My phone is turned off, tucked into the zippered pocket of my duffel bag. And though it’s been only a few minutes, I miss it. Have to fight the reflex to reach for the screen. Instead, I look out the window, watch as LA gets smaller and smaller, a collection of buildings and houses and cars on the freeway that from up here look harmless and neutral, like any other place in the world that isn’t home. My PSAT prep book sits open on my lap, but I can’t bring myself to read it. In T minus four hours, Scarlett will pick me up from the airport and drive us straight to DeLucci’s and we will order two slices of pizza each and Diet Cokes in big frosted glasses, and all of our shared history, our lifetime of inside jokes, will come alive again across their dingy folding tables. My two months away erased. I will tell her about the mess I’ve made of things, how my new life feels on the verge of unraveling, and she will tell me how to fix it. How to keep my friendship with Dri, how to make Caleb want to, you know, actually be with me in person, how not to lose my job. How to rid myself of my ridiculous unrequited crush on Ethan, who by all accounts is damaged and possibly dangerous, and also unattainable.
And she’ll remind me that everything that is new always feels tenuous, that a lot of this, maybe even most of this, is in my head.
In T minus four hours, I will be home again. Even though my mom won’t be there, at least, finally, I will be someplace I recognize.
I’m so relieved that I let the tears fall now that there’s no one here to see. I even let them blur the words on my vocab list, let them bleed their fat, wet stains onto the page.
—
Later, in the car, I sideways glance at Scar. She looks different, older somehow, like her features have set. Her hair is short now, a messy, asymmetrical bob. She never mentioned she’d cut it. I wonder if she made a Pinterest board of options first, like we used to, or if it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Either way, she rocks it. Scar taps the wheel of her parents’ battered old Honda to the beat of some song I don’t recognize. Both the music and the heat are blasting. My coat and scarf are necessary outside, but in the car, dressed for Chicago and with my seat belt on, I’m overheating. I should have taken them off before I got in.
I think of the weather back in California, how I never need to check the forecast. Blue skies, short sleeves, every day. A breeze so slight, it tickles.
“I feel like I just got out of prison,” I say, and crack open my window and lower the radio so we can talk. I smell the familiar smell of Scarlett: coconut and mango from her lotion and something unidentified and peppery. “For reals.”
“I guess if you define prison as living in a huge freakin’ mansion in Beverly Hills and having a maid and a personal chef, then sure. You’re totally out of prison,” Scarlett says, and I can’t decide if I hear a hint of something new in her voice. A lack of patience with me.
“First of all, I don’t live in Beverly Hills. You know it’s not like that.”
“Relax, I’m joking,” she says, and fiddles with the radio. Not as loud as before, but still annoying. “So what do you want to do while you’re here?”
“Honestly? Just hang out with you. Eat pizza. Talk. Laugh. I’ve missed, you know, us.”
“Yeah. It’s funny I didn’t realize how much of our time we used to spend together until you left.” She keeps her eyes trained on the road, and again I can’t tell if I’m being paranoid. Is Scar mad at me for something? Of course we used to spend all of our time together. That’s what best friends do.
“I love your hair. It looks really cool.”
“I needed a change,” she says, and turns the radio way up again.
—
Over pizza at DeLucci’s, which at least is one thing that is as good as I remember it, I catch her up on everything in LA. Tell her the whole story, from beginning to end. My figuring out SN is Caleb. Liam and Dri. Even what Theo said about Ethan being a drug addict, which at first I’m scared to tell her because I want her to like him, even if they will never meet. But I tell her anyway because I’ve never been able to censor with Scar. I ramble a bit, am nervous. The caffeine, probably. Had a cup of coffee on the plane. Black, a pathetic tribute to Ethan.
“So what should I do?” I ask, because Scar always knows what to do. She’s one of those wise old people trapped in a young person’s body. Her middle name is actually, I kid you not, Sage.
“What do you mean?” she asks, and sucks on the lemon from her Diet Coke. “Some guy broke up with his girlfriend and wants to ask you out? Sounds like a high-class problem.”