Читать книгу Saving June - Hannah Harrington - Страница 8

“That is so weird,” Laney says.

I glance at the column of people ahead of us and nod. “I know.”

“No, I mean, that is so weird,” she stresses. “Like—I cannot even!”

We’re waiting in line at Windermere’s local coffee shop, The Windermere Coffee Co. Creative name, I know. Our repeat business here is not due to customer loyalty but because somehow Grand Lake manages to be so obsolete that even the all-seeing Starbucks corporate machine has skipped over the town entirely.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Laney asks.

“What can I do? He knows I know. I don’t even know what I know, but I’m pretty sure I know something. You know?”

This line of thinking is confusing to follow even for me, but because Laney is my best friend, she nods and says, “Oh, yeah, I so know.”

Laney orders a soy venti latte with, like, five shots of three different flavored syrups, hazelnut and mint and vanilla. It sounds gross. I like to keep it simple: skinny chocolate mocha, extra whip. After the bored-looking girl behind the counter takes my order, I look around the crowded shop, hugging my arms around my middle. It feels weird, being out in the real world again. Around people just living their lives like normal. Their presence is oppressive. The very fact that the world is going on as usual, like nothing ever happened, makes me want to scream. I know it’s irrational to expect everything to grind to a halt because of June, but still. A wave of anxiety builds in my chest, my head pounding so loud it drowns out the noise of people talking and tapping away on their laptops.

The snap of the cashier’s chewing gum brings me back down to reality.

“That’ll be two dollars and ninety-five cents,” she says.

Before I can reach for my wallet, Laney hands over a ten-dollar bill, covering for the both of us. I’m about to insist on buying my own when I catch the eye of two guys, both college age. One is tall, kind of slick looking and gives off major smarminess vibes. The other is pudgy and acne ridden, like one of those guys from the “before” shots in commercials for Proactiv. They’re huddled at a nearby table, whispering and sneaking long looks our way.

“Hey, princess, is that you?” the tall one suddenly calls out.

Laney turns, and the moment she makes eye contact with the guy, all of the color drains from her face. Her eyes dart from him to the door, like she’s going to bolt, but then she smoothes out her expression and walks over to them, fists balled at her sides. I have no idea what is going on. I take the change from the cashier and trail behind her, juggling both of our drinks.

“I love a girl who comes when she’s called.” The tall one leers, and the greasy fatty bumps his fist into the guy’s shoulder and laughs, saying, “Nice,” like that was some display of razor-sharp wit instead of being totally gross.

I expect Laney to punch him in the face, or at the very least tell them off, but she does neither.

“What do you want, Kyle?” she asks stiffly.

Kyle? I glance at her, surprised. She knows this guy?

“What, we can’t share a friendly hello?” The guy—Kyle, apparently—grins, and I notice how bright his teeth are. “Last I knew you had no problem sharing more than that.”

His gaze travels up and down her body lazily and lingers. The whole leering thing is giving me major creeps. Laney’s face scrunches up funny; I wait for her to lay the smack down, the way she always does when some loser hits on her, but she just stands there, speechless. Finally I nudge her elbow and hand her the latte.

“We should go. I’ve got that—thing,” I say lamely.

Acne Guy snickers. “Oh, right. Wouldn’t want to miss that thing.”

Laney spins on her heel and rushes out the door. I’m so shocked that all I can do is level my iciest glare at Acne Guy before hustling out of the store after her, bumping into an entering patron on the way. No time for snappy comebacks when my best friend is making a mad dash.

Outside, Laney’s already inside the car. I can’t run while carrying steaming coffee, and she has the keys in the ignition by the time I manage to climb into the passenger seat. She doesn’t even wait for me to buckle in before peeling out of the parking lot, tires screeching.

“Gah!” I yelp as a bit of hot coffee sloshes over the cup and lands on my hand. “Will you stop for a second? Jesus!”

We pass another block or so before she bothers to slow down. She white-knuckles the steering wheel, staring straight ahead and ignoring me.

