Chapter 4
Cross Swell
Cross swell.
Lying in bed, I look at this phrase I wrote down yesterday on a scrap of paper.
I don’t remember exactly where I found it, but I like the meaning: “a series of waves that generates a nonparallel wave system.” That’s exactly how I feel, I’ve decided.
And it’s exhausting trying to stay afloat when I’m getting buffeted back and forth.
There’s a voice in my head that shouts meaningless things at me sometimes. Sleep eight hours, Greta. Keep going. Drink water. Do something meaningful with your life. Eat more vegetables. Are you going to go on acting like a teenager forever?
The other speaks more softly. Who cares? What’s the point of getting up and looking for a job and laughing and dancing and dreaming if all of us are going to die one day?
Really, I don’t feel like either of those voices is mine.
The one that actually belongs to me has been asleep a long time. I’ve always had the uncomfortable feeling that if I let it out, if I actually said aloud the things I think every day, not only would I confirm people’s suspicions about my weirdness but I’d still be misunderstood to boot.
And what if there’s an even worse solitude than feeling fundamentally misunderstood?
I open my eyes.
I contemplate the white ceiling.
I’ve spent the past four days thinking about Will Tucker.
I even wrote his name two or three times on a Post-it before throwing it in the trash, embarrassed.
Now I turn over and grab a piece of paper and scribble something down: What’s he doing right now?
Then I stick it to the wall with a pin, the way TV detectives do with their evidence boards.
This question has been driving me crazy.
I’ve imagined dozens of answers: He’s opening the fridge, sleeping, showering, walking down the street, pouring drinks.
In every scene that comes to me, he has my golden box with him.
Not knowing what’s inside it is agonizing.
And so is not knowing why he’s the one who gets to keep it, what it is about him that’s so special.
Only one thing is certain: My sister knew me well enough to predict I’d be incapable of following the rules if the Map of Longing depended only on me and my ability to control myself.
Restraint is a trait I only theoretically possess.
But honestly, I’m not losing sleep over it.
I mean, restraining my feelings, impulses, or passions is pointless in the long term, even if sometimes it’s a smart way to keep from seeming like you’re from another planet.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to maintain the facade, though.
Same as I don’t know if I’ll be able to follow the rules, because up till now, I’ve failed at everything I’ve ever tried to do.
But as the week’s dragged on, I haven’t just been thinking about Lucy, Will, and the game.
I’ve also been looking for a job. I’ve had two interviews and I didn’t get an answer from either.
The first was at an Indian restaurant in the next town over, which is just a few miles away but is way bigger than Ink Lake.
The second was at a gas station on the edge of town.
I’ve had three jobs so far this year. They fired me from one because I showed up at 7:00 a.m. without sleeping and stinking of alcohol and cigarettes.
I stopped showing up at the farm because I couldn’t stand looking at all those chickens cooped up there, and at the last one, we reached an agreement: I didn’t like my boss and he didn’t like me.
At a certain point, I force myself to stop looking at the wall and inventing metaphors that contain the phrase cross swells.
I grab my laptop and take another quick look at the job openings in the area.
Since I must be the only person in the city over seventeen years old who doesn’t drive, my range is limited, and that means I have to discard half of what’s on offer.
But then I find someone who needs a caretaker for their dog.
I don’t think twice before standing up and dialing the number.
“Yeah?”
“I’m calling about the ad.”
“Do you have experience with animals?”
“No.” When I was little I had a colorful fish that died tragically, but I decide it’s best not to mention that. “But I get along well with dogs and I live ten minutes away from the address in the posting.”
“Can you come by to talk it over?”
I say yes, and we agree to meet an hour later. I dress in the first things I can find on my way out the door.
The house in question is huge, and it has a circular chandelier.
Even before ringing the doorbell, I can hear the dog barking.
When the owner opens, I smile. She introduces herself as Anne Rogers.
She’s one of those charming ladies who remind me of what my mother could have been.
I mean, that’s all a fantasy of mine. But if life hadn’t kneecapped Rosie Peterson, I’m sure she would have been a successful businesswoman used to dressing in impeccable outfits that would highlight her enviable curves at a still-young fifty-three.
