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ForJane—

Inthefallof2010,IturnedintheoutlineforFirstLovetomyeditor,butthestory

actuallybeganmanyyearsbefore.Iwasinlovewitha

womannamedJaneBlanchard.OnemorningwewereoutforawalkinNewYorkCity.Seeminglyoutofnowhere,Janesuffereda

violentseizure.Shewassickwithcancerfornearlytwo

yearsafterthat,thendiedatayoungage.Fartooyoung.Janie,Imissyoursmile.Ihopeitlivesoninthisbook,thislovestorythatremindsmeofourtimetogether(thoughIdon’tremember

stealinganycars).—J.P.

prologue

one

OKAY, IMAY NOT BE PUTTINGMYSELF IN the best possiblelightbyadmittingthis,butletmesayrightatthestartthatIwas such a straight arrow,such a little do-gooder, that

skipping my last two classesthatday (APphysicsandAPEnglish) made me soinsanely, ridiculously jitterythatitactuallyoccurredtomethis whole crazy plan wasn’tgoingtobeworthit.

Lookingbackonitnow,Ican’tbelieve Iwas thiscloseto backing out of the mostbeautiful, funny, painful, andlife-changing experience Iwilleverhave.

WhatanidiotIwas.IwasatErnie’sPharmacy

& Soda Fountain, and I hadaboutfivehundredbutterfliesthrowinganepicparty inmystomach. The toes of myvintage Frye cowboy bootskept knocking against thecounter, until Ernie—who’saboutamillionyearsoldandprettymuch a total grouch—toldmetoquitit.ErnieisoneNickelback concert away

from complete deafness,though, so I took my bootsoffandkeptknockingaway.

I was glad he didn’t askwhy I was sitting in hisancientshop,drinkingagiantcoffee (which Ineeded like Ineeded a hole in the head),instead of two blocks downthe street at Klamath FallsHighSchool, listeningtoMr.Fox blather on about thespace-time continuum.

Because what would I havesaid?

Well,Ernie—Mr.Holman,I mean—I’m waiting for aboy I could never date, andI’m about to ask him to dosomething so major that it’sgoingtoeithersaveourlivesorcompletelydestroyus.

Ernie doesn’t care muchfor teen angst, which isprobably why practically nooneIknowevercomestohis

shop—that and the fact thatall his candy has dust on itandtheSnickersbarsarehardenoughtouseascrowbars.

But I don’t mind. Andneither does the boy Imentioned. Ernie’s is ourplace.

That boy had sent me anote earlier in the day. He’dsomehowgotten it insidemylocker, even though hedoesn’t go to my school

anymore and we have NavySEAL–typesecurityguardstoprotect us against God-knows-what (rioting due tosheer small-town boredom,maybe).

Axi—So, you got earth-movingnews,huh?I’mshockedyou thinkyoucansurpriseme—

or surprised you thinkyoucanshockme.Orsomethinglikethat.You’rethewordnerd.Well, anyway, can’twaittohearit.Ernie’s.1:15.Yeah, that meanscuttingclass.Noexcuses.

—Your favorite“scalawag”

That’s Robinson for you.I’d jokingly called him ascalawag once, and he’dnever let me forget it. He’salmost seventeen years old.Mybestfriend.Mypartnerincrime.

Iheardthefrontdooropenandcouldtellhe’darrivedbythe way Ernie’s face perkedup like someone had justhanded him a present.Robinson has that effect on

people: when he walks intothe room, it’s like the lightsgetbrighterallofasudden.

Hecameoverandclappedahandonmyshoulder.“Axi,you dope,” he said(affectionately, of course).“Never drink Ernie’s coffeewithout a doughnut.” Heleaned in close andwhispered, “That stuff willeatagiantholeinyourguts.”Then he straddled the stool

nexttome,hislegslankyandslim in fadedLevi’s.Hewaswearing a flannel shirt, eventhough it was late May andseventy-fivedegreesoutside.

“Hey, Ernie,” he called,“did you hear the Timbersfiredtheircoach?Andcanwegetachocolatecruller?”

Ernie came over, shakinghis grizzled head. “Soccer!”he groused. “What Oregonneeds is a pro baseball team.

That’s a real sport.” He putthe doughnut on an oldchipped plate and said, “Onthehouse.”

Robinson turned to me,grinning and pointing athumb at Ernie. “I love thisguy.”

Icouldtellthefeelingwasmutual.

“So,” Robinson said,giving me his full attention,“what’s this crazy idea of

yours?Are you finally goingto apply for your learner’spermit?Have you decided todrink awhole beer?Are yougoing to quit doing yourhomeworksoreligiously?”

He’salwaysgettingonmefor being a good girl.Robinson thinks—and mydad agrees—that he’s such abadboybecausehequithighschool, which he found“insufficiently compelling”

and “populated by cretins”(cretins being a word that Itaught him, of course).Personally, I think he has apointthere.

“I’m probably going tofaileverythingbutEnglish,”Isaid, and I wasn’texaggerating. My GPA wasabout to take a nosedive,because finals were comingup, and with any luck, Iwasn’t going tobe around to

take them. A week ago,knowing that would havekept me up at night. But I’dmanaged to stop caring,because if this plan worked,lifeasIknewitwasabouttochange.

“Knowingyou,thatseemshighly unlikely,” Robinsonsaid.“Andsowhatifyou’realittle distracted and you—God forbid—get aBplus onsomething? You’re busy

writing the Great AmericanNovel—ow!”

I’d swatted him on thearm.“Please.Betweenschooland taking care of dear ol’Dad, I haven’t had any timetowrite.”Mydadhitaroughpatch a few years ago, andhe’s been trying to drink hiswayoutofit.Needlesstosay,thestrategyisn’tworkingthatwell. “Can we focus on thematterathand?”Iasked.

“Whichis…?”“I’m running away,” I

said.Robinson’s mouth fell

open. By the way, unlikeyours truly, he never hadbraces and his teeth areperfect.

“AndFYI,you’recoming,too,”Iadded.

two

“DIDYOUHEARTHAT, ERNIE?”ROBINSON called. I’d havetold him he soundedgobsmacked, but he’d neverlet me forget that particularvocabularyword,either.

Of course, Ernie hadn’theard anything, not evenRobinson’s question. SoRobinson pushed away thedoughnut and stared at melike he’d never seen mebefore. It’s not often I cansurprise him, so I wasenjoyingthis.

“Did you ever read thatcopy ofOn the Road I gaveyou?”Idemanded.

Now Robinson looked

sheepish.“Istartedit…”I rolled my eyes. I’m

forever giving Robinsonbooksandhe’sforevergivingme music, but since he’sdistractible and my iPod isdead, that’s usually about asfar as it gets. “Well, Sal—who’s really just JackKerouac, theauthor—andhisfriends go all over thecountry, and theymeet crazypeopleanddanceindivebars

and climbmountains and beton horse races. We’re goingto do that, Robinson. We’releavingthisdumpbehindandtaking an epic road trip.Oregon to NewYork City—with stops along the way, ofcourse.”

Robinson was blinking atme.Who are you? the blinkswereasking.

I sat up straighter on mystool. “First we’re going to

see the redwoods, becausethose things are totallymystical. Then we’ll hit SanFrancisco and Los Angeles.EasttotheGreatSandDunesin Colorado. Then Detroit—Motor City, Robinson,which is so right up youralley. Then, because you’resuch a speed addict, we’llride theMillennium Force atCedar Point. It goes, like, ahundred twenty miles an

hour! We’ll go to ConeyIsland.We’ll see theTempleofDendurattheMetropolitanMuseum of Art. We’ll doanything and everything wewant!”

IknewIsoundednuts,soI spread out the crumpledmap to show him how I’dfigureditallout.“Here’sourroute,” I said. “That purplelineisus.”

“Us,”herepeated.Clearly

it was taking him awhile towrap his head around myproposition.

“Us.Youhavetocome,”Isaid. “I can’t do it withoutyou.”

This was true, in moreways than I could admit tohim,oreventomyself.

Robinsonsuddenlystartedlaughing, and it went on solong and hard Iwas afraid itwas his way of saying No

wayinhell,youtotallyinsanepersonwholookslikeAxibutis clearly some sort ofmaniac.

“Ifyoudon’tcome,who’sgoingtoremindmetohaveadoughnutwithmy coffee?” Iwenton,notreadyforhimtogetaskeptical,sarcasticwordin edgewise. “You know Ihave a terrible sense ofdirection.WhatifIgetlostinLA and the Scientologists

find me, and suddenly Ibelieve in Xenu and aliens?What if I get drunk in LasVegas andmarry a stranger?Who’s going to poke me inthe ribs when I start quotingShakespeare?Who’sgoingtoprotectmefromallthat?Youcan’t let a sixteen-year-oldgirl go across the country byherself. That would be, like,morallyirresponsible—”

Robinson held up a hand,

still chuckling. “And I maybe a scalawag, but I am notmorallyirresponsible.”

Finally, the guy sayssomething! “Does that meanyou’re coming?” I asked.Holdingmybreath.

Robinson gazed up at theceiling. Hewas torturingmeand he knew it. He reachedfor the plate and took athoughtful bite of cruller.“Well,”hesaid.

“Well, what?” I waskicking the counter again.Hard.

He ran his hand throughhis hair, which is dark andalways a little bit shaggy,evenifhe’sjustgottenitcut.Thenheturnedandlookedatmewithhisslyeyes.“Well,”he said, very calmly, “hellyes.”

partone

1

IT WAS 4:30 AM WHEN IWOKEUP AND pulled my backpackout from under the bed. I’dspent the last few nightsobsessively packing andunpacking and repacking it,

making sure I had exactlywhatIneededandnomore:acoupleofchangesofclothes,Dr. Bronner’s castile soap(good for “Shave-Shampoo-Massage-Dental-Soap-Bath,”says the label), and a SwissArmy knife that I’d swipedfrom my dad’s desk drawer.Acamera.And,ofcourse,myjournal, which I carryeverywhere.

Oh,andmore than fifteen

hundred dollars in cash,because I’d been theneighborhood’s bestbabysitter for going on fiveyears now, and I chargedaccordingly.

Maybetherewasapartofme that always knew I wasgoing to split. I mean, whyelsedidn’t Iblowmymoneyonan iPadandaVeraWangpromdress, like all the othergirlsinmyclass?I’dhadthat

mapoftheUSonmywallforages, and I’d stare at it andwonder what Colorado orUtah or Michigan orTennesseeislike.