“Who was that?” I demand. “Why are you—”

“Just give me a minute, okay? Please.”

I fall silent. I’ve never seen her like this before. So shaken up. It’s really freaking me out.

Laney calms down enough to take a sip of her latte, then hits the turn signal and pulls into an empty parking lot. She shuts the car off, tosses the keys on top of the dashboard and slumps against the seat, head rolling back. I stare at her and wait.

“That was Kyle,” she finally says.

“I gathered that much.” I take a long drink of my mocha, watching her.

“We had sex.”

I almost do a spit-take. Laney looks over at me as I choke and cough, wiping the coffee and whipped cream off my chin.

“You—what?” I’m still sputtering. “When?”

“Almost a week ago. He was behind me in line at the gas station, and we just started talking… .”

“So that’s your prerequisite for sex now? Standing behind you in line at the Gas-N-Go?”

It comes out harsher than I intend, but between the scalding coffee on my tongue and this little revelation, I’m more than a little off my game. Call me a prude, but this whole casual sex thing is so weird to me. I can’t imagine sleeping with some guy I’ve only known for a few hours. I know Laney tends to be … more forward than I am, and it’s not unheard of for her to mess around with guys she hasn’t known that long, but a random hookup like this? Really?

Laney gives me an offended look. “God, Harper, no! It’s more complicated than that.” She sets her coffee down in the cup holder and exhales loudly. “It was right after … after June, and I was really upset, I wasn’t even thinking. We talked a little, and he invited me to this party. And I got, like, seriously wasted. I don’t even know how it happened. Next thing I know …”

I study her for a long moment. “Laney. Did he—”

“No!” she says quickly. She hesitates. “It’s not like he assaulted me, okay? I didn’t exactly say no.”

“But did you say yes?”

“Yeah. I mean. I think so. Maybe. I must’ve, right?” Her eyes glisten wetly. “It was so stupid. I’m so stupid.”

The look on her face guts me. I should’ve been there. I’m the one who watches her back, the same way she watches mine. I wouldn’t have let this happen.

“You’re not stupid,” I tell her. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. This is way too much to absorb in one sitting. “Look. Laney. It’s not your fault that that Kyle guy is a sleaze. You could’ve told me earlier. I would’ve—”

“Would’ve what?” she says sharply. She shrugs and lowers her eyes to her coffee cup. “It happened. Whatever. It’s over now, and it’s not like I’m going to do it again. I thought about telling you. I was going to, but with—well, everything—” She swallows hard. “It seemed kind of unimportant. You have enough to deal with right now.”

Laney’s not the blushing virgin type; she had sex for the first time with short-stint boyfriend Dustin Matthews after sophomore year homecoming and spared me no detail in recounting the event. And from the stories she’s shared, I know it wasn’t her last time hooking up, either. Every time I looked remotely scandalized by her tales, she’d roll her eyes and say, “Sex is, like, not even a big deal, trust me,” which maybe was true for those who were having it—not that I would know—but in my experience was a huge deal for those who weren’t.

By the time we’ve finished our coffee, Laney seems to be feeling more like herself again. She slides on her oversize pink-tinted sunglasses and grabs the keys.

“We should get going,” she says, and goes to start up the Gremlin.

Except it doesn’t start.

The engine revs like a skipping record, then putters out. She curses and twists the keys again. This time the engine barely makes a noise at all. So she tries again.

And again.

“So I think we’re stuck,” she says to me, five minutes later when the engine has failed to start.

“Yeah, looks like.”

She groans. “Today sucks.”

“Do I need to call my mom?” I think about the inebriated state I found her in the other morning. “I think she might be busy… .” Aunt Helen would probably come out, but the last thing I want to do is ask her for a favor.

Laney waves one hand. “No, it’s cool. I’ll call mine. I’m sure she’ll be so pleased to tear herself away from Days of Our Lives in order to help out her only daughter.”

