Knox
“Salt and vinegar?” Sylvie says.
“You sound outraged.”
“You can’t just suggest a gigantic bag of salt and vinegar chips. Or even a bag.”
“Why not?”
“That’s an extremely strong flavor choice.”
“I thought they were pretty universally adored. I thought they were the fries and ketchup of the chip world.”
“You thought chips that smell like feet are universally adored?”
“Sylvie! Gross! And this is coming from someone who’s endured less-than-hygienic living circumstances.”
“The truth hurts.”
“They’re the healthiest chip.”
“According to?”
“Yeah because they have salt, which kills germs, and then vinegar, which is a great probiotic.”
“Okay first,” she says, “all chips have abundant salt and I never feel particularly germ-free after eating too many. Plus, I don’t think killing stomach germs is considered that high a priority or we’d be chugging Listerine.
And vinegar? Maybe if they were soaked in some nice organic apple cider vinegar.
But they’re covered with vinegar-flavored-acid dust made in some Monsanto lab. ”
“You sound like my mom right now.”
“The little I’ve gathered thus far makes me think that’s not a compliment.”
“No, I just mean she was very suspicious of packaged foods, which is, honestly, probably a pretty healthy way to be. But sometimes you need a gigantic bag of salt and vinegar chips. Or whatever your snack of choice is. Tell me what it is. I’m buying. To show my gratitude.”
Sylvie smirks. “Oh, I want a gigantic bag of salt and vinegar chips. They’re my favorite.”
A LITTLE LATER
We sit in Sylvie’s van in the Chevron parking lot, a full tank of gas, the largest bag of salt and vinegar chips they sell open between us.
Winslow sniffs at them hopefully, his huge brown eyes saying, I love to try new things.
I’m open to any and all food experiences.
Sylvie scrolls on her phone, looking for our next stop.
I feel like I need to confess.
“So, I gotta get something out on the table while we’re still close to the Greyhound station.”
Sylvie looks at me with worry on her face.
“It’s not, like, a moral shortcoming. Well, maybe to some people. It’s just . . . I alluded to this earlier—I basically have no money. Like that bag of chips represents about one sixth of my total net worth.”
Sylvie’s quiet for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”
I squirm in my seat. “I mean. I just wanted you to know. That I may not be able to contribute much to our journey unless you want to stop somewhere so I can work and make some money. And I’m telling you now so you can change your mind and take me back to the Greyhound station.”
“To do what? What was the plan?”
“I . . . didn’t have a real plan. I was going to wave goodbye to you and then either see if I could buy a ticket to somewhere somewhat closer to North Carolina than I currently am for what little money I have or try to find somewhere to camp out so I could try to work a couple days and make enough money for a bus ticket somewhere. ”
“Work a couple days? Doing what with your arm in a cast?”
“I never said it was a great plan.”
“And you think, knowing what I know now, I’m the sort of person who would just abandon you at a bus station with a broken arm and say, ‘Good luck, see you later’?”
“I’m not saying you are.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“You sound mad. I never wanted that.”
“Not mad, dude, but yeah, kinda bummed.”
“Why?”
“Why am I bummed?”
“Yeah.”
“Gee, because I guess I must come off as some—I don’t know—transactional person or whatever.” She looks straight ahead through the windshield and her voice sounds wounded.
I lay my hand on her forearm. “You don’t. Can I tell you something?”
“What?” Still staring forward.
“Along with being broke, I come from a pretty different . . . I don’t know what to call it. Social situation? And my contact with the outside world was pretty limited. So that’s what I’m trying to navigate. Clumsily, I guess.”
“Excuses, excuses,” Sylvie says, but with a lightness that lifts my heart.
“Can I tell you something else?”
“I don’t know, can you? Wait, do you know that joke or is that something only teachers from normal school do?” She says it fondly.
“I know that joke. May I tell you something else?”
“You may.”
“Meeting you was worth a broken arm.”
That gets her. Sylvie assesses me with a soft gaze. “You say that to all the girls.”
“Only the ones I break bones for.”
Sylvie hugs Winslow’s neck. “You should have figured out from the presence of Winnie-pooh here that I’m fine with freeloader boys. Huh, Winnie-pooh? You never ever pick up the tab do you, sweetie sweet?”
“See? I was worried you’d think I was leeching off you.”
“I’m kidding.”
“I have one thing on Winslow: I promise not to make you chase me through the woods at three a.m., if that helps.”
“If you do, I’m replacing you with whatever boy ends up breaking whatever part of himself trying to find you.”
“Deal.”