“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Breaking the rules,” Will says, and he looks like he’s never been prouder of anything in his whole life.
Sunset Boulevard, just west of Doheny, is one of my favorite drives in LA. The road slopes in and around, up and down, passing high gates and the occasional giant home that’s out in the open for all to see. Will and I came up this way the other day on our Tour of the Stars, but it never gets old. This time we are taking it all the way to the ocean. Will explains the car belongs to his father.
“Midlife crisis car. I took it to school this morning, then faked sick, and called in the excuse.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I want to prove Lucy Keating wrong!” he exclaims. “I want to make our own rules. She isn’t running our lives, Annabelle. She can’t. Today, we decide.”
Just then a text comes through on my phone. It’s Elliot.
Are you coming to the show?
I watch the little bubbles move for about a minute, curious as to what he will say next, but then the bubbles stop altogether. I exhale.
“Game on,” I say to Will, and shut my phone off.
Will wants to get as far away from our world as possible, so we head for northern Malibu, and stop at the Malibu Country Mart to get provisions. It’s one of my favorite places to go for lunch. Barrels full of any kind of chip you like, a wall full of candy, and sandwiches that make your mouth water. It’s only on our way out that I notice the cookies.
“Those are the size of my head!” I exclaim.
“So take one,” Will says.
I look at the line, wrapping around the interior shop. “It’ll take too long. Not worth it,” I say.
“No, Annabelle,” Will says, his tone becoming conspiratorial. “Take one.”
My eyes go wide. “We’re exhibiting free will! Not stealing!” I protest.
“It’s one cookie, Annabelle!” Will whispers. “They make it for fifty cents and sell it for six dollars. I’m guessing you’ve never even stolen a piece of dental floss before. So just do it.”
I swallow, take a deep breath, then quickly tuck the giant cookie under the sweater I’m holding.
We take off running for the car, and I let out a squeal the whole way. I can’t remember the last time I felt so exhilarated. I split the cookie open, and we each take a huge bite.
“Mmm, tastes like rebellion.” Will chuckles between chews. I laugh harder.
We keep driving up the coast, the houses getting farther and father apart, no longer lining the western side of the Pacific Highway. Instead there are farm stands, dunes, and bushes filled with pink flowers. When we arrive at the beach parking lot twenty minutes later, Will is just about to pull his credit card out to pay for parking at the kiosk, but I stop him.
“What if you don’t?” I say.
“But we have to.” Will frowns.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because the sign says so,” Will says. “Because it’s the law. Because my dad has no idea I have his midlife crisis Escalade in Malibu right now.”
I raise my eyebrows. “So?” I ask. “It’s Thursday at three P.M. Nobody is here. Nobody is gonna be checking. What’s the worst that could happen if they did?”
Slowly, Will nods. Then smiles and nods faster. “You’re right,” he says. “Cool.”
We walk to the trailhead, the Pacific Ocean spreading out in front of us against the horizon. We hike along a steep ridge overlooking the water, and start to wind our way down to a mostly empty beach. Just when we are about to make our final descent, Will stops, and looks out from our little point of land.
“It’s really beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask him.
“Let’s jump.” Will turns to me, his eyes wide.
“What?” I ask. “Is that safe?”
Will points to a sign. “Jump at your own risk.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“If it wasn’t safe they’d tell us not to jump at all,” he protests.
I think harder. “She probably wouldn’t let us die anyway, right?” I ask. “If she’s really done with tragedies.”
Will thinks. “She does in Across the Sea, I suppose.”
“But that was different. That was a tragedy, and that death served more of a purpose. To die now would be senseless, foolish. Lucy would never let us do that,” I assure him.
“You’re really learning a lot in Fiction class,” Will says, clearly impressed.
“Thanks.” I smile.
“Screw her either way,” Will says, and starts pulling off his clothes.
I follow his lead. “I can’t believe I’m doing this!” I yell, unhooking my sandals and shimmying out of my shorts.
We stand at the edge in our underwear. “You ready?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say.
And we jump.
When we come to the surface a minute later, I feel so energized I could swim for miles. Will whips his hair around and howls like a wolf.
“That was incredible!” he cries.
I laugh and howl, too, and then we are laughing and howling and the sea is whipping around us and the sun is just lowering in the sky. I have never felt so free before. And all with . . . Will?
“This has been a pretty good day,” Will says as we crawl out of the water and on to the sand. I’m grateful that none of my undergarments are white, but I also don’t really care. I can’t help noticing Will’s smooth, tan skin, though.
“It has,” I say, grinning, wiping salt water off my face. “Thanks to you.”
Will stops. “It almost makes me wonder.”
“What?” I ask. “If we should skip school more often?”
Will just chuckles, still catching his breath, and lays his head down. “No,” he says. “Don’t get mad.”
“I won’t get mad,” I promise.
“I wonder if maybe she planned this all along?”
My smile disappears, and I start digging in the sand. I refuse to let her ruin this. I refuse to let the idea of Lucy Keating cloud my judgment, my feelings, my happiness. That was the point of today, after all.
“What do you think?” Will pushes.
“Today has been a good day, Will,” I say. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Will nods, staring up at the sky. “Okay, Annabelle,” he agrees.
I look at him for a moment, and then, slowly, I lie down next to him, and lay my head on his chest.
“Do you mind?” I ask, still feeling unsure until I feel his big, warm Will arm come around my shoulder, and his hand rests gently in my hair.
“I don’t mind,” he says softly, combing his fingers through some of it as we slowly drift into sleep.
22
I’m Sorry You Had to See This
THE NEXT night, I peek my head into my parents’ bedroom, where I find my mom reading a book on an Italian architect named Palladio.
“You’d like this guy,” she says, pointing to the cover. “He’s all about symmetry and simplicity.”
“I learned that from you,” I say, getting in next to her and curling up on my side.
“Sort of,” she says. “I like symmetry, but I’m not necessarily good at it. You got my love of symmetry with your father’s intensity. Somehow we created a perfect child.”