I can’t believe it tookmeaslongasitdidtogetuptheguts to leave. After all, I’dwatched my mom do it. Sixmonths after my little sister,Carole Ann, died, Momwiped her red-rimmed eyesandtookoff.WentbackEast

whereshe’dgrownup,andasfar as I know, never lookedback.

Maybe the compulsion torunawayisgenetic.Momdidittoescapehergrief.Mydadescapes with alcohol. Now Iwas doing it… and it feltstrangelyright.Atlonglast.Icould almost forgive Momforsplitting.

I slipped on my travelingclothes and sneakers—saying

good-bye to my favoriteboots—and hoisted mybackpack onto my shoulder,cinching the straps tight. Iwas going to miss thisapartment,thistown,thislife,likeanex-conmisseshis jailcell,whichistosay:Not.At.All.

Mydadwasasleepontheugly living room couch. Itusedtohavetheseprettypinkflowers on it, but now they

looksortofbrownishorange,like even fabric plants coulddie of neglect in ourapartment. I walked right byand slipped out the frontdoor.

Mydadgaveasmallsnortin his sleep, but other thanthat,heneverevenstirred.Inthelastfewyears,he’dgottenprettyusedtopeopleleaving.Would it really matter ifanothermemberoftheMoore

familydisappearedonhim?Out in the hallway,

though, I paused. I thoughtabout him waking up andshuffling into the kitchen tomake coffee. He’d see howclean I’d left it, and he’d bereally grateful, and maybehe’d decide to come homefromworkearlyandactuallycookusafamilydinner(orawhat’s-left-of-the-familydinner). And then he’d wait

for me at the table, the wayI’dwaitedsomanynightsforhim,untilthefoodgotcold.

Eventually,itwoulddawnonhim:Iwasgone.

A dull ache spread inmychest.Iturnedandwentbackinside.

Dadwas on his back, hismouth slightly open as hebreathed, his shoes still on. Iput out a hand and touchedhimlightlyontheshoulder.

He wasn’t a horriblefather, after all. He paid therentandthegrocerybill,evenif itwasmewhousually didthe shopping. When wetalked,whichwasn’toften,heasked me about school andfriends. I always saideverythingwasgreat,becauseIlovedhimenoughtolie.Hewas doing the best he could,even if that best wasn’t verygood.

I’d written about eighthundreddraftsofagood-byenote. The Pleading One:Please try to understand,Dad, this is just something Ihave to do. The FlatteringOne: It’s your love andconcern for me, Dad, thatgiveme the strength tomakethis journey. The LiteraryOne: As the great Irishplaywright George BernardShawwrote,“Lifeisn’tabout

findingyourself.Lifeisaboutcreating yourself.” And Iwant to go create myself,Dad. The Pissy One: Don’tworryaboutme, I’mgoodattaking care of myself. Afterall, I’ve been doing it sinceMomleft. In theend, though,none of them seemed right,andI’dthrownthemallaway.

Ibentdowncloser.IcouldsmellbeerandsweatandOldSpiceaftershave.

“Oh,Daddy,”Iwhispered.Maybe there was a tiny

part of me that hoped he’dwake up and stop me. Asmall, weak part that justwanted to be a little girlagain, with a family thatwasn’t sick and broken. Butthat sure wasn’t going tohappen,wasit?

So I leaned in and kissedmy father on the cheek.AndthenIlefthimforreal.

2

ROBINSON WAS WAITING FORME IN THE back booth of theall-night diner on KlamathAvenue, twoblocks from thebusstation.Nexttohimwasabackpack that looked like

he’d bought it off a train-hopping hobo for a chickenand a nickel, and his facemademethinkofawatchdogrestingwithoneeyeopen.Helooked up at me through thesteamrisingfromhiscoffee.

“Iorderedpie,”hesaid.As if on cue, thewaitress

delivered a gooey plate ofblueberry pie and two forks.“You two are up early,” shesaid. It was still dark. Not

even the birds were awakeyet.

“We’re vampires,actually,” Robinson said.“We’re just having a snackbefore bed.” He squinted athernametagandthensmiledhisbig,gorgeoussmileather.“Don’t tell on us, okay,Tiffany? Idon’tneeda stakethrough my heart. I’m onlyfive hundred years old—waytoo young and charming to

die.”Shelaughedandturnedto

me. “Your boyfriend’s aflirt,”shesaid.

“Oh, he’s not myboyfriend,”Isaidquickly.

Robinson’s response wasalmost as quick. “She askedme out, but I turned herdown.”

I kicked him under thetable and he yelped. “He’slying,” I told her. “It’s the

otherwayaround.”“You two are a comedy

act,”Tiffanysaid.Shewasn’tthat much older than wewere,butsheshookherheadlikeweweresillykids.“Youshould take that showon theroad.”

Robinson took a big biteof pie. “Believe me, we’regonna,”hesaid.

He shoved the platetoward me, but I shook my

head. I couldn’t eat. I’dmanagedtokeepa lidonmynerves, but now I felt likejumping out of my skin.When had I ever doneanything this crazy, thismonumental? I never evenbrokemycurfew.

“Hurryupwiththatpie,”Isaid. “The bus to Eurekaleavesinforty-fiveminutes.”

Robinson stoppedchewing and stared at me.

“Pardon?”“The buuuuus,” I said,

drawing it out. “You know,theonewe’regettingon?Sowe can get the heck out ofhere?”

Robinsoncrackedup, andI considered kicking himagain,becauseitdoesn’t takeageniustotell thedifferencebetween being laughed withand laughed at. “What’s sofunny?”

Heleanedforwardandputhishandsonmine.“Axi,Axi,Axi,” he said, shaking hishead. “This is the trip of alifetime.Wearenot going totakeitonaGreyhoundbus.”

“What? Who’s in chargeof this trip, anyway?” Idemanded. “And what’s sobadaboutabus?”

Robinson sighed.“Everything is bad about abus. But I’ll give you some

specifics so you’ll stoplooking atmewith those bigblue eyes. This is our trip,Axi,andIdon’twanttoshareit with a dude who just gotout of prison or an old ladywho wants to show mepicturesofhergrandkids.”Hepointedaforkfulofpieatme.“Plus, the bus is basically agiant petri dish for growingsuperbacteria, and it takesway too long to get

anywhere. Those are yourtwobonusreasons.”

I threw up my hands.“Last I checked, we don’thaveaprivatejet,Robinson.”

“Whosaidanythingaboutaplane?We’regoing to takeacar,youdope,”hesaid.Heleanedback in thebooth andcrossed his hands behind hishead, totally smooth andnonchalant. “And I do meantakeone.”

3

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” IHISSED AS Robinson led usdown one of the nearby sidestreets. His legs are abouttwice as long as mine, so Ihad to jog to keep up with

him.When we came to an

intersection, I grabbed hisarm and whirled him aroundto face me. Eye to eye.ScalawagtoMs.Straitlaced.

“Are you serious aboutthis?”Isaid.“Tellmeyou’renotserious.”

Hesmiled.“Youtookcareoftheroute.Letmetakecareoftheride.”

“Robinson—”

Heshookoffmygripandslung his arm around myshoulder, big brother–style.“Now settle down, GG, andI’llgiveyoua little lesson invehicleselection.”

“A lesson in what? Anddon’t callme that.” It standsfor Good Girl, and it drivesme absolutely nuts when hesaysit.

Robinsonpointed toacarjustahead.“Nowthat,see, is

a Jaguar. It’s a beautifulmachine.Butit’sanXJ6,andthose things have problemswith their fuel filters. Youcan’t have your stolen carleaking gas, Axi, because itcouldcatchonfire,andifyoudon’t die a fiery death, well,you’redefinitelygoingtojailforgrandtheftauto.”

We walked on a littlefarther, and he pointed to agreen minivan. “The Dodge

GrandCaravan is roomy anddependable, but we’readventurers, not soccermoms.”

I decided to pretend thiswasallmake-believe.“Okay,what about that one?” Iasked.

He followed my fingerand looked thoughtful.“Toyota Matrix. Yeah,definitely a good option.ButI’m looking for something

withabitmoreflair.”By now the sun was

peekingoverthehorizon,andthe birds were up andchattering to each other. AsRobinsonandIwalkeddownthe leafy streets, I felt theneighborhood stirring. Whatif some guy stepped outsideto grab the newspaper andsaw us, two truants,suspiciously inspecting theneighborhoodcars?

“Come on, Robinson,” Isaid.“Let’sgetoutofhere.”Iwas still hoping we’d makethe bus.We had tenminutesleft.

“I just want the perfectthing,”hesaid.

Atthatmoment,wesawaflash in the corner of oureyes. It was brown and fastand coming toward us. Igasped and reached out forRobinson.

Helaughedandpulledmeclose.“Whoa,Axi,getagrip.It’sonlyadog.”

Myheartwas thrumming.“Yeah,Icanseethat…now.”

I could also now see itwasn’t likely to be an attackdog, either. He was a smallthing, with matted, shaggyfur.Nocollar,notags.Itooka step forward, my handextended, and the dogflinched. He turned around

and went right up toRobinson instead (of course)andlickedhishand.Thenthedarn thing lay down at hisfeet. Robinson knelt to pethim.

“Robinson,”Isaid,gettingimpatient,“Greyhoundbusorstolencar,thetimeisnow.”

He didn’t seem to hearme.His long, graceful handsgently tugged on the dog’sears, and the dog rolled onto

his side. As Robinsonscratched thedog’sbelly, theanimal’slegtwitchedandhispink tongue lolled out of hislittle mouth in total canineecstasy.

“You’resuchagoodboy,”Robinsonsaidgently.“Wheredoyoubelong?”

Even though the dogcouldn’t answer, we knew.He was skinny and his furwas clumped with mud.

Therewasapatchofrawbareskin on his back. This dogwasnoone’sdog.

“I wish you could comewithus,”Robinsonsaid.“Butwe have a long way to go,and I don’t think you’d digit.”

The dog looked at himlike he’d dig anything in theworld as long as it involvedmore petting by Robinson.But when you’re running

away fromyour life and youcan’ttakeanythingyoudon’tneed, a stray dog falls in thecategoryofNotNecessary.

“Give him a little love,Axi,”Robinsonurged.

I bent down and dug myfingers into the dog’s dirtycoat the way I’d seenRobinsondo,andwhenI ranmy hand down the dog’schest, I could feel the quickflutter of his heart, the

excitementoffindingahome,someonetocareforhim.

Poor thing, I thought.Somehow, I knew exactlywhat hewas feeling.He hadno one, and he was stuckhere.

