Compromised

by Heidi Ayarbe

  “I just don’t talk a lot. Not about the stuff you’d be interested in, anyway.” Plus it’s only a little over two hundred fifty miles. A billion is a bit hyperbolic.

  “Like you would know what I’d be interested in.” Nicole bites her lower lip and mutters, “I’m not stupid. I can actually hold a decent conversation.” She turns and keeps walking. She is so exhausting.

  “Okay, okay. Sorry. It’s just I’ve never been one of those best-friends-forever people, you know?” Most people don’t get that it’s nice to be quiet—that every second doesn’t have to be filled with hot air.

  I listen to the crunch of our shoes on the gravel. “I’ve never actually had a best friend,” Nicole finally says. “I mean, how do people get to be best friends, anyway? You know all those BFF necklaces and shit like that? I never got it.”

  I puff on my cold fingers. “It’s actually under debate.”

  “What?” Nicole asks.

  “Friendship,” I say. “Darwin said it had to do with self-interest. People are attracted to each other based on what they can get out of each other. A scientist named George Williams, though, came up with the theory that friendship in the most genuine sense aids in the process of natural selection because it makes people healthier and all that stuff. I think it’s probably a little bit of both, you know?” I clap my hands on my thighs, trying to get my legs to warm up, too. “And all those friendship gimmicks—well, that’s pretty much marketing. Personally, I think it’s pretty crappy to make people feel obligated to express friendship with things. It doesn’t seem congruent with the essence of the idea.”

  Nicole pulls out a cigarette and laughs. “You’re about as big a geek as they come.”

  I swallow and walk ahead. For some reason that really stung.

  Nicole follows me, puffing and inhaling carcinogens until the butt almost singes her skin. “C’mon, Jeopardy. I didn’t really mean it in a bad way. It was actually pretty cool to hear about friendship like that.” Nicole flicks her cigarette onto the highway. Orange ashes die and dance on the snow.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “Ah shit,” she says, and scoops up the butt from the snow. “I guess it just takes getting used to you. The way you talk. Really.”

  I’ll give her that. I’ve always been good at science, bad at people.

  “So,” Nicole says, “we don’t have to be BFf or anything. But maybe we can talk a little more. Just to pass the time. It’s colder than fuck out here and it’d be nice to have a distraction.”

  We walk down the road for about twenty minutes before Nicole stops. She turns to me. “So here are the rules: No questions. We pick a theme of the day and just tell what we want or think about it.”

  “Fine by me.” I keep walking. “What’s today’s theme?” I feel like we’re in kindergarten.

  “I dunno. You pick. I’ll pick tomorrow.”

  I pause and think about kindergarten. “How about like doing a show-and-tell. We can talk about something we have with us. That’s easy enough.”

  Nicole nods. “Sounds good.”

  “You go first. Whoever picks the theme goes second.”

  “Good rule.” Nicole pulls out a ratty map of the United States from her coat pocket—kept in a tattered plastic bag. It’s on top of a pile of postcards, a playing card, and the prescription pill bottle. At least now I know where she keeps the pills. Plan B. I shake the thought away and look at the map that Nicole shows me; the creases are paper thin and some spots have been taped up. The edges are curled in and fuzzy.

  Nicole smiles. A real smile. Her eyes, too.

  I hold out my hand, and Nicole hands me the map. I’m careful not to pull on it, sure it’ll disintegrate. There are green dots on different cities.

  “What are the dots?” I ask.

  She points to the postcards. “They’re places my dad’s lived and traveled. Here’s Chicago.” She points to a green dot. “That’s where he is now. See?” She points to the postcard that says “You’d love it here” in scrawled man writing.

  “Why don’t you go live with him?”

  She shrugs. “He’s kind of hiding, I think. He works for some people, you know?” She smiles, emphasizing the “some people.”

  “Sure,” I guess. I look at the postcard. “It’s dated last week.”

  She nods. “Just got it. It’s like a sign I got this just when you—”

  “Is that where you want to go? Chicago?” I ask.

  “Anywhere’s better than Reno,” she says. “But, yeah, Chicago’s good.”

