One Week

Day TWO



When I wake up, it's barely light out. I groan and roll over. The Geek snored so freaking loud all night long, there was just no chance of my getting any sleep. The couple having sex next door didn't help either, though at least they quit after an hour or so. The Geek kept at it all night long. I sigh heavily and get up to go take a shower. The lock on the bathroom door is broken, and I eye it suspiciously. The Geek is still snoring (though at least it's at a reasonable volume now), but he could be faking it. I sniff my armpit and make a face. I'll have to take the risk.

I shower quickly, though. For one thing, the water pressure sucks, and it's not what you'd call particularly hot, either. I hold up my still stiff and scratchy shirt and wrinkle my nose. I wish I had enough cash to buy some clean clothes. Apparently running away goes better if you do a little advance planning. Who knew? I don't even want to talk about putting on yesterday's underwear.

I walk out of the bathroom feeling a little better than I did, though, and poke the Geek in the shoulder. I needn't have worried about the lock—he still hasn't moved. I poke him harder, but still don't get a response. I resort to shaking.

“What?” he mumbles.

“We have a bus to catch,” I say loudly.

He opens one eye and looks up at me. “Barbie? What are you doing here?” He opens the other eye and looks around the room. “Where's here?”

“We're at a motel,” I explain patiently. “Where I dragged your drunk ass after you made us miss our bus.”

I watch him try to work that out. “How did I make you miss the bus?” he asks. “I remember going to the bar. And…that's it. I don't even remember seeing you after we got off the train.”

“That's because people who can't hold their liquor shouldn't drink like Prohibition is coming back,” I say sweetly. I reach into the pizza box and grab a leftover slice. “Pizza?”

The Geek pushes himself semi-upright and looks at the pizza uncertainly. “I think…not.” He rubs his temples. “What time is it?”

I glance over at the alarm clock. “Seven fifteen.”

He looks at me incredulously. “And you woke me up because?”

I shrug. “We missed one bus. I have no idea what time the next one is leaving, and I'm not risking missing it. If you're not going to eat the pizza, hurry up and get moving. Unless you know when the next bus is?”

The Geek shakes his head, and immediately looks like he regrets it. “I don't know. I wasn't really thinking that clearly yesterday.” He rolls off the bed and stands—kind of wobbly, but he stands. “Let me just…figure out if I need to puke, and we'll go.” He holds on to the wall as he makes his way to the bathroom.

I hear the water running, but no heaving, thank God. He comes out ten minutes later looking much less like death.

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. “So you got me here last night?”

I nod, smirking a little. He owes me.

“Right. Thanks. What's your name?”

“Bee,” I say, and silently dare him to make a comment about it, but he just nods.

“I'm Jess. Thank you, Bee, for getting me here last night.”

“You're welcome.” I try to think of ways I can milk this, but there aren't really any I can think of. Though if he starts mocking my inability to navigate train travel again, I'll shut him the hell up. “Can we go now?”

He nods. “Might as well.” He looks around the room. “Where's my duffel bag?”

Um. “I don't know,” I say.

Jess sighs heavily. “Damn.”

“Well, it's not like I could've carried you and the giant bag…” I say defensively.

“No, no,” he waves me off. “It's not your fault. I probably left it at the bar anyway. I just have no idea where that is.”

I smile with relief. I mean, it wasn't my responsibility to watch out for his bag, but I do feel kind of bad that I forgot all about it. “It's right across the street. But,” I bite my lip. “They're probably closed, don't you think?”

He frowns. “Probably.”

“We'll go check just in case,” I say comfortingly. I don't know why I'm feeling all this sympathy for the guy, but I just can't imagine losing my bag. My phone, my iPod, my wallet, my gum—I need these things. They're my security blanket. They're also all I have.

I wince as I strap my sandals on over my broken blisters, and snag a slice of pizza for the road. Jess looks like he's reconsidering whether he's going to be sick, so I don't offer again. He waits patiently while I check out, and we cross over to the bar I sat outside for so long yesterday.

Unsurprisingly, it's locked up. On the other hand, Jess's bag is lying across the doorway.

“I guess the bartender must have liked you,” I say, amazed.

“Or he didn't give a shit if my stuff got stolen,” he grumbles as he slings the bag over his shoulder. Kind of a glass-is-half-empty attitude, considering.

I limp as fast as I can, trying to keep up with Jess as we walk back up the hill to the train station. He glances down at my feet and stops. He drops his bag on the sidewalk and starts riffling through it.

“Here,” he says, and tries to hand me a pair of kind of cruddy, way too big flip-flops. “Put these on.”

“I don't think—” I begin, eyeing them distastefully.

“Your feet are bleeding,” Jess says. “And who are you looking to impress?” He waves a hand around the empty street. I shake my head and take another few steps, wincing. I look back at Jess, who continues to patiently hold out the flip-flops. All right, fine.

I actually walk even slower in the flip-flops, I have to shuffle so much to keep them on, but at least my feet don't hurt. I feel like an idiot, though.

I don't feel like such an idiot when Jess announces that our bus leaves in fifteen minutes. Ha. Bet he's glad I woke him up so early now. He rubs his head a bit sheepishly and nods his head at the bus.

“Want to go find some decent seats?”

Does he mean…together? Like, sitting together? I cock an eyebrow at him, considering.

“You know,” he continues. “To protect each other from the various unsavory types that catch buses to Sacramento at eight in the morning.”

Hmm. Based on my observations, Jess totally qualifies as one of those unsavory types. In all the time I've spent with him, he's been either incredibly rude or drunk. The last half hour or so of polite behavior doesn't exactly go a long way to offset the rest of the time. On the other hand, better the unsavory type you know…

I smile at him. “Okay,” I say.

“Cool.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. “I'm just going to go to the vending machine and get some snacks for the ride. Want anything?”

Um. He doesn't have as much money in there for snacks as he thinks he does. “Uh, no thanks. You know, I had pizza and all. I'm good.”

“Right. Hey, Bee?”

I look at him warily.

“Thanks again for getting me out of the street, and for paying for a place for me to crash last night. I really appreciate it.”

“You're welcome.” Jess turns to walk over to the vending machine, and I bite my lip. God, it's going to come out sooner or later. “But, actually…” I call after him. He turns. “Uhh…you paid for it.”