She digs into her purse and whips out her cell phone. First she calls for a tow, and then she calls her mother. The towing guys come out first. We stand next to the curb as they hook the car up to the truck.

“Long live the Gremlin,” Laney says somberly, pouring what little is left of her latte onto the pavement in commemoration as the mechanic’s truck tows her piece of junk out of the lot. She lowers herself onto the curb and I sit down next to her, kicking at a stray pebble.

“Maybe it’s just the battery?” I say hopefully. “Or the water pump. It could be the water pump.”

“Whatever it is, there’s, like, no way I can afford to fix it,” she says. “I can barely manage to keep the tank filled these days. Even if I could swing it, it would wipe out all the money that could get us to California.”

The idea of running away to California is like a silver strand of hope, this tiny, fragile thread tying me to the world, giving me a reason to have been left behind by June. Giving me a purpose. And now that thread is thinning with every passing moment, worn down by the brutal scrape of reality grating away at it, bit by bit. It was probably a stupid idea in the first place. And an increasingly impossible one.

But then I think of June’s postcard, her words, that perfect, idyllic beach, and something in me resurges, clings to that thread even more tightly. I’m not letting this go without a fight.

“Besides,” Laney says, “the repairs will probably cost as much as the stupid piece of crap is worth.”

“Can’t your dad pay for it?” I ask.

“You know how he is—for a guy who makes as much money as he does, he’s a total tightwad.”

“But you get an allowance, right?” I press. “Don’t you have some of it saved?”

Laney looks at me incredulously. “Harper. I’m spending four dollars a day on sugared caffeine. What do you think?” She rolls her eyes. “And willing though my mom may be to update my wardrobe, no way will she help me out with this. Let’s face it. It’s a lost cause.”

I’m not ready to give up yet. “There are other ways of getting to California,” I point out.

“Like what? By plane? I think they’re going to say something when your carry-on is a freaking urn.”

Laney’s uncharacteristically reasoned logic could not come at a worse time. She’s supposed to be the optimist, not me.

“What about a bus?”

“I am so not taking a bus. Have you heard how unsafe those things are? We’d probably get mugged or murdered. Or worse.”

Now, that sounds more like the overly dramatic Laney I know.

I sigh and look down at her feet. She has on black sandals with a cork heel, and her toes are painted dark red—obviously she had them done recently. Her mom’s idea of mother-daughter bonding time is getting pedicures together; a conundrum for Laney, who loves pedicures, but hates spending more time with her mother than strictly necessary.

“I think,” Laney says, “we are at an impose.”

“You mean an impasse?”

“Right, that. If the universe wants us to go to California, things will work out on their own.”

“Don’t say that,” I snap. It always bothers me when Laney starts espousing this particular brand of fatalism. “This isn’t about leaving shit up to fate. This isn’t a game!”

“I wasn’t trying to say that,” she says, confused and a little hurt.

“I have to do this.” My voice rises, almost cracking. I have to make her understand. This isn’t just a joke or something I’m talking about for kicks. This has to happen. “I need your help. Please. I’m not just messing around here. I am so, completely dead serious, you don’t even know. I have to do this. For June. I have to, or—” Or I’ll never be able to live with myself. I can’t bring myself to actually say it. I don’t need to. Laney knows.

“Okay,” she soothes, “okay, we’ll find a way, okay? I promise. Just breathe.”

I look at her and nod. I believe her. Laney never makes promises she can’t keep.

Mrs. Sterling picks us up a few minutes later in her white SUV. During the drive back, she makes a lot of tsk-ing sounds with her tongue and keeps saying, “Laney, your father is not going to be happy about this,” like Laney’s to blame for her junky car breaking down. Her mouth looks weird, like she’s trying to frown, except the Botox makes it impossible, and from the backseat I catch her glancing in the rearview mirror to brush her peroxide-blond hair away from her alarmingly orange fake-baked face.

When she pulls into my driveway, she twists around in her seat, smiles tightly and asks if my mother enjoyed the quiche.

