Chapter 1. #2
It’s two hours later in my dorm that I drop onto my computer chair, ass naked, phone slack in my hand. “You did what?”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry!” cries AJ on the line.
“I was telling Ollie about our trip, then his girl found this deal on TravelBuddy … and then Paris wanted in. Paris, bro! My future wife! It became this big thing, a group chat got started, some of the other gear crew got roped in … I couldn’t stop it, man. ”
I just showered, and my first thought is: I definitely should’ve dressed before answering the phone.
This so isn’t a naked conversation.
“I was gonna be, like, hey, why don’t you just come with us,” he says, like suddenly my road trip is their idea, “but I know how you are about big groups, so I figured you’d, uh, not want to go …”
I’m staring at the screen of my laptop, left open on the desk.
There’s a folder in the dead center named Project_Spruce_Jailbreak just like in my notebook, but with underscores separating the words.
Next to it, the thumbnail of a pic I took of me and AJ on the last day of class that I gave an egregiously long filename: My_best_ buddy_&_roadtrip_pal_who_will_save_me_from_another_long_summer_of_being_stuck_in_my_tiny_adorable_hometown.
Again, underscores. Not me pretending long-ass filenames are suddenly the most important thing in the universe.
“Ollie has a cousin in Cali,” AJ goes on, “so everyone, like, just wants to go straight there and skip all the boring desert stuff …”
Behind my laptop, colorful sticky notes line the wall covered in my bad handwriting and doodles.
Notes about Las Vegas, Planet Hollywood, Elvis impersonators.
Grand Canyon. Fire Wave Trail. Cave systems in Arizona, like the Lava River Cave in Flagstaff I’ve been dying to see.
A back-road journey to the west coast through the mountains, cheapest hotels in LA and San Francisco.
Each spot I planned to take selfies with AJ.
I even made a list of our favorite stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame so we don’t forget any.
He doesn’t know about that last part. Supposed to be a surprise.
“I gotta chase after Paris, bro, ‘cause if I chicken out again, I’m kissing our future goodbye, and I can’t do that. I gotta man up! I’m gonna marry that girl someday, y’know?”
He doesn’t know how dangerous it was going to be to drop this bomb on my parents a mere week before I was expected back: Surprise, I won’t be home until the tip end of July!
By then, I’d only have to spend a mere two weeks home in Spruce before I’m due back on campus.
That seems like the perfect amount of time to be home, right?
Not too much, not too little. Hell, maybe I’d even appreciate those weeks more and not spend them sulking by my window at night wondering what else my life could be.
“You understand, right?” His voice turns into pudding.
I know he feels bad. I’m always the guy who understands.
He relies on that a lot. “I’m pretty sure you don’t still wanna tag along.
It’d be, like, ten of us. Maybe twelve. Ashleigh might bring her weed.
” He rethinks it. “Definitely will bring her weed. And it’ll be all straight couples, too, I guess. That’s like a nightmare for you, huh?”
“Y-Yeah,” I agree, then wonder if I might’ve agreed too fast.
“I figured. And hey, it’s not like you and I have nonrefundable plane tickets, with your thing being just a road trip.”
My thing, he calls it. Just a road trip.
Wasn’t long ago we had hot wings and beer at Gino’s right off-campus when I told him what this trip meant to me. That it’s my chance to have an adventure of my own. That it’s proof I’m alive.
AJ ended up passing out at that bar. I’m not confident much of my stirring speech sunk in.
I dragged the guy back to the quad where he slept in my bed.
I took one of my pillows to the floor. I didn’t mind.
I smiled at my ceiling all night, dreaming of the epic odyssey I’d planned for us, down to which pairs of socks I’d pack.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks.
“Of course,” I answer—again, too fast. “Totally okay. I know you’ve got—” I keep reading and rereading the name of that folder on my screen. “—a girl named Paris to make pretty kids with.”
We could have gone to actual Paris. A flight to France was on the idea board, a fleeting possibility of something we could do if we got bored in Cali and needed to pivot. I’d make it happen.
“I knew you’d get it. Anyway, they’re heading out tomorrow morning, and I still gotta pack, so, uh …” He pauses too long, clears his throat, then finishes. “I’ll see you at the Horseshoe at six?”
“Horseshoe at six,” I agree. He hangs up.
After a disproportionately tiny sigh, I click-drag the folder on the screen bearing all my hopes and dreams to the trash.
Deleted.