He stares at me blankly, then pulls out his wallet. “There's only five dollars in here,” he says incredulously. “I had eighty bucks. What the hell did you do with all my money?”

“Well, we needed a place to sleep,” I begin defensively.

“So you stole money from a guy too incapacitated to defend himself?”

I put my hands on my hips. “What happened to ‘thank you for getting my incompetent and drunk ass off the street, Bee?’”

“I could have slept in the bus station!” Jess exclaims. “That was all the money I had to get back to New York, and you stole it!”

People around the platform are starting to stare at us. They're looking at me like I'm some kind of thief, rather than the clearly way too nice and thoughtful person who helped out an ungrateful jackass.

“Fine!” I snap. “I'll pay you back, what's the big deal?”

“Great,” Jess snaps back. “Hand me the cash.”

I roll my eyes, exasperated. “I don't have any cash. If I did, I wouldn't have needed yours, now would I? I'll pay you back later.”

“There's an ATM right over there,” Jess says, pointing at the bus station. “You can get the cash, and pay me back now.”

I don't move, and Jess grabs my arm and starts to drag me. I plant my feet firmly, which is kind of difficult in his giant flip-flops.

“What?” Jess says. “Are you telling me you don't have a dozen credit cards you can use?”

I shake my head. Not here. This is way too close to LA still, and there are dozens of people who've noticed us arguing—if I use my card, my dad will show up here looking for me and find out in five minutes where I was going. My credit cards are officially off-limits until I'm out of California. “I can't. I'll pay you back once we get to Chicago.” Jess looks at me incredulously. “I promise!” I say.

“And what am I supposed to do between here and Chicago? Starve? It's like a forty-eight hour trip!”

Forty-eight hours? Is he kidding me? We've already been traveling since yesterday afternoon. There's no way it takes that long to get from California to Chicago. This is the 21st Century, for God's sake.

“I don't know,” I say sarcastically. “Maybe you could use the ATM? If it's such a big deal to you, I'll cover your vending machine expenses as well. With interest.”

Jess glares at me. “Not everybody has that option. My credit card happens to have been cancelled—that money was literally all I had. And you stole it. Because you're spoiled and psychotic.” I glare back at him, but he ignores me, and points at the ATM machine again. “Now go get my money.”

I cross my arms and shake my head. “In Chicago,” I repeat.

Jess throws up his hands in frustration, grabs his duffel bag—nearly swings it into me, by the way—and stomps onto the bus. I look around at everybody staring, and shrug. I climb on the bus after him, because what else am I going to do? I flash my railpass at the driver, who nods me on. I see that Jess has got his bag on the seat next to him, and is looking out the window. Guess we're not sitting together after all, then.

The bus filled up while we were arguing; Jess got the only double seat left. Of course he did. I look around. Woman with baby, definitely not. Not sitting anywhere within three rows of her. Guy with music pouring out of his headphones, no thank you, pimply kid with ten Snickers bars and a nudie Manga scattered on the seat next to him, really no thank you. That leaves a businessman-type who seems pretty engrossed in his BlackBerry. That's probably manageable.

I sit next to him, and he looks up. And smiles. Uh-oh. I nod coolly, and pull out my iPod. If I ignore him, he'll leave me alone.

That works for the first hour and a half. Which is plenty of time for me to determine that buses are every bit as uncomfortable and nauseating and boring as I thought they would be. But then the businessman-type runs out of emails on his BlackBerry, and has nothing to do but turn his attention to me.

“So what's San Jose got in store for you?” he asks.

I pull out my earbuds and look at him blankly. San Jose? Oh, right, that's where this bus is going. I shrug. “Just a stopover.”

“Ahhh,” he says knowingly. “A destination on the way to greater destinations.” Ooh, deep. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“I'm headed there for a conference. My company—I have my own company,” he says, and checks to see if I'm impressed. “My company specializes in making and selling mooring covers—that's full deck over-boom sailing covers,” he explains. I smile weakly. Yes, I understood, for I am not an idiot. “And there are some new developments in the field, stronger elastics, that sort of thing, that we need to stay on top of. It's very exciting.”

I can't help it. I roll my eyes. Oh yes, very exciting. Guy seems harmless enough, though. A little chatty, definitely a little delusional about the sexiness-level of sailboat covers, but nothing I can't handle. I smile politely to make up for the eyeroll and put my earbuds back in.

Guy can't take the hint, though. He starts talking at me again. I pretend I can't hear him over the music, but that's too subtle for him. He taps me on the shoulder. I remove one earbud, and he says, “So where are you headed, if not San Jose?”

Dude, if I wanted to tell you, I would have. If I wanted to chat, I would not put headphones on. “Just, you know, East,” I say vaguely. I know, I'm paranoid. But if you're trying to get somewhere and not have your extremely controlling father already be there when you arrive, you probably shouldn't go around telling everybody where you're going.

“East, huh? I lived out East for a while. Scranton. Santa Barbara is a lot nicer, let me tell you. Now, Scranton…” And he goes on to talk about Scranton. As if anyone could possibly care. I get it, the guy is bored and probably lonely, and it's unlikely that your life has a lot going on when you sell sailboat covers. But does he have to inflict himself on those of us trapped on a bus next to him? My eyes glaze over, but he doesn't notice. I stop even making the polite “uh-huh,” noises, but he doesn't notice that either. Finally I give up.

“That's, um, really interesting, about the tallest building in Scranton and all, but you know what, I'm really tired. I think I'm just going to take a nap for the rest of the trip. Long day of traveling ahead, you know.” I fake a yawn, put my earbuds back in, and close my eyes tight.

Five minutes later I feel another tap on my shoulder. You have got to be kidding me. I ignore him. The tapping grows more insistent, and then…how do I say this?…gentler. Less like a tap, and more like a caress. The sailboat cover salesman is drawing light little circles on my bare shoulder. I twitch away from him, and mutter, pretending to be asleep. He's like those guys who catcall when you walk down the street—he just wants attention. If I ignore him, he'll leave me alone.

Except he doesn't. His finger dips forward onto my chest, and reaches under my halter top and down onto the top of my breast. I jerk away violently and turn to scream at him that he's a pervert and an a*shole, when I see him grinning at me.

