I pull the fairy tale book out of my bag. Rose needs to know the whole story.
“She sent this,” I say. “For my birthday, I think. Look.” I flip to the endpapers first, and show Rose her name among the others.
“Who’s Daniela?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I thought maybe you would.”
She shakes her head. I take the book back from her and then flip to the front, show her the Girls in Trouble on the title page. Rose squints a little, like the sun is hurting her eyes. Then she looks up at me and hands the book back.
“Sylvie, I meant what I said in the text a couple of days ago. It might be easier for you if you find a way to let Jules go. Maybe she’ll come back and maybe she won’t, but what is the point of all of us torturing ourselves about it?” The breeze blows Rose’s curls into her face, and she stops to push them out. “She’s an addict, Syl. You have to remember that.”
My molecules start their swirling, every electron doing a pas de deux with its closest neighbor. “She wasn’t always.”
“No.” Rose sighs. “But she is now. That’s the Julia we have from now on, even if she’s sober. Always.”
She’s right, I know: there’s no going back in time for Julia, or for any of us. But I don’t think life is unchangeable. Or at the very least, I’m determined to find a way to change it.
I open my mouth to reply to Rose—I don’t even know what I’m going to say—but I can’t because she crushes me into one of her violent hugs. While she’s crushing me, I let out all the breath I’ve been holding, finally. Maybe Rose squeezes it out. Either way, when she lets me go, I feel like I can keep going.
Rose looks right at my face, her eyes intense.
“You’re going to Thatcher next?” she asks.
I nod.
She sets her mouth in a straight line. “Give him a kick in the crotch for me.”
I laugh then, one sharp sound that’s as much out of relief as anything else. This is Rose’s blessing on my journey, basically, telling me to maim Julia’s ex-boyfriend.
“Will do,” I say.
“As for the boy,” she says, her voice a loud whisper, “same advice. Be safe.”
I glance at the car. Jack is looking at us, but he turns his head away when he sees me see him.
“Rose, we’re not dating,” I say.
She smiles. “Yeah,” she says, giving me a gentle shove toward the Volvo. “Whatever you say.”
I get in the car.
“Hi,” I say to Jack.
“Hi,” he echoes.
Great start, team! Pavlova’s in his lap (traitor), though she hops over the armrest to me after I put my seat belt on.
When we pull away from the curb I wave to Rose out the window, and she waves back. She stands there on the sidewalk, still waving, ready to watch us drive away until she can’t see us anymore.
Track 9:
Over My Head
IN THE CAR, WE DON’T talk. Jack asks me to start the Fleetwood Mac bonanza for the day, and I press Play on his phone, but that’s it. I spend the time watching trees out the window. Pavlova spends the time sleeping in my lap.
Before we get too far past the suburbs of Trenton, I’ve convinced myself that I’ve made a huge mistake coming on this trip with Jack. I should have just taken a bus. I feel lonely and lost, traveling just under sixty-five miles an hour (no speeding!) down a highway with a boy who resents me.
This is when my phone chimes a text. Tommy.
Bored, it says. And full of smoothies.
Then below it, in its own little bubble: Miss you.
“Oh my god.” An idea announces itself in my head and refuses to leave. I look at Jack. He glances over at me for just a second. He looks relieved, I think, that words are actually coming out of my mouth.
“We’re basically driving straight past Fancy Dance Camp.” I hold up my phone with the map, but of course Safe Driver Jack won’t look. “It’s like a half hour out of the way. Can we stop and see Tommy?”
“Sure,” Jack says, glancing sideways at me. “But isn’t that a little risky? Considering that’s where you’re actually supposed to be?”
“Probably,” I say. I don’t know why I don’t care.
A couple of hours later we’re parked in a hikers’ lot at the edge of a state park. There’s a clearing before a thick line of trees ahead. I stand by the Volvo and stare at the forest while Jack leans against the car’s back bumper, reading Breakfast of Champions. I watch the woods for five minutes before I see any kind of movement, and even then, all I see are shadows cast by the trees. The shapes might as well be wolves—or bears. My skin prickles for a moment.
