The Geography of Lost Things

by Jessica Brody

  Nico’s fingertips dance around the edge of the rubber band. The hair on my arm stands up, and I pray he doesn’t push my sleeve even further up and expose me. “May I?” he asks.

  I swallow. I don’t even know what he’s asking, but I feel my head fall into a nod. The answer has always been yes to Nico.

  A one-hundred-percent, nonnegotiable, unambiguous yes.

  He gently slips the rubber band from my wrist, and for just a moment, I allow my eyes to close, I allow my skin to feel, I allow my body to yearn. Then the moment is over, and I flutter my eyes open again. I force myself to look at him, to remember, to feel a different kind of sensation.

  Betrayal.

  Regret.

  Anger.

  Nico starts moving toward the woman. “Come on. I’ll show you how this works.”

  I reluctantly follow after him, sighing at the pointlessness of all this. There’s no way he can trade a rubber band for twenty-five thousand dollars. The boy is delusional.

  Nico taps the woman on the shoulder, and she lowers the camera to look at him, one hand still vainly attempting to hold back her blowing hair.

  Nico holds up the rubber band. “It looks like you might need this.”

  The woman stares at Nico with a guarded expression, clearly unsure what to make of this random hair-saving boy on the beach. “Um . . .”

  “Maybe I can trade you something for it,” Nico prompts.

  The woman’s confusion builds. “Excuse me?”

  I sigh and grab Nico by the shirtsleeve. “C’mon. Let’s just go.” I flash the woman an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry about him. He’s trying to prove some inane theory that just because you happen to need this rubber band right now, you’ll somehow be willing to trade us something of more value for it.”

  The woman glances between me and Nico, as though trying to figure out if we’re a team of con artists she needs to be wary of. Then, suddenly, her expression softens, and her eyes fill with comprehension. “Oh, is this like a social experiment or something?”

  Nico nods. “Sort of.”

  The woman seems to like that answer. “Okay. Cool. Let me see what I have. I do need that rubber band.”

  She digs her hand into the oversize bag hanging from her shoulder and rifles around for a few seconds. “Oh!” she exclaims. “Here. Take this. I found it in a box of junk that my ex-husband left behind at our house. Sorry, correction, as of last week, it’s my house. I was going to take it to one of those electronic recycling places, but you can have it.”

  Then I watch as the woman pulls out the oldest cell phone I’ve ever seen in real life. It’s about the size of a deck of cards and has a tiny black-and-white screen, a keypad, and a short, stubby antenna sticking out from the top.

  Nico’s eyes light up when he sees it. Although I can’t imagine why. The thing is a relic. I doubt it even plays music. “Cool! We’ll take it!” he exclaims, handing over the rubber band in exchange for the phone. “Thanks.”

  “Thank you,” the woman says, lowering her camera so that it hangs from the strap around her neck. She immediately goes to work wrangling her hair into a compact bun and securing it with the rubber band. “Ah. So much better. My hair has been bugging me all day.”

  With her hair dealt with, the woman picks up her camera again and holds it up to her eye. “Good luck with your social experiment.” Then she starts walking down the beach, snapping photos of the sea.

  Nico is standing there with the most triumphant smile I’ve ever seen on his face. He holds up the ancient cell phone. “See?”

  I scoff. “That doesn’t prove anything! That thing is a piece of junk. You heard her say so yourself. She was going to recycle it. It’s worthless.”

  “It’s worthless to her,” he corrects.

  “And to me.”

  “But not to someone else.”

  “Who on earth would want a phone that old?”

  Nico shrugs. “I don’t know. A phone repairman who needs it for spare parts. A museum curator putting together an exhibit on the history of cell phones. A teacher teaching her students about communications. A—”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, just to shut him up. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. I get it.”

  His grin widens. “Exactly.”

  “So, what now?” I ask skeptically. “We comb the beach searching for a museum curator desperately in need of an old cell phone?”

  Nico guffaws at this. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m the one being ridiculous?”

  He deposits the antique cell phone in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out his own phone, shaking it tauntingly at me. “Now, we take it to the next level.”

  “And what exactly is the next level?” I ask, slightly afraid of what his answer will be.

  He smiles. “Craigslist.”

  Sometimes I think that band and that car were the only things Jackson ever really had. That Nolan Cook, Slate Miller, Chris McCaden, and Adam French were his only friends. And that’s why, when they got back together, when they announced their nationwide tour a month after that night we went to see them in Fort Bragg, Jackson had no choice but to go with them. He had no choice but to leave.

  Which, of course, is a load of crap.

  There’s always a choice.

  And he chose them.

  I remember Mom trying to explain it to me. Trying to define what a “roadie” even was. I had a hard time understanding it.

  No, he’s not actually in the band.

  No, he doesn’t play any instrument or sing any songs.

  No, your father is not a rock star.

  He helps the band transport equipment and set up for shows.

  This sounded infinitely less glamorous and even more of a sting.

  He left all of this—Russellville, the Frosty Frog, Mom, and me—to carry around drum sets?