“Is that how you like it, princess?” he drawls. “Soft and gentle? Or perhaps a little rougher? Yeah, I think it's more fun that way too. When we get to San Jose, I'll take you up to my suite and I'll show you how to have a good time.”

I gape at him, and look wildly around to see if there is anybody listening, or if there's anyplace else to go—but the bus is full, and of course everyone is just minding their own business. “Look, sir,” I say firmly. “That's never going to happen. Don't talk to me, don't touch me,” I repress a shudder. “Just leave me the f*ck alone. Okay?”

“I brought some toys,” he continues as if I hadn't said a thing. “Always do, on trips like these. You never know what kind of girls you're going to meet. You look like you'd be into—”

“Hey babe,” Jess interrupts, leaning over my seat. “Have you cooled off? Are we over our fight now? Because I forgive you if you forgive me.”

I look up at him, my eyes wide.

“Why don't you come sit with me, honey?” Jess says. “You know, over there?” He points at the seat next to his, which is miraculously still available.

“Hey now,” sailboat cover salesman protests. “She has a seat.”

“Thanks for keeping my girlfriend company,” Jess says smoothly. “You know how these little tiffs can be. But are we all good now, sweetie-baby?”

I finally get it. “Yes! Yes, I forgive you. I'm sorry I was mad. Let's go sit back there.” I scramble out of my seat, and Jess grabs my bag. I shuffle down the aisle—I'm still wearing Jess's flip-flops, I realize—as quickly as I can, and step aside to give Jess his window seat back.

He hands me my bag, and we sit together silently for a moment.

“Um, thanks for that,” I say. “That guy was extremely creepy.”

“Yeah, well, I'd rather have punched him, or watched you slap him, or something,” Jess grumbles. “But I figured the best way to get through this as quickly as possible was to play the boyfriend. Guys like that are pretty much all talk, and they'll back down if another guy steps in. I hope you don't mind,” he finished awkwardly. “It just seemed like the best way to get you out of there.”

“No, of course, it's fine.” I sigh regretfully. “I'd liked to have slapped him—I should have slapped him. Or punched him. Or thrown him off the bus. I just kind of froze.” I bite my lip. It's what I always seem to do. “I would've thought I was tougher than that.”

Jess shrugs. “You looked pretty freaked. Which makes sense—I bet you don't really encounter a lot of guys like that.” I snort. If only that were the case.

“Well. Thanks for rescuing me, anyway.” I look around the bus. “Not like anybody else was jumping at the chance.”

“No problem,” Jess nods, and smiles at me sideways. “Sweetie-baby.”

I laugh, and shake my head. Jess gives me a we're-cool nod, and turns back to staring out the window.

It's weird. I go to an all-girls school (private, with appropriately slutty uniforms and no one to show them off for, of course), I get picked up after school, and I immediately go home. I don't have a whole lot of normal, day-to-day type experience with guys. Not that I think Jess is your average guy, by any means. Apart from the unfortunate style choices, the idiot really seems to have a thing for picking fights in public places, he's traveling across the country with only eighty dollars to his name, and yet he spent what I can only assume was a fair percentage of his travel savings doing shots at the seediest-looking bar in Santa Barbara. And missed his bus on account of it.

Dude clearly has issues. And so while I might be feeling somewhat warmly toward him on account of the rescuing that, come to think of it, I totally didn't need—I was like half a second away from taking out that toy-toting sailboat cover-selling asswipe—it's clear that Jess just wants to stare out the window at the fascinating dead brown grass of California. After the morning I've had, that suits me just fine.

And since some alcoholic snorer prevented me from getting any sleep last night, I'm going to close my eyes and attempt to get some shut-eye now.

* * *



When I wake up, my cheek is numb and squished. I blink a few times, trying to figure out why this might be, when I realize I've fallen asleep on Jess's shoulder. I jerk upright, and he looks at me, amused.

“I was just about to wake you up.” Jess gestures out the window. “We're here.”

I look out the window and blink, confused. This doesn't look like a bus terminal. It has a McDonald's and a gas station and a Starbucks. It looks like a rest stop.

“We're in San Jose?” I mumble, my voice scratchy from sleep. “Already? What time is it?”

Jess laughs. “No, we're halfway. And don't ask me where that is, because I have no clue. But we're stopping for fifteen minutes so everybody can pee and get something to eat.” He frowns as he remembers that we are not two of those people. That is, he can get a burger or whatever with his remaining five dollars, but I'm stuck. My stomach rumbles.

Ugh, it's not like I would ever eat McDonald's anyway. I stand up and stretch. My knees are killing me. Everybody is filing off the bus and pouring into the rest stop. I frown. I'd better hurry, or there will be a long line for the bathroom. Jess grabs his duffel and I grab my bag—no sense taking the risk leaving our stuff here, given the kinds of people riding this bus, I guess—and we walk together across the parking lot. Jess slings his bag over his shoulder and holds the door open for me as we walk into the rest stop.

The smell of McDonald's wafts over me.

It's gross, I tell myself. It's fake food. You've never touched the stuff in your whole life, and you're not going to start now. Which is easy, because you have no money.

I can't believe I just left the rest of that pizza in the motel. I could be eating that right now.

Jess reaches for his wallet and looks mournfully at his five dollars. “You sure there's no chance of money until Chicago?” he asks.

I bite my lip, and shake my head. I just can't do it.

He sighs. “Okay. Well, this ought to get us two little cheeseburgers, anyway, and still have enough leftover for something for dinner. Peanuts, maybe. I'll meet you back here?”

I stare at him. Cheeseburgers for us? He's going to get me a cheeseburger, after I took all his money?

“Bee?” Jess says, looking at me funny. “You going to go to the bathroom or what?”

“Um, yeah,” I mumble. “I'll meet you back here. Thanks.”

I rush over to the bathroom, my face flushed. And there is indeed a line. A long line. Is this what people do, just stand in line all the time?

I settle in for the wait, my foot tapping. I have no idea how long I've been standing here. Long. But when it's finally my turn, I look in the stall, and I just can't possibly use it. There's pee on the seat, and the last person—possibly the last couple of people—who used the toilet didn't flush it. It's too gross for words, and I step aside to let the woman behind me go. I'll just use the next one that opens up.

