• • •
My body senses the car’s deceleration, and I wake with bleary eyes, glancing at the time—it’s almost eight in the morning. I shift in my seat. Lincoln says, “Driver needs some fueling. Also, look where we are.”
I check the sign as we pull off the highway—Lincoln, Nebraska.
“Ah, an ego-pumping pit stop.”
He grins. “Something like that. Do you mind if we eat in? Driving and eating with one arm—not exactly safe.”
“Of course.” I nod. “No problem.”
Lincoln pulls into the lot of a chain diner. The early-morning air is muggy and still. My legs are already cramped after a couple of hours. I can’t imagine how stiff I’ll be in two days. My muscles demand motion, and I won’t be getting much of it until we hit the Santa Cruz shores.
We head into the diner, where a few people in baseball caps and reading glasses and shirts with sequins sit over heavy plates of greasy breakfast food. We slide into the sticky seats of an open corner booth and peruse the thick, plastic-coated menus. Lincoln rambles about some story where he and his friends were chased out of a diner for coordinating a large-scale paper plane invasion. I try to nod and smile and say, “Mhmm,” and “Oh, shit,” at the appropriate points.
He quiets once breakfast arrives. We both ordered the special—steaming plates of waffles, hash browns, bacon, sausage, grits, eggs, and toast—enough food to feed an entire family. It’s weird that Parker and Nash aren’t here to pick at my food before I have a chance to get to it.
Despite my growling stomach, I barely make a dent in my breakfast. We pay the check and head back to the car. I’m fully aware that I’m soaking in my bad mood, yet I can’t seem to turn it around. Lincoln must notice too because as we click in our seat belts, he turns to me, a set look in his dark eyes. “Do you want me to take you home?”
Home. I know he means Aunt Jackie’s house.
Against all reason, I’m tempted to say yes.
Instead, I slump down in the seat and stay quiet.
Lincoln turns on the ignition and asks again, “Anise, do you want me to take you back to your aunt’s house? I don’t know why you’re upset, and I’m really sorry you are—I really am—but I’m not going to drive twenty-four hours like this. If you don’t want to go to Santa Cruz, we don’t have to go. Just tell me now before we waste more gas.”
His words are logical, though they feel harsh. But when I glance at his face, I only see hurt there. He probably thinks my bad mood has something to do with him, like I’m second-guessing spending so much time alone with him. I mean, let’s be honest, Lincoln thinks highly enough of himself that he might assume he’s the cause of many of my emotions.
“I just…” I fiddle with the seat belt strap. “I don’t want to leave them.”
“Your cousins?” Lincoln asks. I nod. His eyes soften as he leans toward me. “Anise, I know this might be hard to believe, but your cousins were fine before you arrived, and they’ll survive now that you’re gone.”
Survive. I hate that word.
Survive. Get by. Scrape through.
I don’t want my cousins to just survive.
Like survival has anything to do with happiness.
“Anise?” Lincoln asks. “You’re doing that quiet thing again. Let’s talk about it.”
“God, you sound like my dad.” I manage a small smile. “Look, I know they’ll be fine without me, but…I don’t want them to think I’ve abandoned them for something better. Like, Hey, Parker, sorry you broke your arm, but I want to go surfing now, see ya!”
“They’re not going to think that,” Lincoln says.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re not abandoning them. You’re not their parent. You’re their cousin, and you live halfway across the country. They understand that concept.”
“I don’t know…”
“Anise, I don’t want to push you on this, but we have a long drive ahead of us. I have a long drive if we want to make it to Wendy’s house tonight. I’m sorry you’re worried about your cousins, but they’ll be fine, and we’ll have a great time in Santa Cruz. Just think of the pure joy of watching me eat it my first time surfing.”
The thought does seem promising.
And the thing is, even if we turned back now, Dad and I would be flying back to California in a week. What’s the difference between leaving my cousins now and leaving them then? It’s the same thing, except in one scenario, I’ll miss Surf Break and create more distance between me and my friends.
