The Geography of Lost Things

by Jessica Brody

  She had no idea, at the time, how right she was.

  I went to the party. I faked a smile. I chatted. I laughed. I lasted a whole forty-five minutes before my facade started to slip and I could feel my melancholy creeping back in, like water being held back by a faulty dam.

  Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . .

  I needed to get away from everyone. Before the dam came crumbling down and flooded the whole party. I wanted to leave, but I knew I’d never hear the end of it from June, so instead I slipped into the darkness of the junkyard, away from the loud voices and tinny music being blasted from a busted speaker. Using my phone as my flashlight, I found a hiding spot in a stripped-out frame of an old VW Beetle that had probably been parked on June’s parents’ lot since the sixties. There was no steering wheel, no windshield, and no back seat. Just two bucket seats in the front with cracked leather, and a giant, cavernous hole where the stereo used to be.

  I plopped down in the driver’s seat and tried to quell the storm of panic that was growing inside of me.

  Deep breaths. Calming thoughts. Close your eyes.

  It wasn’t working.

  I swiped on my phone and immediately navigated to my favorite personality quiz website and scrolled through the list of newly published quizzes, ruling out “What’s Your Harry Potter Fashion Style?,” “Which Fictional Vampire Are You Most Destined to Date?,” and “What Horror Movie Best Represents Your Life?” My eyes stopped on the fourth down from the top. It said:

  Everyone in the World Can Be Broken Down into 16 Personalities. Which One Are You?

  I immediately clicked the button to take the quiz. As I started answering the questions, I could tell this quiz was different from any other one I’d taken on the site. More serious and grounded in reality. And the questions—Do you often find yourself getting overwhelmed in social situations and seeking solace by yourself?—made me feel like the result was going to magically fix everything that was wrong with my life. Every unanswered question, unsolved dilemma, unwanted quality about myself was going to disappear that moment I clicked submit and the algorithm calculated me and placed me in a safe, contained little box.

  This quiz felt less like a distraction and more like a lifeline.

  I clicked submit.

  And that was the moment I heard his voice. Emerging from the darkness as clear and bright as a light source. Jumping into my thoughts, breaking through my bubble, infiltrating my space.

  “Hey. Nice ride.”

  I looked up to see Nico standing outside the driver’s side of the VW Beetle, leaning in through the large gap where the door used to be.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, nodding toward the illuminated phone in my hand.

  “Oh,” I said clumsily, lowering my phone before I even had a chance to look at my results. “Nothing. Just taking a stupid personality quiz.”

  There was a split second where my life could have gone two different ways, traveled down two different roads. On one road, Nico smiled, wished me luck with my quiz, and disappeared back into the darkness. On this road, we never dated. We never kissed. We never shared eighty-eight amazing days together. He never tried to teach me how to drive stick shift. He never lied to me. I never opened that glove box. I never stood in the mud on the side of Route 128 while a three-thousand-year-old comet lit up the entire sky.

  On the other road, however, Nico sat down in the passenger seat, smiled that adorable roguish smile of his, and asked to see the results of my quiz. On this road, we date, we kiss (a lot), we share eighty-eight amazing days together. He tries (and fails) to teach me how to drive stick. He lies to me. I open the glove box. I stand in the mud on the side of Route 128 while Fabian’s Comet streaks through the sky, wishing we had taken the other path. Wishing he had simply walked away. Wishing I had ended that night the way I had started it: alone.

  “Well, let’s see it. What did you get?” Nico asked.

  “Huh?” I had forgotten momentarily about the quiz on my phone. Because right then, all I could think about was Nico sitting next to me. Nico in this car with me. Even with no doors, no windows, no windshield, it felt crowded. The car felt crammed with his energy, his scent, his tall, slender form, the messy mop of dark blond hair that was constantly falling into his eyes.

  And then all I could think about was that I didn’t mind it.

  I should mind it. I knew that. I was convinced that when I turned my phone screen around and read my quiz results, it would say I was the kind of person who minded. The kind of person who was protective of their space, didn’t like surprises, preferred being alone when feeling anxious or stressed. The kind of person who didn’t like to be interrupted when doing personality quizzes, even when the interrupter was as cute as Nico Wright.