Only that one is gross too, and the next one, and I really have to pee, but I don't want to catch something doing it. How are all these women comfortable with this situation? It's unsanitary! And there are totally not enough stalls.

I finally give up. I end up settling for a toilet with only minimal pee, and I distinctly heard the woman coming out of it flush before she left. I keep my butt elevated so as not to touch anything (which is not that easy—I thought my thighs were toned, but this is a challenge) and when I finish I realize I've peed on the seat. Just like everybody else. Well, that explains things. I kind of wipe the seat down with toilet paper—it doesn't disinfect anything, but it makes me feel a little better—and wash my hands really, really well. I check myself out in the mirror, and immediately regret it. My hair is flat from the cheap motel shampoo, my eyes are all baggy and shadowed from not getting enough sleep, and I don't know how I didn't notice this, but I have a piece of basil stuck between my front teeth from this morning's pizza slice. I plop my bag on the sink and do what I can to repair things, but there's only so much eye shadow and blush can do. I look at the bruise at the base of my neck and turn away from my reflection.

That whole experience was an ordeal. I'm still marveling as I walk over to Jess. Who is standing there holding a McDonald's bag with a furious look on his face.

“What?” I ask. “What did I do now?”

“Fifteen minutes,” he says through his teeth. “We had fifteen minutes. You know how long you were in there? Thirty minutes. That's twice as much time. What the hell, Bee?”

“Oh,” I say lamely. “There was a line. Sorry.”

“There was a line,” he repeats incredulously. “And yet everyone else managed to get in and out of there in fifteen minutes and back on the bus before it left.”

“Well, if you knew what conditions were like in that bathroom,” I begin hotly, then trail off. Wait, what? “What do you mean, left?” I say slowly. “The bus left?”

“Yes, of course the bus left,” Jess snaps.

“But…it can't have left without us. I have a ticket. You have a ticket. We paid for a bus to San Jose, not a bus to halfway to San Jose. It doesn't get to just strand its passengers in the middle of nowhere…”

“It does if its passengers aren't back on the bus when it's ready to leave. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I—” I look around the rest stop, feeling panicked. “I don't know. I didn't realize how long it had been. I…what are we going to do now?”

Jess looks down at me and sighs. “Come on,” he says, and steers me over to an empty table. “Eat your cheeseburger. We'll figure something out.”

I unwrap the cheeseburger slowly, but I don't bite into it. “Like what?” I ask plaintively.

Jess shrugs, and takes a giant bite. “Another bus on the same route will probably come through at some point,” he says, his mouth full. “I bet they always stop at the same rest stop. We'll show our tickets and explain what happened, and we'll just get to San Jose later than expected.”

“Are you sure?” I ask in a small voice.

Jess looks at me, and he nods. “It'll be fine.”

Okay. I take a bite of the McDonald's cheeseburger. And it's gross, like I always thought. But it's also possibly the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. How can something be both of those things at once?

“Thanks for the cheeseburger,” I mumble. “And for waiting for me when the bus was leaving.” Although come to think of it, why did he wait for me? Surely any sane person would just have said the hell with Bee, and gotten on the bus. Right?

“You're welcome,” Jess says. “It's not like I'm in any great hurry to get home, anyway.”

I look at him curiously. “Why not? Why are you going home in the first place? Isn't it the middle of term?”

Jess twitches his shoulder irritably. “Yeah, I guess. I don't really…” he trails off, and looks at something over my left shoulder. “Hey, Bee, isn't that…”

I frown at him, and turn around to see my face on the giant television behind me.

“…Daughter of renowned Hollywood producer Jeremy Gold, reported missing yesterday evening. Mr. Gold has offered a reward of $10,000 for news of Bette Gold's whereabouts…”

“Shit!” I say loudly, and then duck back down when people turn to look. I pull my hair down so that it's covering my face as much as it can.

Jess stares at me. “You're Jeremy Gold's daughter? He came to talk to my film studies class last year. Intense guy.”

“You have no idea,” I hiss. “Is anybody looking at us?”

Jess looks around, though not as subtly as I'd like. “Not really,” he says. “But they're keeping that picture of you up on the screen, and somebody is bound to notice at some point.”

Damn. Damn, damn. “We can't wait for another bus to show up,” I say. “We have to get out of here.”

“Okay,” Jess crosses his arms. “Leaving aside for a moment the fact that you're running away to New York City without informing your very rich and very intense father, how do you suggest we do that, exactly?”

I look around desperately. “We'll call a cab.”

Jess snorts. “A cab? To San Jose? Are you kidding?”

“I don't care how much it costs!” I exclaim. “We have to get moving. I mean, if you want, you can stay here and wait for a bus that may or may not show up…”

“Oh, no,” Jess laughs. “You're not leaving me here while you travel in style. But how are you going to pay for it, Miss I-Can't-Use-My-Credit-Card-Until-We-Get-To-Chicago? Won't daddy be able to trace where the cabdriver takes us?”

I bite my lip. “I'll pay cash. When the car gets here, I'll use the ATM and take out enough money—”

“You'd better take out a hell of a lot of money to cover the rest of the trip, plus what you owe me, by the way,” Jess interrupts.

“I'll take out plenty of money,” I scowl. “And we'll get in the cab, and we'll immediately get on the train for Sacramento, and all my dad will know is that I was at a rest stop in the middle of where in the hell.”

Jess picks up his cheeseburger and finishes the rest of it in one bite. “Okay then. Hurry up and call.”

* * *



It seems to take forever for the cab to arrive. We didn't exactly know the closest town, but Jess and I guessed it would probably be Paso Robles. We ascertained that we were at the rest stop between exits 95 and 96 on the 101, but the not-very-helpful dispatcher at the cab company didn't sound like he believed us. Fair enough, I suppose—it's not often that people who managed to get themselves to a rest stop in the middle of the day can't get themselves away from the rest stop without calling a cab. We finally convinced him to send somebody, but every minute of waiting was torturous. I was sure someone would recognize me, and I sat hunched over in the corner the whole time.

But the cab does finally pull up, looking exactly like one of those creepy black town cars that carry mobsters from place to place. Jess and I look at each other and shrug. It'll do.

