One Week

One Week - By Nikki Van De Car



Prologue



It took me six days to get to New York, and one day to get back. In those six days, I starved, I stank, I hitchhiked, I broke-and-entered, I lost my virginity, I sort of found it again, and I learned that love and hate have a lot in common, really.

In that one day that it took to come back home, I learned that all that I had gone through had no point at all, except for how it meant everything to me.





Day One



“For the love of God, shut up, Bee. How many girls actually have a chance with Thom Derrek? I can't believe you're whining about this.”

I roll my eyes and hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I pick at a chip in my nail polish. For someone who has been my best friend since eighth grade, Julia has a wildly different outlook on things. “Thom Derrek is an a*shole,” I say.

“He's a hot and famous a*shole. And maybe he's not really—I bet his agent just told him to play up the bad boy thing.”

“No, Julia. Trust me, I've been on a date with the guy. He's Grade-A Genuine Dick. But you're still missing the point! Thom Derrek is older, he drinks, he's been caught doing drugs, and he's currently under investigation for being a date rapist! Skipping over the part where you think it's a good idea to date a catch like that, my father invited this guy over to my house and practically shoved me into his lap!” I pick harder at the chip and a fleck of nail polish lands on my lap.

“Okay, with the date rape thing thrown in, that is kind of messed up,” Julia admits. “But your dad probably didn't even know about that. He's a busy guy—it's not like he has time to read the tabloids. And frankly, I don't believe the accusation for a minute. I bet that bitch is just trying to get attention.”

“Julia, please. She's a teen pop star with augmented breasts that are probably not even done growing yet. She gets plenty of attention.”

“Bee, you're a child of Hollywood. Do I need to tell you there is no such thing as enough attention?”

There is for me, but I don't bother telling Julia that.

“Where are you now?” she asks. “It's not even 5:30. Do you want to come over?”

“No, I'm fine. I'm just going to drive around for a while. Cool off, you know? I'll see you at school.” I'm lying. I'm not going to cool off, and I'm not going to see her at school. Ever again, if I can help it.

As I hang up, I wonder again why I even bother talking to Julia about this stuff. She doesn't understand, and never will. And then I remember—there's no one else.

For the record, my name isn't actually Bee. I insisted on the change when I was five and started attending kindergarten and was laughed at for having a dorky name. Explaining to them that Bette Davis was anything but dorky was kind of a waste of time, especially since I'd never seen a single one of her movies and was just repeating my dad.

I realize that some might say that the name Bee isn't much of an improvement, but I was five and it got my point across. Someone messed with me, I stung them. That is, I pinched them.(I may have watched some Muhammad Ali, but not enough to have any idea how to throw a decent roundhouse).

Agreeing to have dinner with Thom Derrek was a test, and my dad failed it. I wanted to see if maybe—just maybe—I was wrong, and he loves me for me, and not as the kind of Paris Hilton successor he's been grooming me to be. Any father with any normal sense of love and responsibility for his daughter would have forbidden me from dating someone like Thom Derrek. My father invites the guy over for cocktails.

I don't even know who my dad is, and he certainly doesn't have the first clue who I am. There's no reason that we would ever have anything to do with each other, except for this bizarre accident of genetics or fate or whatever. I used to fantasize that maybe there was some sort of mix-up at the hospital or something, or my mom slept with the mailman, or the homeless guy on the street—anybody would have been better. But there's no mistaking it—I look just like him. It's the only thing we have in common. I like mayonnaise on my fries, he likes ketchup. I like my privacy, my father wishes we had our own reality TV series. I hate everything about LA, and my father thinks it's the holy land.

I take several deep breaths, like I learned in the one yoga class I made it through. My heart rate is beginning to slow down. Talking to Julia helped—it made everything more normal, but at the same time it highlighted exactly how wrong everything about my life is.

So I'm just going to go. I am. I'm leaving. I'm seventeen years old, and I have a bank account with plenty of funds…that, so far, has never been used on anything but clothes and music, but still. I'm just going to go, and I won't look back.

I'm just not sure where I won't be looking back from.

