19. Dallas #2
“I doubt Monika has the time for that, Emmi,” her mother said, closing her book, “and didn’t you say she’s going to the beach anyway?”
“Not for another week or so,” Emmi said. She could not understand why her mother suddenly gave a shit about Monika’s schedule. “I’ll ask her. She’s very nice, Mrs. Henley. I’m sure she would be happy to take Jack on a tour.”
“I insist you call me Irene,” Mrs. Henley said. She finally let go of Emmi’s shoulders. “And when you need it, the key to Jack’s car is on the hook by the garage door. It’s got brand-new tires.”
“I can’t drive,” she said.
Irene looked as shocked as if Emmi had just said she couldn’t read.
“You can’t get your license in Germany until you’re eighteen,” Emmi said, “and I haven’t had time in the past year because of school. There’s no need to drive in Germany anyway.”
“I’ve been driving Jack’s car,” her mom said, “and Otto is driving the minivan.”
“Why in tarnation won’t you use Mason’s car? I wouldn’t be caught dead driving that Prius,” Irene said. “For goodness’ sake, take the Tesla. Just don’t forget to charge it.”
“Otto doesn’t think it’s right to drive his new car.”
“Mason wouldn’t mind one bit. He’s not the kind of person to care about that sort of thing. Anyway, you two have a good day. And let me know if you want to come for dinner some night this week.” Irene walked out of the house, blowing a kiss through the door after she closed it.
“She’s so nice,” Emmi said. “Don’t you like her?”
“I like her very much,” her mom said, “though I’m not used to people showing up unannounced all the time.”
But Emmi loved the back door opening and closing. She wished she had grandparents stopping over with cookies. Her own grandmother wouldn’t even give them a key to her beach house.
“I don’t think Monika should meet Jack,” her mom said.
“Why not?”
“It’s better not to complicate this arrangement. And we don’t know enough about him.”
Emmi hated it when her mother acted like she knew best. The way Emmi saw it: Monika and this guy Jack might hit it off. Maybe they’d even have a summer fling. “I’m going for a run,” she said.
“You missed your chance,” her mom said, getting up and washing the watermelon seeds down the drain. “It’s too hot now.”
“I’ll be fine.” Emmi had been living on her own for a whole year, making all of her own choices, and yet her mother could not stop telling her what to do and when to do it.
The dogs followed her to the front door, where she pulled on her shoes and tied them.
She opened the Strava app on her phone and headed out.
It was hot, yes, but Emmi was in good shape, and after a quick stretch of her quads, she took off down the street.
With Dua Lipa’s “New Rules” blasting through her AirPods, she picked up her pace; this would be her summer anthem.
At the end of the block, she turned down a long road that seemed to have no end.
There was little shade, and the longer she ran, the more she realized that this heat was unlike anything she’d ever felt before.
It was heavy and pressed down on her. She wished she’d brought water.
After a few more blocks, her skin started to feel weird, prickly almost, and yet for some reason she was getting goose bumps.
She kept running until she reached a neighborhood that had even larger properties with gates in front of them.
Some had tall hedges hiding villas that were set back far from the road.
Some had fountains. One had a lake. She stopped and took a picture of a house that looked like it was modeled after Versailles.
Then she turned around to retrace her steps.
No, Emmi wasn’t feeling right. She slowed to a walk, trying to catch her breath as her cheeks burned and the pavement went wobbly under her feet.
She checked the map on her phone, sorry to find that she was still several blocks from the house.
She stopped, put her hands on her knees, and before she even registered what was happening, she threw up right next to a driveway.
She straightened back up and tried to breathe slowly, her vision kaleidoscoping.
She wiped her mouth on her shirt and took out her earbuds, looking up and down the street, having completely lost her sense of direction.
A white Jeep swerved and pulled up right beside her, a girl behind the wheel. Barbie? Emmi thought.
“Hey,” the girl called over Chappell Roan blaring from her car speakers, “you okay?”
Emmi didn’t answer, and the girl turned the music down.
“You need me to call nine-one-one or something?” she said.
Emmi’s head was spinning. “I’m okay,” she said, putting a hand out to balance herself on a mailbox.
“Here,” the girl said, and she held a plastic bottle out the window.
“I’m okay, really.” But then Emmi’s knees gave out, causing her body to drop down onto the hot asphalt. It burned her bare legs.
Next thing she knew the girl was kneeling beside her, a hand on Emmi’s back, holding something to her lips. “Fuck my life,” she was saying, “drink this, okay?”
Whatever it was, it was ice-cold, sweet, and fizzy. “Thank you,” Emmi said, taking a bigger gulp this time. Much to her embarrassment, she burped. “ Oh Gott , sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Heat stroke,” said the girl. Her long, blond hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, and her jean shorts frayed at the edges. She had thin, gold bracelets on her wrist and a T-shirt that said Tulane .
Emmi tried to stand up, hoping she wouldn’t pass out.
The girl had left her car running. “It’s hot as balls today, and heat like this will kill you, like, literally . You’re not from here, are you?”
“No,” said Emmi.
“I figured. I mean, ’nless you’re literally batshit, no one from here would go running outside on a day like this.”
Literally what? Emmi prided herself on being bilingual, so it was a shock that she could not parse the girl’s sentences.
“Like straight up tripping or whatever.” She was chewing gum, and her breath was fruity. “So where are you from anyway?”
“Germany,” Emmi said. “I’m only visiting—”
“You don’t look so good,” the girl said, handing her the drink. And then she exhaled loudly. “Tell you what, I’m going to do something nutty and give a complete stranger a ride home.”