  But according to Mom, Jackson had somehow gotten it into his head that he had helped in their rise to fame. Just as he had claimed when he was ranting drunk on the sidewalk outside of the Black Bear Saloon.

  This gave Jackson a sense of ownership over the band. Like he was an official part of their success. Then, I think he was just so desperate to be a part of any success, he clung on to what he could.

  Fear Epidemic’s debut album was called Anarchy in a Cup, but they never released a follow-up. They broke up a little more than two years later, one month before I was born. Jackson named me after his favorite song from the album as some kind of mourning tribute.

  Then, nine years later, they magically decided to reunite and release a new album—Salvage Lot—and by my ninth birthday, Jackson was gone. He took a single bag of clothes and, of course, his Firebird, and left behind a Post-it note stuck to the fridge:

  I’m sorry. I have to do this.

  Mom didn’t cry. It was almost as though, after that night she came to pick us up in Fort Bragg, she knew it was coming. Maybe even expected it, maybe even hoped for it.

  For the first year Jackson was gone, I kept track of the band. Their new album hovered on the bottom of the Billboard charts for a few weeks and then fell off completely. They played small venues in large cities. They did short interviews on niche radio stations.

  Salvage Lot clearly didn’t do what the title of the album implied they’d hoped it would do. It didn’t bring Fear Epidemic back from the dead.

  I watched their website diligently to see where they were each day, what they were doing, what new pictures had been posted. I googled the name of each venue and stared at the Google Earth images of the street and surrounding areas, trying to imagine Jackson on that street, in those venues. I would scour fan pictures, searching for signs of him in the background.

  I even tried to listen to their music. I wanted to understand what was so special about it. What was so enticing that it would pull a man away from his family. But I could never get through more than two songs. Just like that night in the garage, when Jackson installed the cassette player, and tha
t night in the Black Bear Saloon, it was too loud for me. Too aggressive. Too angry.

  I remember lying in bed, trying to listen to “Numb,” their latest single. I remember grimacing at its harsh vocals and embittered lyrics. And I remember thinking, What on earth do you have to be so angry about? You’re the one who got my dad.

  5:19 P.M.

  FORT BRAGG, CA

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD 400 CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($769.35), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), ANCIENT CELL PHONE (1)

  “So how giant are the burgers here?” Nico asks the cashier as we step up to the counter of Jenny’s Giant Burger, a small burger shack just up California 1 from Glass Beach. It didn’t look like much from the road—a dinky little building in the middle of a giant parking lot—and I really didn’t want to stop since we’re already running late as it is. But Nico convinced me that we need to eat. I’m just grateful he didn’t try to stop at the Black Bear Saloon. I definitely wouldn’t have agreed to go back there.

  “They’re pretty big,” the cashier assures Nico.

  “Okay,” Nico says, as though her answer has made his decision, and not our complete starvation. He squints at the menu. “I’ll take a Giant double cheeseburger with fries and a Pepsi.” He turns to me.

  I already know what I want. It’s the same thing I order at every burger place. “Cheeseburger with the bun inside out.”

  I wait for the cashier to question my request. They always do. And I always have a pre-scripted explanation ready: sesame-seed side down, flat side up, grilled, like a patty melt.

  But she doesn’t question me. She doesn’t even blink. She just taps into her cash register and looks back up at me for the rest.

  “And fries and a lemonade, please.”

  “Nineteen twenty-seven,” the cashier announces.

  Nico goes to pull out his wallet, but I stop him. “Nuh-uh. Remember? You’re driving. I’m paying.”

  He lowers his hand. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this arrangement.”

  “Too bad,” I say, reaching into my backpack and pulling another twenty from the freezer bag. I hand it to the cashier. She gives me my change, and I dump it into the tip cup on the counter.

  “Beer money!” the cashier yells to the other restaurant employees, and they all shout “Thank you!” in return.

  Cashier Girl gives us a little plastic tent with a number on it, and we find an empty booth.

  “So, why are you paying for everything again?” Nico asks, sliding into one of the benches.

  “Because I can’t be sure where your money came from,” I murmur under my breath.

  Nico’s gaze cuts to me, and for a long moment, he just studies me, like’s he unsure if he heard me correctly.

  He heard me.

  And he looks like he’s going to fire something equally hurtful right back at me, but instead he clears his throat and says, “So, you never told me where your affinity for inside-out burgers comes from.”

  Back to the safe zone. Back to the meaningless small talk. Although there’s a sharp edge to his voice that borders on mockery.

  “You never asked,” I reply just as sharply.

  “I’m asking now.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I’ve just always ordered them that way. For as long as I can remember.”

  “Were you, like, obsessed with inside-out things as a kid? Like some kind of fight-back against normalcy? Did you wear all of your clothes inside out? Read books backward? Sleep with your feet on the pillow?”

  I snort. “No. I just think it makes the burger taste different, that’s all.”

  “Hmm,” Nico says, drumming his fingers against the table.

  And just like that, we’ve exhausted this safety topic.

  I exhale loudly and glance around the restaurant. That same uncomfortable silence settles back between us. It’s like a dark, shadowy pit that follows us around, always right behind us. No matter how many times we seem to take a step forward, if we ever stumble back, even an inch, it’s ready and waiting there to swallow us whole.

