First Love

by Patterson, James

  That was Robinson. He never missed an opportunity to help someone out. Apparently, he also never missed a chance to kiss someone—unless that person was me.

  Chrissy had hopped up onto the counter, and she was looking at him like she was ready to ask him to move in. She might have two kids, but she was probably only a few years older than we were.

  Mason tugged at my leg. “Did you know that dead squirrels can eat you? They have very sharp teeth. Dead squirrels are cool. Also dinosaurs are cool, and Batman, but Spider-Man is better because he got bitten by a spider.” Mason began hopping up and down, narrowly missing my foot. “Superman can go into space because he can fly, but not Spider-Man because he needs a web and he can’t shoot it in space because there’s no buildings up there.” His hopping had progressed to a wild bouncing.

  Chrissy giggled. “I swear I don’t give him coffee.”

  “He’s charming,” I said—through gritted teeth.

  “I’m not charming. I’m starving!” Mason said.

  I took a step forward. “Will you let me cook breakfast?” I asked. “So you can relax?”

  Chrissy looked at me in surprise. “Uh… okay.”

  “You took us in—it’s the least I can do.” The fact was, I didn’t know what to do with my hands, and cooking would calm me down. So I made omelets for everyone, with cheddar cheese and snippets of chives from a pot that Chrissy kept on her windowsill. I thought about undercooking her omelet and putting bits of eggshell in it, but I reminded myself that she wasn’t really the wrongdoer. I’d told her Robinson wasn’t my boyfriend, so as far as she knew, he was available.

  Not that I totally forgave her.

  “Wow, I lucked out bringing you two home,” Chrissy said, her mouth full of eggs. “This is the best omelet I’ve ever had.”

  “I’ve made a lot of them,” I said. “I’m no gourmet or anything.”

  Robinson pointed his fork at me. “Not true. She can cook anything. She’ll make someone a good little wife someday.”

  “Watch it,” I warned.

  “It’s a compliment,” Robinson insisted.

  “I didn’t take it as one,” I said.

  “You guys bicker like a brother and sister,” Chrissy said, giggling. Then she looked serious again. “Do your parents know where you are?”

  I turned back to the stove. “We plead the Fifth.”

  “We’re on vacation,” Robinson said.

  Chrissy sighed and leaned back in her folding chair. “Okay,” she said, “I won’t pry. Everyone’s entitled to their secrets. But here’s a piece of advice: get out of Las Vegas, okay? Because you come here and you just get stuck.”

  She gazed toward the window then, the one that looked out over the Neon Boneyard, where old signs go to die. Something told me that getting stuck was exactly what had happened to her.

  I looked at Robinson, who was dumping sugar into his coffee. We’d never get stuck anywhere, not even if we wanted to. There was an undeniable reason for that—but it was one of our secrets.

  20

  “I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.”

  So said Robinson when I asked him what he was doing tonsil-diving with a Las Vegas stripper at nine o’clock in the morning. (As if it would have been just fine later in the day.)

  “Well, I want to talk about it,” I said. I had dragged him and our few belongings outside as soon as breakfast was over, trying to avoid giving Chrissy a chance to ask us to stay.

  Robinson looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then he turned and walked away. He wound through the cars parked near the Neon Museum, shaking his head and seemingly talking to himself.

  I felt so helpless. Was I crazy? Had I imagined the romantic tension between us? What if Robinson had never wanted anything from me but my friendship? If that turned out to be true, then it was too bad Chrissy wasn’t actually an ax murderer—because I was going to die a long, slow death of humiliation.

  I wiped a bead of sweat from my lip. It was 10 AM and already hot. I sat down on the toe of a giant metal high-heeled shoe, which used to be part of the sign for the Silver Slipper Saloon.

  I hated Las Vegas.

  “What are you doing?” I finally called to Robinson.

  He didn’t answer—he was still pacing. I wasn’t about to follow him up and down the street, so I stared at all the dead signs. There was one that said WEDDING CHAPEL and another right next to it that said SIN.