I run to the ATM, and after hesitating for a moment, I take out $500. That's the most it will let me take out, but even covering the cab fare, and not forgetting Jess's oh-so-important eighty bucks, that should be plenty to get me to Chicago, at which point I'll hit a bank and draw more. A lot more, because $500 isn't going to get me very far in New York City.

In the process of calling the cab, I had to turn my phone on and see the million missed calls and voicemails, some from Julia, but most of them from my father. I tried not to feel guilty—it's not like he's really all that worried about me, he's just taking advantage of the situation to fulfill some terrified father fantasy he's been harboring. It occurs to me as I swipe my card that he might have cancelled it, which would have been pretty dangerous considering that it would leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere with no money—it probably would have forced me to give up and turn myself in. But no, the card works fine. I shrug off any remaining guilt I may have had, because, see? Any normal father would have cancelled the card, would have made it so this whole thing would be over sooner rather than later. But not my dad.

I stuff the cash into my wallet and run out to the town car. Jess has already shoved his duffel bag in the trunk, and is explaining patiently to the driver that yes, we really do want him to take us to the San Jose train station. The driver shrugs, and programs it into his GPS system, and finally we get the hell out of the rest stop.

The town car is much more comfortable than the bus. I'm in leg room, back support, air-conditioning heaven. Not to mention the car has decent shocks and doesn't roar like a freight train. The next several hours pass by in kind of a blur. I nod off again sometimes—cars do that to me, I'm like an infant—and Jess spends most of his time either reading or looking out the window. It's kind of weird how quiet he is—most people in such close quarters as the back seat of a car would feel obligated to make some form of small talk, but not Jess. Between naps I try to decide if I find this annoying or something of a relief.

When we arrive at the train station, I pay the driver and try not to think about the huge dent that just put in my $500. Jess steers me onto the right train to Sacramento, because obviously I have no idea where to go. It can't be that hard to figure out if Jess can manage it, but I just don't seem to have the capacity.

“How long until we get to Sacramento?” I ask.

Jess checks his ticket and shrugs. “Three hours or so. Not bad.”

“And then when does the train leave for Chicago?”

Jess gives me a look. “I have no idea. My schedule is, as you might imagine, a little off at this point. I'm supposed to be arriving in New York tomorrow morning, and clearly that's not going to happen.” He sighs. “I'll have to call my mom to let her know I'll be late. That'll be fun.” He slings his duffel up onto the rack and sits in the window seat, as usual.

I slide in next to him, thinking. “You know, you never answered me before about why you're going home in the middle of term. Was your mom who you were fighting with on the phone?”

“What?” Jess asks, confused. “When was I on the phone?”

“Yesterday, at the bus station,” I explain. “Before you went off to go get drunk,” I add.

“So you were what, eavesdropping?” He doesn't sound pissed, just curious. “Or following me? How did you know I was in that bar, anyway?”

“I wasn't following you…exactly.” Jess looks at me skeptically, and I feel my face turn red. “Okay, I was kind of following you, but only because I couldn't remember what bus to take, and there wasn't anybody to ask, and I knew you were going to the same place, so I figured I would just get on whatever bus you did. Only you didn't turn out to be the best person to follow, did you, seeing as how you decided to miss the bus and pass out on the street instead?”

“Uh-huh,” Jess smirks. “You're pathetic, you know that? You couldn't run away from home if you had your driver Carlos to help you do it. And why are you running away?”

“Why are you going home?” I counter.

Jess doesn't answer. No shock. Well, I don't feel inclined to share my reasons if he's going to be all secretive and weird about his. I fiddle with the straps of my bag, and wish I'd thought to see if the train station had a newsstand with some books or something. Nobody ever tells you that running away is mind-numbingly boring most of the time.

“The fight was with my mom,” Jess says suddenly, breaking the silence.

I look up, surprised. “Yeah? What was it about?”

He shrugs uncomfortably. “About why I'm coming home.” He stops, and I give him a second, but then gesture for him to go on.

“Yes?”

“UCLA kicked me out,” he mumbles.

I blink at him, surprised. I mean, poor hair-dyeing decisions aside, Jess just doesn't seem like the type to get kicked out of anywhere. I bet he does all his work, has a campus job, is a member of various school organizations—just your ordinary, B-average, parties on the weekends and studies during the week college kid. Dweebier than some, maybe, but still.

“What happened?” I ask gently.

“Campus security found enough pot in my dorm room to fill a joint the size of a dachshund. It looked like I was selling it.”

“But you weren't,” I say.

Jess shakes his head.

“So, what, did somebody plant it in your room? Somebody with a grudge?”

Jess looks embarrassed. “Not exactly.”

“What then? You weren't actually planning to smoke all that yourself?”

“Uh, no,” he coughs. “I was…well, I was holding it for a friend. A bunch of friends, actually, who all used the same supplier, and they all had class when the guy was going to come by, so I just took all of it from him for them, and then campus security showed up like five minutes later, and I got busted.”

My mouth twitches. I can't help it. “You got busted because all your drug-dealing friends were in class?”

Jess gives a self-conscious half smile. “Yeah. Pretty hard-core, huh?”

“So why not turn in your friends? I mean, some friends they are, letting you take the fall. And how did the school know you were getting their deliveries?”

“They didn't.” Jess stretches his legs out and leans back in his seat. “The cops were after the supplier guy, but of course the campus had to be involved, and once they caught me with the stuff, there had to be consequences, right? The Dean of Students said I was lucky not to get charged. And as for pointing the finger at my friends, what difference would it make? I still took the drugs from the guy with full knowledge of what I was doing. They have evidence of that. So it would just be taking my friends down with me. Completely pointless.”

I shake my head. “You're really, really stupid. You know that, right?”

“It's becoming clear to me,” Jess says heavily. “So my mom is pissed, obviously, because UCLA gave me this great scholarship, and now, with this on my record, the only schools that will take me are shitty community colleges in the middle of nowhere. And I don't blame her—I'm pissed at me too—but I just can't take hearing about it again and again. It's like, yes, I f*cked up, you know? I'm completely aware. You don't have to keep telling me.”

“And that's why you decided to go to a bar rather than go home.” And why you let the bus leave without you at the rest stop, I add silently.