  “Is this place better than Reno?” I look down the highway and its scattered cars and trucks. Black exhaust billows from the tailpipe of an old Chevy. We cough.

  “Even here,” she says, looking around.

  I motion to the postcards in the bag. “They’re all from your dad?”

  “Yep.” She seems proud about it. I would be, too, I guess. Real letters from somebody who cares.

  “What do they say?”

  “Postcard stuff,” she says.

  Pretty vague.

  “What about your mom?” I ask.

  “No questions,” she says, her eyes getting dark. “What’s your thing?”

  “Okay.” I think for a bit, then unclasp the locket and open it up. “That’s my mom,” I say, pointing to the girl on the right. “And that’s my aunt. Her name’s Sarah. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I don’t remember her. I don’t know if she even cares about me. But the only way to find out is by following this stupid box of clues, starting with Boise.”

  “Wouldn’t it just be easier to call?”

  “Complicated. That’s what I was looking up at the library. She’s got a different last name—Jones. About as generic in the name department as they come. So…until I figure out a better way to find her via the net, Boise’s my best shot. At least somebody there will know her. Plus I needed to get away.”

  “Don and Cherry?” Nicole asks.

  “Yeah. They kinda freaked me out.”

  Nicole laughs. “They’re not really so bad. Just a bit over the top when it comes to God, Jesus, and all that salvation shit.”

  “Did you live with them?”

  “Nah. But I know a couple of kids who did. One got sent back to Kids Place because she peed on their family Bible.”

  “Oooh,” I say.

  Nicole shrugs and looks at the picture again. “You look a lot like her—like both of them. So what happened to your mom?”

  I close the locket and put it back around my neck. “No questions. Your rule.” I don’t feel like playing the 101-ways-your-mom-can-die game. My head feels fuzzy and throbs from the coffee overdose.

  Nicole nods. “No questions.”

  We continue walking. “Well, that killed about five fucking minutes.” Nicole kicks a rusty can off the side of the road. “Christ. It’s only nine twenty-two.”

  I sigh.

  Nicole shrugs. “You think we’ll get a ride sometime?”

  “Yeah. Sometime.”

  “Well, stick out your thumb, because, Goddamn, it’s cold out here.”

  We don’t have to wait long. A lady with Coke-bottle glasses picks us up in an old station wagon.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The lady drops us off a few miles down the highway, like suddenly she decides picking up two random hitchhikers isn’t such a good idea.

  It probably isn’t.

  We look around. She leaves us on the shoulder, then turns off the highway where there’s a cluster of houses. We watch as her broken taillight sputters and blinks. Her car becomes a dot on the horizon.

  I smell my clothes. “I reek. Mold, mothballs, potpourri, and BO.”

  “I’d kill for the perfume department at Macy’s right now.” Nicole sniffs and scowls. “What’s the deal with BO, anyway?”

  I open my mouth and Nicole holds up her hand. “Rhetorical, okay?”

  I nod.

  “You know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?”
>
  “Why we have BO.”

  I shrug. “Kinda.”

  Nicole shakes her head. “Save the science talk for later. You’re so random,” she mutters.

  I don’t get it. I don’t get her.

  Nicole fidgets and gnaws on her nails. “Fuck, I could use a smoke.”

  I could use some Pepto. But it looks like we’re both out of luck.

  I listen to Nicole talk all afternoon until we get to a town called Battle Mountain, Nevada. Right off Highway 80. The name of the town doesn’t sound familiar, so I pull out the map.

  “Oh crap.”

  “Oh crap what?” Nicole asks.

  “We should’ve changes routes. Back at Winnemucca. Gone to US Ninety-five.”

  “So?”

  “So now we’ve gone way out of the way.”

  “So we take the scenic route. No biggie.” Then she starts talking about some guy named Domenico Raccuglia. She’s white noise—like a radio that you forget is on. At least I’m getting used to it.

  I watch her. I doubt Nicole’s mouth has ever run out of batteries. At a 7-Eleven on the outside of town Nicole steals a couple of hot chocolate packets. We fill Styrofoam cups we find in the garbage with tepid water from the gas station tap and stir the chocolate with our filthy fingers.