But we weren’t. Notanymore.

“We’re leaving, littlebuddy. I’m sorry,” I said.“We’vejustgottogo.”

It was totally weird, but

for some reason that good-bye hurt almost as much asthe one I’d whispered to myfather.

4

WELEFTTHEDOGWITHONEOFROBINSON’S sticks of beefjerky, thenheaded to theendoftheblock,whereRobinsonpulledupshort.“Thereitis,”he whispered, with real awe

in his voice. He grabbedmyhand andwe hurried throughtheintersection.

“Therewhat is?” I asked,but of course he didn’tanswerme.

Ifthingswentonlikethis,we’dhavetohavealittletalk—because I didn’t want atraveling companion whopaidattentionto50percentofwhatever came out of mymouth. If I wanted to be

ignored, I could just stay inKlamathFallswithmyidioticclassmates and my alcoholicfather.

“There is the answer,”Robinsonsaidfinally,sighingsobigyou’dhavethoughthejustfell in love.Heturnedtome and bent down in anexaggerated bow, sweepinghis arm out like a valet atsome superfancy restaurant(the kind of place we don’t

haveinK-Falls).“Alexandra, milady, your

chariot awaits,” Robinsonsaidwithawildgrin.Irolledmyeyesathim,likeIalwaysdo when he does this fake-British shtick with my fullname.

AndthenIrolledmyeyesagain:myso-calledchariot,itturned out, was actually amotorcycle. A big blackHarley-Davidson with

whitewall tires and yards ofshining chrome, and twoblack leather side bagsdecorated with silvergrommets.Thereweretasselson the handlebars and twocushioned seats. The thinggleamed like it was straightofftheshowroomfloor.

Robinson was beside me,whispering in some foreignlanguage. “Twin CamNinety-SixV-Twin,”hesaid,

then something about“electronic throttle controland six-speed transmission”and then a bunch of otherthingsIdidn’tunderstand.

It was an amazing bike,even I could see that, and Ican hardly tell a dirt bikefromaDucati.“Awesome,”Isaid, checking my watch.“But we really should keepmoving.”

That was when I realized

Robinson was bendingtoward the thing with ascrewdriverinhishand.

“Are you out of yourmind?”Ihissed.

But Robinson didn’tanswerme.Again.

Hewas going tohot-wirethething.Holys—

I ran to the other side ofthe street and ducked downbetweentwocars.Adrenalinerushed throughmyveinsand

Ipressedmyeyesshut.There was no way this

washappening,Itoldmyself.No way he was going toactually get the thing started,no way this was how ourjourneywouldbegin.

I had it all planned out,and it looked nothing likethis.

Thentheroarofanenginesplit open the quietmorning.I opened my eyes and a

second later Robinson’s feetappeared, one on either sideoftheHarley.

We’rebreaking the law! Ishould have screamed. Butmy mind simply couldn’tprocessthischangeinplans.Icouldn’tsayanythingatall.Ijust thought: He’s runningaway in cowboy boots! Thatissonotpractical!And:Whydidn’tIbringmine?

“Standup,Axi,”Robinson

yelled.“Geton.”I was rooted to the spot,

mychesttightwithanxiety.Iwas going to have a heartattack right here on CedarStreet, in between a pickupandaVolvowithaMYOTHERCAR IS A BROOM bumpersticker.Somuchformygreatescape!

But then Robinsonreacheddownandhauledmeup,andthenextthingIknew

I was sitting behind him onthe throbbing machine withtheenginerevving.

“Put your arms aroundme,”heyelled.

I was so heart-and-soulterrifiedthatIdid.

“Nowhangon!”He put the thing in gear

and we took off, the enginethundering in my ears. Mydad was probably going towake up on the couch and

wonder ifhe’d justheard therumble of an early-summerstorm.

WeshotpasttheSafeway,past the high school footballfield, past the Reel M InnTavern, where every Fridaynightmydadhookedhimselfup to a Budweiser IV, andpastthe“Mexican”restaurant(where they put Parmesancheese on top of theirburritos).

Yeah, Klamath Falls. Itwas the kind of place thatlooked best in a rearviewmirror.

Seeing it flash past me,feelingtherushofthewindinmy face, I suddenly didn’tcareifwewokeuptheentirestinkingtown.

Eat my dust! I wanted toshout.

Robinson let out a joyfulwhoop.

We’d done it. We werefree.

5

THIS WASN’T ANYTHING LIKETHE MOPED I rode once. Itwasn’t like anything I’d everfelt before.Weweren’t evenon the highway yet, butalready it felt like we were

flying.Thenabovetheroarofthe

engine I heard Robinson’svoice.“Idon’twantatickle/’Cause I’d rather rideonmymotorsickle!” It was an oldArloGuthriesong.Iknewthewords because my dad usedto sing them to me when Iwasalittlegirl.

“And I don’t want todiiiiie/Justwanttorideonmymotorcy… cle,” I joined in,

even though I can’t carry atunetosavemylife.

Robinsonleisurelysteeredus past strip malls on theoutskirts of town. He waswhistlingnow(becauseifyouever want to blow out yourvocal cords, try singingloudly enough to be heardoveraHarley).Hewasactinglike it was no big deal to bezipping away on a stolenmotorcycle.

My God, what in theworld did we think we weredoing?Wewere supposed tobe on a bus, and instead wewere on a stolen motorcyclethat cost more than my dadmade in two years. Escapewas one thing, but robberytook it to another level.Suddenly I couldn’t stoppicturing the disappointmenton my dad’s face when heposted my bail, or the

headlineintheKlamathFallsHeraldandNews—GOODGIRLGONE BAD—next to anunflattering mug shot thatwashedoutmyblueeyesandpaleskin.

I tried not to imagine acoparoundeverybendasweheaded south of theKlamathFalls Country Club, wheremymomused to go for sloegin fizzes on Ladies’ PokerNight.And I kind of freaked

out when were actuallyacknowledged by anothermotorcycle rider, headinginto town. As he passed, thebiker dropped his arm down,two fingers angling towardthe road, and Robinsonmirroredthegesture.

“Don’t take your handsoff the handlebars!” I yelled.“Ever!”

“But it’s the Harleywave,”Robinsonhollered.

“So?”“So it’s rude not to do it

back!”Of course, manners are

useless when you’re flat onyour back in thebottomof aditch.… I didn’t say that toRobinson, though, because Ihad to admit, Robinson wasdriving the motorcycle likehe’ddoneitathousandtimesbefore. Had he? Didn’t aperson need a special license

to drive a motorcycle? Andwhatabout thehot-wiring?Itwould’ve takenme that longto figureouthow to start themotorcyclewithakey.Yeah,we had a few things to talkabout,Robinsonandme.

Past theHomeDepot andEddie’s 90-Days-Same-as-Cash, Robinson yelledsomething,buttheroaroftheengineswallowedhisvoice.Ithinkitwas“Areyouready?”

I didn’t know what he wastalkingabout,butwhateveritwas, I was probably notready.ThenInoticedthatthespeed limit went up to fifty-five, and Robinson pulledbackonthethrottle.

Thismay be obvious, butthe thing about being on amotorcycle is that there isnothing between you and theworld. (Or between you andthehardpavement.)Thewind

roars in your face. The sunshines in your eyes like aklieg light. There is nowindshield.Therearenoseatbelts. We were going sixty-fivenow, and the littlewhiteneedlewasrising.I tightenedmy arms around Robinson’swaist.

“What are you doing?” Iyelled.

Eighty,andtheroarofthewind drowned out the sound

ofmyscreaming.Ninety, and tears were

streaming from my eyes. Iclung to Robinson for dearlife.

Onehundred,andImightaswellhavebeenonarocketship blasting into thestratosphere.

Adrenaline coursedthrough us like liquid fire.Wewerecharged.Dangerous.The motorcycle shuddered

andgained evenmore speed,and the wind was like agiant’s merciless hand tryingtopushmeoffthebackofthebike.

Mylifeflashedbeforemyeyes—mysmall,sadlife.

Goodriddance!The fearwas electrifying.

Itwasterrifyingandamazing,and if I’d thought I washavingaheartattackbefore,Iwas definitely having one

now.And I was totally,

dizzyingly, thrillingly lovingeverysecondofit.

In those brief moments, Ishedmysmall-towngood-girlreputation like an uglysweater,andIburneditintheflamesoftheHarleyinsignia.Wewere runaways.Outlaws.Me and Robinson. Robinsonandme.

And ifwe died in a fiery

crash—well,we’ddiehappy,wouldn’twe?

6

BUTWHETHERITWASLUCKORFATE OR Robinson’s drivingskills,wedidn’tdie.Werodeforhoursalongtwistingbackroads, until I felt like I’dmoldedmyselftoRobinson’s

back. Like I’d become somekind of giant girl-barnaclehe’dneedtopryoffwiththatscrewdriverofhis.

At lunchtime we finallystoppedinthetownofMountShasta, California. It wastuckedintothelowerslopeofa mountain, a giant, snow-streaked peak that’ssupposedly some kind ofcosmicpowercenter.

Yeah,youheardmeright.

If you believe locallegend, it’s home to anancient race of superhumanscalledLemurians,wholiveinunderground tunnels butsurfaceeveryonceinawhile,sevenfeettallanddeckedoutin white robes. In otherwords, Mount Shasta istotally unlike Klamath Falls,which is the world’s capitalof monotony and is home toguys with names like Critter

andDuke.Also, UFOs have

allegedly landed on MountShasta.Andthat’sjustthetipofthebizarroiceberg.

Eventhesmilingattendantat the Shell station waswearing a giant amethystcrystal around his neck andhad a chakra diagram on hisT-shirt.

Robinson returned theattendant’s blissed-out grin,

but his didn’t come fromMountShasta’scosmicpowerrays.ItcamefromtheHarley.Hestruckapose,onehandonthegastank,athumbhookedin his belt loop, and offeredmeagoofyHollywoodsneer.“Am I JamesDean or what?RebelWithoutaCause?”

Isquintedathim.ThoughI would never admit it,Robinsonkindof looked likehe could be a movie star.

Sure, he was a little on theskinny side, but that face ofhis? It belonged on a postertacked to a tween girl’sbedroomwall.

“JamesDeandiedinacarcrash.Youknow,becausehewas speeding,” I said. Mylegswere trembling somuchI could barely stand. Thethundering rumble of theenginehadburrowedintomybones.

“I only sped once,”Robinsoncountered.“Ihadtosee what this bad boy coulddo.”