“It was great,” I lie, and open the door. “My mom says thanks.”

“I’ll call you,” Laney says as I climb out. I wave, and she blows a kiss through the window.

The house is empty again. I think about eating, but I’m not really hungry, and besides, after tossing out the gross foods we’d been given, the refrigerator is bare; there’s a bottle of wine on the bottom shelf, mostly empty. I dump what’s left into the sink and tuck the bottle under some trash in the bin.

Someone left the television on in the living room—an infomercial advertising weight supplements flickers on the screen. A now slim woman holds an old picture of herself, thick and round, and tearfully proclaims that the product transformed her life, that her husband now loves to touch her and her children are no longer ashamed to introduce her to their friends, her life is now pretty and shiny and perfect, blah blah blah. How can this woman stand to listen to herself?

I’m flipping through channels when Aunt Helen and my mother come in, carrying brown grocery bags. Mom’s hair is bushy and unbrushed, and she has on zero makeup. She’s like the opposite of Mrs. Sterling. Usually she’s the opposite of Mrs. Sterling in that she looks put-together without being overdone, classy without trying too hard, but now she just looks sad.

Mom withdraws an egg carton from the bag, sets it on the counter and just stares at it until Aunt Helen reaches over and puts it inside the refrigerator.

“Harper,” calls Aunt Helen, “would you come in here for a moment? I need to speak with you.”

This can only be bad. These types of “discussions” never seem to work out in my favor. I mute the television—I’ve landed on some documentary special about Area 51—and obediently trudge into the kitchen. Aunt Helen purses her thin lips as she leans against the refrigerator door, fingering the large bronze cross that always hangs around her neck.

“We’ve been discussing the … current situation,” she says. Current situation. What is with all of these euphemisms? Adjustments. Current situation. No one can just outright say the ugly truth: Your sister is dead, your mother is unraveling at the seams, your father is a regular Houdini who has once again pulled his well-honed disappearing act and you have the emotional capacity of a cinder block. “Your mother feels it would be best—and I agree—for me to come and stay with you both for a short while,” Aunt Helen continues. “Just to look after things.”

The idea of Aunt Helen living here is enough to make my skin crawl. It’s not that I don’t appreciate what she’s doing, especially for my mother, but I also know what I can and can’t handle. Aunt Helen around twenty-four seven, hovering over me, shoving her religious-guidance crap down my throat, falls distinctly into the latter category.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“Someone needs to be here for your mother, since you seem to be having no qualms about gallivanting around with your friends and leaving her to fend for herself,” she says reproachfully. “Do you really think that’s what your sister would have wanted?” Her accusatory tone cuts through me like a knife.

My eyes shift from her to my mother, shocked, but Mom won’t even look at me. I can’t believe I’m being ambushed. I mean, I know Aunt Helen’s never liked me. I get it. June was always the golden child while I’m the rotten egg. I never even had to do anything to make myself look bad except be average in comparison to her saintly self. This is nothing new.

June wouldn’t be so selfish. June wouldn’t be so cold. June wouldn’t abandon her daughterly duties. Except that she did, permanently, leaving me to take the reins of a role I cannot possibly fill. But no one wants to think about that.

My sister is dead and I’m still being measured up against her ghost. I’m not even surprised.

So why does it still hurt?

The hurt winds its way through me and curls my fists at my sides. My blood buzzes in my head so loud I can’t think. I’m pretty sure if she says another word I’m going to throw something, possibly at her. So instead of doing something I know I’ll regret, I storm out of the kitchen and don’t stop until I’m up the stairs and in my room. I take the disc out of my Discman and throw it at the wall as hard as I can. It doesn’t make much of a sound, just bounces off and rolls onto the floor, sitting there in one piece, mocking me. After some pacing back and forth, I put the disc back in the player and turn the volume up as loud as it will go.

For the rest of the night, no one comes to knock on my door and apologize, or see if I’m okay, or even to try and coax me down for dinner. It’s so stupid, because all I’ve wanted is space, and now that I have it, there’s this part of me that is just so achingly lonely I could die.