Then, in the afternoon sunlight, I can see it’s Tommy.
He’s with a boy. A red-haired boy with long limbs and freckles. Pavlova goes nuts at the end of her leash as soon as she sees Tommy, and when he’s twenty feet away I set her free. She gallops over to him and jumps straight up into his arms.
“Pavlova!” he says. “My surrogate daughter.” He rubs her ears the way she likes and she grumbles happily.
When he sets her back down, I throw my arms around him. He lifts me right off the ground. Warmth bubbles up in my chest.
Tommy glances behind him. “I feel like I’m on the lam,” he says.
“No, silly,” I say. “That’s me. I’m the one who ran away.”
“Oh, right,” he says, grinning. “With a dashing consort.”
“Um, not really. But you, you’re emerging from the woods like an actual Boy Scout,” I say. “I’m impressed.”
“Yes,” Tommy says. “I have earned several badges since you’ve seen me last.”
“Right,” I say. “In smoothie drinking, in getting a massage . . .” I roll my eyes. “What particular amenity are you escaping from right now?”
“Oh,” Tommy says. “It’s free time now. I could be napping. I chose you.” He turns to the boy with him. “This is Rusty,” he says.
“Of course it is,” I say. “Hi, Rusty.”
“Hey,” says Rusty. He reaches for my hand. His handshake is firm and his smile is kind.
“I almost forgot,” Tommy says. “I brought you a muffin.” He pulls one from his pocket, wrapped in wax paper. “There’s way more food in this place than they need for a bunch of ballet dancers.”
“Hey,” I say. “I eat. You eat.” I look at Rusty. “Rusty eats. Right?”
“Yep,” Rusty says.
“I know,” says Tommy. “I can’t say the same for the rest of them. Anyway, I think it’s bran. But it has blueberries!”
I put it in my purse. “It’s much appreciated,” I say. “I’m running low on snacks.”
“How’s the search?” Tommy asks.
“Okay so far. We’ve seen Rose.”
He looks at me expectantly.
“Julia was there for a while, but Rose doesn’t know where she went after that. We’re heading to Philly now to see Thatcher.”
“Kick him in the balls for me,” Tommy says. He kicks out his own leg as he says this, but it’s a ballet dancer’s kick and thus higher than you’d need for balls kicking. I smile.
“Jeez,” I say. “That’s exactly what Rose said.”
Tommy shakes his head. “That guy just brings it out in people.”
Rusty clears his throat then, probably wondering what he’s gotten himself into with these weirdos in the middle of the woods.
“What year is this Volvo?” he asks Jack. “My dad used to have one.”
“It’s a 2000,” Jack says. He’s obviously pleased that he’s been asked about his precious car. Rusty is pleased too, to have something to talk about in general. So Tommy and I let them. I hear Jack saying something about the Volvo symbol and the ancient chemistry sign for iron. Truly fascinating stuff. Tommy links his arm into mine and pulls me over to sit in the grass.
“Rusty?” I whisper to Tommy. “That’s his real name? Has he recently arrived from a 1950s sitcom?” I try to keep from smiling. “Did he ori
ginally show up in black and white?”
Tommy laughs. “Possibly. But he’s cute.”
“Affirmative,” I say.
Tommy gives me a look. “Affirmative? We’re not communicating via walkie-talkie here.”
“True,” I say. I hold an imaginary CB radio up to my mouth. “But I’ve missed you. Over.”
“Roger that,” he says, holding his own fake radio. He puts his hand down. “How’s Jack?”
“Fine,” I say. Then I sigh. “I think we’re in a fight.”
Tommy puts his hand on my knee and pats it like an auntie. “Well, get out of it,” he says. “You’re stuck with him.”
“Yeah, I know.” I pull my hair into a knot at the top of my head, secure it with the hair tie I’ve been wearing on my wrist. “Have you made friends?” I raise my eyebrows. “Besides Rusty, I mean.”
“I guess. There’s a girl named Lauren. I like her.”
I feel a twinge of jealousy then, somewhere deep in my belly, and Tommy sees it on my face.