  But I didn’t mind.

  My energy seemed to miraculously scoot over, make room for him, welcome him in. The involuntary reaction came as such a surprise, it took me a moment to catch up.

  “The personality quiz,” Nico reminded me, nudging his chin toward the phone still clutched in my hand, the screen facedown in my lap.

  I blinked and glanced down at my phone, the rest of the evening suddenly coming back to me in a flash. Me running away from the party. Me hiding in this car. Me losing myself in a stupid quiz that was supposed to give me all the answers.

  It all seemed so silly and foolish now.

  It all seemed so pointless. Especially because it somehow felt as though the real answer had just plopped itself down onto the seat next to me.

  “Oh,” I said, peeking at the screen of my phone. “It’s no big deal. It’s just a stupid quiz that’s supposed to tell you everything there is to know about you.” I let out a snort, to hopefully convince him that I don’t put any stock in this kind of thing. That I wasn’t lame enough to define myself by something as trivial and simplistic as an online quiz.

  “Well then I definitely want to see it now,” Nico said, grinning again.

  “What?” I asked, confused. “Why?”

  “Obviously because I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

  We arrive early to the Chetco Community Public Library. While Nico sits down at one of the public computers to check his e-mail, I go off exploring.

  I’ve always loved libraries, but this one has a cozy, old-fashioned feel that makes me want to curl up with a book somewhere and forget about everything that’s happened over the past few days.

  I wander through the stacks, running my fingers across the book spines, loving the way the protective plastic feels on my skin. When I emerge from the nonfiction section, I notice a large display case on the far wall, near the entrance. I make my way toward it, trying to figure out what’s behind the glass. It almost looks like a . . .

  A samurai sword?

  As I get closer, I realize that it is, in fact, a samurai sword, which seems like such an odd thing to have on display in a library. I approach the case and see that the sword is accompanied by a sheath, a tiny model of an old military plane, and a model submarine. I lean forward to read the engraved wooden plaque behind the glass.

  THIS FOUR-HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD SAMURAI SWORD WAS PRESENTED TO THE COMMUNITY OF BROOKINGS BY NOBUO FUJITA OF TSUCHIURA, JAPAN, ON THE TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS HISTORIC INCENDIARY BOMBING OF THE FOREST NEAR BROOKINGS ON SEPTEMBER 9, 1942.

  NOBUO FUJITA WAS THE ONLY ENEMY TO BOMB THE U.S. FROM THE AIR. HE PRESENTED THIS SWORD DURING THE 1962 AZALEA FESTIVAL, WHICH HE AND HIS FAMILY ATTENDED AS GUESTS OF THE BROOKINGS HARBOR JUNIOR CHAMBER OF COMMERCE.

  THIS SYMBOLIC SWORD WAS PRESENTED IN THE INTEREST OF PEACE AND FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN THE NATIONS OF JAPAN AND THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

  THE PERSONAL VALUE OF THE ANCESTRAL SWORD TO MR. FUJITA ATTESTS TO THE SINCERITY OF HIS GESTURE.

  Fascinated, I place my palms flat on the glass and stare at the ancient weapon. He bombed the United States and then came back with a gift? That takes some guts. How come I’ve never heard of this guy?

  I glance aroun
d to see if anyone else is as interested in this display as I am, but all I see is a lone librarian stocking shelves nearby. I hurry over to her.

  “Do you know anything about that sword?” I ask, jabbing my thumb over my shoulder.

  She looks up from her book cart and flashes me a kind smile. “Of course. Mr. Fujita returned to the United States after World War Two and offered the sword to the city of Brookings as an apology.”

  “An apology?”

  “That’s right. Mr. Fujita fought for the Japanese navy during the war. He was the only person to ever successfully launch an air attack on the American mainland.”

  My eyes widen. “Really? Where did he drop the bomb?”

  “Just inland from Brookings. In the forest. It was an incendiary strike with the intention of igniting the redwoods.”

  My heart cramps at the thought of all those beautiful trees burning. “Did it ignite?”