The idea of California tugs at me again. It’s not even a mere wish anymore, it’s just … necessary. I have to find a way to get there. Not just for June’s sake, but for mine. I have to get out of this place before I suffocate. A second after that thought crosses my mind, I’m struck with the realization that maybe this is exactly how June felt, too, all of that time.

I wish she was here so I could ask. I wish she was here at all, sitting on my bed, recounting some stupid argument she had with Tyler, or complaining about how I’ve used up the last of the hair conditioner or sitting out on the roof with me as I sneak one of Mom’s stolen cigarettes. We used to do that, sometimes. The first time June caught me smoking I thought for sure she’d rat me out, but she never did.

I wish she was here, but she isn’t, she never will be, and I have to get used to that.

I wait until I know Aunt Helen and Mom have both gone to bed before I creep into the kitchen, make myself a peanut butter sandwich in the dark and go back upstairs. Sometime after midnight I fall asleep, listening to the CD on a loop. When I wake up, the sheets are caught in a sweaty tangle around my legs, the batteries in my Discman are dead and it’s bright outside. A glance at my alarm informs me it’s past noon.

Aunt Helen and my mom are gone. Again. Apparently I’m the only one expected to be under voluntary house arrest. I check the answering machine—no messages. My father hasn’t called since the wake. Go figure. He’s probably too busy with Melinda, the most important person in his life.

I don’t know why I’m so annoyed; it’s not like I want to talk to him. I almost feel like I wouldn’t care if I never talked to him again. June is gone, and where is he? I don’t care how hard it is for him. I don’t care if he’s uncomfortable in this house. I needed him, and if he couldn’t be there for me over something so important, what good is he at all?

It’s quickly becoming clear that the only person I can lean on at all these days is Laney.

I consider calling her when I remember she’s elbow-deep in an AP English exam and unavailable for another two hours. Nothing good is on daytime television, and really, it makes me anxious to sit in the living room for too long with June’s urn planted on the fireplace mantel, staring me down. There’s nothing to do but roam the deserted house.

Mom started smoking again after she and Dad split. She thinks she’s good at hiding it, like I don’t know she keeps a stash of cigarettes hidden in her jewelry box. Sure enough, there’s a pack of Camel Lights stowed away under a mess of necklaces, along with a plastic lighter. I nab both and retreat back into my own room.

There were times, before the divorce, when our parents would fight. Mostly it was Mom who would yell, while Dad sat silent, a stony wall to her barrage of shouts and accusations. I know she thought he was messing around on the side, during his late nights at the office, and hiding money from her. I have no idea how much of that was actually true—if any of it—but Mom would get so worked up, she must’ve really believed what she said. She’d just go on a total rampage, annihilating everything in her path. The best coping method was total avoidance, and so sometimes during their arguments, June would come to my room, near tears, and we’d climb out my window and onto the roof and just sit. Sometimes I’d smoke, sometimes we’d talk, and sometimes we’d just sit there in mutual silence. During our conversations, we never acknowledged the obvious: our parents’ marriage was vaporizing before our eyes.

Maybe we thought if we didn’t mention it, it would go away on its own. Maybe we just didn’t know how to talk to each other the way we used to, when we were little kids and best friends who shared everything.

Now I wrench the window up and slowly slide my legs outside, climbing out just enough to sit on the ledge with my bare feet flat on the slanted roof, already warmed by the high sun. I shake a single cigarette from the pack at my side and stick it in my mouth. It takes only two tries to strike up a flame, which is quite impressive considering how hard my hands are shaking. I wonder if it’ll always be this hard, to think about June, if I’ll ever be able to separate the good memories from bad, or if they’ll always be intrinsically tied together.