I'm sitting in a cab and we're stuck on the 405, so I have plenty of time to think about that. I told Mr. Cabdriver to take me to LAX, but it occurs to me that maybe that wasn't the best idea. Then the purchase would show up on my bank statement and my dad could trace the flight and he'd see where I'd gone. It's not like you can just hop off a plane whenever you feel like it. What about trains? Do they still let you get on and off like Ethan Hawke and Julie Delphy did in Before Sunrise? Probably.

“Um, excuse me?” I try and get the cabdriver's attention. “What's the nearest train station?”

The driver glances at the rearview mirror blankly. I guess no one travels by train anymore. “Union Station?” he asks, sounding uncertain. “It's back the other way.” He gestures behind us.

“Okay, that's where I want to go.”

“But it's back the other way,” he says, sounding insistent. I see a sign that the next exit isn't for another four miles, and we're sitting still. As are the cars heading the other way. I shrug.

“Well, that's where I want to go,” I say. “I don't care when we get there.” I pull out my iPod and close my eyes. It'll be a while. I can hear Mr. Cabdriver muttering to himself, but honestly, what does he care? This'll be a huge fare.

Two hours later, we pull up to the curb at Union Station. I hand Mr. Cabdriver the money, and he burns rubber pulling away. I gave him a generous tip, but he still seemed pretty pissed off.

I hoist my giant bag over my shoulder, head for the ticket booth, and get in line.

Watching the same ten people while we all stand in line for twenty minutes is not what I'd call entertaining. There's a mother with a whiny baby—and in need of a diaper change by the smell of things. Behind them is an old woman with a cane and three giant bags that she's doing her best to shove along, but she won't let anyone help her. Okay, she's kind of funny, just because she's so crabby. Does she really think people want to steal her stuff? There's a half-assed Goth geek with cheap home-dye black hair and a ratty-ass duffle bag. He's the most boring of the bunch, because he does absolutely nothing. He doesn't look around, he doesn't roll his eyes, he doesn't check his watch or sigh with impatience or anything. He just stands there, staring straight ahead.

Oh, thank the sweet god of train stations. The old lady is finally moving on, or attempting to, while glaring at the helpful porter. I wish for her sake she'd just pay the guy his ten bucks and grab her cane and give herself a break. At the rate she's moving those bags, she'll miss her train.

Goth Geek is much faster. He has exact change out for his ticket, he knows where he's going, and what platform his train is leaving on. Very well-informed.

Hey, a destination. That's probably something I should have been working out while waiting in line. I take some more deep breaths. I'm so out of it I can't think straight.

The trouble is, there's really nowhere I want to go. I want to be Away From Here, I want to go to Not LA, but that doesn't really narrow things down.

“Miss? Are you ready, or what?” the ticket agent snaps.

I jump, startled, and walk over to the window.

“Um, yeah. I'd like to go to…East. I'd like to go East.” Everything is East of California, right? I can make a more specific decision later.

“You want a USA Rail Pass or a North America Rail Pass?”

“What's the difference?”

The lady rolls her eyes. “You want to go to Canada?”

“Um, no. No, it's cold there.”

“Right. USA Rail Pass. For how many days?”

“Ten?” Solid number, right?

“Fifteen and thirty are your choices.”

“Fifteen.” How long can it take to get someplace so I'd need thirty days? You can fly to Europe in one night.

“That'll be $455.00.”

I hand over my credit card, hesitating only a little. This is it. My dad will see that I've bought this ticket, and he'll know I'm gone, and he won't know where. I square my shoulders. Good. Let him worry.

“Thanks,” I say, taking my card back. “Um, where do I go?”

The agent rolls her eyes again. “Wherever you want. You got a general pass, right? Go find a train and get on it. Next!”

Right. Anywhere I want to go. I just wish I wanted to go someplace.

Florida's nice this time of year, right? Oh wait, no, thunderstorms and hurricanes. Skip that.

The hell with this. I'll just get on a train, and get off where it looks nice—someplace as different from LA as a place could possibly be. Yeah.

I quickly board a train with a flashing “departing” sign—what, no conductor yelling “All aboard”? —and look around for my cabin. To be honest, I'm geeking out a little—I love the idea of sleeping on a train, with the tiny bathrooms and the beds that pull out and Eva Marie Saint comes tumbling down on Cary Grant's head.

A helpful porter walks down the aisle, and I stop him.

“Where's my cabin?” I ask, showing him my ticket.