  “Do you, um, ever feel bad about stealing?” I ask.

  “Do you ever feel bad about eating?” Nicole asks between slurps. She licks the last of her chocolate from the cup.

  I stare at my cup. It has a red lipstick stain. My stomach turns. I suppose it would sound ungrateful to tell her that styrene is seeping into our fat cells as we drink, opening us up to a slew of health problems including the big C.

  But the chocolate tastes so good. I swallow it down, clumps of powder sticking to my teeth. Food first. I’ll deal with the carcinogenic effects later.

  Funny. Three days ago you wouldn’t have caught me touching Styrofoam, much less drinking from it. Back in the elementary birthday party days, when I got invited—occasionally—I’d bring my own cup just in case the family wasn’t eco-conscious.

  We leave the bathroom and my stomach feels a little better. I tuck my hands into my coat sleeves and walk behind Nicole down the road. It’s too dark to hitch, and we have to find a place to sleep for the night.

  We find the bus station and hide behind an old Dumpster. I wonder how far out of the way we’ve gone. At least a hundred miles. I look at the map again. We’ll go to Wells, then north on US 93. Probably better than backtracking to Winnemucca. Crap. Crap. Crap.

  I lean my head against the freezing metal of the Dumpster. It seems like any sleeping arrangements on the street have to do with trash and transportation. I sigh and close my eyes, drifting to sleep.

  “So what do you expect out of all this?” Nicole asks, jerking me awake.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you think this aunt will just open her arms wide and say, ‘Come and be the daughter I never had’?” Nicole says.

  That was hypothesis one—pre-Nicole. “Is that what you expect from your dad?” I say.

  “Jealous?” she says. “At least I know where he is.”

  I am jealous, but I don’t say anything. I wonder if her dad will take us both in. Now that’s a ridiculous hypothesis.

  Nicole keeps talking. I come back to her voice when she’s saying, “If she gave a rat’s ass about you, you’d have a collection of American Greetings birthday cards with crisp five-dollar bills tucked inside. Well?” She raises an eyebrow and looks me up and down. She likes using snail mail as a proof of love. So she has some postcards. Big deal.

  “Well what?”

  “Have you even been listening?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t have time before Nicole repeats, “What do you expect?”

  “I guess I haven’t thought about it.” Big lie. That’s all I think about.

  “So we’re going four hundred miles hitching, freezing our asses off for something you haven’t thought about?”

  “More like five fifty,” I mutter.

  “I didn’t ask you to come along.”

  “You’re so—” Nicole starts to say.

  “So what?”

  “So fucking green. You probably think that if you click your heels, you’ll end up at home with somebody named Auntie Em. Jesus, Jeopardy, for being so smart, you’re about as retarded as they come.”

  “And you? So you have a bag of postcards and a map. A Mafia dad on the run.” I scrape some muck off my jeans. “At least I’m doing something about—”

  “About what?”

  “About my life. I’m not waiting around for somebody to make my decisions.” I pull my legs to my chest and pile on old supermarket ads for blankets. I cough—my throat itches.

  “So you’re my inspiration. A regular James ‘Whitey’ Bulger,” she says. “I’m just not gonna make a movie out of you.”

  “Huh?” I ask.

  Nicole rolls her eyes. “It’s like I have to explain everything to you. Bulger. The Departed. Jack Nicholson.”

  I close my eyes and refrain from saying, “Now look who’s random.”

  “Anyway, if you can find family, why can’t I? Especially since mine is a lot easier to find. I don’t have to chase a box of paycheck stubs and letters.”

  “So go to Chicago and live happily ever after with your dad.”

  Nicole shrugs. “I will.”

  At least her dad gets me off the hook. I’ve gone through a bazillion hypotheses in my mind, and they all end up with me alone. Without Nicole. And I’m okay with that. I look at Nicole. She’s right. I only care about my plan. But what’s wrong with that? Looking out for myself?

  When did everything get so complicated?