“Okay,” I say. If I say it maybe I’ll believe it. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” he says.
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.” He pauses. And then he turns off the car. “I have an idea.”
“What are we doing?” I ask.
“Making sure you don’t abandon the cousins you are definitely not abandoning. Now follow me.”
I have no idea what Lincoln is planning, but given his past surprises, I figure he deserves the benefit of the doubt, so I open my car door and follow him into the humid parking lot. A small gas station and convenience store sits next to the diner where we just ate. I follow Lincoln inside. We weave through the aisles of the store, passing pork rinds and ibuprofen and playing cards.
“Here we go.” Lincoln stops in front of a wire rack of postcards. He picks through the variety with agile fingers and then holds up two cards. “Pick one.”
The words LINCOLN, NEBRASKA scrawl over both cards in heavy font, but one shows a map of the city and the other shows the capitol building. I pick the one with the map. Lincoln puts the other card back and then walks to the register.
“Excuse me,” he asks the cashier, a small and balding man with more wrinkles than my shirts when I do the laundry. “Do you have a pen we can borrow?”
The man eyes Lincoln with suspicion but then hands over a blue ballpoint. Lincoln thanks him and turns to me. “Okay, turn around,” he commands.
“Umm, what?”
“And bend over.”
“Excuse me!”
Lincoln sighs. “Just a little. I’m going to lean on your back to write.”
To be fair, various displays of candy and knickknacks cover any foreseeable counter space in the store.
“Fine.” I turn and bend a bit at the waist.
“Wonderful.” Lincoln presses the card against my back. “Now what would you like to tell your cousins about our trip so far?”
“Oh,” I say, finally getting why Lincoln got a postcard. “Tell them…tell them that I miss them already and that I hope Parker is feeling better and that diner food really does taste better when you’re on the road.”
Then I think of the postcards my mom sends me and why I hate them so much.
“And then write my address and tell them they can write or text me whenever they want. Make sure to include that, okay?”
As I feed him that information, the slight pressure of Lincoln’s writing tickles my back.
“Mhmm, okay. Yeah. Got it.”
A few seconds later, the pressure relieves, and I straighten up.
Lincoln takes the card back to the front counter. “I’d like to purchase this and one stamp and…” He grabs a giant bag of beef jerky. “…and this.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Dude, you literally just ate, like, twelve thousand calories.”
The cashier rings up Lincoln and even says he’ll send the postcard for us when the mailman comes. We thank him and head back to the car.
“Better?” Lincoln asks.
The air is still humid as hell, and I’m still miles from home—any home—but my entire body feels lighter. “Much better.”
• • •
When you spend twelve hours in a car with someone, you find out a lot abou
t them. Here’s what I’ve discovered about Lincoln:
1. When he was a kid he had a recurring nightmare of going to his mom and dad for help in the middle of the night and lifting the covers on their bed to find snakes.
2. He really was serious about making me listen to all eighteen Bruce Springsteen albums.
3. From ages five to seven his family got so tired of constantly packing up and moving into new houses that they decided to live in a really nice trailer for two years.
4. He knows Latin—but only for plant names.
It’s almost eleven o’clock by the time we pull off the highway for Wendy’s house. I guess the good thing about moving around a million times when you’re a kid is that you have friends all over the country. What I don’t understand is how he stays in touch with all of them. If I’ve started to lose contact with my friends after a couple months, wouldn’t a couple years completely evaporate a relationship?
I’m a little uncomfortable about staying at a stranger’s house. Okay, I’m a lot uncomfortable. I barely adjusted to Aunt Jackie’s house. I know humans used to be nomads, but there must be a reason we evolved past that.
“You’re going to love Wendy,” Lincoln tells me for the tenth time. I’d be jealous if he hadn’t spent the day kissing me every time we stopped for gas or food. “She’s one of the coolest people I’ve ever met.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, trying not to sound nervous. Maybe I’ll love Wendy, but will Wendy love me? Over the summer, Lincoln’s friends welcomed me, but I always felt a bit like a tagalong, accepted because Lincoln was accepted. I shouldn’t worry. I’ll know this person for less than twenty-four hours. It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me.