“Yeah. Kind of faulty judgment there, I admit. Which seems to be the case all the time, lately.” Jess stares morosely at his Converse, and I follow his gaze, seeing where the canvas is all worn through around the rubber. His feet must get wet when it rains.

“Well,” I shrug. “It's not like my judgment has a lot to say for itself these days either.”

Jess doesn't push, he just waits patiently for me to continue. And so I do.

“It's not that I think taking off was a bad decision,” I explain. “My life hasn't been my own for…ever. And it's not like I'm planning to disappear forever or anything. I know that won't happen. But I needed to show my father that I'm an actual person, not some blank slate with hair and a pretty face that he can turn into whatever publicity-seeking freak he wants me to be.”

Jess crinkles his forehead. “Why would he want to do that? I mean, what's in it for him?”

“Hell if I know,” I exclaim, throwing up my hands. “I've never understood it. It gets him attention, keeps our name on people's minds, I guess, which makes it easier for him to get projects, which get more attention, on and on. But I think he genuinely likes that kind of attention, and he can't understand why I don't, no matter how many times I try to explain it to him.”

“Well, what happened, exactly?” Jess gestures at my blistered feet and my lack of a change of clothes. “It looks like you kind of left in a hurry.”

I bite my lip. “Well…you know Thom Derrek, right?”

Jess makes a face. “Worst actor ever in the history of the world.”

I chuckle half-heartedly. “Yeah. Well, my dad set us up on a date yesterday, and--”

“Wait, hasn't he just been charged with date rape?” Jess's eyebrows furrow.

“Um, yeah. My dad said that he had it on good authority that the accusations were false, and that Thom and I would be a great fit—based on what, exactly, I have no idea—and anyway he kept at me about it until finally I agreed. But I made him promise to stay with me the whole time—I was a little nervous about it, you know? So Dad had him over for dinner.”

I stop, and take a deep breath. Jess reaches over tentatively and takes my hand. I pat him awkwardly and let go. “Nothing happened, really,” I say. “You don't need to look so freaked out.”

“What did happen?” Jess asks gently.

“Well, shortly after Thom got there, we were standing around having drinks, and my dad got a call that he said he had to take. Like it hadn't even been fifteen minutes and he abandoned me. And Thom…”

I stop again. Jess squeezes my hand again, but doesn't say anything. “He didn't do anything, at first. He just started talking. Like the guy on the bus. And I didn't know what to do—I mean, it was my house, but he was acting like this was perfectly normal behavior and it all just felt so surreal. And then he…he grabbed me and shoved his fingers up my crotch…and he, he bit my shoulder.”

Jess's eyes flick over to the mark at the base of my neck. He squeezes my hand so hard it hurts.

“And I pushed him away and ran out the door. I left the house with my purse and nothing else. I wasn't even thinking at all. I know now that I probably could have screamed for help…”

“Where was your father?” Jess asks tightly.

I sigh. “He was only upstairs. He would have heard me. And I know that he couldn't have thought something like that would happen. But…I was—am—so f*cking pissed at him for having put me in that position that I couldn't call him. And now I won't.” I give Jess a challenging look, to see if he'll push me to go home, but he doesn't.

“What about your mom?” Jess asks.

I look away and start picking at the straps of my bag again. “She took off when I was two. My dad has custody, and she's never tried to see me. For years, he would give me Christmas and birthday presents and say they were from her, but I finally figured out that she never sent anything. Not even a card.” I twitch my shoulders uncomfortably. “I don't know where she is or anything about her. Whatever.”

We sit quietly for a moment, and then Jess gives me a glance and lets of my hand. He stretches, trying to relax the mood a little bit. “I get it. I mean, I didn't realize it at first, but I've seen pictures of you online and in People magazine. Where they pick apart the clothes you wear to go shopping, and stuff like that. Even apart from this whole Thom Derrek thing, which, rest assured, is just about the most f*cked up thing I've ever heard—if that's not really you, not something you're actually into and are comfortable with, I can see why you'd want to get away from it.”

“Except I completely suck at getting away from it!” I moan. “If I weren't following you around, I'd probably have gotten on some random bus or train and I'd end up in Hicksville, Florida, or something. And then I'd just end up in some blog about the worst places fake celebrities go on vacation.” Ugh, when you lay it out there like that, it's pretty pathetic. I mean, how hard can it be to get from one place to another when you have a ticket that lets you go wherever you want? And somehow I can't even manage to get out of California!

The train starts moving, and I look out the window to watch. Three hours to Sacramento; next stop, Chicago. I take a deep breath, and tell myself to give it a rest. I made it this far—through no great merit of my own, I know, but still—and I'm going to prove to my dad, and to myself, that I'm not just a doll to be paraded around, useful for nothing but posing for photographs.

“Well, you weren't exactly operating under the best of circumstances. I promise, I'll get you to New York,” Jess says. “It's pretty easy from this point. No more buses. And after that,” he shrugs. “You'll figure it out.”

* * *



By the time the train pulls into Sacramento, I'm about ready to lose my mind. I did the math, and the amount of time I have spent over the last two days staring straight ahead, waiting for the minutes to pass, is the amount of time it would have taken me to watch the extended versions of Lord of the Rings and all their special features. Not that I'd know that firsthand, mind you.

And the train from Sacramento to Chicago makes the travel time I've clocked so far seem like a blink. A really fast blink. A flinch. Do you know how long it takes to get from Sacramento to Chicago? Forty-nine hours and forty-one minutes. That's over two days spent sitting on a train. I'm claustrophobic just thinking about it.

Jess has done it before, and he says it's not that big a deal. That there are dining cars and the seats recline (because of course we're going coach, because I'm an idiot and don't have enough cash to upgrade) and the views of the Rocky Mountains are impressive. I told him where to stick the Rocky Mountains. Just because he's in no hurry to get home to get yelled at doesn't mean I have nothing I'd rather be doing than sitting in a chair, reclined or not, for two freaking days.

We step off the train, and I've never been so glad to breathe fresh air in my life.

“How long until the train for Chicago leaves?”

Jess sighs and steers me over to the board where the departure times are posted. “That's us,” he explains. “The California Zephyr. It leaves at the same time every day—11:49 a. m.. What time is it now?”