He looks at it and snorts. “Your cabin? Look, kid, this is a short-distance train; we don't have sleeper cabins. Passenger seats are that way.” He gestures over his shoulder.

“How long until we arrive?”

“Arrive where? We're making lots of stops. Where are you going?”

“The end of the line.”

He looks at me oddly. “About three hours then.”

Okay. Three hours isn't that bad, and that'll probably get me somewhere decently far from here. I look past him at the rows of seats, and all the ones I see are already occupied. There's a little more room than coach on an airplane, but not much.

“Where's first class?” I ask.

“This isn't a first class ticket.”

It's not? Shit, I should've specified. “Well, how can I upgrade?”

The porter shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe the next stop? But we're heading out—excuse me.”

“But—” Damn. I don't want to have to get off and run my card again—it'll look like I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Which is, you know, accurate. People ride in coach all the time. How bad can it be?

I wander down the aisle, hoping to at least find a couple of seats together so I don't need to be squashed up next to someone with troubling personal hygiene. As I keep wandering, my goal changes slightly. I would just like to find a seat. Any seat. I'll try the next car.

And the next. And we're moving now. Shouldn't they wait to start the train until they're certain they have enough seats for everyone?

When I finally find a seat, my shoulder is killing me. I wish smaller bags would come into fashion. I'm about to sit down, when I stop dead.

You're kidding me. This is Goth Geek's train? He glances up at me, and I look away quickly, inexplicably shy. There has to be another seat. I look back, scanning the aisle to see if maybe I missed something. And yes, there is in fact another free seat. And the reason I missed it is because a giant fat man is sitting in most of it. I shift back and forth, debating. I'm small and could probably squish in. Oh yeah, that sounds pleasant. I glance back at Goth Geek, and he looks up and smirks.

“All the room in the world right here, Barbie,” he drawls.

Fat guy it is.

Why is it that men always have to spread their legs so freaking wide? I don't believe there's that much business down there, nor do I believe it all needs that much space. And I get that this particular guy takes up more space than most, but he could still make a tiny effort to give me room enough to sit both butt cheeks down.

I lean against my armrest and pull out my iPod. I close my eyes, and try to zone out to the music. Nothing can bother me; I've got Lady Gaga on my side.

Ow! What the hell? Giant Fat Guy is sitting on me.

“Excuse me?” I say as politely as I can, under the circumstances. “Sir, you're kind of hurting me…”

He grunts and continues shifting around.

“Ouch! Um, mister, could you sit still please?”

He starts digging around in his backpack (and thereby digging his elbow into my side, by the way) and pulls out a bag of chips and a liter of orange soda. Gross. I hate orange soda. One time when I was little I had too much at a birthday party and I puked and the smell has made me nauseous ever since.

Okay, Bee. Focus on the music. Focus on how the train is leaving LA. Focus on how you're skipping school tomorrow and every day for the foreseeable future. Focus on anything but the smell of the orange soda.

The train lurches as it rounds a bend, and Fat Guy drops the orange soda. All over me. Of course.

“Shit!” I yell, and stand up, doing my level best to spill the rest of the bottle on him where it belongs. But it's all gone. All over me and my bag. I'm smaller than him. By a lot. What were the odds that the soda would land on me?

I look at Fat Guy, waiting for the apology. But it doesn't come. He shrugs, and his hand goes back in the chip bag.

Oh God. I think I'm going to be sick. The orange soda smell is inescapable now and it's all over me and it's sticky and…

I run to the bathroom.

I brush my teeth—hey, when you have a bag this big, you have room for everything—and wash my face. I wish I had stopped to grab at least a change of clothes before I left. Usually I have at least an extra top in here, but wouldn't you know the day I run away from home is the day I'm low on supplies. I look down at my top and sigh. It's a thin cashmere halter top, and rinsing it here would ruin it. But then, the orange soda already took care of that, didn't it.

I strip it off, and rinse it in the tiny sink. At least this'll get rid of the smell. I wring it out, and do my best to reshape it into something resembling a shirt. I pull it back on, and glance in the mirror. Oh Jesus.

Why hasn't anybody thought of having a wet T-shirt contest using cashmere? It'd be a big hit.