Wendy lives in a suburban neighborhood that looks uncannily similar to Aunt Jackie’s. For a second, I’m convinced we spent the last twelve hours driving in a circle on the highway, rather than heading directly west.
We pull up to one of the older-looking houses on the block. It’s a one-story home with a flat yard of short, dry grass. The house is pitch-black except for a single light over the small front porch. Maybe we’re at the wrong place, or maybe they forgot we were coming, or maybe Lincoln doesn’t really have a friend in Utah and this has been one summer-length con to abduct and kill me.
Lincoln seems confident as he shuts off the engine. “Ready?” he asks.
It’s a silly question. What could I possibly say?
No?
Let’s sleep in the car.
Let’s get an overpriced hotel room.
Let’s keep driving.
Of course not. Instead I manage a nervous smile. “Sure thing.”
Lincoln pops the trunk and we grab our bags. I take out my tote that I packed with the necessities. My duffel bag and old suitcase, stuffed to the brim with random items I collected over summer, like my helmet and skateboard and plush rhino from Ashfall, are too bulky and stay in the car. As we walk toward the front door, it opens, and a girl rushes out. Before I have a chance to register what’s happening, she sprints across the yard and leaps, arms opened, at Lincoln, slamming into him with a hug that almost topples his tall frame; this is a particularly impressive feat since the girl, presumably Wendy, can’t be more than five feet.
She has a chopped, pixie haircut. Her pink-striped pajama bottoms and blue cotton T-shirt hang loosely over her small frame. After hugging Lincoln for another second, she releases him and then punches him on the arm. “I cannot believe you waited this long to visit!”
Lincoln holds his arms in the air in submission. “I know, I know, I’m the absolute worst, as you’ve told me thirty-six and a half times, but it’s not like you’ve visited either.”
“I don’t have a car.” At this point, she turns to me, and before I have a chance to say anything, she hugs me too. “Hi! Sorry for being rude, I’m Wendy! Welcome! Lincoln’s told me so much about you!”
“He has?” I ask.
“I have?” Lincoln asks.
Wendy steps back and rolls her eyes. “Okay, not exactly. But it’s the polite thing to say when you meet someone’s girlfriend, right?”
My skin flushes. “Umm, not his girlfriend,” I mutter. I expect Lincoln to agree, but he just stands there with an unusually uncomfortable expression.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” Wendy says. She rocks back and forth on her feet. “Anyway, let’s get inside. It’s muggy out here. Sticky, gross! Um, we just have to be extra quiet. My parents go to sleep at, like, six because they wake up at the crack of dawn. They own a bakery and, as my dad says, the pastries won’t bake themselves.”
We follow Wendy inside the house. Lincoln places his hand on my lower back for a moment. I lean into the touch, comforted. I’m in a new place, but Lincoln is still right behind me. The house is dark, lit only by small plug-in night-lights and the glow of the moon through the windows. It’s quiet too. For a moment I think I’ve plunged straight into one of those horror movies Eric loves so much. But thinking about Eric starts to feel like a horror movie in itself, so I push away the thought. The closer I get to home, the more daunting home feels. I should be thrilled to get there—it’s all I’ve wanted since leaving in the first place—but each mile we get closer to the coast, my nerves increase.
Wendy’s room reminds me of my own. Not because of the posters of shirtless teen heartthrobs or the stacked shelves of fashion magazines or the many stuffed animals, but because it looks so lived in. I bet this room hasn’t been cleaned out since Wendy was born. It makes me yearn for my own drawers, stuffed with years of junk, walls plastered with posters I’ve outgrown but still haven’t taken down, Tess’s worn quilt spread neatly on my bed.
“Feel free to sit.” Wendy jumps on, grabs a stuffed animal, and hugs it in her lap. I hesitate for a second, but it’s a queen-size mattress, and there’s plenty of room for all three of us. Lincoln climbs on, leaning against the far wall, and I follow, perching on the edge beside him.