I look around until I see a clock on the wall behind us. “It's…oh God…it's a quarter after three.”

“So we've missed it. Yep.”

“What do you mean, yep?” I exclaim. “I've ceded control of this entire thing to you because I figured you had a plan, that you knew what time trains left and that we would be there in time!”

“I do know what time trains leave,” Jess says, very patiently. “And so I knew when we missed the bus that there was no way we would be here in time. There's a schedule to these things, right? Didn't you figure we'd miss the train?”

I swear to God, I want to kill him. “Obviously not!” My voice rises in panic, and people turn to stare at the squeaking girl. I shut up quickly, and hiss, “What are we going to do?”

Jess crosses his arms on his chest and gives me a calm look. “We're going to use some of that wad of cash you're carrying around and find another motel. Unless you want to sleep on a bench?” he inquires, gesturing over to what seems to be the section of the station reserved exclusively for sleeping homeless people.

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “But you're paying for your own damn room tonight. You snore.”

“Only when I'm wasted,” Jess says cheerfully, hoisting his duffel across his shoulders like it's a wounded soldier. “I have heard these complaints before.”

All the motels within walking distance are pretty disgusting, but Jess insists we stay at what must be the worst of the lot. I pay for both rooms, since I owe him money anyway. He claims he needs to hoard the rest of what I owe him if he's going to travel with me, since I seem to “burn up both money and time like wildfire,” and that The Golden Cicada Motor Lodge had something called character that I would obviously know nothing about but should learn to appreciate.

If bedding that smells like pee equals character, I don't think I'm going to be appreciating it anytime soon.

Although, humiliatingly, I have to admit—I kind of smell like pee, too. I've been wearing this same pair of underwear for the past three days, and even though I showered yesterday, my shirt is rank and I don't have any deodorant. I turn on the shower—which has a moldy shower curtain, gross—and step under the water fully dressed. I use the entire bottle of Desert Rose shampoo/conditioner on me and my clothes and I still feel unclean. I hang my jeans and shirt up over the curtain rod to dry and sit naked in the middle of the bed eating my vending machine dinner and clicking through cable, most of which is in Spanish. I wonder what Jess is doing with his evening. Even though, obviously, I'm in no fit state to socialize.

* * *



I'm just starting to nod off when the yelling starts. As far as I can tell, it's coming from the room three doors down, and despite the volume, I can't really discern what it's about since all I can really hear is, “F*ck you, you f*cking bitch” over and over again. I pull the pillow over my head, but it doesn't help. And then the woman screams.

I sit bolt upright. Should I call the cops? I scramble to the edge of the bed to grab my phone, when a door slams in the hallway and I hear the fight continuing outside. And it's clear that the woman is fine, and is in fact holding her own. The man is now whimpering, and I suppose that while I should technically still call the cops, I can't seem to muster up much sympathy for him.

I draw my knees up to my chest, shivering a little, though it isn't cold in the room. I glance at the clock on the nightstand, and it's after midnight. I know I should try to find the funny here—character, wasn't that the word Jess used? I'm sure he thinks this is all kinds of hilarious.

I decide to go across the hall. Jess can tell me that this is perfectly normal, and that I'm just a sheltered little rich girl, and we'll all feel much better. I reach over the curtain rod to grab my clothes, but they're still dripping. I try wrapping the towel around myself, but it barely covers my belly button. Not exactly the attire I want to walk around in under these circumstances. Or under any circumstances, really.

In the end, I use two towels—one for my top half, and one for my bottom half. It's a little weird-looking, but it works. I open the door a crack and peer down the hall. It's empty. I guess the fighting couple went back into their room. I can hear muffled voices coming from Room 105, but the yelling seems to have stopped. For a moment I consider just going back to bed, but then I hear something crash and the sound of glass breaking, and I scurry out into the hall, lock the door behind me, and try to knock, not pound, on Jess's door.

Just after my fist hits the door, it occurs to me that Jess might be sleeping through all of this, and I'm about to seriously piss him off. But the door opens after only a few moments, and Jess looks irritated, but wide awake.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he asks.

I open my mouth to explain, when the noise from Room 105 increases as their door opens and the fight moves back out into the hall. Jess quickly yanks me inside and locks the door behind us.

“Thanks,” I say breathlessly. His room is the mirror image of mine. It even has the same faded sailboat painting above the rumpled bed.

“Uh uh. Just—why?” he says, gesturing at the towels.

I flush, embarrassed. “My clothes are all wet. I washed them out and they're still dripping.” I cross my arms over my chest, realize instantly that just makes it worse, and end up just kind of flailing my arms around like a freak. This was such a stupid idea.

But Jess just nods like this is a perfectly normal thing to have done, and bends over into his duffel. He tosses me a faded Kanye West T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and I smile gratefully as I head into the bathroom to change.

When I come out, Jess has made the bed and is setting out the same assortment of vending machine tapas I ate earlier. “Hungry?” he asks.

And while a second ago I couldn't have imagined wanting to eat another Dorito ever again, my stomach rumbles and before I even realize it I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed with my hand in the bag.

“I like to eat a Cool Ranch Dorito with a bite of Reese's Peanut Butter Cup,” Jess says, and takes a bite of this example of culinary genius. “Want to try?” he asks with his mouth full.

I shake my head and try not to gag. “No thanks. Were you by any chance hanging out with the friends that got you kicked out of school when you came up with that one?”

Jess shrugs. “Maybe. Tastes good even without the pot though.” He waves a tortilla chip and peanut butter cup in front of my face. “Sure you don't want to try it?”

I think for a moment about all the crazy things I've done today, and how this is really the least insane of the lot, and figure I might as well go for it.

I get up to spit it out into the garbage can. “That is the most disgusting thing I've ever eaten.”

Jess grins. “Fine. More for me,” and he crams another bite into his mouth. I climb back on the bed and help myself to a plain old Dorito. We munch in silence for a moment, listening to the fight continue out in the hall.

“I think they do this when they're bored,” Jess says, nodding his head at the door.

I laugh in spite of myself. “What, you mean they had nothing else to do tonight?”

“Yeah,” Jess chuckles. “This is how they keep the magic alive.”