There's knock at the bathroom door, and I realize that I've been in here for kind of a long time and there are probably people waiting. I turn off the light and open the door—in that order—hoping to keep my nipples to myself for as long as possible. The mother and the little boy who is holding his crotch don't even glance at me. Sorry kid, mine was a soda emergency of a different kind.

I take a deep breath and head toward the seats. A couple of heads glance up, and then a couple more. The twelve-year-old boy in row four starts snickering. I cross my arms over my chest. No way am I sitting next to Fat Guy again. He looks up and now hescoots over to make room for me to sit down. A*shole.

Goth Geek hasn't looked up. He's reading. I make my way over there, and sit in the seat next to him, and bury my head in my arms. I hate trains. I miss Carlos.

“Who's Carlos?”

I look at Goth Geek, surprised. Did using so many chemicals on his head make him psychic?

“You muttered that you miss Carlos? Your puppy or your boyfriend? Or both?”

“He's my dad's driver,” I say reluctantly. Thoughts aren't supposed to be muttered, Bee.

“Aww, what happened? Did the IRS remember you exist and now you have to take the train with the rest of the poor kids?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, that's what happened. And then my dad testified against the mobsters that have been funding his projects and now they're after me and I'm going into witness protection. So shut up and quit drawing attention to me.”

“You're going out of your way to draw attention to yourself,” he says, shrugging.

I glare at him, waiting for a wet T-shirt comment, but it doesn't come. “Shut up and read your book,” I snap.

I put my earphones in and try again to zone out. I wish I'd brought a book.

What's he reading? I try to surreptitiously glance at the book, but it's in tiny print and doesn't have the title printed across the top. With a font size that small I can't even read over his shoulder. God I'm bored.

And I'm cold. Wet cashmere is not exactly comfortable. I fiddle around with my iPod, hoping to distract myself by finding the perfect song to fit the moment. There must be plenty of anger and humiliation anthems to choose from….

I scroll, and I fidget, and I look out the window. LA really is ugly. I pick up my bag and start riffling through it. I'm not looking for anything in particular, really, but you never know—there might be a magazine in there or something.

My elbow bumps into Goth Geek's arm, and he grunts irritably at me. Like I can help invading his personal space in seats this small. I bump into him again, and he sighs heavily and closes his book.

“So where are you headed, Malibu Barbie?”

I shrug uncomfortably. Why do people keep asking this question? Is this the train version of asking about the weather? “I'm going to…” Uhhh…The lack of a destination is killing me. I'm not a go-with-the-flow kind of person. I like having plans, and I like having them way in advance. This whole running away thing is giving me a migraine.

“Yes?” Goth Geek smirks. “It's not a hard question.”

“I'm going to New York,” I blurt. Random, but it sounds good. Yeah. New York is east. And it's large. People go there to get lost all the time. And I kind of know my way around from that time my father tried his hand at producing a Broadway play (it didn't go that well, but he blamed it on New Yorkers being snobs).

“New York, huh? Rich girl goes from one rich city to another. How predictable.”

I glare at him. “Why, where are you going?”

“Oh, New York,” he says easily. “But, you know, I'm from there, so I kind of have to sometimes.”

Oh, so he's from New York, so he thinks he's all tough and cool and knows everything. I give him a closer look out of the corner of my eye. He's older than I thought. College kid, probably—UCLA, by the looks of him. I've seen his type hanging around Book Soup all day, as if just being in a bookstore would lend them some kind of hipster cred.

“Whatever,” I say, and lean my head back against the seat. “I'm just going to sit here, and zone, and when we get to the end of the line I'll be that much closer to New York.”

“Um, okay, but then you'll be in San Luis Obispo, and you won't be able to get a train to New York. I mean, you'll be closer, because it's north, so maybe that's all you're looking for.”

I sit up and stare at Goth Geek. “What? What are you talking about?” Why would a train go somewhere that doesn't connect with New York? Everything connects with New York, right? Also, it takes three hours just to get to San Luis? I could drive faster than that! Or Carlos could, anyway.

“This is the Pacific Surfliner, Barbie. It just goes up the coast. You'll have to get off in Santa Barbara, and take a bus over to San Jose, and then take a train to Sacramento, and then you can get to New York.”

I blink at him. He must be crazy. Or messing with me. “There is no way it takes that much trouble to get to New York from LA. Why would there be trains to New York from Sacramento, but not from LA? That doesn't make any sense.”

