CHAPTER 22

Ruth

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AN ENTIRE WEEK PASSES and I don’t see Josh. I carry his hoodie with me, my proof that he exists, and wait for the excuse to approach him when I find his face amidst the three thousand strangers I see every day.

I keep my head down on my walk home from school, studying the cracks in the sidewalk and subconsciously stepping around their pattern. My anxiety keeps me from making eye contact with people on the street. I have this terrible fear that if I encounter the wrong person, they’ll mug me or try and pull me into their car. Sometimes all it takes is eye contact. Sometimes a little more. Like the time Lucy flipped off a car full of dark-skinned men in Reno. I’ll never forget the frantic way my mother drove as they chased us down for miles.

So when I hear someone yelling at me from the window of their car, I don’t look up.

“Hey! Ruth!”

Not until I hear my name.

Josh is waving me over, urging me to go fast as he waits at the red light. I dash through the stopped vehicles, feeling a little reckless as my heart flip-flops over my new crush.

“Hey,” I breathe, shutting the door of his sky blue VW Golf. The light turns green as I slide my backpack onto the floor.

“Here,” he says, reaching across my lap to grab the bag. The feel of his forearm against my thigh doesn’t go unnoticed. In fact, it goes very, very noticed.

He lifts my backpack and throws it behind my seat so I have more legroom.

“Thanks.” I smile. “Oh,” I stammer, too loudly, “and here’s your sweatshirt.”

I hand it to him while he’s driving, which is dumb because what’s he supposed to do with a sweatshirt while he’s driving? I should have waited.

He takes it and throws it in the back seat like it’s trash.

“Sorry I’ve had it so long,” I say, still watching the sacred hoodie I’ve been carrying around like a swaddled baby. “I tried looking for you.”

“Oh. I had the flu. I’ve been out for the whole week.” He coughs a little, and I hear a light rattle in his chest.

“That sucks.”

Then I run out of things to say and an uncomfortable silence ensues. My weeklong fantasy of our instant connection and the easy way we’ll be around each other dissipates in that silent, real-life moment. Soon, he’ll see me for what I really am. Not some intriguing new girl shrouded in mystery, but a shy, awkward teenager who has nothing to say. I’m convinced this will be the last time we speak.

“So, where do you live? I’ll drop you at home.”

My eyes widen with embarrassment. “Shoot.” I hadn’t been paying attention at all. “We passed it a while ago.” I look around at the unrecognizable streets having no idea how to navigate back to my house.

He laughs, but continues to drive and plugs in a tape deck converter for his ipod. “Here,” he says, handing me the little black mp3 player. “Find Sweet Jane by the Cowboy Junkies.”

I take it, and sort through his songs finding the one he wants.

It’s a slow sweet classic, and the woman’s voice instantly makes me feel more comfortable. Her lyrics give purpose to my silence, and I allow myself to stay quiet and listen without feeling pressure to be chatty.

He must sense me relaxing a bit because he gives me a knowing smile. He has perfect, white teeth and the most kissable full lips I’ve ever seen. I like that he isn’t a chiseled block of muscle and that his black curly hair is a little messy. He’s a band geek, through and through, which keeps him from being out of my league.

“I live on Maple Street.”

He drums his hands on the steering wheel, and I notice the masculine strength in them. His fingers are long and squared off at the tips with clean short nails. I don’t know why I notice those kinds of details, but I do. Perfect teeth and good-looking hands are my own personal test for how sexy a man is.

“I was hoping you’d forget to tell me.”

He glances over at me, waiting for my laugh, but I completely miss the joke or the attempt at flirting. Whatever it is, I completely flop.

“Oh,” I half-laugh uncomfortably. That’s it. That’s all I say. Oh.

I’m so embarrassed when he pulls up to my apartment that I hardly let him get a word in as I say goodbye.

“Okay. Thanks for the ride. It was really nice. Thanks. See you later.”

I shut the door mid-sentence, but he lets me go, waving at me through the window with that same smile, like I’m the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

* * *

I tell my mom all of it. I’m incapable of keeping anything from her, but I like it that way.