  I thought about all the people who had come to Vegas looking for love or money, and what a minuscule percentage of them must have actually found it.

  Robinson appeared at my side, and even though he was finally saying something, it wasn’t anything I was interested in. I’d listen when he explained the kitchen kissing. In the meantime, I’d keep looking at the signs: GOLDEN NUGGET, JOE’S LONGHORN CASINO…

  Then Robinson grabbed my arm and turned me toward him. He said, “The thing about a Boxster is, it eats tires. Especially if you dump your clutch. But since we aren’t in this for long-term ownership…”

  I scrutinized the shoe’s peeling paint. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Robinson sighed, exasperated. “I’m talking about a Porsche, Axi, because we’re taking one.” He pointed to a low black shape a hundred yards off. “It’s an older model, so it won’t have a tracking system. Hard to steal cars that send out little beacons to the LVPD, you know?”

  Finally I looked at him. “We have a car already.”

  “I’m sick of it,” Robinson said. “We need a better one.” He kicked at the tip of the shoe.

  “I don’t want to steal another car,” I said.

  “Oh, my beloved Aximoron—you don’t have to,” he said. He flashed me his beautiful grin, then bounded away.

  I clenched my fists and stared up at the white desert sky. Robinson was crazy—He kisses some girl and then calls me his beloved? What gives?

  There was a screech of tires as Robinson pulled up in front of me. “Get in,” he ordered.

  If I didn’t, would he drive off without me? Honestly, he looked like he might. It was times like these when Robinson seemed like the bad boy my father always claimed he was.

  I barely had my seat belt on before Robinson gunned the engine and peeled out into the street. He was going sixty-five before I even blinked.

  “That’s what I meant by dumping the clutch,” he said calmly. “In case you wondered.”

  I stared out the window, refusing to look at him. “I didn’t,” I said.

  We were heading out of town, leaving the glittering lights and broken promises of Las Vegas behind us. Quickly.

  “Slow down,” I told him.

  Robinson only laughed. “Speed never killed anyone! It’s suddenly becoming stationary… that’s what gets you.”

  I crossed my arms. “Yeah, if a thousand other things don’t get you first,” I huffed.

  But it was Robinson’s turn to ignore me. He began to whistle Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” and he kept on doing it, over and over, until I was ready to beg him to stop.

  Then he saw the flashing lights coming up behind us, and suddenly I didn’t have to.

  21

  OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY appear. That’s what your car’s side mirror will tell you, but I am here to say that the minute you can make out that the object you see is a police car, it is already way too close.

  “Robinson,” I hissed, panic rising in my voice.

  “Maybe they’re not after us,” he said. “I was only going… hmm, twenty miles over the speed limit. Heck, it’s practically a crime to go any slower around here. This is Las Vegas, baby—everything’s legal but good behavior.”

  I could tell by the sound of his voice that Robinson didn’t believe this but wanted me to. He didn’t want me to be afraid. He never had, for as long as I’d known him.

  “Pull over to the right-hand shoulder.” The amplified, crackling voice came through a megaphone mounted on the side of the po
lice car.

  Robinson glanced down at the speedometer as if checking to see how high the numbers went. Like he was wondering if he should try to outrun the guy.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I warned. “Do what the policeman says.”

  “You don’t sound much like Bonnie,” he said reproachfully.

  “For God’s sake, this isn’t a movie. This is life! Pull over!”

  I was reaching for the wheel to yank it to the right when Robinson slowed, flicked on his turn signal as polite as you please, and eased onto the right shoulder.

  “See? I can follow directions,” Robinson said. He tried to keep his tone light.

  But it didn’t matter now. I put my face in my hands. We were caught. I saw the headlines, the court-appointed lawyer, the hideous orange jumpsuit they’d make me wear. Was I old enough to be tried as an adult?

  “It’s going to be okay,” Robinson said quietly.

  Liar, I thought.

  The officer approached Robinson’s window. From my angle I could see only his belt and the soft, round stomach above it. “License and registration,” he said gruffly.