I shudder. “Oh, I really don't want to think about that.”

“Too late,” Jess grins. “So, um…” he pauses, taking another bite of peanut butter cup and chip. “Is your mom out in New York or something? Is that why you're headed that way?”

My smile fades and I shake my head. “No, she's not there. Or I don't think she is. I just want to go someplace far away. Someplace different.”

Jess examines a chip closely, and then says, in an offhand way, “I guess I would have thought you would go where she is. This kind of seems like the perfect opportunity to find her…” he trails off, and looks at me expectantly.

I press my lips together firmly and shake my head. “Nope,” I say, and hope he'll leave it at that.

But of course he doesn't. “Hey, look, I know you're hurt about the stuff with your dad and the birthday cards and all, but you don't know what might have been going on with her, and maybe if you found her, it would turn out that it was all a misunderstanding or something, and everything would be great.”

“I don't want to,” I snap. “Okay? What business is it of yours, anyway? And what world do you live in where magically everything is fine?”

Jess looks away, but before he does, I see that I've hurt him somehow, and I take a deep breath. “Sorry,” I say. “ I know you were just trying to help.”

Jess doesn't answer right away. And when he does, his voice is quiet. “My dad died about five years ago. And before he died…I was fifteen, you know? We fought a lot. The night before, we'd had this huge fight about how I wasn't helping out enough at home, that he was counting on me to be the man of the house, and take care of my brother and sister while my mom was at work. I didn't want to be the man of the house. I wanted to be able to go out like all my friends. He lost his temper, and said I was a selfish little prick. I called him a fat f*ck and stormed out of the house. He left for work before I got up the next morning… so that was the last thing we ever said.”

“How did he die?” I ask softly.

“He was in a car accident—he was a UPS driver, and he got hit crossing the street.”

I want to reach across the bed and take Jess's hand, like he held mine in the car, but I don't know how. “I'm so sorry,” I say, and it sounds completely inadequate.

Jess looks away, and after a moment he clears his throat. “Yeah. It's just—there isn't anything I wouldn't give to be able to talk to him again. Even just to fight with him again.” He looks at me seriously. “You have that chance, Bee.”

I sigh, and spread my hands helplessly. “It's different when they leave you,” I say, trying to explain. “And I used to believe what you're saying—I used to think there was some reason she left that would explain everything, that would make it okay. And I did look for her.”

Jess looks surprised. “You did? When?”

“It was right around when I found out she didn't send the cards. I figured there had to be something that was keeping her from me, like maybe she was on the other side of the world, doing—oh, I don't know. I had all these fantasies about how she'd gone to save trees in South America or dolphins in Japan or something. Which still wouldn't make it okay, but it was something.”

I stop, and fiddle with the candy wrappers on the bed. I don't know why, after all this time, it's still so hard for me to accept this. Jess waits quietly, and doesn't push me to talk before I'm ready. “Well,” I say, and force a laugh. “She wasn't saving dolphins, and she wasn't in Japan. She's still in California, selling cheap T-shirts at the beaches around San Diego. She's a drunk. She's…. she's been arrested for drunk-driving. She nearly killed a kid a couple of years ago.”

Jess lets out his breath in a rush. “Yeah. That's not saving dolphins.”

My half-laugh is almost real this time. “No, it isn't.”

“Still…” he says, and gives me a cautious look. “I'm not saying there is anything that would ever make it all right, but maybe it would be worth it just to check. Not right now,” he says quickly. “But maybe someday.”

“Maybe someday,” I agree. And for the first time, it seems possible.

Jess gives me a quick smile, and after a moment I smile back. “This got really heavy really fast,” he says. “Perils of late night conversations.”

“Yeah,” I agree, like I have so much experience with them. “Do you think you can get to sleep?”

As I ask the question, there is another stream of curses, punctuated by more breaking glass. Jess grimaces, and shakes his head. “I doubt it. You?”

“Not a chance. I'm not really a very good sleeper under the best of circumstances.”

Jess stretches out on the bed and looks up at the ceiling. “Well, what do you do when you can't sleep?” he asks, yawning.

Um. “I, uh, make up stories about my stuffed animals,” I say, embarrassed.

Jess laughs. “Really? That's what you do?”

“It's from when I was a little kid,” I explain defensively. “I get really bored.”

Jess sits up against the pillows and folds his legs. “So tell me one.”

I shake my head.

“Come on,” he says. “What else are we going to do?”

I can't just think of one on the spot like this. That is, I guess that's what I always do, but I feel like such an idiot. I can't believe I told him that. I wrack my brain for a moment, then settle on an old favorite.

“So Piglet and Mr. Spectacles decide to rob a liquor store…” I start.

* * *



“That's the kind of story you used to tell yourself to get to sleep?” Jess asks when I've finished. “No wonder you're an insomniac. It's Toy Story meets Reservoir Dogs.”

“Someone should pay me the big bucks to write the screenplay,” I agree.

Jess snorts. “Yeah, right. With Christopher Walken as Mr. Spectacles. You had some messed up stuffed animals there, Bee.”

I nod sleepily, and glance at the clock. It's after 4 a. m. I let out a yawn, and stretch my arms behind my head. “Your turn,” I say, and lie down on the bed. “Tell me a story.”

“Oh, I don't think I could top that,” Jess says drily.

“You don't have to,” I say, flapping a hand at him. “I know it's impossible. Just do the best you can.”

Jess's story isn't nearly as well-plotted or evenly paced as mine, nor are the characterizations as precise. In fact, it's kind of boring. I feel my eyes start to droop closed, and while I still hear his voice, I've lost track of what he's saying. I drift in and out, not really asleep, but not really awake either. I feel Jess shift around in the bed, and I murmur a bit about going back to my room, but he shushes me. Which is good, because I really don't want to move.

I'm half-dreaming, but I think I feel Jess's hand on my hair and shoulder, brushing it gently. I wonder if I should pull away. I wonder if I want to.

And then a car alarm goes off outside the window and I jump and Jess sits up and the moment is over. Which is probably for the best.

Neither of us can get back to sleep after that, and we just kind of chat about nothing until the sun starts to come up. We look out the window, watching the darkness get grayer, and I realize I've never seen the sun rise with anybody else before. It seems like it should be significant.