We’re really doing this—skipping school today and tomorrow, driving back on Monday (a well-timed teachers in-service day). Before Juliette can change her mind, I step out of the car and roll her luggage toward my open trunk. “You look like Grace Kelly,” I say, hoisting it inside next to my carry-on. She was searching through Grace Kelly images on my laptop the other night, and today she’s wearing a gray scarf of similar color to the one in Ms. Kelly’s bio picture.
Her thank-you is followed by a short period of silence and then a nose crinkle. “I thought you were asleep when I was googling her.”
“Same here.”
The good news is she’s still climbing into the passenger seat.
Once I’m back in the car, my seat belt snapped in place, she turns to me with renewed tolerance.
“Grace Kelly could really use some Starbucks, if that’s okay.”
Her belated way of telling me she approved of the compliment, and it’s better belated than never.
“Prince Kelly of Monaco could go for some caffeine, too,” I reply, pointing to myself and putting the car in gear. Her eyes dance with mine for a too-brief second before she places a huge pair of sunglasses over them. She knows I know that’s not his actual name, or his British accent, right? If not, oh well—got what I wanted out of it: a start to this road trip, maybe even a promising one, if I do say so in spite of myself.
Juliette
ABRAM LOOKS DORKY-CUTE with his hat on backward, his hair sticking out the sides and still damp from the shower. His overall scent is dryer-sheet fresh; wish I could say the same for his car, which smells like a dead french fry.
“Didn’t have time to shave,” he says, his long fingers rubbing the dusting of stubble on his chin.
“Hadn’t noticed,” I say, cracking my window.
Too harsh. Try again.
“You can pull it off, sort of.”
“So you’re saying you like it?” he ventures, glancing over at me as he puts the car in reverse.
Yes. But can I be honest about that?
“As long as it doesn’t turn into a scruffy beard and a part-time job at the Apple store,” I allow, removing an air freshener from my purse and tying it around the knob of my closed vent.
Who would’ve imagined there’d be a beachside sequel to Prescription for Love? Not I, says the pill-popping Grace Kelly wannabe who could’ve sworn she quit the industry a few weeks ago. Not my dad, after I mentioned the trip to him in passing, hollering out the details as I walked by his office. He wasn’t amused, went so far as to threaten canceling his credit card that’s been making itself at home in my purse the last three years. I was proud of him for standing up to me, via e-mail. Still feeling guilty about not replying, and for leaving him to his barely operational devices.
Are we there yet?
Close, we’re just now crawling by Abram’s house. He’s checking on his mom one last time, anxiously clicking his tongue. Their yard looks good, like the people inside the house care; Abram mowed it last night, in the dark. Washed her car again, too.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
“She’s … still getting used to the idea.”
“Of hating me?”
I immediately hate myself for the question, and the guilt in my voice. It doesn’t take a boy to realize this getaway of ours has “crazy girl” written all over it; it takes a mom concerned enough to pay attention. Jesus, I think she just sent him a text. I can’t bear the thought of her standing there, helplessly texting through the window. So I don’t. I take out my phone and start deleting productivity apps. I feel like a terribly productive person.
ABRAM
MY MOM’S LAST WORDS to me before I drove off into the sunrise didn’t sound like her, so I suspect she borrowed them from my outspoken aunt Jane: “If you two high school seniors want to pretend you’re all grown up now, then when you get back, we’re going to sit down and have an awkward meal together with lots of forced conversation … like real adults do.” The text she just sent as I was driving by the house was more her style: Still worried but sorry for going all “Aunt Jane” on you. Have fun—that’s the most important thing, right? I love you, be careful, text me when you get there!!!
Juliette
“MY MOM DOESN’T HATE YOU,” Abram insists, sliding his cell back into his pocket. “She just wants to meet you.”
I look up from my phone. I promised him that, didn’t I?
“Not ready yet,” I tell him, looking back down. If only Suzy Morgan could be aware of my intention to never become pregnant with a baby alien, without me making good on that face-to-face … she’d probably still be a hater. But surely she knows her son wouldn’t create something sexual out of thin air. Then again, he’s pretty excited about this trip.
“Here,” I say, handing Abram my Starbucks Gold Card as he rolls up to the glowing menu. He takes me to the best drive-thrus, often. Now he’s looking around for his already-missing wallet, running his hand underneath his seat, emerging with a beautiful bouquet of crinkly straw papers. For me? The employee manning the loudspeaker manages to thank us for choosing Starbucks, even at this hour, and then asks for our order.
“Your usual?” Abram asks me.
I’ve developed this unfortunate habit of leaning over him and ordering for myself. Doing it again, trying to yell out as politely as possible, still sounding like a swashbuckling lady truck driver. Abram pulls up to the window, pays with my card, and hands me one of my two drinks, placing the other in the cup holder beside his; I put his straw in for him, finding our early-morning synchronization to be quite scary.
I hand him his wallet and ask him to pull up beside the bench in front of the store.
He looks over to make sure I’m serious. “The one with the dead homeless lady on it?”
“Yes, that’s Claire … I think.”
Last week she preferred Georgette.
18
ABRAM
JULIETTE HIDES MY WALLET AGAIN, this time where I can see it, before opening her window and shouting, “Claire!” The woman jumps up from the bench and walks over to the car, quicker than she looks. Juliette holds out one of her two ventis and says, “Morning,” minus the good in front of it. Claire mutters an “Mm-hmm” in response, clearing the cobwebs from her eyes. Looks like she’s got some on her clothes, too, but those are less of a concern. She takes the coffee from Juliette’s hand and says, “You’re so sweet to me, girly.”
“You can do better,” Juliette insists. She waits for Claire to take her first sip before asking if the coffee’s strong enough. Claire waves her hand back and forth like a connoisseur not quite ready to commit. Juliette hands her ten dollars, explaining she’ll be gone for a few days.
“Excuse me?” Claire asks, like a homeless mother figure caught off guard. “Where to?”
“The beach.”
“With him?”
“What’s wrong with him?” Juliette demands, which makes me smile.
Claire puts her hand over her eyebrows, trying to get a better criticism vantage point. I’d tip my cap in her direction, but it’s on backward, so I just nod.
“Cute,” Claire admits to Juliette. “Smiles a lot, though.”
“Somebody has to,” Juliette says. Claire forgets about me and begins talking about the ladies she plays bingo with at the church. Juliette’s finger points forward, beneath where Claire can see, indicating I should drive away from the story.
“You help homeless dogs and people?” I can’t resist bringing this up as I’m merging onto the highway slowly, but not too slowly, trying not to scare her as she tenses and tightens her seat belt.
“Claire’s my last one.” Then, looking more amused, she adds, “My dad thinks she’s faking her homelessness.”
“Really? Never thought of that.”
“Good, that means you’re not crazy.”
“What do you think?”