I light the end of the cigarette, inhaling deeply. The air is hot and still, the breeze nonexistent, the sun beating down in an otherwise clear sky. From my perch I can spot some kids a few doors down, skipping rope on the street and chanting in unison. Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue, in nineteen hundred and forty-two. The waves got higher, and higher …

If I close my eyes it’s almost like June’s beside me, the way she used to be. I can see her perfectly in my mind—those slim arms wrapped around her knees as she pulls her long legs in close to her chest. She used to sit like that all the time, like she was trying to make herself as small as possible.

Maybe she was always trying to disappear.

I’m sitting there, breathing in the mingled smells of smoke and cut grass and tar from the shingles, trying to remember, when suddenly a voice cuts through my meandering thoughts.

“Hey!” My eyes fly open to see Jacob Tolan, standing on the edge of my front yard, shielding his eyes from the intense sun with one hand and squinting up at me. “Enjoying your moment of faux teenage rebellion?”

The unexpected intrusion nearly sends me plummeting off the roof and to an early death. At the very least, a few broken ribs. Flustered, I quickly right myself and glare down at his figure. The first thing I notice is that he’s wearing a black leather jacket open over a long-sleeved red flannel shirt, even though it’s about a billion degrees outside, and black jeans, again. Possibly the same pair. What is this, the nineties?

“Get off my lawn,” I shout, holding the cigarette away from my face.

“Oooh, tough words from the girl who smokes—let me guess—Virginia Slims?”

Who the hell does he think he is, coming here and accusing me of smoking girly cigarettes?

“Camel Lights, actually, dickwad.” I take another long, harsh drag, just to prove a point. Unfortunately, the effect is diminished when I start coughing up half a lung.

Jake extracts his own pack from his jeans pocket, tilting it up for me to see. “What do you know. Same brand. Got a light?”

I reel my arm back and chuck my lighter at him, hard. My aim is decent enough, but Jake dodges out of the way just in time; the flimsy thing barely clips him in the shoulder, and he shoots me a long, even look as he leans down and fishes it from the grass at his feet.

I keep on glaring as he straightens and lights his cigarette. “What do you want?”

He says, “We need to talk,” and glances around conspicuously. “Preferably in, you know, private.”

“Like … private, private?” I ask. Does he seriously think anyone would bother to listen in on this conversation?

He scowls and does that annoying squinty thing again. “Is there any other kind?”

Part of me wants to tell him to go screw himself; the other part of me is curious to know what possible reason he could have for coming around and wanting to talk. Curiosity wins out in the end. I stub the cigarette out, making sure to roll my eyes and blow out an exaggerated sigh so he won’t think I’m, like, really wanting to know what he’s doing in my front yard.

“Fine, whatever,” I tell him coolly. “Give me a minute.”

I scoot back through the window, carefully wedging it down, and then hurry downstairs. It seems like a good idea to make him wait for a while, just so he doesn’t think I’m dying to hear whatever it is he has to say. Even if I kind of am.

I stand at the front door and count to thirty before I open it. Jake is still standing in the same spot, stomping out his cigarette, and instead of approaching me, he just cocks his head to the side until I march over.

“What do you want?” I huff.

I want to know what’s going on, but if he keeps this up, forget it. I’ve never been the kind of girl to beg. I’m definitely not about to start now.

He grabs my arm and hauls me behind the towering oak tree at the edge of the lawn. “Let’s talk in there,” he says, jerking his chin toward the van parked right on the curb.

I glance around to see if anyone is in earshot. Our old neighbor Mr. Jones is mowing his lawn, and some woman pushes a stroller down the sidewalk. When the woman passes, she gives us a strange look, but then the baby starts wailing and diverts her attention.

I stare at Jake blankly. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“What? Why not?”

“Sketchy black van? Weird stalking of my house? What are you going to do next, offer me some candy?” I scoff. “Sorry, I saw that Dateline special, thank you very much. Besides, anything you need to say to me, you can say be hind this tree.”

He makes this annoyed growling sound in the back of his throat, then takes a deep breath. “Listen. I know what you and Laney are planning on doing.”

Well, that is not what I expected. I look at him closely. He can’t know. Can he?