  Nicole is chewing on her fingernail. “Well, it’s not like I have an address. How will I find him in Chicago? Should I just hang out at the Sears Tower waiting for him to drop by?”

  “So look in a phone book.” All I want to do is sleep.

  “He’s probably changed his name a thousand times by now. I can’t look up ‘Nicole’s Dad.’”

  I sit up, causing an avalanche of supermarket ads. “And this is my problem how?” I feel weighed down by her and then guilty for feeling that way.

  “We’re a team, right? Cosa Nostra?” Her arms are wrapped around her body now, like she’s hugging herself. “We’re in this together. Remember the rules.” She almost sounds hurt.

  I sigh. “Listen, Capone, I’m just trying to find a way to get to eighteen, okay? Finish high school and go to college. I just need to make it to eighteen. If I can do that at an aunt’s house in Boise, Idaho, or Wherever, U.S.A., I will. You can do the same. Get on the internet. Find your dad. Whatever.”

  “So you can use me, then throw me away. Like trash.”

  “How have I used you?” I ask, settling back against the wall.

  “You’ve been eating, haven’t you? Oh, the self-righteous morally correct won’t shoplift. No. But she’ll reap the benefits of it.”

  “I could shoplift, too. It doesn’t take a genius.”

  “It takes skill. I’m not a hack lifter. I take pride in my work.” Nicole moves away from me. “Fuck, it’s cold. What day is it?”

  “Thursday, November twelfth?”

  “I would have to pick the coldest fucking winter to run away. Christ.” Nicole puts her hands in her pockets.

  Technically it’s still fall, but I don’t say anything. My throat itches, and I say, “I need cough drops or something. Maybe NyQuil. Yeah. That would be good.”

  Nicole rolls her eyes. “Add it to our shopping list next to your lotion-scented triple-ply Charmin.”

  I swallow back a reply and close my eyes, wishing I could shoplift everything I needed; kind of wishing I was more like my dad. He wouldn’t be sleeping behind Dumpsters. My lids burn against the pupils and I rub them until I fall asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I run through the plan of the day in my head. I have to stay true to
the purpose, follow the procedure. That’s what I need to modify. I take out the MapQuest map I printed in Reno.

  Purpose: Find a way to get to Aunt Sarah quicker

  Hypothesis: If I can find Aunt Sarah’s exact location, I can call collect and avoid another couple hundred miles living on the streets.

  Materials: MapQuest map, Nevada library card, Mom’s box, a bigger library—maybe one in Elko, a public pay phone

  Procedure:

  1) Get to a library

  2) Reread Aunt Sarah’s letters to my mom to see if I missed any specifics

  3) Search Boise databases for Sarah Jones

  4) Get her phone number

  5) Call

  6) Then what? I have to think about what I’ll say. I’ll figure it out, though.

  Variables: Aunt Sarah: Does she still live in Boise? Will I find her number? Box: Will it have more clues as to where I can find Aunt Sarah?

  Constants: Me, Nicole

  I think through the experiment again. I don’t know if Nicole should be classified as a constant or not. Other than that, though, everything’s pretty foolproof—precise. Not much can go wrong with it. We just need to find the library.

  I take out the letter with the flower.

  “It’s pretty,” Nicole mumbles. I didn’t realize she was awake.

  “Yeah.”

  “I wonder what flower it is,” she says.

  I shrug. “We could look it up.”

  Yeah. Like I really need to spend my time looking at flowers. It seems anything can throw me off course. It’s hard to keep things on track. It’s hard to think about what I’m really supposed to be doing when my stomach aches. I’m getting pangs—the contractions last about thirty seconds, then subside.

  I’m hungry.

  “What’s the theme?” Nicole asks, lighting up a cigarette. She found a half-smoked one on the street. At least she’s recycling them now.

  I swallow down some saliva and debate about whether I should suck on some snow. I scoop some from a drift near the road. It’s black from exhaust. Better not. “Your pick today,” I say. We’re taking a break, lying on our packs behind some thick sagebrush bushes. I close my eyes and soak up what little warmth I can.