“Oh, there isn't a train from Sacramento to New York. Or from LA to New York. You have to take a train to Chicago, and then you can get a train to New York.” Goth Geek grins at me.

What the hell? How many freaking stops are we talking about here? No wonder nobody ever takes the train anymore—just get on a plane, have it go somewhere, and that's that. “Okay,” I say slowly. “Fine. So how come there are trains that go to Chicago from Sacramento, but not from LA?”

“There are,” Goth Geek assures me. “But this isn't that train. You got on a train that goes to San Luis. You could,” he says, shifting in his seat and looking back, “get off the train, and go back to LA, and get yourself on the right train. But then you'd have to admit you have absolutely no idea what you're doing and are a dumbass, and we couldn't have that.”

I dig my fingernails into my palms and close my eyes. I want to scream. Clearly getting on the next train that was leaving was a stupid move. I have absolutely no desire to go to San Luis. I want to get out of California. And no, I have no idea what I'm doing, but if taking some long-ass route (involving a bus, gross) to get to New York is what I'm doing, as it apparently is, then that's what I'll do.

Wait a minute.

“If taking this train to get to New York makes me a dumbass, then what the hell are you?” I demand. “You're on this train, and you're going to New York!”

Goth Geek shrugs. “It was the cheapest way to get there. Not all of us are as quick with our credit cards as you are, Barbie. And I'm not exactly in any hurry.”

I sigh, and realize neither am I. “So I'll get there when I get there,” I say. “Whatever.”

“Well said.” Goth Geek shakes his head, still laughing. “Now, why are you being so chatty? You've been looking down that expensive nose at me since I saw you at the ticket agent.”

I glare at him. “My nose came as is, thank you very much, and I'm not being chatty. You started talking to me, remember?”

“Yeah, but I was just trying to get you to move so I could have the row to myself again.”

I stare at him blankly. Come again?

“The surest way to get someone to not want to talk to you is to start talking to them,” he explains.

“That's why you invited me to sit down before, when I first got on the train?”

“It worked, didn't it? You would rather go sit next to the fat slob than someone who wanted to sit next to you.”

I shake my head. “That's the craziest thing I've ever heard.”

“Like I said, it works.” He looks at me sideways. “But you're not moving, huh?”

“Well, where exactly do you suggest I go?” I gesture around the train car. “There aren't any other empty seats. Believe me, if there were, I'd be sitting anywhere else.”

“My next plan was going to be to spill soda on you, but somebody already beat me to it.”

“Yeah, and he ruined my shirt!” I complain.

“Like you don't have fifty more.” Goth Geek waves his hand dismissively.

“Well, not with me, I don't. It's frigging freezing in here.”

He looks below my throat for the first time—he had been studiously avoiding any chest-glances, which I was surprised by but appreciated—and sees my very prominent goosebumps. He sighs.

“Here,” he says, and digs in his duffle bag. He hands me an old sweatshirt. I eye it distastefully—who knows when it was last washed—but I'm desperate.

“Thank you,” I say as I pull it on.

“Don't spill anything on it,” he says.

* * *



I wake up to Goth Geek shaking my shoulder.

“You got drool on my sweatshirt,” he says.

I hastily wipe my mouth. Ugh, I did drool. Gross. “Sorry.”

“I need it back, anyway,” he says. “We're here.”

Here. Where's here? I sit up and look out the window. Right, Santa Barbara. Scene of many a summer weekend spent at yacht clubs and charity barbecues with my father, as he tried to get me to mingle with the right people and I tried to point out that I was eleven and eleven-year-olds don't mingle. I strip off the sweatshirt and hand it to the geek, who shoves it in his backpack and gets up out of his seat without a word. He walks down the aisle and off the train without looking back. Bye.

I stand up and stretch. My neck feels permanently bent sideways from sleeping in that tiny-ass seat. At least my shirt has dried. It's all stiff and weird-feeling and probably ruined, but it's opaque now, which is really all that matters. I hoist my bag over my shoulder and exit the train. I look around, yawning. Where did Goth Geek say I was supposed to go now?

Oh God. A bus. Right. Do they have first class on buses? Probably not. I stretch out the crick in my neck and contemplate another experience like the one I've just had, only probably worse. Just kill me now.