I glance at my outfit laid out on the bed for tonight: favorite college-pride tank, a pair of jeans AJ once said makes my ass look good, my lucky yellow-and-black bumblebee socks I’ve worn every exam, and my late grandfather’s watch.
My roommate Tae already took off for the summer yesterday.
His mom, after bringing us both lunch, gave me a kiss on the forehead and said I was welcome to visit them in LA anytime.
I felt clever when I told her it might be sooner than she thinks.
And Tae, usually shy, surprised me with a hug before he left.
His bed, now stripped of its sheets, walls bare, desk empty, all stare back at me.
A bird lands on my windowsill outside, a Cheeto caught in its beak. Two seconds later, it flies off in an explosion of feathers and fury, startling me.
Fast-forward an hour and I’m outside the venue, two tickets to Chase Holt’s College Country Crash tour in hand. The noise of the crowd shakes the walls of the Horseshoe Arena behind me.
It’s almost seven. Twenty-four calls later, still no answer.
Some emo girl is sobbing near the door, choking on her tears. I try not to pay her any mind, even though my heart says hey, I get it, today just isn’t the day, and tonight’s no better.
Ironically, I glance her way when she stops crying and goes eerily silent, staring ahead as if gazing into the dark abyss of eternal dread. It’s honestly kind of scary. Should I say something?
I call AJ one last time, if anything but to round out my tries to twenty-five. Still no answer. If I call again, I might be committing myself to fifty. I should be careful. Me and my thing with numbers.
“Why aren’t you going in?”
I leap out of my skin. Emo girl is by my side suddenly. Mascara runs down her cheeks in horror-movie streaks. Her hair is a long, black, tragic mess with neon green tips. She wears an oversized band shirt with a leather skirt, fishnet stockings, and pumps.
“Waiting on a friend,” I answer, then nod at her. “You?”
“I was scammed.” She kicks the ground and crosses her bony arms over her chest, gritting her teeth, which are blindingly white against her black lipstick. “Fucking dickhead piece of shit asshole scammer got all my money and ran, fucking dick-bag shithole.”
This happens sometimes. “I’m sorry. The security at this place is … really bad. I don’t know why they still host bands here.”
Another wave of tears comes. “It wasn’t even about the stupid Chase H-H-Holt guy,” she blubbers. “I was here for the opening act. And now all I get to do is hear it from out here. If they play my favorite song, I’m gonna die. Right here on this pavement. Die.”
I give one last look at my phone.
I sigh. “Here.” I surrender my second ticket to her.
She looks at it like I’m offering a diamond ring. “The fuck?” is her response. “What about your friend?”
“Fair question,” I reply politely, then head for the door.
Standing room only. The opening band is well underway, into maybe their fifth or sixth song.
The audience is just as loud as the music, though it’s anyone’s guess who’s actually paying attention and who’s just killing time until Chase is on.
I’m in line at the bar when the emo girl catches up to me.
“Thank you,” she tells me, out of breath.
“What do I owe you? I literally have no cash, the fuck-shit dick-ass took it all, but I can pay you back when—Oh. I don’t even know the price for a real ticket, come to think of it. ”
“$37. $35 plus a $2 campus service fee baked in. Don’t worry about it, though,” I assure her. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“You’re so sweet.” She sniffles. “They aren’t playing my song yet.
I’m only here for Soul Biter. Opening act.
Like I said. Chase Holt is, like, a total sellout now.
I mean, good for him for being out and gay, but after his big hit ‘Hate Me For a Reason’ five years ago when he had more of a country sound, he went in a rock direction to ‘appeal to the masses’ or some shit.
Guess that’s why they have Soul Biter opening.
The genres sorta overlap, barely, whatever. ”
“Maybe give this Chase Holt another chance,” I suggest. “We shouldn’t ditch things we love the second they become …” I look down at my phone. “… less exciting.”
“Are you even getting a drink? You don’t look like a drinker.”
“I am tonight. Want something? It’s my treat. You like White Claws? Hmm, 7 bucks … eight-and-a-quarter percent tax, so 7.58 … plus that venue fee they sneak in there, 8.58, so $17.16 for two …”
“Whoa, damn, dude, you’re freaky good at numbers.”
“Calms me,” I mutter, shrugging it off as I squint at the prices.
She sighs. “Tonight was gonna be perfect. The seller seemed so authentic, too. You think you can depend on someone, and then shit like this happens, and … like, why bother having any faith in humanity or anyone ever again?”
Her words are hitting a touch too close to home.
“It’s for the best,” she says, reading my mind. “Whoever stood you up tonight, just, like … to fuckin’ fuck with them, y’know?”