  Not even a “please.”

  “Sir,” Robinson began, “is there a problem?”

  The officer’s hand shot out. “License and registration,” he said again.

  Robinson smiled ingratiatingly. “I believe I was going the speed of traffic—perhaps it was a trifle fast—”

  “License and registration.”

  Robinson turned to me, his eyes wide. “He seems to have a somewhat limited vocabulary,” he whispered, and to my horror, I almost burst into giddy laughter.

  I covered my mouth as Robinson made a show of rooting around in the glove compartment. “It’s in here somewhere,” he said.

  The cop began tapping impatiently on the roof of the car. Then he leaned in and looked at both of us carefully. He had small, mean eyes and an angry mouth. “Not many kids got a car this nice,” he said. “You’d think their folks’d teach ’em how to drive it. But spoiled little rich kids—they don’t listen to their parents much, do they?”

  It was the first time in my life anyone had ever mistaken me for rich.

  “I liked him better when he didn’t talk,” I whispered to Robinson.

  Robinson pulled out the registration and handed it over. The cop inspected it. “License,” he said.

  “Sir, this is all a mistake,” Robinson said. “I’m very sorry for speeding. If you’ll just let us go with a warning, I promise I’ll never do it again.”

  The cop barked out a laugh. “I heard that one before. There’s a sucker born every minute, son, but you’re not looking at one.” He stared philosophically down the highway and then turned back to us. “See, these rich kids,” he went on, his eyes narrow and cold, “if their folks can’t teach ’em things, the law has to. The law just loves to give lessons.”

  Robinson was so used to charming people. I’d seen him talk his way out of detentions, and into a Hollywood party, and everything in between. So now he looked as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But he nodded. “Of course, sir. I understand. I’m going to have to get out, though. I keep my wallet under my seat, and I can’t reach it from in here. May I step out, sir?”

  The cop backed away. Robinson reached over and grabbed my hand. Hard. “Bonnie,” he whispered.

  “What?” I asked. But he was already out of the car, and I could still feel the pressure of his fingers on my skin.

  I saw it all through the window. At first Robinson kept his hands in the air, to show the cop he meant no harm. But the next thing I knew, there was a flash of movement, a grunt, and then a holler of rage.

  Robinson yelled, “Get out, Bonnie, I need you!”

  Without thinking, I obeyed. And that was when I saw the love of my life—car thief, trespasser, and kisser of strippers—pointing a gun in a young cop’s face.

  I nearly fell to my knees. I reached out to the hood of the Porsche to steady myself. The metal of the gun glinted in the desert sunlight. This can’t be happening, I thought. This is definitely a dream or a scene from a movie—or a hallucination or something.

  Robinson half-turned to look at me and, I swear to God, winked.

  My jaw dropped. If I’d thought he was a little crazy before, now I was sure he’d gone utterly insane. Then I saw that tiny smile flicker at the corner of his mouth. That smile I knew better than my own. It said to me: This is all a game, Axi. No one’s going to get hurt.

  I took a step toward them, and I prayed that he was right.

  “I’m really sorry that I have to do this,” Robinson said, turning back to the cop, “but you gave me no choice.”

  The cop’s face was red and glistening. He was silent, full of brutal but impotent rage. He seemed to have lost the power of speech altogether.

  I looked up and down the road, watching for traffic. Never had I been gladder that Robinson stuck to the back routes.

  “Bonnie,” Robinson said, “you take his cuffs and put them on him.”

  Fumblingly, I did as I was told. When I snapped the metal around his wrist, the cop flinched. “I’m so sorry,” I blurted. “Are they too tight? I don’t want them to be too tight, but I don’t exactly know how to work them.”

  The cop merely turned redder in the face.

  Robinson was jittery, like he might jump out of his flannel. Even on a back road, someone could drive by at any moment. “Again, I’m really sorry about this, sir. It’s just that we’re on a mission. We have to keep moving. It’s a life-or-death situation.”