Or maybe they're not that bad. I mean, it's not like I've ever actually been on a bus before. Could be fun. I start walking over to the bus terminal, trying to bask in my newfound sense of open-mindedness and purpose.

I stop in my tracks. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. A bus to where? I know he said…somewhere. Still in California, I think. San Francisco? I try to think for a moment, but I honestly have no idea. Damn it. Great going, Bee. Way to get yourself all the way to—oooh, Santa Barbara. How daring. What a badass you are.

I shake my head, and try to get that sense of purpose back. I can figure it out. I mean, how hard can it be? New York City—popular destination, right? I'll just go and find a route map or ask an Amtrak worker or whatever. People do this every day. There's probably one of those big boards like in the movies, with the flapping signs as the trains depart, or are delayed, or whatever. Though those always looked pretty confusing, come to think of it.

I walk into the station, and it is immediately clear that there is no big board here. This is a small station, and it's mobbed. I thought the line at Union Station was long? This place has only one teller, and there are about fifty people waiting to see her. I look around for a helpful route-searcher person, but that person does not seem to exist. Amtrak's customer service leaves something to be desired. I do see a stand where there might once have been route maps, but it's empty. And it doesn't look like the beleaguered teller is going to have time to refill it anytime soon.

Someone bumps into my shoulder, and I realize I'm blocking the door. I move over to the side, and bite my lip. This is kind of a problem. Even if I sacked up and got in that line, by the time I got the help I needed, I would probably have missed the stupid bus to wherever-the-hell. Another person bumps into me, and I turn to tell them to back off, when I realize that I'm still in the way. There isn't anywhere that isn't in the way in a place this small and crowded. I see the sign for buses, and decide to go be in the way over there. Maybe inspiration will strike.

Or maybe, I admit to myself, I'll spot Goth Geek and follow him. In a totally subtle, he'd-never-realize-I-was-doing-it kind of way, of course. I round the corner, and jump back—accidentally stepping on the guy behind me's foot in the process.

“Sorry,” I mutter, and peek around the corner. Goth Geek is right there. He's using the payphone and seems mighty unhappy with the person he's talking to. I can't understand what he's saying, it's too loud with all the bus noise, but from the way he's tugging at his fried follicles, the conversation is not going well. He slams the phone down and marches off, using his duffel bag as a weapon, knocking people out of his way.

Great—he'll clear a path, and then he'll get on a bus. I'll get on that bus a casual minute or two later, and everything will be fine.

Except he's not getting on a bus. He's walking out of the station. I scramble after him, and watch, mystified, as he stomps down the sidewalk, heading downtown.

Well, damn. I look agonizingly back at the line for the teller, and scramble to catch up with the Geek. Who is walking incredibly fast. And my feet are killing me; strappy kitten heels do not make for particularly good stalker shoes. I snort at the absurdity of the situation—how did I end up here? Chasing after some random guy so that—joy of joys—I can get on a bus? I don't even know if he's still going to New York! Maybe his angry phone call fight ended with him refusing to go to New York—or being informed that he was no longer welcome there. But if that were the case, he'd be getting back on the train to LA, right? I mean, there's nothing in Santa Barbara. I've been here, I know. Cute little houses that cost millions of dollars, and a ton of antique shops and cafes that charge way too much for a cup of tea. That's it.

So the working theory—as much as I have one, jogging along and looking like an idiot—is that the fight was irrelevant to Goth Geek's travel plans, and the bus just doesn't leave yet, and he's going to do a little sightseeing in the meantime, burn off some of that irritation.

I skid to a stop as Goth Geek ducks into a bar. I roll my eyes—seriously? Not that I'm what you'd call qualified to be the alcohol police or anything, but how cliché can you get? He's got a whole town to wander—not much of one, granted—but instead he's going to head to the nearest bar and get wasted just like every other college dumbass I've ever known. His phone call must have gone even worse than I thought.

I collapse on the curb and kick my shoes off, rubbing my feet. At least this gives me a chance to rest. I check my phone. Two frantic texts from Julia saying that my father called looking for me. And an irate message from my father demanding to know why Thom Derrek had been left alone in our house, and where the hell was I? I guess they've noticed I'm gone.