“Oncewasplenty,” I shotback, trying to sound stern.I’d loved it, sure. Becauseohmygod it felt like flying.But I was pretty sure that—like paragliding or jumpingoutofanairplane—going110onthebackofastolenHarleywasthesortofthingyouonly

neededtodoonce.Robinson walked into the

stationtopayfor thegasandemerged with twoVitaminwaters and a SlimJim,which, ifyouaskme, islike eating a pepperoni-flavored garden hose. ButRobinson had loved horriblefoodforaslongasI’dknownhim.

Wetookalittlestroll intothe towncenter.Therewas a

guy wearing a sandwichboard that read ARE YOUSAVED? But instead of apicture of Jesus or angels,there was a drawing of agreen-skinned alien holdingup two fingers in a peacesign. Robinson stopped totalktohim.Ofcourse.

Iduckedintoahealthfoodstore that smelled likepatchouli and nutritionalyeast and got some

vegetables for our dinner.When I came outside,Robinsonwasreadingaflyerthatthemanhadgivenhim.

“We could go on a spiritquest,” he said. “Meet ourStarElders.”

“No way, Scalawag,” Isaid, snatching the pamphletfromhimandtossingitintoarecyclingbin.“Asfascinatingasthatsounds,Ispentmonthsplanning this trip, and last I

checked, communing withourso-calledStarElderswasnotontheto-dolist.”

“Well, neither wasstealing a motorcycle, andlook how well that turnedout.”

Helookedprettyproudofhimselfforthatcomeback.

“Okay, fine,” Iacknowledged. “It’s beengreatsofar.Butwecan’trideahotbikeacrossthecountry.

For one thing, we’ll getcaught. And for another, Idon’t thinkmy butt can takeit.”

Robinson laughed. “Youactuallylookkindofannoyedrightnow.Areyou?”

“No,” I lied. “But nexttime,Ipicktheride.”

“Oh,Axi—”hebegan.“I don’t want this trip to

be a huge mistake, okay?” Iinterrupted. “I’m not

interestedinjailtime.”Robinson leanedoverand

plucked a swirly glass orbfrom the sidewalk display infrontoftheSoulConnectionsgiftshop.Hewaveditinfrontof my face. “By everythingthat is cosmic andweird andawesome, I banish all doubtsfromyourmind.”Heglancedat the price tag. “Only fiveninety-five.Abargain!”

He dashed into the store

and a moment laterreappeared with the orbnestledinapurplevelvetbag.He placed it in my hands.“This is magic,” he said. “Itwillkeepyoufromeverbeingannoyedatmeagain.”

“Don’tcountonit,”Isaiddrily. But I couldn’t helpsmiling at him. “Thanks. It’sreallypretty.”

“Axi,” Robinson said, hisvoice softernow,“if this trip

isamistake, it’s thebestonewe’llevermake.”

And somehow, by thelookhegavemethen,Iknewhewasright.

7

BYTHETIMEWESTOPPEDATACAMPGROUND in HumboldtRedwoods State Park, we’dbeendrivingforsevenhours.Robinson had stuck to theback roads, and I wasn’t

complaining. My fear ofgetting pulled over by copslooking for a black Harleywith an Oregon plate hadn’tcompletelydisappeared,butIwas thinking about it less aswe got farther and fartherfromhome.

The sun was low abovethe horizon when we pulledintothepark,anditvanishedcompletelyasweentered thegreen canopy of trees.

Robinson let out a lowwhistle as the shadowsenvelopedus.

Old-growth redwoods.How can I even describethem?Theytoweredaboveusdarkly, and they felt alive.Not alive like regular trees,but alive like they had souls.Like theywerewise, ancientcreatures,watchingwithonlythefaintesthintof interestastwo road-weary teenagers

walkedbeneaththem.Theairwas cool and slightly damp,andthesilencewasprofound.Ifeltlikewewereinchurch.

“I totally understand thewhole Druid thing now,”Robinsonwhispered.

“I think the Druidsactually worshipped oaktrees,” I noted. “They didn’thave redwoods in ancientIreland.”

“Smarty-pants,” Robinson

said,pokingme.Iputmyhandonarough,

cool trunk. “Majestictranquillity,” I said softly,seeing how the words felt inmy mouth. A little toopretentious: I wouldn’t bewriting that down in myjournal. But there were realwriterswho’d seen redwoodslike these, and I could stealfrom them, couldn’t I? “‘They are not like any trees

we know, they areambassadors from anothertime,’”Isaid.

“Huh?”saidRobinson.“John Steinbeck wrote

thatinTravelswithCharley.”He sighed. “Another one

ofthebooksyougaveme—”“Thatyoudidn’tread.”Robinson used to pretend

he felt guilty about ignoringthe stacks of books I passedto him, but eventually he

stoppedbothering.“I thoughtI was supposed to read EastofEdenfirst,”hesaid.

“Let me know when yougettoit,”Isaid.“Iwon’tholdmybreath.”

“Well, you can let meknowwhenyou listen to thatWillOldhamCDIgotyou.”

“I put it onmy iPod but,as you know, it’s broken,” Ipointed out. “Your eyeballsworkjustfine.”

We found our campsitethen, a small clearingsurrounded by a ring ofredwoods, with a picnicbench,afirepit,andaspigotfor cold, clear water. Iunhooked my tent from thebackpack. It was an army-greenmiracleofengineering:big enough to contain twopeople and their sleepingbags, it weighed less than apoundand,foldedup,fitinto

a bag the size of a loaf ofWonder Bread. Robinsoneyedit,impressed.

“WatchhowIsetthisup,”I directed. “Becausetomorrownightit’syourjob.”

“I thought it was thewoman’s job to keep houseandtheman’sjobtohuntforfood,”hesaid,grinningslyly.

I snorted. “Are youplanning to kill an elk withyour screwdriver? Good

luck.”“I was thinking more

alongthelinesofasquirrel,”he said, but even that wasridiculous, because Robinsonwould never hurt anything. Imean, theguyhad togrithisteethtokillamosquito.

IunpackedtheveggiesI’dbought, plus a hunk of agedGouda and a bag of lavash,the thin flatbread I love andcouldn’tget inKlamathFalls

becauseapparentlyitwastooexotic.

“Well, well, well,”Robinson said as hewatchedme skewer mushrooms andpeppersonsticksI’dstrippedof their bark. “I guess you’ddoallrightonSurvivor.”

Irolledmyeyesathim.“Ipaidforthisstuff,Robinson.Ididn’t forage for wild greenpeppersandcheese.Now,areyou going to gather some

sticksforthefireorwhat?”“You couldn’t buy

firewood,too?”heasked,buthe ambled good-naturedlyinto the brush to find thingstoburn.

Soon we had a nice firegoing, and we roasted ourkebabs over the flickeringflames. I stuck slices ofcheese between pieces oflavash,wrapped theminfoil,and set them near the fire

untilthecheesemelted.Wheneverything was ready, weleaned against a fallen logthatwascoveredwithspringygreen moss, which made asurprisingly comfortablebackrest. We didn’t haveplates, and the vegetableswere a bit burned in places,but itwas thebestdinner I’dever had. It tasted likefreedom.

Robinson complimented

my cooking, but within thehour he was raiding mybackpack for junk food,claimingtobesufferingfromvitaminoverdose.

“Whatelsedoyouhaveinhere?”hedemanded.“Iknowyou’re keeping Fritos orOreos or something terribleand delicious from me.” Iwatched as he pulled out themap, two feather-light rainponchos, my Dr. Bronner’s,

my toothbrush, and myjournal.

“Open that on pain ofdeath,”Iwarned.

Finally Robinson held upachocolatebar,triumphant.

“Half for you, half forme,”hesaid.

“Aquarter for you and aquarter for me,” I corrected.“I’mrationing.”

Robinson laughed.“You’re a planner, I know.

You always have everythingfiguredout.Butdoyoureallythink there’s a shortage ofchocolate bars on the WestCoast?” He reached out andhanded me a small piece ofchocolate. When ourfingertips touched, I twitchedas if I’d been shocked. Itsurprisedbothofus.

“You’re jittery all of asudden,”hesaid.“We’resafehere,Axi.Noone’s going to

find us.” He walked over tothe bike and lovingly patteditsseat.“OrthehotHarley.”

While Robinson fondledhis new toy, I tried to calmdown, breathing in that“sweeter,rarer,healthierair,”as old Walt Whitman wouldsay. Night was coming,bringingdarkness anddeepersilence. It seemed like in alltheworld,therewereonlythetwoofus.

I’d always told Robinsonpretty much everything Ithought about, but I couldn’ttellhimthis:Iwasn’tnervousaboutbeingdiscovered.Iwassuddenly nervous aboutsomethingelse.

Sleepingarrangements.

8

INSIDE THE TENT, I UNROLLEDOUR SLEEPING bags. Therewasn’t an inch to spare. Weweregoing to be thisclose toeachother,Robinsonandme.

He was still outside the

tent, throwing leaves into thefire and watching them curlandblacken.“Doweneed tostring up the packs? Youknow, to protect them frombears?”hecalled.

“There aren’t any bearsaround here,” I assured him,smoothingoutmybag.Itwaspink camo. Hideously ugly,but it’d been on sale. “Onlyelk.Spottedowls.Thatsortofthing.”

Robinson poked his headinsidethetent.“Doyouknowthat for real?” he asked. “Orareyoujustsayingittomakeyourself feel better?” Helooked me right in the eyes.Heknewmetoowell.

“I’m, like, sixty percentpositive,” I admitted. “Orless.”

Robinson wasunsurprised. “I’m stringingupthepacks,then.”

HeduckedbackoutandIheardhimrustlingaround.Hetook a long time, whetherbecause he was new to thedemands of camping orbecause he was sneakingmore of the chocolate bar…well,thatcouldbehissecret.

Whenhepoppedhisheadin again, he was grinning.There was a tiny spot ofmelted chocolate in thecornerofhismouth.“Cozyin

here,isn’tit?”Then he slipped off his

bootsandclimbedallthewayinside, and cozy becamesomething of anunderstatement.Ifeltweirdlyshy. Like suddenly my bodywas bigger and moreawkward—and more female—than it had ever beenbefore. I wondered if Ismelled like motor oil andBO. I noticed that Robinson

smelled like campfire, likesoap,likeboy.

Robinson could have hadhispickofgirlsfromourhighschool.Evenafterhedroppedout (which for everyone elsewho’d done itwas the socialkiss of death), all thecheerleaders and the studentcouncil girls still wanted totakehimtoprom.SometimesI pictured them hanging offhis arms, like those little

game pieces in Barrel ofMonkeys, brightly coloredandplastic.