She barely looked old enough to drive.
“I don’t want to trouble you,” Emmi said.
“Yeah well, I’m not normally the Good Samaritan type, but some kid dropped dead yesterday at a football practice out in Richardson, and I’d rather not be responsible if you croak. Seriously, hop in. You don’t strike me as sketch.”
Sketch?
“I’m Cynthia, by the way, and swear to God”—she held a palm up, her ringed fingers pressed together—“I’m not a kidnapper.”
“I’m Emmi.” On shaky legs, she walked around the hood of the Jeep and climbed up into the passenger seat.
Cynthia got behind the wheel and picked up a massive pink Stanley cup and sipped something through a fat straw.
Emmi gave her the name of the street, and Cynthia stepped on the gas hard, making a U-turn and hitting the curb of the neighbor’s driveway. “Oops,” she said.
Emmi held on to the edge of her seat. The car was littered with trash: fast-food wrappers, Starbucks cups, and wadded-up packs of cigarettes. As Cynthia took a hard right turn, an empty bottle of tequila rolled into Emmi’s feet.
“So how far did you go anyway?” Cynthia asked.
Emmi checked Strava. “About six miles?”
Cynthia looked at Emmi then like she was… literally batshit ? “Gurrl,” said Cynthia, “just, like, no . You gotta go where there’s AC: a spin class, row house, Pilates.” Cynthia sped up into a turn, causing Emmi’s shoulder to hit the car door.
“It’s up there,” Emmi said, feeling sweat trickling down her back, “on the left, the modern one.”
Cynthia—with no warning whatsoever—slammed on the brakes. “Fucking shit-fuck,” she said.
Emmi looked at her, alarmed, and took her hands from the dashboard, where she’d planted them to keep her face from hitting the windshield.
Cynthia turned in her seat and faced her. “Oh my God—how do you know him?”
“Who?”
“The asshole ,” said Cynthia. “Jack Holt.”
“I— Who?”
“The guy who lives in that house.”
“I’ve never met him,” Emmi said. “I only…” She was stammering, and her accent, almost nonexistent normally, was becoming pronounced. “My parents, they’re just staying there.”
Cynthia was glaring at her as if she were a criminal. “Look, you need to know something about the boy who lives there.” She pointed at the house. “He’s the worst .”
“The worst… what?” Emmi said.
“Like, the worst person in the world,” Cynthia said. “He ranked the girls in our class, including me, and gave us dollar values.”
“Values?” said Emmi, trying to keep up.
“Like we’re objects or some shit, things to be bought.”
“How terrible,” said Emmi.
“I basically had a menty b over the whole thing.”
Minty bee? Emmi shook her head.
“Between you and me,” Cynthia said, “I thought Jack was a friend. Like, I actually thought I knew him, but then he just sticks a price tag on me, I guess to humiliate me?”
“That’s horrible,” Emmi said. “How could he do such a thing?”
“Just be careful around him, okay?” Cynthia was deeply upset. A tear caught on her fake eyelashes. “If you want my advice,” she said, “stay away from him.”
“Yes, definitely,” said Emmi. “His whole family is gone.” She decided not to say where the family was exactly, that this hated, hateful boy was living in their apartment in Berlin. “I won’t ever meet him. I’m going to New York next week.”
Cynthia relaxed her shoulders then and smiled wistfully. “Oh, New York’s amazing. I’m jelly.”
“You’re—”
“So where’d he fuck off to anyway?”
Emmi swallowed. “He’s in Germany for the summer.”
Cynthia looked crushed. “He gets a trip to Europe ? After what he did?” She rested her forearms on the steering wheel, staring at his house.
“He got kicked out, but school was already over and I bet his college takes him anyway. Dudes get away with everything . I know this sounds babyish, but he really hurt my feelings.”
Emmi liked this girl. She was possibly the most American American she had ever met. “Maybe we can hurt his feelings back,” she said. If there was one thing Emmi hated, it was a misogynist.
“What do you mean?” Cynthia said.
“Let me see if I can think of some way to… um, teach him a lesson while he’s in Berlin.”
“Really?” Cynthia put up a hand and high-fived her. “OMG, I love this for us. But you don’t mean like beat him up or anything?”
“No,” Emmi said, “no, of course not. I mean maybe my friends can embarrass him somehow, let him know he can’t disrespect women and then run away.”
“Amazing. But he can’t know it was me,” Cynthia said.
“Of course not,” Emmi said.
“Awesome.” She picked up her phone. “Gimme your deets.”
Deets?
“BT dubs,” Cynthia said, “my parents are going out of town this weekend, and I’m having a party. It’ll be chill if you want to come hang.”
“Yes?” said Emmi, touched by Cynthia’s openness. “I’d like that.”
“And you’re okay now? You’re not gonna, like, die?”
“I’m okay, and thank you for the ride.” She gave Cynthia her TikTok and Instagram and got out of the car.
After she watched the jeep drive away, Emmi looked down at the bottle in her hand—Dr Pepper and Cynthia had saved her life.
Still feeling strange and a little dizzy, she made her way toward the door.
The dogs were at the window, wagging their tails at the sight of her.
How could that Arschloch Jack have such sweet dogs?
And such nice grandparents? And such a cool house? Life was not fair.
And why, why, why did her mother always have to be right about everything, all the time? Yes , it was too hot to run. And true , Monika should not be told to give Jack Holt a fun time in Berlin.
But with Monika’s help, she was sure they could think of an excellent way to punish him.