“Uh, okay,” I say. Best to play dumb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What, like I’d come all the way over here just to bullshit you? Do you think I’m an idiot?” He pauses. “Don’t answer that.”

Not a problem, as I’m sort of at a loss for words at the moment. All I can do is look at him. Up close, I get a better view; there’s no denying the fact he is really, really good-looking, in this rakish, edgy, badass, I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-screw-you-I-don’t-need-a-mirror kind of way. He has these piercing, unbelievably green eyes that are as gorgeous and sharp as the rest of him; it’s like they can see straight through me. But I don’t want to be seen. I just want answers.

Realizing his hand is still on my arm, I shake it off. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets and waits.

“How much do you know?” I ask cautiously.

“You, her. June—the urn.” He pauses. “California.”

“How did you—”

“You’re not as discreet as you think,” he says. His grin is so smug I want to punch him in the face.

“You spied on us, didn’t you?” I don’t even try to hide the amount of disgust in my tone. The thought of him listening in on our conversation by the door the whole time like some kind of creepster leaves me feeling horrified and violated and pissed off, all at the same time. I cross my arms over my chest. “Okay, so you know. Congratulations. Would you like a cookie?”

Jake looks me in the eyes intently. “I’m going with you.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he insists. He steps forward, once again violating my personal-space bubble, and lowers his voice. “You take me with you, or I swear I’ll tell your mother. I bet she’d love to hear what you’re planning to do with her dearly departed daughter’s remains. Or I could talk to your lovely aunt, who I had the pleasure of meeting the other day. She seems like the kind of person who’d be really on board with that plan.”

My heart starts racing a little faster. If Mom found out … if Aunt Helen found out … it’d be over, no question. I’d be under permanent house arrest and twenty-four-hour surveillance. And they’d probably call Dad and tell him to speed up the urn selection process, and if they split the ashes before I can figure out how the hell to get to California, that’s it. I’ll have failed before I even started.

Jake has to be bluffing.

But what if he’s not?

“Like she’d believe you,” I say sarcastically, but I’m less sure now, and he can tell.

“Like she’s not paranoid enough right now to listen to me?” He snorts. “I don’t think so.”

Damn. He has me on that one. “So now I’m being blackmailed by a tattletale?”

“Put it however you want,” he says. He heaves a long-suffering sigh, like even having this conversation is a total pain. “Look, I’ve got a van—”

“That—” I wave a hand toward the contraption parked on the curb “—is not a van. That is a death trap.”

“Leave Joplin out of this,” he retorts, and I blink in surprise. His van has a name? Before I can whip up a snarky comment, he plows on. “And I have some money, and no one who’ll even notice I’m gone. You’re talking about two minors traveling across the country. If you take a car, or a bus, you’ll never make it. The cops’ll track you down in a second.”

That—that is actually all really convincing. But I’m not ready to concede to his common sense, not yet. Everything about this is too weird. Too … wrong.

“Why do you even care?” I ask. “So my sister tutored you a few times for padding on her college apps. Big deal. You hardly knew her. Right?”

Jake doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that one. At least five different emotions flicker over his face, none of which I can pinpoint. There’s more to it—to him and June—than he’s letting on. I know it.

“That’s what I thought.” I start heading back to the door.

Good. Now I have the upper hand. Now he’s the one who’ll have to beg.

“‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down,’” he calls out to my receding back. I stop, but I don’t turn around until he breaks into a half jog to catch up to me. “Where did you hear that?”

I ignore him. “You’re hiding something. I want to know why you’re doing this.”

“I have my reasons.”

I shake my head. “That’s not good enough.” I need to know why he’d volunteer for this, why he cares about my sister at all.

“Yeah, well, too bad!” he shouts. “I told you the deal!”

Maybe my strategy isn’t working as well as I thought. I called his bluff, but he doesn’t look ready to budge. He looks me up and down and then abruptly turns away.

As he walks toward his van, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Your move, Scott.”