“I’m not interested inthem,” he’d say. Eventually,I’dgottenupthenervetoask:who—or what—was heinterested in? He’d laughedandslunghisarmaroundmyshoulders the way he didsometimes.

“I’m interested in you,GG,” he’d said lightly.As if

thatsettledit.But what did that mean,

really? Because as far as Icould tell, he wasn’tinterested inme in that way.We’dheldhandsafewtimes,like when we were in themovietheaterwatchingCabinin theWoods orParanormalActivity. And once when I’ddrunk three-quarters of abeer, I had kissed him,sloppily,goodnight.

Butthatwasall,folks.Nowwe lay side by side,

staringatthetentceilingonlythree feet above our heads. Ilistened to the wind in thetops of the trees and thesound of Robinson’sbreathing, and for the firsttime considered whattraveling together wouldmean in practical terms.Where was I supposed tochange?What if I wanted to

sleepinmyunderwear?Whatwould Robinson think whenhe saw me in the morning,mussed and sleepy, withtousled hair and flushedcheeks and breath that couldkillasmallanimal?

Not that that was theproblem. No, the problem—or,attheveryleast,theThingThat Mattered—was that wewould be sleeping right nextto each other. Alone. Not

even a stuffed teddy bearbetweenus.

Robinsonshifted,tryingtomake himself comfortable.Nodoubthewasrealizingthesame thing I was. I clearedmythroat.

“Before you sayanything,” Robinson said,“here’sthedeal.”

I could almost hear myheart doing a tiny shufflingdance.

“Stealingis—well,it’snotagoodthing,Axi,butit’snotnecessarily that bad, either. Imean,we’retakinggoodcareof the bike. And this guy’sgoingtogetitback.”

That dancing ticker ofmine slowed. I’d thoughtwewere going to talk about us.Honestly, Iwas already overthestealing.Regretisawasteoftime,mymomusedtosay.She’dservedupthatplatitude

a lot before she split town.Maybeitmadeherfeelbetteraboutleaving.

“And if for some reasonhe doesn’t get it back,”Robinson went on, “hisinsurancecovers the lossandhegetsabrand-newone.”

He made it sound sosimple.Andmaybeitwas.Insome ways it was simplerthantalkingaboutus.

Robinson rolled over so

hewasfacingme.Hisnose,Inoticed, was sunburned. Hischinwascoveredinfaintdarkstubble. I watched hisAdam’s apple move as heswallowed.Oureyesmet,butIquicklylookedaway.

He reached out andbrushed a piece of hair frommy forehead. I held mybreath.

Suddenly I understoodthatrunningawaywasallthe

thrill I could stand today. IfRobinson touched any otherpart of me, I might explodeintoamillionpieces.

But he didn’t touch meagain. He smiled. “Sweetdreams,AxiMoore,” he saidsoftly. Then he rolled backover.

InsideIachedalittle,butIwasn’tsurewhatfor.

9

I STARED INTO THE DARKNESSFOR A long time, feeling thecontrast between the cold,hard ground beneath me andthe soft warmth of Robinsonbeside me. Thoughts raced

through my mind endlessly:What if Robinson and I getcaught?Or ifwechickenoutandgobackhome?Or ifwekeep on and each night lieside by side, chaste aschildren? If we kiss? If wewhisperthewordlove,orifitremainsunsaidforever?

It would probably onlymattertome.Ididn’tknowifitwouldmattertoRobinson.Itentativelyputmyheadonhis

shoulder, but he didn’tmoveamuscle.

When I finally slept, Idreamedwewereontheedgeof a cliff, peering down.Dream-Robinsonwasholdingmy hand. “Don’t worry,” hesaid. “It only looks like acliff.It’sactuallyamountain,andthewayisup,notdown.”

Evenindreams,hewasanoptimist.

By the time Robinson

stumbled out of the tent thenext morning, lookingrumpled and adorable, I’dpacked our bags and plottedour route to Bolinas, a tinytown nestled between theCalifornia hills and thePacific Ocean. I wanted tosee it mostly because thetown is supposed to be asecret. The people who livetherearealwaystearingdowntheroadsignsthatpointtoit.

But thatwasn’tgoing tostopmefromdiscoveringwhatthebigdealwasaboutthisplace.

“Maybe,” Robinson saidteasingly as he mounted thebike, “buried deep inside theGood Girl, there’s the heartofarebel.”

“Haven’tIalreadyproventhattoyoubysuggestingthiscrazy trip?” I climbed upbehind him and commanded,“Now,drive.”

Naturally, we missed ourturn the first time, but whenwefinallygotthere,wewerealittlemystified.

“Thisiswhattheywanttokeep to themselves?”Robinsonasked.

The downtown consistedof two intersecting streets.Therewasa restaurantcalledtheCoastCafé—which, FYI,did not overlook the coast—and an old-fashioned-looking

bar. I had to agree: Bolinasdidn’t seem particularlyinspiring.

But the adjacent beachwasbeautiful.Wekickedourshoesoffandsatdowninthesand,staringatthebluewaterand feeling the sun on ourshoulders. Tanned, half-wildchildren ran around us,throwing rocks at seagulls.Robinson started digging histoes in the sand, and more

than once I caught himlooking atme, anunreadableexpressiononhisface.

“So… what are youthinking about?” I finallyasked. I hoped he didn’tdetect the slight edge ofapprehensioninmyquestion.

“Corn dogs,” Robinsonanswered without missing abeat.

Sometimes I could justkillhim.

He could have beenthinking about me, about us,but instead his mind hadsettledonwienersencased incornbatter.

We ducked into Smiley’sSchooner Saloon, andRobinson walked up to thebar like itwas the counter atErnie’s. “Good afternoon,sir,” he said. “Two Rainiers,please,andacorndog.”

I swear, if Robinson ever

hadtopickalastmeal,it’dbecorndogs,Frenchfries,andadeep-friedTwinkie.

“ID?”thebartendersaid.Robinson fished out his

wallet. The bartender’s eyesdarted from Robinson’s fakelicense to Robinson’s faceandbackagain.“Okay…NedDixon.” Then he turned tome.

I shrugged. “I wasn’tdriving, see, so I left my

licenseback—”The bartender crossed his

meaty arms. “Listen, kids,how about you head acrossthe street and get yourself anice ice-cream cone at thecafé.”

“Actually, I’m lactoseintol—”Robinsonbegan,butIinterruptedhim.

“Oh, I get it!” My voicecame out surprisingly fierce.“WecanfightinAfghanistan,

butwecan’thaveabeerandwatchthesunset?”Myhandsgripped the edge of the barandIleanedforward,hostilitycoming off me in waves. Ihad no idea where this wascoming from, but it actuallyfeltkindofgood tobeangrywithsomeone.Someonewhodidn’t matter, someone Iwouldneverseeagain.

I probably would haveyelled more, but Robinson

draggedmeoutside.Thenhebentover,practicallychokingwith laughter. “Fight inAfghanistan?” he wheezed.“Us?”

“It just came out,” I said,still not sure what had justhappened.Istartedtogigglealittle,too.

Robinson wiped his eyes.“Youdon’tevenlikebeer.”

“It was a matter ofprinciple.A lotofpeopledie

inAfghanistanbefore they’reallowedtobuyasix-pack.”

“Alotofpeopledieeveryday, Axi. They don’t go offonbartenders insecret townsabout the unfairness of thedrinking laws. I can’twait tosee what you come up withnext,” he said, still laughingat my outburst as he strodeaheadofme.

His flip tone made mestopshortinthemiddleofthe

sidewalk.Yeah,peopledodieeveryday.Somepeople, likeCarole Ann, die before theyeven learn to tie their shoes.Others die before theygraduatefromhighschool.

Hell, either one of uscoulddieonthiscrazytrip.

Thereweresomanymoreimportant things to do thanbuy a beer before thathappened. I hurried to catchup with Robinson, who was

turning the corner to wherewe’d parked the motorcyclein an empty lot behind thesaloon. But now there was aman in a leather jacket andchapsstandingrightbesideit,giving it a long—and much-too-close-for-my-comfort—look.

“Nicebike,” theguysaid.“GotacousininOregonwhohasoneexactlylikeit.”

Mylungsfeltlikebellows

that someone had justsqueezed shut. I took a stepbackward. Should we justrun?

But Robinson didn’tflinch.“Yourcousinhasgoodtaste,”hesaid.HeglancedatthebikebehindChaps. “YouridingaFatBoythesedays?Ilove those, but my girl herelikes a bigger bike.” Hisvoice had taken on an easydrawl, like he and Chaps

were two dudes who’d seeeyetoeyeoveraHarley.

Chaps was still sizingRobinson up: Robinson wastaller but about a hundredpoundslighter.Me,Iwasstillthinking about running—andabout how Robinson hadcalled me his girl. Thatsounded… interesting. Butdidhemean it,orwas it justpartofhisact?

“Happy hour’s almost

over, y’know,” Robinsonsaid.

Chapsgavehimonelong,lastlook,thenshookhisheadandwentinside.

Iwasalreadyreachingforpaperandpen.

Thankssomuchforlettingus ride your motorcycle, Iwrote. We took really goodcare of it. We named itCharley.

Robinson read over my

shoulder.“Wedid?”“Just now,” I said.

“CharleytheHarley.”I’m sorry we didn’t ask

youifwecouldborrowit,butrest assured that your bikewas used only for the forcesofgood.Sincerely,GG&theScalawag

I tucked the note into thehandlebars. “Come on. Timeto find another ride,” I said,likeI’dbeenstealingcarsmy

whole life. In all ofdowntownBolinastherewereonlyaboutfivecars,though.

“That one,” I said,pointingtoasilverPontiac.

Robinson nodded. “Deadboring,” he said. “Butsensible.”

I could feel the tinglingbeginning in my limbs.Robinson took a quick lookaround and then got in. Iducked into the passenger

side, mentally thanking theowner for leaving the doorsunlocked.

From his backpackRobinson removed a smallcordless drill and aimed it atthe keyhole. I watched asglittering flecks ofmetal fellontotheseat.

He packed a drill? Ithought.

A grizzled surfer waslooking right at us. I smiled

andwaved.“Hurry up,” I hissed at

Robinson.He produced his

screwdriver and inserted itinto the mangled keyhole.“Onemoreminute.”

The adrenaline tinglewasgrowing more intense.Painful,even.

“I had to break the lockpins,”Robinsonexplained.