I consider texting Julia telling her where I am and that I'm okay, but I decide against it. If my dad tries to get it out of her—and he will—she'll fold like a…thing that folds really easily. A fan? A T-shirt?

I rub my eyes. I must be really tired. My brain is speaking nonsense, and my decision-making skills are, shall we say, questionable. I'm also starving. I ran out of the house before we'd started dinner, and it's getting pretty late now. I dig through my bag looking for a snack, but all I come up with is some gum. And it's sugar-free, of course.

I chew it anyway—maybe I can trick my brain into thinking I'm getting some food—and haul my ass up off the curb. I reluctantly put my shoes back on, and peek cautiously in the window of the bar. Yep, there's the Geek, knocking back shots like they're going to run out, and showing no sign of stopping anytime soon. Way to go, dude. I make a note not to sit anywhere near him on the bus in case he pukes.

In the meantime, though, what the hell am I going to do? My un-fooled stomach rumbles agonizingly, but I can't exactly go running off in search of something to eat—Goth Geek could head out at any moment, and I'd have no idea. I look up and down the street desperately, but there's nothing. There's a Motel 6, a seedy-looking dentist's office, and a car repair shop. Not even a magazine stand or a fruit cart. How can that be? How did I end up on the one street in Santa Barbara that isn't selling overpriced food?

There's nothing for it. My stomach will just have to wait. I glare at the Geek through the concrete wall of the bar and try to make myself as comfortable as is possible in a stiff cashmere top, jeans that look good but are just a tiny bit tight when I'm sitting down, and shoes that seem intent on exacting revenge for being walked on.

I stand and wait outside what must be the reekingest bar in Santa Barbara for a full fifteen minutes before the idiocy of my situation really sinks in. Even if by some miracle the Geek emerges in a state fit to get himself back to the station, I could certainly have waited in that line and figured it out for my damn self by then.

I push myself off the wall and march back to the bus station, shaking my head and muttering at my stupidity, the Geek's stupidity, and the stupidity of the population of Santa Barbara, just on principle. When I get back, it seems like the line has somehow grown longer, if such a thing were possible. I shift back and forth on my heels, and try to imagine myself someplace else. Like a massage table.

When I finally get up to the teller and ask her if she could please tell me what bus I take to get to whatever train it is I take to get to Chicago to get to New York, she looks at me with disbelief.

“Do you see that there are fifty people behind you?” she asks. “Tell me what ticket you want and I'll sell it to you.”

“I don't need a ticket,” I explain. “I already have a rail pass, I'm just not quite sure how to use it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Do I look like a route planner to you, ma'am? There are maps over there at the kiosk. Next!”

Ma'am? “The maps are all gone. Could you please just tell me how to get to New York? I'm sure it sounds insane—you can't possibly only get to New York by taking a bus—but that's what somebody—some idiot—told me and I really don't know where to go, so can you please help me? Please?” I feel a blush rising as I babble, but really, I'm desperate. And I've waited in this line for a long time. I'm not going to just walk away, I'll beg if I have to.

The teller really looks at me for the first time and sighs. “I'm sorry. I don't take the trains, I just sell the tickets. This is a small station. Trains are being rerouted from Ventura so we're unusually overloaded today. There's a station attendant who could help you, but he's off sick today. I wish I could tell you how to get where you're going, but I really have no idea.”

My heart sinks. “Okay,” I say. “Sorry. Thanks for your help.”

I turn to go, and she calls “Next!” I'm sure the next person knows where they're going. I check my phone. It seems I waited in that line for half an hour. I suppose it's possible that there's still time before the bus leaves. I didn't see the Geek come back, and I had a pretty good line of sight on the door.

I wish I could think of any other way.

I walk back to the bar, wincing with every step, determined to haul the Geek out onto the street and beat him until he coughs up the route. But when I'm half a block away I see him walk out of the bar and shield his eyes from the streetlight.

And then he trips over his own feet and falls down.

I watch as he tries to get up, and falls back down again. It would be funny, except for how I'm hungry, I'm tired, and if it's time to get on the bus—and it had damn well better be, because anything would be better than this—then I'd like the dumbass that fate has made me dependent on to get me on that stupid freaking bus so this ridiculous and humiliating experience can be over with.