“He’s not the super jock smokin’ hot kind of cute, but more like that comfy boyfriendy cute, you know?”

Mom nods, holding her grin behind the smirking line of her tight lips.

“What?” I ask, crossing my legs on our olive green thrift store sofa. “Am I talking about him too much?”

“Yeah, but I like it.”

A rerun of Friends is playing in the background. I’ve seen it a million times so I’m not paying attention.

“Did you give him back his sweater?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I laugh. “I kind of miss it.”

“That’s creepy.”

I can’t keep the smile off my face. “I know! I’m a creep.”

“So do you think he likes you?”

I get a sick feeling as I ponder that question. “You don’t think this is like some Carrie teenager prank thing do you?”

“No,” she waves a hand at me. “You’re beautiful and sweet. Who wouldn’t love you?”

“Oh God.”

She glances out the window for the fifth time since I’ve been home. It’s starting to get dark.

I sigh, getting nervous too. “Where the hell is she?”

“Probably basketball practice, right?”

I shake my head. “She didn’t tell you she got kicked off?”

Mom’s shoulders sag, and her features mimic the defeated slope of her posture. “No. She didn’t tell me.”

“She’s probably just hanging out with a friend,” I say.

“Probably,” she murmurs, sipping her merlot as she stares out the window.

We sit in silence for a while, both quietly convincing ourselves Lucy is fine, but there’s always that dark whisper of possibility that something is wrong.

“Okay, just one more thing,” I say trying to distract her. “He’s got these lips that are...I don’t know. They’re perfect. Oh, and he played this song in the car. I can’t remember what it was called, but it made me feel like...I was in a movie—”

Someone knocks at the door, and Mom and I look at each other. I already know what she’s thinking. I can see thoughts of my sister in her worried eyes, and I’m imagining the same things. Back home in Massack we might not have worried so much, but in some strange city, unimaginable threats seem possible.

I rush to the door, terrified it will be a policeman or someone carrying her mangled body in their arms.

My throat hitches as I reach for the knob.

It’s Josh.

I have no idea how long I stand there saying nothing.

“Hi,” he says, peeking around me to give a shy wave to my mom.

I glance back at her and widen my eyes enough to speak a silent Oh. My. God. Then I close the door behind me.

“Hey, what are you...what’s up?” I ask, failing in my attempt to act casual.

My backpack is in his hand. “You forgot this.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I take it and balance its weight on the tops of my feet. “So how’d you find my apart—”

“And then I thought, it’s Friday,” he interrupts, bobbing a little on his tiptoes with both hands in his pockets. “We don’t have school tomorrow. Maybe you... maybe we could go somewhere?”

It’s in that moment, alone with the crickets, as we breathe the cold dusky air between us, that I realize he’s as nervous as I am.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to tame my smile. “Yeah, sure. Let me just put this...” Everything is rushed in my excitement. I step back in the house to drop my bag and shut the door, leaving him to wait outside.

Mom looks at me with a thousand questions, and I do a spinning run-in-place happy dance, before miming to her that I’ll be back later.

She nods, shooing me out the door, and I meet Josh in the entry.

“So where do you want to go?” I ask, trying to abate the anxiety that’s making me sweat.

“I don’t know. Let’s just see where we end up.”

His car smells like oil and the faintest hint of cedar-wood, just like his sweater. I wish I could record the smell, or trap it somehow.

“Here.” He hands me the ipod again, but this time I feel a little more comfortable. “Your turn. Pick something.”

“Like, anything?” I scan the artists. “I don’t know if I recognize any.”

“Lucky you. I’d kill to hear some of those songs for the first time again.”

I skip through a few as we drive, looking up every so often to see where he’s heading, but I don’t know the place well enough.

“Neutral Milk Hotel?” I laugh at a band’s name. “What the heck is that?”

“You laugh, but it’s pure gold. I promise.”

I’m skeptical, but I click.

He’s right. It’s magic. I smile, feeling like I’ve just been let in on some kind of musical secret, and as we drive, he writes the first few lines of our story with the lyrics of his songs.