Anne tells me Mr. Fluff (that’s the dog’s name) needs one walk a day when she has to leave for work reasons. “He likes to go up the main avenue and to the park.” I listen while she tells me the exact amount of food he should ingest “so he doesn’t get tubby,” her words.
I can’t say I’m exactly proud of myself when I get the job. I mean, it’s fine while I’m looking for something better, but I haven’t lost the feeling I’m living a high school student’s life. And I’m not a student anymore. I’m twenty-two, and I have no prospects for my future.
It’s Thursday. I sit on the edge of the sidewalk in front of my house. It’s 3:30 p.m. And I wait. I wait, I wait, I wait…
At 4:10, I start to get nervous.
Where the hell is Will Tucker?
I’m sure we agreed he’d pick me up at four on the dot. I’ve spent all week waiting for this moment, and I’ve hardly managed to sleep a wink.
I bite my nails. I get up. I walk back and forth. I sit back down. I try to keep calm, but it’s almost impossible.
Will makes his showing twenty minutes late.
But when he does it, he does it in style, rolling up in an immaculate black Audi it’s hard to take my eyes off. It’s not a car you see every day. Certainly not around here. He lowers the window when he pulls up beside me, leaves the motor running, and makes a vague gesture with his right hand.
“Get in. We’re running late.”
“I’ve been waiting nearly half an hour!”
He ignores my complaints because he’s busy pulling a pair of designer sunglasses out of the glove box and slipping them on.
Their dark lenses make him look like a pilot in a movie.
He speeds off before I even manage to shut the door.
I look around inside the car. I take back the part about it being immaculate; it’s impressive on the outside, but no one’s bothered to clean the interior in ages.
And there’s stuff—way too much stuff. Stuff you don’t find in just any guy’s car: bags of something, clothing, maybe, but also dozens of books and what look like scientific gadgets.
“Would you mind telling me where we’re going?”
“Nope. Sorry. Lucy’s orders.”
I give him a look meant to tell him I don’t find his attitude remotely amusing, but he doesn’t see it—his eyes are pinned to the road.
“How’d you meet my sister?”
He gives me two measly seconds’ worth of attention. “Just life, you know.”
And that’s that. He doesn’t say another word.
He goes on driving as if that explanation sufficed.
As Ink Lake vanishes behind us, I observe him closely.
A person who wasn’t paying attention could think he was a normal guy, in his jeans and that T-shirt as black as his hair.
But if you really look, you can see something about Will doesn’t add up.
He’s a lemon among grapefruits, an almond in a packet of walnuts, a wolf trying to hide in a flock of sheep.
I know because that’s how I always feel, and people like that, we recognize each other.
I can sense it in the tension emanating his body—it’s hard to relax when you’re incapable of feeling comfortable in your own skin.
“You really aren’t going to tell me?”
He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and sighs. “No.”
“But—”
“No.”
I remain calm for five minutes or so, then go back on the offensive. My need to know is stronger than the pretense than I can just ignore him.
“At school?”
“No.”
“You’ve got a pretty limited vocabulary, Will Tucker.”
I think he murmurs something—I catch the brief sight of the movements of his lips, the way you see a dragonfly or hummingbird from the corner of your eye.
But if he did, I couldn’t hear it. I turn my head to look out the window at the last bits of green beside us.
The landscape of undulating hills and sandstone cliffs characteristic of Nebraska accompanies us throughout our journey, and along with them are infinite fields of corn that stretch out like immense carpets past the cattle ranches.
When you get lost, it’s easy to find your way again by looking at the silos or the grain mills that rise up around most of the towns. In this state, we all grow up talking about three things: cattle, the harvest, and Kool-Aid, which was invented in Nebraska.
Who needs anything else?
At a certain moment, Will turns up the volume on the radio when an old song comes on, “Ghost Ship” by Blur. I guess he likes it, but it’s hard to say, since his face is made of stone and he’s got on sunglasses despite the cloudy sky.
It doesn’t take us long to get to our destination.
Will parks in front of a building with a battered sign hanging down that reads Social Center. I get immediately tense. He takes off his glasses to observe my reaction.
“What’s this about?”
“No idea,” he says, and he seems serious. “In theory, we’re supposed to get out of the car and go in there. Best if you don’t drag your feet, though. We’re ten minutes late.”