AsifIcared!Ijustwanted

the engine to turn on. Isuckedinadeepbreath.Anymomentweweregoingtoberacing out of town, andeverything would return tonormal—mynewnormal,thatis.

ThatwaswhentwopeoplecameoutoftheCoastCafé—and began heading towardtheirsilverPontiac.Imet thewoman’s eyes, saw her jawdrop open. The man started

running. “Hey,” he shouted.“Hey!”

His arms flew forward,and he was just inches fromuswhen the engine suddenlyroared to life. Robinsonslammed the car into reverseand we shot backward intothestreet.Amomentlaterwewere blazing out of town,going fifty in a twenty-fivezone.

“I’m going to miss

Charley,” I said, my heartpounding.

Robinson nodded. “Metoo.”

“But not Bolinas,” Iadded.

“That was your idea,”Robinsonremindedmewithasmirk.

I shrugged and let out adeep sigh of relief. The sunwas flashing deep vermilionover the blue ocean, calming

meas Iwatched it slip lowerand then vanish before myheart rate had even returnedtonormal.

Amazing how beauty canbesofleeting.

10

WE DROVE ACROSS THEGOLDEN GATE Bridge thatnight,glidingoveradarkSanFrancisco Bay into thenarrowstreetsofthePresidio.Since the car offered a solid

roof over our heads—andsince cops apparently frownon urban camping—wedecided to spend thenight inthePontiac.

I curled up in thebackseat, and Robinsonfolded himself, withdifficulty, into the front.There was no question of ustouching(or,asthecasemaybe,nottouching)withallthatupholsteryintheway.Atiny

partofmefeltrelieved,butalarger part of me longed forthe so-cozy-it’s-claustrophobictent.

That was my realizationforthenight:Iwascapableofmissing Robinson when hewas less than two feet awayfromme.

Iwasstartingtodevelopatheory about missing thingsin general. It had startedwhen we left Charley the

Harley behind, and I hadn’tstopped thinking about it therestofthedrive.IfIpracticedmissing small things—likethe rumbling ride of amotorcycle, or the faintmurmurofmydad talking inhis sleep, or now sleepingright next to Robinson—maybe I could get used tomissingthings.Then,whenitcame time tomisssomethingreally important, maybe I

couldsurviveit.We listened to the radio

for a while, Robinsonhumming along and mekeeping my tuneless mouthshut until we drifted off. Inthe morning, fog rolling infrom the bay blurred thestreetlights into soft orangehalos. I peered over the seatatRobinson’stangledlimbs.

“Rise and shine,” I sang.Heopenedone eye andgave

methefinger.Noteveryoneisamorning

person.“There’s someone I want

youtomeet,”Itoldhim.“Now?” Robinson asked.

But I simply handed him hisshoes.

There was one book I’dgottenRobinsontoreadinthelastsixmonths.TheWindingRoad was a memoir aboutgrowingupasthedaughterof

an alcoholic father (I couldseriouslyrelate)andabeauty-queen mother (ditto) in asmall town in southernOregon. The author,MattheaNorth, could have been me,which ismaybewhy I foundher story so fascinating. Acouple of years ago, I wroteherafanletter.Shewrotemeback, and an epistolaryfriendship—Iguessyoucouldcallitthat—wasborn.

(Epistolary: a word I’mnot going to use in front ofRobinson.)

You must stop by for avisit sometime, Matthea hadwritten. We’ll drink tea andponder the vagaries of love,the secrets of life, themysteriesoftheuniverse…

If ever there was a timefor that conversation, it wasnow.

Matthea’s house was on

Nob Hill, at the top of animpossiblysteepstreet.Irangthe bell and we waitednervously on the stoop.Robinson didn’t even knowwhatweweredoinghere,andI refused to tell him. If youaskme, a person doesn’t getenoughgoodsurprisesinlife.Birthday, Christmas… that’sonly two times a year tocounton.

But when the front door

opened, I was even moresurprised than Robinson.Since Matthea North and Ihad so much in commonchildhood-wise, I guess Ithought she’d look like anolder version ofme: slender,medium-sized, with the fulllips and wide-set eyes of abeauty-queen mothersomehow diluted into aslightly less remarkableprettiness.

MatthealookedlikeBilboBaggins.InaGypsycostume.Underfivefeettall,bedeckedin scarvesandnecklaces, shereached up to takemy hand.“YoumustbeAxi,”shesaid.Her green eyes, set deep inrosy cheeks, positivelytwinkledatme.

Iswallowed.“Yes!”Isaidbrightly.“Robinson,thisis…the one and only MattheaNorth.”

He turned toward her,smiling his wide, gorgeousgrin. “Hey, you wrote thatbook—the one about thetown evenworse than ours.”If he was fazed by herclothes,hedidn’tlookit.

Matthea laughed. OlderladiesloveRobinson.

We followed her into thedarkness of her home, andalready she was chatteringabouthowMarkTwainnever

said the famous line abouthow the coldest winter heever spent was a summer inSanFrancisco, but he shouldhave, because it wasabsolutely Arctic today; howbirdsong had evolved overdecades to compete with thesound of traffic, and weren’tthose sparrows outside justdeafeningly loud; how she’dgotten a bad fortune in hercookie from Lucky Feng’s,

but did we know that it wasthe Japanese who’d actuallyinventedthefortunecookie?

Shemotionedforustositon a dusty-looking Victoriancouch. “I loved your shortstory about that old deli,Axi,”shesaid,“theoneaboutthatgirlandboywhoarebestfriends butmaybe somethingmore—”

“Oh,yeah, thanks,” I saidhurriedly, not wanting to cut

heroffbutneedingto.Robinson cleared his

throat.Icouldpracticallyhearhim thinking: You wrote astoryaboutErnie’s?Andus?

I ignored him. Of courseI’dwrittenabouthim.Hewasmy best friend, wasn’t he?The one who knew me likeno other. The one I thoughtabout approximately 75percent ofmywaking hours,ifnotmore.

“Thanks for letting uscome over,” I said. “I reallywanted Robinson to meetyou. Ican’tgethim to finishany book, ever, but he readyoursinanight.”

“It gave me… insights,”Robinson said, lookingpointedlyatme.

Matthea laughed. “Axiand I share certainbackgrounddetails,don’twe?ButAxi’smuchsmarter than

Iwasatherage.”“She’s ornerier,”

Robinson said. “That’s forsure.”

I kicked him in the shins—lightly.

Matthea produced apitcheroficedteaandaplateof lemoncake,andRobinsonhelpedhimselftotwoslices.

“So, how’s the writinggoing,Axi?”Mattheaasked.

“Um, not much at all

lately,” I admitted, reachingfor my own slice of cake.“Please tell me there’s somesecret to keeping at it. Notgiving up. Believing inyourself.Thatkindofstuff.”Itried to keep the desperationoutofmyvoice.

Mattheasighedandbeganto braid the fringe on herscarf. “My dear, there is nouniversalsecret.There’sonlythe secret each writer

discovers for herself. Thepathforward.”

I could feelmy shouldersslump.Ofcourse.There’snosuch thing as amagic bullet.Whodoesn’tknowthat?

“Are you aware thatEuropean kings used to havetheir hearts buried separatelyfrom their bodies?” Mattheaasked.

“Um… no,” I said, and Isaw Robinson raise his

eyebrowswiththatslightgrinI loved. Clearly, he wasamusedbymyweirdowritingmentor.

“Itwas away of offeringtheir hearts, literally andfiguratively, to their country.Forever.” Matthea sighed.“Macabrepractice,ifyouaskme. But I like it as ametaphor. You give yourcountry—which, in this case,isyourstory—yourheart.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.” Nowonder I hadn’t written theGreat American Novel yet.My heart was still firmlyplanted in my chest. Wasn’tit?

“Bepatient,”Mattheasaidgently. “Keep writing, butkeep dreaming, too.Remember that inspirationstruck the brilliantmathematician Archimedeswhenhewasinthebathtub.”

Andinspirationstruck thebrilliant physicist RichardFeynman when he was in astrip club, I thought. (I maybe failing AP physics, but Ididlearnathingortwo.)

That’s pretty much howthe rest of the conversationwent. We didn’t ponder theunpredictabilityofloveorthemysteriesoftheuniverse,butsince we touched oneverything from the

mummified hearts ofEuropean kings to Einstein’stheory that creativity wasmore important thanknowledge, I felt like it wastimewellspent.

After a fourth piece oflemon cake, though,Robinson excused himself,sayingheneeded toget abitof fresh air. I watched hisretreating back, feeling avague sense of unease. My

body gave an involuntaryshiver,andMatthealookedatme piercingly.We continuedourchat,butlater,aswewereleaving, she put her hand onmy shoulder. “Are you allright?”sheasked.

Foronetinymillisecond,Iwantedtotellhereverything.The real reason behind whatRobinson and I were doing,which I hadn’t even wantedtoadmittomyselfthiswhole

time. It didn’t actually haveanything to do with meescaping my boring life inKlamathFalls.ButIcouldn’ttellher.

“I’mgreat,”Isaid.“And your friend?” She

squinted toward Robinson,who was leaning against thecar, staring down the hilltoward the bay. He broughthis arms up and almostseemed to hug himself, as if

hewere cold. Or as if, for amoment, he felt the need toreassure himself aboutsomething.

“He’s great, too,” Iinsisted.Why are you lying,Axi?

Matthea picked a yellowflower fromone of the vinesaroundherdoorandtuckeditbehind my ear. “Give yourstory your heart,” sherepeated.

It sounded reasonableenough.ButwhenIlookedatRobinson, IknewI’dalreadygivenmy heart to something—tosomeone—else.

11

IF I DIDN’T KNOW IT WASMEDICALLY impossible, I’dsay that Robinson was bornwithawrenchinhishand.Orthatasababy,hesuckedonaspark plug instead of a

pacifier.This gearhead gene was

why I was taking him toTorrance, California, next—because it certainly wasn’tmy kind of place. TorrancebreedsNASCAR drivers andsemiprofessional cagefighters. (Ugh.) It has aracetrack,agiantrock’n’rollcar show, and about fivehundred stores that sell carparts.

In other words, for a guylike Robinson, it’s thePromised Land. The kind ofplacehehadto—hedeservedto—experience.

When we pulled into theparking lot of the Cal-AmSpeedway the followingafternoon, Robinson suckedinhisbreathandgavemehiscrooked,perfectgrin.

“Axi Moore,” he said,“you are greatest person I

haveeverknown.”“You just wait,” I said,

smilingback.I steered him away from

theglassatriumentranceandtoward a side door proppedopenwitharolled-upcopyofCarandDriver.