  The red-faced cop cleared his throat like he was going to say something. But then his mouth contorted and opened, and he spit. A whitish glob of mucus landed right on the tip of Robinson’s cowboy boot.

  “Well, that was rude,” Robinson said, sounding shocked.

  As if the cop should be more polite. I wondered if Robinson had somehow hit his head in our fender bender and the blow had knocked his conscience out of whack.

  “You kids have no idea the trouble you’re going to be in,” the cop suddenly bellowed. His anger and his scarlet face frightened me. I could hardly look at him.

  Maybe it wasn’t the cop who was the problem—maybe it was us. The teen outlaws.

  Maybe I was kind of terrified of who we’d so quickly become. We’d just threatened a police officer with his own gun and locked him up with his own handcuffs!

  How had our trip gotten so out of control after I had mapped it out to perfection?

  And why… didn’t I care anymore?

  I suddenly felt exhilarated. Unstoppable. This was the moment to make a real choice about the rest of my life, no matter how afraid I was to do it.

  I steeled myself and dragged my eyes up to meet the cop’s. “We’re not going to get caught,” I said.

  I said it softly but firmly. It was a promise. A prayer. A wish.

  22

  ROBINSON TOOK A STEP BACK FROM THE cop, using the gun to point toward the door of the police car. “Bonnie,” he said to me, “you’re going to need to drive the cruiser.” He turned to the cop. “I haven’t taught her how to drive a stick yet,” he explained.

  By now I was nearly numb with shock, but I climbed into the driver’s seat of the black-and-white. Gas pedal, turn signal, ignition. Everything looked to be in pretty much the same place. Meanwhile Robinson was gently shoving the cop into the back. Thank goodness for the glass between us, because, even cuffed, that guy petrified me. If looks could kill, Robinson and I would have been goners.

  “You gonna be all right?” Robinson asked me, poking his head in the front window.

  I put both hands on the wheel, one at ten and one at two. I tried to seem like I wasn’t having a small heart attack. “Well, there aren’t any parking meters to hit.”

  He gave me a crooked smile. Maybe it was totally inappropriate, but I needed it.

  “Awesome, you’re good to go, then. Now follow me,” he said. He got into the Porsche, drove a little way, th
en took a dirt road off to the left. We followed it for a couple of miles, passing nothing but dirt and scrubby sage.

  I refused to look into the rearview mirror because I could practically feel the death glare the police officer was giving me. I was so on edge from the last fifteen minutes that I knew if I met his eyes I was going to freak out completely, crash, and end up killing us both. I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers were turning white.

  When Robinson stopped, I braked too hard and scrambled out of the car, barely remembering to put it in park.

  “Whoa,” Robinson said, catching me by the elbow as I stumbled toward him. “Everything okay? He’s all locked up in back?”

  “No, I let him out,” I snapped, yanking my arm away. Breathe, Axi. “Sorry. Nerves.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “But—” I glanced at the police car. The cop was sitting motionless in the back, but I thought I could hear him cursing.

  “Someone will find him, don’t worry,” Robinson said, pointing into the distance at what looked like tract houses—or a mirage. Everything was flat all around us. The desert was so empty. There wasn’t even a cactus.

  Robinson took my arm again and led me toward the Porsche. When we were strapped in, he gunned the engine, and we shot out of there in a great cloud of dust that billowed up so high it hid our crime completely.

  “We’ve got to ditch the Porsche,” Robinson said as he pulled onto the main road. For some reason he was heading back into town.

  Suddenly I began to shake. My legs jumped and twitched and even my teeth were chattering. Had we just done what I thought we did? “Robinson—” I said.

  “What?” He looked at me, concerned.

  “I can’t steal a car right now. My nerves can’t take it.”

  “No problem,” Robinson answered. “We can go back to Axi’s Plan A.”

  “I don’t even remember what that is,” I moaned.

  “The bus, of course—petri dish for superbacteria. Because I don’t know about you, darlin’, but I’m just itching for some kind of dreadful infection.” Then Robinson grinned maniacally.