Are we going to be sleeping here too? Three pigs in a blanket?
“Sooooo…” Wendy says. She tosses the stuffed animal aside, pulls out a ball of bright yellow yarn from her bedside table, and starts knitting. “How was the drive? Get any speeding tickets? Rob any banks?”
Lincoln grins. “Much less eventful than that. It’s easy to follow the law without your influence.”
I raise my eyebrows. Not to judge a book by its fluffy pink color, but with all the boy band posters, stuffed animals, and knitting, I wouldn’t have counted Wendy as a rule breaker.
Lincoln glances at me. “Wendy here is quite the rebel.”
“Really?”
Wendy nods in confirmation. “It’s true. I am. Lincoln lived here during the eighth grade, and I’m pretty sure I was in detention half that time.”
“For what?” I ask. I almost never break the rules. Detention equals more time at school, which equals less time surfing.
“Oh, you know, the usual.” She waves her hand in the air. “Talking back to teachers, being late to class, freeing the mice in science lab, leading a strike on the mystery meatloaf in the cafeteria, impersonating a teacher for a whole period, you know, same old, same old.”
I stare at her open-mouthed, and she and Lincoln break out laughing. Wendy smiles. “Okay, maybe not the usual.” Her smile widens in excitement. She sits up, putting her knitting to the side. “That reminds me! I didn’t tell you about the senior prank we pulled! Dear god it was epic. Six months of masterminding. Hardest plan I’ve ever worked on in my life…”
As Wendy tells us about her prank in vivid detail, I become more comfortable in the warm room. I crawl further onto the bed, leaning against the wall with Lincoln, our shoulders pressed together, fingers idly touching. As Wendy talks about water guns and rigged alarms and farm animals, my exhaustion hits in that satisfying cozy way. I lean against Lincoln’s shoulder and fall into an easy sleep.
Fifteen
<
br /> I wake to the clanging of pots and pans and possibly the most delicious scent that’s ever existed. The room is dim with only a dusting of dawn light. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so flat out exhausted, but that scent entreats me to pry open my eyes. I’m exactly where I fell asleep on Wendy’s bed. Lincoln is on a trundle bed on the floor. And Wendy herself is nowhere in sight.
“Lincoln,” I mumble, my voice thick with sleep. “What’s going on? What time is it?”
He rolls over in bed. I can barely see his shadow in the dark room, but I can tell he’s looking in my direction. “What?” he mumbles in sleepy confusion. Then he sits up and says, “Oh my god. Yes. Yes. Yes!”
“Umm…what?” I ask.
Lincoln launches himself up from the trundle bed to where I’m resting in a pile of warm blankets. His face is so close to mine I think he’s going to kiss me, which normally I wouldn’t mind, but I probably have middle-of-the-night breath, which isn’t exactly attractive. But he doesn’t kiss me, he just says, “Miller Breakfast!”
“What?”
He tugs my arm, dragging my sleep-heavy limbs out of bed. “Come on. Get ready for the best experience your stomach has ever had.”
“Wait, what time is it?” I’m still in my clothes from yesterday, so I slip my phone out of the pocket of my jean shorts. It’s four in the morning. Who eats breakfast at four in the morning?
Lincoln guides me through dark hallways he seems familiar with. A flood of light comes from the same direction as that heavenly scent. We step into the kitchen. It’s older like mine in Santa Cruz but equipped with dozens more pots, pans, and appliances, which is saying something considering Dad’s rather large collection. Wendy is at the stove, along with her parents. They’re both fully dressed like it’s the middle of the day, not the middle of the night. Music plays from a radio. I think it’s a Temptations song. Wendy and her parents sing along, occasionally pounding spatulas and whisks to the beat, reminding me of Tess’s family in their restaurant, singing along with the radio at top volume while prepping dishes for the day.
“Hey guys!” Lincoln yells over the music.
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