  “Fortunately no. It had been a very rainy season, and the woods were too damp. But Mr. Fujita was still considered a hero in his country.”

  “But then he apologized?” I ask, confused.

  She nods. “That’s right. Shortly after the war, Mr. Fujita became a pacifist, and in 1962, the town of Brookings held a ceremony marking the twenty-year anniversary of the attack. They invited Mr. Fujita to the ceremony. As a pledge of peace and friendship, Mr. Fujita offered the city his samurai sword, which he’d had in the plane with him when he dropped the bomb. It’s one of the most valuable gifts a samurai can give to a former enemy. He also apologized to the forest by planting a redwood at the bomb site in 1992.”

  “And the city forgave him?”

  She smiled and gestured back toward the display case. “Yes, we did. In fact, we even made him an honorary citizen of Brookings. After Mr. Fujita died in 1997, his ashes were scattered among the redwoods and—” The librarian stopped abruptly and studied me with a concerned expression. “Are you all right?”

  It’s only then that I realize tears have formed in my eyes and are starting to leak out. I chuckle, feeling silly, and wipe at my cheeks. “Yes. Sorry. It’s just so . . .” I can’t find the words.

  Thankfully, she seems to understand. “I know.”

  She pats me affectionately on the shoulder. “You’re not the first one to become emotional over Mr. Fujita’s gift. It’s definitely a true testament to the forgiving nature of the human spirit, isn’t it?

  I nod, unable to respond.

  “Well,” she says, gesturing to her cart full of books. “I have some more work to do. Let me know if you have any other questions.”

  The librarian walks away, and I return to the glass case. I must fall into a trance because a moment later, Nico is tapping me on the shoulder.

  “He’s here.” He glances momentarily at the display and says, “Cool sword,” before turning toward the entrance to the parking lot where our next Craigslist “customer” is waiting.

  I follow behind him, letting my gaze fall one last time on the sword and the wooden plaque beside it.

  This symbolic sword was presented in the interest of peace and friendship . . .

  He dropped a bomb right near the city.

  He tried to ignite one of the most famous forests in America.

  He committed an atrocious act of war.

  And yet they forgave him.

  I push my hand into the pocket of my hoodie and run my fingertips around the piece of sea glass I picked up in Fort Bragg, trying to find inspiration in its smooth edges, trying to extract some ounce of its ancient wisdom.

  But all I feel is emptiness.

  If the entire city of Brookings can forgive—if the whole damn ocean can forgive—then why is it so hard for me?

  6:34 P.M.

  BROOKINGS, OR

  INVENTORY: 1968 FIREBIRD CONVERTIBLE (1), CASH ($522.86), SEA GLASS (1 PIECE), VINTAGE TYPEWRITER (1)

  After Nico has updated the Craigslist post, we stash our newly acquired vintage typewriter in the back seat of the car and walk down the street to a pizza place I found online that had decent reviews.

  We order a medium pineapple and jalapeño—the only pizza toppings we could ever agree on during our three-month relationship—and find a booth in the back.

  “So, what are we supposed to do now?” I ask as Nico scrapes the last piece of cheese from the metal tray.

  He dangles it over his mouth and lets it drop in. “We wait for someone to respond.”

  “I know, but . . .” I glance around the restaurant, which is slowly filling with locals. “Do we just stay here?”

  “Not in this restaurant, no.”

  I roll my eyes. “You know what I meant.”

  “I think it would be a good idea to stay in Brookings, yes. Since we have no idea where the next trade will come from. North, south, east, west.” Nico flashes me a smirk. “Those are pretty much the only options.”

  I feel my stomach clench. I don’t like the idea of just wandering around with no direction. No plan. “But what are we supposed to do? What if we don’t get a response for days?”

  “It won’t take days.”

  The server brings our check, and I pull a twenty-dollar bill out of the plastic bag in my backpack and toss it down. “I honestly don’t know if this is going to work, Nico.”

  Nico shoots me a look. “Really? This again?”

  “I just . . . I mean, yes, we traded a rubber band up to a vintage typewriter, and that’s great. But I can’t see us getting up to twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “I can.”

  “Yeah, maybe in a year. But the foreclosure deadline is this coming Friday,” I remind him.

