9
I STARED INTO the darkness for a long time, feeling the contrast between the cold, hard ground beneath me and the soft warmth of Robinson beside me. Thoughts raced through my mind endlessly: What if Robinson and I get caught? Or if we chicken out and go back home? Or if we keep on and each night lie side by side, chaste as children? If we kiss? If we whisper the word love, or if it remains unsaid forever?
It would probably only matter to me. I didn’t know if it would matter to Robinson. I tentatively put my head on his shoulder, but he didn’t move a muscle.
When I finally slept, I dreamed we were on the edge of a cliff, peering down. Dream-Robinson was holding my hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It only looks like a cliff. It’s actually a mountain, and the way is up, not down.”
Even in dreams, he was an optimist.
By the time Robinson stumbled out of the tent the next morning, looking rumpled and adorable, I’d packed our bags and plotted our route to Bolinas, a tiny town nestled between the California hills and the Pacific Ocean. I wanted to see it mostly because the town is supposed to be a secret. The people who live there are always tearing down the road signs that point to it. But that wasn’t going to stop me from discovering what the big deal was about this place.
“Maybe,” Robinson said teasingly as he mounted the bike, “buried deep inside the Good Girl, there’s the heart of a rebel.”
“Haven’t I already proven that to you by suggesting this crazy trip?” I climbed up behind him and commanded, “Now, drive.”
Naturally, we missed our turn the first time, but when we finally got there, we were a little mystified.
“This is what they want to keep to themselves?” Robinson asked.
The downtown consisted of two intersecting streets. There was a restaurant called the Coast Café—which, FYI, did not overlook the coast—and an old-fashioned-looking bar. I had to agree: Bolinas didn’t seem particularly inspiring.
But the adjacent beach was beautiful. We kicked our shoes off and sat down in the sand, staring at the blue water and feeling the sun on our shoulders. Tanned, half-wild children ran around us, throwing rocks at seagulls. Robinson started digging his toes in the sand, and more than once I caught him looking at me, an unreadable expression on his face.
“So … what are you thinking about?” I finally asked. I hoped he didn’t detect the slight edge of apprehension in my question.
“Corn dogs,” Robinson answered without missing a beat.
Sometimes I could just kill him.
He could have been thinking about me, about us, but instead his mind had settled on wieners encased in corn batter.
We ducked into Smiley’s Schooner Saloon, and Robinson walked up to the bar like it was the counter at Ernie’s. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “Two Rainiers, please, and a corn dog.”
I swear, if Robinson ever had to pick a last meal, it’d be corn dogs, French fries, and a deep-fried Twinkie.
“ID?” the bartender said.
Robinson fished out his wallet. The bartender’s eyes darted from Robinson’s fake license to Robinson’s face and back again. “Okay … Ned Dixon.” Then he turned to me.
I shrugged. “I wasn’t driving, see, so I left my license back—”
The bartender crossed his meaty arms. “Listen, kids, how about you head across the street and get yourself a nice ice-cream cone at the café.”
“Actually, I’m lactose intol—” Robinson began, but I interrupted him.
“Oh, I get it!” My voice came out surprisingly fierce. “We can fight in Afghanistan, but we can’t have a beer and watch the sunset?” My hands gripped the edge of the bar and I leaned forward, hostility coming off me in waves. I had no idea where this was coming from, but it actually felt kind of good to be angry with someone. Someone who didn’t matter, someone I would never see again.
I probably would have yelled more, but Robinson dragged me outside. Then he bent over, practically choking with laughter. “Fight in Afghanistan?” he wheezed. “Us?”
“It just came out,” I said, still not sure what had just happened. I started to giggle a little, too.
Robinson wiped his eyes. “You don’t even like beer.”
“It was a matter of principle. A lot of people die in Afghanistan before they’re allowed to buy a six-pack.”
“A lot of people die every day, Axi. They don’t go off on bartenders in secret towns about the unfairness of the drinking laws. I can’t wait to see what you come up with next,” he said, still laughing at my outburst as he strode ahead of me.
His flip tone made me stop short in the middle of the sidewalk. Yeah, people do die every day. Some people, like Carole Ann, die before they even learn to tie their shoes. Others die before they graduate from high school.
Hell, either one of us could die on this crazy trip.
There were so many more important things to do than buy a beer before that happened. I hurried to catch up with Robinson, who was turning the corner to where we’d parked the motorcycle in an empty lot behind the saloon. But now there was a man in a leather jacket and chaps standing right beside it, giving it a long—and much-too-close-for-my-comfort—look.
“Nice bike,” the guy said. “Got a cousin in Oregon who has one exactly like it.”
My lungs felt like bellows that someone had just squeezed shut. I took a step backward. Should we just run?
But Robinson didn’t flinch. “Your cousin has good taste,” he said. He glanced at the bike behind Chaps. “You riding a Fat Boy these days? I love those, but my girl here likes a bigger bike.” His voice had taken on an easy drawl, like he and Chaps were two dudes who’d see eye to eye over a Harley.
Chaps was still sizing Robinson up: Robinson was taller but about a hundred pounds lighter. Me, I was still thinking about running—and about how Robinson had called me his girl. That sounded … interesting. But did he mean it, or was it just part of his act?
“Happy hour’s almost over, y’know,” Robinson said.
Chaps gave him one long, last look, then shook his head and went inside.
I was already reaching for paper and pen.
Thanks so much for letting us ride your motorcycle, I wrote. We took really good care of it. We named it Charley.
Robinson read over my shoulder. “We did?”
“Just now,” I said. “Charley the Harley.”
I’m sorry we didn’t ask you if we could borrow it, but rest assured that your bike was used only for the forces of good. Sincerely, GG & the Scalawag
I tucked the note into the handlebars. “Come on. Time to find another ride,” I said, like I’d been stealing cars my whole life. In all of downtown Bolinas there were only about five cars, though.
“That one,” I said, pointing to a silver Pontiac.
Robinson nodded. “Dead boring,” he said. “But sensible.”
I could feel the tingling beginning in my limbs. Robinson took a quick look around and then got in. I ducked into the passenger side, mentally thanking the owner for leaving the doors unlocked.
From his backpack Robinson removed a small cordless drill and aimed it at the keyhole. I watched as glittering flecks of metal fell onto the seat.
He packed a drill? I thought.
A grizzled surfer was looking right at us. I smiled and waved.
“Hurry up,” I hissed at Robinson.
He produced his screwdriver and inserted it into the mangled keyhole. “One more minute.”
The adrenaline tingle was growing more intense. Painful, even.
“I had to break the lock pins,” Robinson explained.
As if I cared! I just wanted the engine to turn on. I sucked in a deep breath. Any moment we were going to be racing out of town, and everything would return to normal—my new normal, that is.
That was when two people came out of the Coast Café—and began heading toward their silver Pontiac. I met the woman’s eyes, saw her jaw drop open. The man started running. “Hey,” he shouted. “Hey!”
His arms flew forward, and he was just inches from us when the engine suddenly roared to life. Robinson slammed the car into reverse and we shot backward into the street. A moment later we were blazing out of town, going fifty in a twenty-five zone.
“I’m going to miss Charley,” I said, my heart pounding.
Robinson nodded. “Me too.”
“But not Bolinas,” I added.
“That was your idea,” Robinson reminded me with a smirk.
I shrugged and let out a deep sigh of relief. The sun was flashing deep vermilion over the blue ocean, calming me as I watched it slip lower and then vanish before my heart rate had even returned to normal.
Amazing how beauty can be so fleeting.