Brad Sewell was waitingforusinthepit.“Alexandra,”he said, stepping forward togive me a bear hug. “Longtimenosee,kiddo.”

Robinson clearly wantedtoknowhowthisbeefydudewith a Dale Earnhardt tattooand Iwere acquainted. But Isimply said, “Robinson, thisis Brad. Brad, this is myfriendRobinson.”

“Nice to meet ya,” Bradsaid. “Let me walk youthrough a few things, andthen we’ll get you in thecockpit.”

It was only then that

Robinsonunderstoodwhathewas actuallyhere for, andhelooked like he mightspontaneously combust fromexcitement.

Heturnedtome.“It’slikeSayAnything,”hewhispered.

We’d watched that oldmovie a hundred times. Oneofthebestscenesiswhenthegeeky main character takeshis reluctant date, one of theBeautiful People, to an art

museum after hours. He cando this because he’s friendswith the museum guard, andbecause he’s hung a paintingoftheBeautifulGirlinoneofthegalleries.

Today was my museummoment for Robinson, butbetter.I’dbribedBradwithachunkofmysavings,andI’dshamelessly pulled the “Iknew you when our sisterswere in the cancer ward”

card.Brad began talking

gibberish to Robinson,somethingabout“initialturn-in” and “apex of the curve”and “neutral throttle on thecorner.” But Robinson wasnoddingconfidently,andthenhewasclimbingintoaflame-resistant Nomex suit, andBrad was fitting him with aradio helmet and snappinghimintoafive-pointharness.

“Any fool can speed onthe straightaway; it’s thecurves that make a racer,”Bradsaidoverhisshoulder.

“Oh, sure,” I said. Like Iknew what he was talkingabout—I couldn’t even drivetothegrocerystore.

Robinson revved theengineandthenpulledoutofthepit.Hedidn’tgothatfastat first, but he must havegotten the hang of it after a

while,becausetheenginegotlouder and the car became agreen blur flashing past usagainandagain.

“So how’s your littlesister?”IaskedBrad.

“She’s in remission. Twoyearsnow.”

“That’s fantastic,” I said.LizzieSewellhadbeenreallynicetoCaroleAnn.Lizzie, itseems, was one of the luckyones.

“And what about you?”Brad asked, and I pretendednot to hear. Fortunately, justat that moment, the brightgreencarcamescreeching toahaltonthetrackoutsidethepit,andRobinsonopened thedoor.

“Axi,youhavegot to getinhere!”heyelled.

I looked over at Brad. Iwas hoping he’d tellme thattheotherseatbeltwasbroken

or that he was fresh out ofhelmets.

“There’s a suit over therethat’llfityou,”hesaid.

And that’s how I foundmyself in the passenger seatof a custom Chevy race car,outfitted like Danica Patrickand quivering withexcitement.

“On your mark, get set,go!”yelledRobinson,andwepeeled out onto the track,

zero to sixty in about amillisecond.

The g-force slammed meagainst the seat, and thestunning, brain-shaking roaroftheenginefilledmyears.Icould feel the noise asmuchas hear it. It vibrated in mychest and shook me deep inmyguts.

I couldn’t help it: in joyandterror,Iscreamed.

Istopped,though,because

I couldn’t even hear myself.And then I screamed somemore.

We came toward the firstcurve, and I noticed the tallchain-link fence that arcedinward over the track.Somehow I understood—even though I was totallyincapable of higher thought,of abstract things such aswords—that thefencewas tokeep us from splattering our

body parts all over thebleachersinacrash.

The car had thick meshnetting instead of windows,so thewindcame rushing in,hot and smelling like asphaltand oil. I couldn’t see howfast we were going, and Ididn’twanttoknow.

We banked around thecurve,theenginesquealing.

As we pulled into thestraightaway and Robinson

hit hard on the throttle,suddenly my vision seemedtonarrow.Itwaslikelookingthrough a tunnel. Everythingon either side of me blurredand faded, and all thatmattered was the airspace infrontofus,andhowlightningfast we were going to blastthroughit.

Mybodywassingingwithfear and happiness and anincredible feeling of being

completely alive in themoment. I was no longerAlexandra Jane Moore—Iwasasupernovastrappedintoabucketseat.

Go, go, go! I thoughtwildly. Because screaming,afterall,wasuseless.

Wetookthreemoresoundbarrier–shattering laps, andwhen we finally slowed, IturnedtoRobinsonwithwideand no doubt crazy-looking

eyes.“Oh my God,” I said,

pulling off my helmet andshaking out my sweat-drenched hair. “Oh. My.God.”

Robinson cackled madly.Brad came over and said,“Whaddjathink?”

It took Robinson amoment to answer, probablybecausehehadtowaitforhisbrain to stop vibrating. Then

he said, “I might have justhadthebesttimeofmylife.”

I started laughing like anidiot, because that wasexactly what we’d come for,whatI’dwantedtogivehim.

Carpe diem. Becausetoday, after all, was all weknewwehad.

12

“I’M STANDING ON TOMCRUISE,” ROBINSON yelled.“Takemypicture!”

“You’re on his star,Scalawag,” I said. But Isnapped the photo anyway:

dark-eyed Robinson,handsome as anymovie star,dressed like a hipsterlumberjack.EveninSouthernCalifornia, he couldn’t giveuptheflannel.

WewerefreshofftheCal-Amracetrack,stillhoppedupontheexperience.Hollywoodwas a hop, skip, and a jumpupthe110fromTorrance,sothat’swherewewentnext.

Of course we had to go

straighttotheWalkofFame.While Robinson ogled thestreet performers (buskers,hustlers, and dudes dressedlike Iron Man and CaptainJack Sparrow), I dashedaround taking photos of thenames I knew and loved:Marilyn Monroe, AudreyHepburn, JamesDean…and,okay, Drew Barrymore andJenniferAniston,becauseit’s2013, people, and not all

goodmoviesareinblackandwhite.

“This place is nuts,”Robinson said, hopping overtoSnowWhite’sstar.“Look,now I’m on top of a fairytale.”

“ ‘I used to be SnowWhite,butIdrifted,’”Isaid.ThenIcockedahipandgavemy best sultry wink—likeMaeWest,whoselineI’djuststolen.

Then I turned, andtogether we walked upHighlandAvenue,towardthegolden Hollywood Hills andthe giant, iconic white sign.Our destination: theHollywood Hotel. Robinsondidn’t know it, though,because I wanted to keepsurprising him. The delightonhisface—thewayhiseyeswentwidewhenhewastakenaback—I wanted to keep

seeing that for as long as Ipossiblycould.

Thefactthatwewouldbealonetogetherinahotelroomhad nothing to do with mydecision.

(Quitlaughing!)When Robinson saw me

striding up to the reservationdesk, he said, “Do we haveenoughmoneyforthis?”

Iwasn’tsureifwedid,butit didn’t matter. “My back

can’ttakeanothernightinthecar,andIamnotcampingoutwith those shirtless dudes Isaw in the park.” (If Icouldn’t tell him the truth,didn’t that seem like a goodenoughreason?)

“I thought that guy withthe python looked nice,”Robinson joked. “But hey,I’m down with creaturecomforts. Are we gonna getroomservice?”

I shook my head. “Nicetry,” I said. “Spendthrift.Profligate.”

“Itotallydon’tknowwhatthosewordsmean,”Robinsonsaid, “but I’m not the onewhobookedustheexpensivehotelroom.”

We rode the mirroredelevator to the fifteenth floorin silence. We didn’t meeteach other’s eyes, either inperson or in our reflections.

Did Robinson feel shy, theway I suddenly did? I didn’tknow,becauseIcouldn’tlookathim.

Aminutelater,weopenedadoorontoaspaciouscream-colored room, with a giantflat-screen TV, floor-to-ceiling windows, a littleseating area, and one giantboatofabed.

I felt my breath catch inmy throat. Robinson and I

had slept in a tent, as closetogether as spoons. And thisbedwassostupidlyhugethatwecouldbeoneithersideofit and not touch at all. Andyet—it felt way moreintimate.

Iwenttothesinktowashthe racetrack grit from myface.InthemirrorwasagirlIhardly recognized. For onething,shedesperatelyneededa shower. For another, she

looked… well, wild was theword that came to mind.Certainly she did notresemble a straight arrow orado-gooder, whichwere thekindsofnounsIwasusedto.

I met her pale blue eyesandsmiledfaintlyather.Whoareyou?Whatdoyouwant?I mouthed. But she onlyofferedmethatstrangesmirk.

When I came out of thebathroom, Robinson was

already inbed, though itwasbarely after eight. He waswearing an ancient BobDylan T-shirt and pressingbuttons on the remote. TheTVwasonbutmuted.

“Axi Moore,” he said,smiling at me, the blue lightfrom the screen flickeringonhishandsomeface.

“Robinson,” Isaid,barelyaboveawhisper.

“What do youwant to do

now?”heasked.I almost cracked up. That

was the question to end allquestions,wasn’tit?

For a moment I stoodthere, caught between thehallwayandthebed,betweenfear and desire. On the onehand, I wanted to sink intoRobinson. Reach my fingersintohishair.Feelhis lipsonmy neck. Hold his smoothskincloseagainstmine.

But then I thought of thedream I’d had among theredwoods—how somethingcould be both perfect andterrifying,bothmountainandabyss. What was the rightthingtodo?

“Hey, look,” Robinsonsaid suddenly, his voicebrightening. “It’s Puss inBoots.”

Just like that, the tensionin the air snapped.We loved

that movie, even though it’sforkids.Robinsoninsisted—Ithink seriously—that it wasAntonioBanderas’sbestrole.

So the fuzzy orange catwith the big boots and theSpanish accent banished myquestions and doubts untilanother day. I crawled underthe covers next to Robinson.The sheets were silky whiteand smelled like bleach. Itook a deep breath, and I

scooted right up against hisside. Then I tipped my headontohisshoulder.

Robinson seemed tostiffen.Ifroze, too.Myheartsank in my chest, and myeyes closed in shame. Had Ireadthesituationsowrong?Itoldmyself Iwould count tofiveandthenpullawaytothefarsideofthegiantbed.

ButthenIfeltRobinson’sbodyshift.Hecurved toward

me.Andheleaneddownandkissed the top of my head.Under the covers, his handfound mine. Our fingersintertwined.

That’s enough, I thought.That’sallIneed.

Fornow.

13

OVER BREAKFAST THE NEXTMORNING, Robinson told mehehadsomethingtoconfess.