“All right, Geek, on your feet,” I say as I haul at his shoulders—I'm tempted to use his hair, but you never know, it might be so burned by cheap hair dye that I'd just pull it out. “Let's go, we have a bus to catch.”

He peers blearily up at me. “Barbie? What the hell you still doing here?”

I pull harder, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my empty stomach. “Up,” I say firmly. “Bus. Now.”

He gets up and leans against me unsteadily as he looks down at his watch. “No. No, no, no, Barbie. No bus now,” he slurs. “Bus long gone. No bus for Barbie.”

I shove him off me and he falls down again, giggling to himself. I take him by the shoulders again and shake him. “Are you still going to New York? When is the next bus?” I want to shake him harder, but I'm afraid he'll puke on me.

“No place else to go but New York,” he shrugs. “Tomorrow morning. Bus tomorrow morning.”

I want to scream. Tomorrow morning? What the hell am I supposed to do until then? I look down and resist the urge to kick him. “What bus?” I demand. “Where is the bus going?” Because I'll be damned if I'm going to follow this a*shole around for another second.

He looks up at me, confused. “New York? Aren't I going to New York? We just talked about this.”

“No, you said the bus goes somewhere, and then from there you take a train to Chicago, and then to New York, remember? So where does the bus go?”

His face is blank. Of course it is. I'm going to kill someone. Preferably him.

The hell with it. I'll just go to the Canary Hotel, have some of my favorite mac & cheese and chickpea fries, and I'll figure this all out in the morning. I shove the Geek back onto the sidewalk, and start to look around for a cab. But then I stop.

I can't go to the Canary Hotel. If I use my credit card, my dad will see the charge, and he'll get on his stupid plane and he'll be here before I even have a chance to finish checking in. He called ten times while I was waiting out here, and each message was more and more irritated. I finally had to turn my phone off. I pull out my wallet and check my cash level. $15. Well, that's definitely not going to pay for a room at the Canary. I look back at Goth Geek, who is currently sitting on the curb with his head between his knees. I walk over there and shove him forward and pull his wallet out of his back pocket. He has eighty bucks. I eye the Motel 6 across the street warily.

“I think that's my wallet,” he says.

“Shut up,” I tell him. Are those places sanitary? I mean, are we talking motel-where-truckers-get-some-shut-eye, or motel-where-hookers-go-to-die?

I sigh heavily. Whichever it is, it's not like I have much choice. I look down at the Geek, and sigh again. Not like I have much choice there, either. I haul him to his feet, sling his arm over my shoulders, and pull him across the street. At least the motel won't object to a drunk guy in their lobby—they're probably used to it.

As it happens, the clerk gives him a sideways look, but I smile brightly and he takes the cash readily enough. Bastard gives us a room at the very end of the long hallway though. My shoulders are aching from holding up the Geek by the time we get there. I fiddle with the stupid key card, and when I finally get the door open, the Geek stumbles through and falls down again. I'm tempted to leave him there, but the door wouldn't close if I did. I kick him gently in the side, and he rolls over.

“Get up,” I say, and point at one of the beds. “Go pass out over there.”

He looks over at the bed, shakes his head, and curls back up on the floor. “Too far. Comfy here.”

I bang the door into his side. “You can't stay here.”

He glares at me and crawls over to the bed, but he can't quite get himself up on it. Unbelievable.

“You're pathetic,” I say. I crouch over him and reach my arms around his waist to shove him up on the squeaky bed. Who needs weight-lifting when there's drunk-lifting?

As the Geek snores, I look at our remaining cash, and shrug. Enough for a pizza delivery, anyway. I use the flier the motel has so helpfully tucked next to the phone, and order a pizza from “Three Brothers from Italy.” The voice that answers the phone is clearly Hispanic, but whatever.

While I'm waiting, I look around the motel room. It's not that bad, I guess. It's kind of dim, and the furniture is cheap, and the painting on the wall is incredibly tacky, but it does seem to be clean. Mostly. I sniff the sheets suspiciously. I did specify a non-smoking room, but it totally smells like smoke in here.

When the pizza arrives, I wave a slice temptingly in front of the Geek's nose, but he barely stirs. Probably for the best—I'd much rather the smell of smoke than the smell of vomit. I eat until I'm full and flick through cable until I fall asleep.