  Nico balls his napkin and tosses it on the table, clearly done with this conversation. He scoots out of the booth. “C’mon. Let’s go check out the town.”

  With a sigh, I stand up and swing my backpack over my shoulder, completely forgetting that the zipper is still open until the contents of the compartment spill out all over the restaurant floor.

  Nico bends down to help me scoop everything up.

  “It’s fine,” I mutter. “I’ve got it.”

  But, of course, he doesn’t let it go. Once a Fixer, always a Fixer, I guess. As I pick up the large yellow envelope with the car’s title inside, Nico unwittingly goes for the other envelope that fell out of my backpack.

  The one I’d nearly forgotten about until this very moment.

  Until I see it clutched in Nico’s hands.

  He tilts his head, curiously reading the delivery address on the front, his mouth falling into a scowl. “What’s this?” he asks.

  “None of your business,” I say, snatching it out of his hand and stuffing it back into the bag. I zip the compartment and stand up.

  “Ali.” There’s shock and disbelief in his voice. “Was that your acceptance letter to UC Davis?”

  “I said, it’s none of your business.”

  He rises to his feet, shaking his head. “Why do you still have it? The deadline to send that in was a week ago.”

  “I—I—” I stammer. “I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

  “But they’re going to give away your scholarship and they’re not going to let you—”

  “Can we just drop it?” I snap, pushing my way through the restaurant toward the front door. I’m hoping the tone of my voice is enough to shut him up.

  Obviously it’s not.

  “But what about your dream to become a veterinarian?” he says as soon as we’re outside on the sidewalk.

  “People can have more than one dream.”

  “Ali, that scholarship was your future.”

  “That’s right. My future. Not yours. Not anymore. So just let it go, okay?”

  He scratches at his eyebrow, seemingly debating whether to push the issue. But I don’t give him the chance to decide. I turn my back on him and start walking down the street.

  “Where are you going?” he calls after me.

  “Checking out the town!” I call back. “Remember?”<
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  According to the quiz I took in the hollowed-out VW Beetle in June’s backyard the night of her party, my personality type is “the Commissioner.” I am defined as being honest, patient, loyal, reliable, and strong-willed but with a stubborn streak and an obsession with creating and enforcing order.

  “Uh-oh,” Nico said as we read the results together. “Sounds like I need to watch out for you.”

  “What?” I joked back. “No you don’t. It says right here I’m an excellent organizer. And people look to me to lead things.”

  “It also says that you can be inflexible and judgmental.” He pointed to a section of text at the bottom of the screen.

  “Keep reading. It says only when I feel like the high standards of society are not being withheld. That’s admirable.”

  Nico chuckled. “It does say Commissioners make excellent politicians and community leaders. Maybe you should run for mayor of Russellville after you graduate.”

  I laughed at the thought. “Yeah right.”

  “Okay, so if you don’t want to run the world—or Russellville—what do you want to do?”

  I shrugged. “Something where I get to work with animals.”

  “Like a vet?” he asked, and I immediately felt the squeeze of anxiety in my chest.

  “I actually applied to UC Davis for undergraduate, hoping to stay on for their vet school. It’s one of the best in the country.”

  “That’s awesome! Do you think you’ll get in?”

  I bit my lip. “It’s not a matter of just getting in. I need a full scholarship, or I’ll never be able to afford to go.”

  “So?” he said, like the world’s largest stumbling block was nothing more than a pebble.

  “So,” I replied as though it were obvious, “they don’t give out a lot of those. They’re very competitive. I’m not sure I have a shot.”

  For a long time, Nico didn’t reply, and when I looked over at him, I noticed he was studying me, like he could see right through me. Read every thought. Dissect every feeling. Then, he did the first unexpected thing of so many unexpected things in our eighty-eight days together. He reached toward me, grabbed the phone right out of my hand, and started diligently scrolling through my personality description, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Sorry,” he said with a tone of someone giving bad news. “It doesn’t say anything in here about Commissioners having self-doubt. Actually, it says the opposite. They’re very confident in their abilities. Looks like you’re going to have start expecting that scholarship.”