  My fingers itch to pull out my phone and go straight to my favorite personality quiz website. Just so I have something to do. But then I remember I have no data left on my plan. So I guess I’m stuck here in the shadowy pit.

  Nico must feel it too, because he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own phone and the ancient clunker cell phone. He arranges the old phone on the table at a slight angle and snaps a photo of it.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Drafting our Craigslist post.”

  “Your,” I correct him. “It’s your Craigslist post. Not ours. I want nothing to do with this ridiculous plan.”

  “Just you wait,” he says without looking up. “You’ll want everything to do with it when we start getting into some serious trades.”

  He taps on his phone screen, narrating his path as he goes. “Craigslist dot com. New posting. Category: Barter. Posting title . . .” He pauses, studying the old phone on the table before resuming his typing. “Nokia cell phone.” He hastily jabs at the backspace button. “One rare antique cell phone.” He looks up at me. “It’s all about the way you spin it.”

  I roll my eyes. I don’t like this. It sounds way too much like something Jackson would do. Trying to find too-easy solutions to problems that actually require real work. “You can’t be serious about this.”

  “Oh, I am. I’m going to prove to you that you don’t have to sell the car. You can keep it and get the money you need.”

  “There’s no way you’re going to be able to turn a rubber band into twenty-five thousand dollars!”

  “Challenge accepted,” he says with a smug grin.

  I fight back a groan. I realize I’m being extra cranky right now because of the hunger—I haven’t eaten since lunch—but I don’t care. Nico is being his typical spontaneous self, and I don’t have time for his spontaneous whims right now. I have to get that Firebird to Tom Lancaster in Crescent City by tonight, and we’re already way behind schedule.

  “But if we don’t sell the car, how am I going to pay you the thousand dollars I promised you?”

  Nico dismisses this like it’s a technicality. “I’ll take my cut from whatever we end up making on the trades. Don’t worry about me.” He stops typing and taps his finger thoughtfully against his chin. “We need an angle. A story.”

  My head is starting to throb as my blood sugar continues to drop. I press my fingertips into my temples.

  “People like a story,” Nico explains, even though I so didn’t ask. “They like to feel like they’re part of something. We need something to grab people’s attention.”

  I squeeze my head and close my eyes. “Since when are you a Craigslist expert?”

  “I’m not,” he says so hastily, so decisively, I startle and flutter my eyes back open. For a moment, I swear I see something flash across his face. A reaction of some kind. But it’s gone so fast, I can almost convince myself I imagined it.

  “But how do you know about all of this trading stuff?” I press. “Where did you even get the idea of being able to trade a rubber band for something worth twenty-five thousand dollars?”

  I wait for the reaction again—a flinch, a flash—but he’s prepared this time. Guarded. His expression remains stoically neutral. “Everyone knows you can do that.”

  “I don’t,” I insist.

  “I think I saw it in a documentary once.”

  It’s a lie, and we both know it. But before I can press him further, a skinny guy in an apron and a name tag that reads SCOTT shows up with our burgers and sets them down in front of us. The smell of cooked meat and melted cheese is so heavenly, I nearly forget my own name. I lunge for the burger and take a huge bite, chewing so fast, I barely even taste it.

  “Wow,” Nico says, looking impressed. “These really are pretty giant.”

  Scott smiles. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  I’m too busy stuffing my face with burger to answer. Thankfully Ni
co steps in. “No. Just passing through. We’re sort of on a road trip together.”

  “It’s better than it looks, you know?”

  Nico glances down at his burger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This looks amazing.”

  “I mean the town,” Scott says. “It’s got some great history.”

  “Like what?” Nico asks, sounding genuinely curious.

  “Well, the town itself is a historical landmark. And we’ve had lots of movies filmed here.” He starts listing them out on his fingers. “The Majestic starring Jim Carrey, Racing with the Moon starring Sean Penn, Overboard starring Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell.”

  At the name of this movie, I glance up and catch Nico’s eye. Our gazes are locked for only a split second, but it’s enough for us to confirm that we both remember.

  Lying in the bed of his truck, watching old eighties movies on his phone until the sun came up.

  It was one of our favorite things to do. We called them our Epic Eighties Movie Marathons. Nico would bring a blanket and a pillow, and we’d drive out along Route 128 until the lights of the town faded and the night was ours.

  With Nico, it was so easy to claim the night.

  Like he had it permanently on hold, waiting for him.

  “We’re also the home to Glass Beach,” Scott goes on, bringing me back to the restaurant. The booth. This highly unfavorable situation. “A major tourist attraction.”

  I smile politely up at Scott, marveling at how desperate he is to impress us with his facts about the town. He reminds me of an eager Border collie who’s just herded all the sheep and is waiting for our approval.

  “So you see,” Scott goes on, “it might not look like much, but we got a lot going on here.”

  “Sounds like it,” Nico says.

  Having validated his town, I expect Scott to leave, but he doesn’t. He keeps staring at me. “Are you sure you’re not from around here?”

  “No,” I mumble, and take another huge bite.