.” But then he adds, “And maybe I know a couple guys named Ethan. One’s blond with dreads, one’s got a shaved head. Take your pick.”

  “I would, but I’ve never actually seen the guy.” So helpful.

  “OK. What’s his last name?” The skater tips his head to the side in a pensive manner. I’m sure Penny told me his last name, or maybe I saw it on one of his letters, but at the moment, I go blank.

  “Don’t know that either,” I say, trying to laugh at the absurdity.

  “So you don’t know what he looks like, you don’t know his last name. What do you know?” This guy could be a jerk, but he actually seems genuinely like he’s trying to help. And he’s so not bad to look at. Focus.

  “I know he’s hanging out with my friend Penny.”

  “Do you know what she looks like?” he asks.

  Ha. “I do. In fact…” That’s when I remember the picture of Josh and me, with the lurking Penny in the background, in my wallet. I pull it out, and Josh gives me a questioning look, like, why do you have that in your wallet? I answer his look: “Now we have a picture to show people. Of Penny.” He peers at the picture.

  “I didn’t even realize she was in it.”

  Skater Boy looks at the photo. “That’s a nice picture of you guys.”

  “Thanks. I think so, too.” I wonder if he’s referring to us looking good together or just us looking good, me specifically. “That’s Penny in the back. With the cup.”

  Skater Boy stares at the picture for several long seconds, then puts up his pointer finger and says, “Hold.” He walks over to a group of girls sitting on the side of a ramp, watching and hooting at the guys skating, and shows them the picture. They glance at it, then turn their eyes on me and Josh. Skater Boy points to the picture, assumingly guiding their eyes to Penny. Most of the girls shake their heads, but I note that one has a look of recognition. She then nods her head slowly and says something to him. Skater Boy returns, and I watch the group of girls smile toward us, toward Josh. Not unusual, but what is unusual is that for the first time I feel like I actually have a one up on all the other girls. And I know I’m not just one of the other girls to Josh.

  Skater Boy rolls on over (I do love a skater’s leany posture), flips up his board again, and says, “Reggie thinks she’s seen her with a friend of her cousin’s. Could be this Ethan you so eloquently described.”

  I smirk at this adorable skater under a viaduct thousands of miles from home. Does Josh feel my familiar twinge of jealously? Or does he, too, know things are different? Skater Boy smirks back. Slightly flustered, I ask, “Do they know where I might find this faceless cousin-friend?”

  “Reg thinks he might work at Powell’s.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a giant bookstore. You never heard of it?”

  “We’re not from around here,” Josh cuts in. I detect a note of non Joshness in his voice. Is he being territorial?

  “Head west on the Burnside Bridge,” he points up. “It’s about a mile, a mile and a half west.”

  “Which way is west?” I ask. Skater Boy takes his skateboard in both hands and uses it to direct us toward west, like one of those guys on an airport runway who wears giant headphones.

  “Good luck. Hope you find your friend. Stop back and let us know if you’re in the area again.”

  “Maybe we will.” I blink slowly.

  “Thanks, man.” Josh offers his hand to Skater Boy to shake.

  “The name’s Owen,” Skater Boy says.

  “Josh. And this is Lillian.”

  “Josh.” Owen nods. “Lillian,” Owen takes my hand to shake, but leans forward and kisses it with a faux debonair manner. Then he hops oh-so-casually onto his skateboard and skims along a ramp. Josh takes hold of my Owen-kissed hand, not aggressively, but firmly, and we head back to the bridge, back in the direction we came, on our way to the bookstore and our clue.

  Lillian was picking me up to go to dinner with her and her friends. They are still only her friends. But she is my friend, and that is enough. I didn’t talk much at dinner, but I thought a lot. I thought about my idea for a plan. I think it could work. Ethan said in one of his letters, there have been many, that he wants to see me. Maybe not in that way, but he wants to see me. I could go to him. Even after seeing me in a bikini and hearing my stories. Even though I haven’t written him back more than a couple times in case I got caught on the way to the post office with a letter to him in my hand. Lillian helped me mail the last one, though. She even addressed it in her own handwriting, just in case. It’s the letter where I tell him I’m coming. I hope he’s OK with it. I never gave him my phone number, just in case he actually called. Let’s hope he’s OK with it. Lillian didn’t ask what or why. She just sent the letter. She’s easy like that. Which is good, since I’m going to need her help.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The walk over the bridge is noisy and rumbly, but it feels on purpose this time. Powell’s, a bookstore, possibly Ethan’s place of employment, could be the clue we need to find Penny. What else do we have? Sure, we could charge the phone and wait for a call or call again, but that would mean we’d either have to sit in a café while it charged or drive around while it charged. And neither of those options feels very productive. The fact that maybe we actually have a lead, just from asking one person, in a whole huge city, has me jazzed. Maybe I should consider a career in detective work if writing doesn’t work out. Or maybe I could write crime novels.

  As we walk, I point to random signs, pieces of garbage, people on the street—anything that seems cluelike. Josh dismisses the idea that a scrap of paper with the letter P on it could be a sign that we’re on the right track to find Penny. “Penny starts with P, you know,” I point out.

  “Yeah. I know.” He pats me on the head condescendingly.

  “Naysayer,” I accuse. “You�
�ll be sorry when I’m right.”

  “Why would I be sorry if you’re right? You crazy.”

  “Shut up.” We walk a ways in silence, not really angry, but more absorbing this new city. People are out and about, and it’s fun to look around and think about everyone going to work or going about their daily routines, while here we are in the middle of a quest.

  By the time we reach Powell’s, Josh and I are starving. “Probe first. Eat second.”

  “Who said anything about probing?” Josh looks at me, grossed out.

  “You know what I mean. We’re going to probe the bookstore. For info. For clues. For leads.”

  “I think I probe better on a full stomach.”

  “And how would you know how you probe better if you haven’t probed prior to today?”

  “Let’s just get the probing underway, shall we?”

  Powell’s really is huge—an entire city block long. The outside has a marquee, like an old movie theater, announcing an upcoming book’s release. Inside, the store is massive, with color-coded room after room of new and used books, coexisting. Such a cool idea for a bookstore. However, when you are searching for someone in a block-long bookstore, it’s somewhat like that needle-in-a-haystack metaphor. We pass through the green room, the blue room, the gold room, the coffee room, the orange room, and up into the red, purple, and pearl rooms, searching for, well, I’m not sure. Did I expect Penny to be sitting atop a pile of bestsellers? Pop out from behind a stack of vampire novels? Peek out from the puppet-show curtain in the kids’ room? Once we’re back on the bottom floor in the gold room for the second time, I stop abruptly and Josh smacks into me.

  “Why’d you stop?” he asks.

  “We’re not getting anywhere,” I puff.

  “Seems to me like we’re getting somewhere,” Josh says, close enough to wrap his arms around me and lean his head on my shoulder.