“Stop it. I’ll always love you best,” he says, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Even more than Rusty.”
“What?” says Rusty. He must have heard his name. He’s leaning against the back bumper of the Volvo, next to Jack. In his white T-shirt and jeans, he looks like a page from a cute-boy calendar, circa 1958.
“Nothing,” Tommy says. He stands up and walks back toward Jack and Rusty, so I follow. Sunlight throws dappled shadows on the grass.
“Jack,” Tommy says. “Sylvie says you’re mad at her.”
I gasp. “I did not say that!”
Tommy shrugs. “Well, you said something like it.”
“I’m not,” Jack offers. “Mad at you, I mean.”
“I said we had a misunderstanding,” I say.
Tommy shakes his head. “Um, no, I don’t think you used that word.”
“Tommy,” I say. “Shut up.”
Tommy makes the zipper gesture over his lips. I look at Jack.
“Let’s just start over,” I say.
He smiles. “Okay,” he says.
I turn toward Tommy. “You should know that he’s making me listen to nothing but Fleetwood Mac.” Tommy squints at Jack, sizing him up.
“What’s your game here, Jack?” he asks. “Is this some kind of interrogation method? Do you want to know all her secrets? Because I’m pretty sure she’ll just tell you if you ask nicely.”
Jack blushes. “It’s something I’ve been doing,” he says. “Every month.”
“Interesting.” Tommy raises his eyebrows. “Every month you subject a captive girl to a Mac Attack?”
To his credit, Jack laughs. “No,” he says. “Every month I choose a band and listen only to that one.”
“Why?”
“Well, it time-stamps the music, for one. Soaks it in memory.” He shakes his head. “That sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” I say. Which is true. It doesn’t sound stupid at all. It makes sense. No matter what happens, I already know that for the rest of my life when I hear Fleetwood Mac I’ll be brought straight back to this summer, for better or worse, depending on how all this turns out.
When I turn back toward him, Tommy is looking at me. Hard.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing,” he says, but his tone says the opposite.
“Anyway,” I say, drawing out the word, “we’re allowed selected solo material from the band’s members. We’ve mostly used that on Stevie and Lindsey.”
“This doesn’t mean much to me,” Tommy says. “I barely know who they are. Remember that I was raised on New Age music and classical from ballets. If you want to talk about Enya or the score from Coppélia, I’m your guy.” Pavlova is rubbing her head against Tommy’s leg like a cat.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Jack.
“I won’t,” I say.
“I’ve never even seen a ballet,” Jack says.
“You’re kidding me!” Tommy says. “Well, I made her pack pointe shoes, so you should request a show.” He pokes me in the ribs.
I turn away from him, shaking my head. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be awkward at all.”
“You live for awkwardness, Syl,” Tommy says.
I stand on my tiptoes so I can look straight into his face. “Tell me again why I stopped to see you?”
Tommy flips his hands up like it’s obvious. “Because you love me.”
“Yeah, but besides that.”
Jack and Rusty look mildly amused, at least, watching this episode of the Sylvie and Tommy Show.
“Well, I hate to cut this short,” Tommy says, “but we have yoga in ten minutes and we have to, like, head back through the freaking woods to get there.”
“Be careful,” I say. I mean it.
“Oh yeah,” Tommy says. “I’ll watch out for wolves and poison ivy. And speaking of poison,” he says, smiling, “I’ll say hi to Emma for you.”
“Or don’t,” I say. “I would be fine never seeing her again.”
“We won’t,” Tommy says. “Once we move to Duluth.”
“Duluth?” Jack asks.
“Did I say Duluth?” Tommy says. “I meant Des Moines.”
“Albuquerque,” I say. “Charleston.”
Tommy smiles. “Louisville.”
“Now you’re just naming cities,” Rusty says.
Tommy shrugs. “It’s what we do.” He picks up my wrist and angles my tattoo toward Rusty.
“Here it is,” he says.
I drop my mouth open in mock-shock. “You told him?”
“Your legend precedes you,” Tommy says. Rusty comes close to study the ink.
“Cool,” he says.
“Cool until her mom sees,” Tommy says. I give him a gentle shove. He leans toward me. “Before you go, let’s show Rusty the lift.”
“What?” I look around. “Here?”
“Why not?” Tommy grins. “I always catch you. And we’re on grass so even if I don’t, you’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s true,” I say. Tommy ignores me.
“This one,” he says to Rusty, “she’s special. She has perfect form. Once you see this, you won’t be able to get it out of your head.”
“Oh, come on,” I say.
“Please?” Tommy begs.
I look at Jack, who is looking at me too, and smiling. The sky is too blue behind his head.
Fine.
It’s ridiculous, really, doing this out in a field at the edge of a forest like an overenthusiastic wood sprite, but I do it. I take a running start, flying over the grass barefoot. It’s totally different from running in the studio; the ground raises me even before I jump. I’m airborne for a few seconds but it feels like longer, and then I land in Tommy’s arms. He catches me at exactly the right moment, his hands around my rib cage, then follows my momentum forward, holding on. Then he lifts me straight into the sky.
Track 10:
Silver Springs
THINGS ARE A LITTLE BETTER in the Volvo after our visit to Tommy. Less awkward, less I’m going to hijack this car and personally go murder Lindsey Buckingham if I have to hear one more feathery 1970s love song. We’re not talking a whole lot, but we’d had some pleasant conversation about the lack of traffic on Route 30 and a cloud in the sky that looked like a duck.
Progress!
I’ve come to terms with our soundtrack, actually. I’m very Zen about it. Here’s a Lindsey, here’s a Stevie, here’s one sung by Christine. Maybe it’s Stockholm syndrome, but I might even be beginning to like Fleetwood Mac. I’m not going to go out and buy their entire catalog in the original, still-sealed vinyl, but if I’m honest, I’ve enjoyed many of the songs. Particularly the one we’re listening to now, which is called “Silver Springs.” As a peace offering, I say this to Jack.
He nods. “It’s a great song,” he says. “About loving someone who doesn’t want her to.”
“I got that,” I say, smiling. “I mean, Stevie pretty much just said it in t
he lyrics.”
“Right.” Jack glances at me, then back to the road. He’s smiling too. “Okay, here’s something. Supposedly Stevie was driving with Lindsey when she saw a freeway sign for a town called Silver Spring. She thought it sounded beautiful, like someplace she’d want to go. So she wrote the song.” He runs his hand down the steering wheel and holds on to its bottom. “You can’t read about the Mac without coming across stuff about Lindsey and Stevie’s relationship. It was legendary.”
The Mac. That’s the first time he’s called them that. I don’t have time to tease Jack about it, though. He’s still going.
“I mean, imagine being in a band with a great love after your relationship fell apart completely.” He puts his signal on and carefully switches lanes. “Spending all that time together in a tour bus, onstage, in the recording studio. They fought a battle through the songs they wrote. They cast each other as villains and themselves as heroes.”
“So Stevie was like a rock-and-roll princess,” I say, “and Lindsey was her prince.”
“And it was a big terrible mess.”
I nod. “But kind of a beautiful one.”
Jack grins. “Exactly.”
“Silver Springs” has ended, but I pick up Jack’s phone and start it again. The trees keep whipping by outside the window.
“So what did Lindsey think?”
“Of ‘Silver Springs’?” Jack asks. “He was mad. Stevie wanted it to be on Rumours, but there wasn’t enough space. Or at least that’s what the band said. I think Lindsey just didn’t want a song on the record where she tells him that he’ll never be able to forget her. That her voice will literally haunt him for the rest of his life.”
If you’re going to be haunted by a voice, I guess Stevie Nicks’s is a pretty good choice. But I don’t understand why the song didn’t end up on the record. “He was the one who got to decide?”
Jack shrugs. “I guess.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Hey, I’m on Stevie’s side.” He lifts his hand off the steering wheel. “It’s like my mom and dad. He made all the decisions, and now he’s the one with the fancy restaurant and she’s working as a personal chef.” Jack’s voice is hard. “He got to have this whole other life.”
The Looking Glass Page 13