We were in Starbucks,eating microwaved ArtisanBreakfastSandwiches,which,

FYI, have nothing artisanalabout them.Atthetablenextto us, a Stormtrooper and anunconvincing MichaelJackson sipped Venti darkroasts before taking up theirposts along the Walk ofFame.

“Spill it,” I said. I felt aslight fluttering beneath myrib cage. He’s going to sayhe’s sorry, that he shouldhavekissedmelastnight.

“I want to see whereBruceWillislives.”Robinsonlooked up at me fromunderneath his bangs, hisexpression only slightlysheepish.

I felt like knocking myhead against the table. Whydid I keep expecting someprofound declaration fromhim?Sometimeshemademewonder if the humanadolescent male was a

completely different speciesfrom the human adolescentfemale. (Different as insignificantlylessevolved.)

But this was his trip asmuch as mine, and I wantedto be a good sport. So afterbreakfast, we flagged downthenearestopen-toptourvan.The guide promised itwouldgive us an incredible look atthe stars’ jaw-droppinghomes, and a secret window

ontotheirenviablelives.I thought it might make

me feel like a Peeping Tom,but Robinson had no suchworries.

“If you don’t wantstrangersstaringatyou,don’tgetfamous,”hesaid.

“I guess I should cancelmy American Idol audition,then.”Ibegantosing“IWillAlwaysLoveYou”—a toughsongforagoodsinger,anda

devastating one for someonelikeme.

Robinson yelped andcoveredhisears.

Sincewe’dbought ticketsfor the Deluxe Route, wetook our time on the tour,getting off one van,wandering around, and thenhoppingbackonthenext.Wedrove along the shoppingdistricts of Melrose andRodeo Drive; we passed

beneath the towering palmsof the Sunset Strip; we sawtheLaBreaTar Pits and thePetersen AutomotiveMuseum (which included aHot Wheels Hall of Fame Inever thought I’d pullRobinsonawayfrom).

Itwaslateintheafternoonwhen we finally wound ourwayupintothehills.

“We’re getting close,Axi,” Robinson said,

grinning. “Good ol’ Bruce isgoing to invite us in todinner.”

“Sure,” I said snidely.“Then we’ll have dessert atJenniferAniston’shouse.”

Robinson looked hurt.“Sarcasm doesn’t becomeyou, GG.” But then hisirrepressible smile shoneagain. “I bet Jen makes awicked crème brûlée. Sheprobably makes nice coffee,

too,which is cool, because Ilike coffee with fancydesserts.”Hesoundedutterly,completelysincere.

Crazy as it was, I lovedthis about Robinson: how hewas capable of believing insomething he didn’t actuallybelieve in. Does that makesense? He knew what hewanted to be true, what hefelt should be true, and for acertainamountoftime,bythe

power of his will (or hishumor, or his stupid, boyishhope),itwastrue.

Believing in believing.Robinson was exceptional atthat.

“On the left you will seethehouseformerlyownedbyArnoldSchwarzenegger,” thetourguidecalled,interruptingmy thoughts about Robinsonand, no doubt, Robinson’sthoughtsaboutdessert.

Robinson leaned in closeto me and whisperedArnold’smost famous line:“‘I’llbeback.’”

“ ‘Come with me if youwant to live,’ ” I hissed—anArnold quote fromTerminator2.

“Wait,I’vegotone—”Heslapped his forehead, unabletorecallit.

“‘Hastalavista,baby’?”Iasked,smilingsmugly.

“Gaah,itwasonthetipofmy tongue!” Robinsonreachedoutandtickledmeinthe ribs, which made mesqueal.

The tour guide kepttalking, but we’d stoppedlistening. We drove throughlush green neighborhoods,peering past iron gates andelaboratelandscapingtocatchglimpses of enormousmansions. The air smelled

likeroses…andmoney.The driver slowed down

around a particularly steepcurveand thenstopped to letagroupofcyclistspass.

I grabbed Robinson’shand.“Let’ssplit.”

He turned to me,uncomprehending.

“Over the side,” Iwhispered. And because hestill didn’t seem to get it, Ishowed him. I swung a leg

overtheedgeoftheopen-topvananddroppeddowntothestreet.

If the other passengersnoticed, they didn’t sayanything. A second later,Robinson landed beside me,looking utterly baffled. Thevan started up again andpulledaway.

“So what’s the brilliantplan now, Axi?” Robinson’shandswere on his hips. “We

don’t know where BruceWillis lives, and we’reprobably ten miles from ourhotel.”

I only smiled. “Followme,” I said. And I led himtoward what I’d seen: a FORSALE sign and a gate leftopen.

“Oh, duuuude,” Robinsonwhispered, soundingsuddenlylikeaK-Fallscretin.“Really?”

I lookedupanddown thestreet. Except for a lonegardener,whose backwas tous,itwasutterlydeserted.Wecrept up the driveway, thenalongsidethevacanthousetothe back gardens. Whoeverhad lived in this ornateMediterranean (estimatedasking price: a cool five toten mil) was gone, but thepool was still full, its waterglassyandaquamarineblue.

The sun was on its waydown and the sky was thecolor of persimmons.Robinson turned to me.“GG…,”hebegan.

I threw my arms out andspun around. “If this hasn’tproven to you I’m not aGGanymore,” I asked, “whatwill?”

Robinson didn’t sayanything,butIalreadyhadanidea.

In one fluid motion, Istripped down to myunderwear,tossedmyclothesin a heap, and dove into thepool. I swam all the way tothe bottom before rocketingback up in a cascade ofglitteringwaterdroplets.

“Come in if you dare,” Icalled to Robinson.“Scalawag.”

He hesitated for amoment, but Robinson could

never back down from achallenge. He took off hisshirt, revealing his broad,pale chest, his flat stomach,and the low V of musclethere. I’d never seen thatmuch of his skin before, andthe ivory smoothness of itwasstartling.

Seeing him on the lip ofthe pool, naked now but forhis boxers, I thought ofMichelangelo’s David. Not

because Robinson had aperfect David-like body(though itwasverynice)butbecause he had thatcombination of power andvulnerability thatMichelangelo had given hissculpture. See, Michelangelodidn’t show Davidtriumphant, the way everyothersculptordid.HeshowedDavid before he foughtGoliath—when David

believed hewas doomed andwentintobattleanyway.

Robinson reached up toplug his nose, and he nolongerlookedremotelylikeaRenaissance hero.“Cannonball,” he yelled onthe way down. He came upspluttering.“OhmyGod,it’scold!”

I laughed. “You meaninvigorating,” I said.“Revitalizing.”

Robinson rolled his eyesat me. “Nerd. I can still callyou word nerd, can’t I?”Then he swam toward me,smiling,andheputhishandsonmy shoulders. Suddenly Iwassurehewasgoingtokissme.Hewassoclose,andhisfingerswereonmyskin,andthere was nothing—nothing—butwater between us (andsome flimsy, soaking-wetclothes).

He moved forwardanother step, and then hestopped. He opened hismouth like he was going tosay something. But then hevanishedunderthewater.Thenext thing I knew, he waspickingmeupandtossingmebackward into the deep end,andIwassquealing,gasping,laughing, andhewas saying,“Shhh, shhh, we don’t wantthecopstocome.”

We swam as evening felland distant lights from theinhabitedhouses flickeredonthrough the trees. I lookedover at Robinson, who wasfloating on his back in theshallow end, and Iwonderedwhat itwould be like to liveinoneofthesecastles.

I’d have everythingmoney could buy, but itwouldn’t be the same ashaving everything I wanted.

Notevenclose.

14

WE WERE LUCKY THAT NIGHT.NOT ONLY did we get awaywith trespassing, we got aridehome.Thegardenerfromacross the street had seen usemerge, wet and shivering,

from the gate, and offered todriveusbacktotown.

“Estás invadiendo,” hesaid,smiling.“¿Si?”

Robinsonnodded.“Si,”hesaid. “Somos traviesos.” Heturned to me. “That means‘we’renaughty.’”

I was pressed up againsthissideinthefrontseatofthetruck, trying to find thewarmth of him through ourdamplayersofclothes.“See?

Youtotallycan’tcallmeGGanymore,”Isaidsleepily.

“Maybe BG,” hesuggested.“ForBadGirl.”

Myeyelidsweresoheavy,and then they were closing.“Or MB. Mixed Bag…,” Imurmured.

Andhonestly,thatwasthelast thingIremember.Imusthave fallen asleep in thetruck, and Robinson musthave carried me up to the

room and laid me down onour shared bed. Maybe hefluffedupthepillowsforme,and maybe he even kissedme. But if he did, I’ll neverknow.

Iwokeseveralhours latertofindhimstaringatme.

“Before we leave, weshouldactuallyseeastar,”hesaid.“Notjustapinksymbolon a sidewalk, or the housewhereonelives.”

I burrowed under thecovers. “Why can’t we justturn on the TV? There’replentyofthemthere.”

“We need to see one inreallife,”heinsisted.

But this isn’treal life, theoldAxiMoore insisted.Thisis a crazy adventure. And asgreatasitis,itcan’tlast.

Ofcourse,asboththeoldand the newAxi well knew,real life didn’t necessarily

last,either.I peeked my head out

from the blankets, thenducked it back under again.Robinson was at the end ofthe bed, and he suddenlyyanked the covers off me. Itriedtograbthem,buthewastoo strong. “Did you bring anicedress?”heasked,raisingonedarkeyebrowatme.

Iscoffed.“Runawaystendnottopackformalwear.”

“Well, put on whateveryou’ve got, because we’rehittingtheredcarpet.”

I assumed Robinson waspullingmyleg,butIroseandtookaquickshower,thenputontheForever21wrapdressI’dpacked just in case. I putonalittlemascara,too,andadaboflipstick.

His eyes lit up when hesaw me emerge from thebathroom. “You clean up

good, Axi Moore,” he said.Robinson did, too. In aslightlyrumpledoxfordandacleanpairofjeans,helookedlikeanadforLevi’s501s.

He led me down the halland out to the street, wherewe hopped into a cab. “Nowit’smy turn to surpriseyou,”hesaid.Andthenheheldhishand over my eyes until wepulled up in front of theHammer Museum. “Ta-da!”

hesaid.Aheadofussnakedalong

line of black limos. Therewas red carpet laid over thesidewalk, and a bunch ofpeoplemilling around, and agiant banner that saidCHILDREN’S HOSPITAL LOSANGELESANNIVERSARYGALA.

I saw the word hospitalandmystomachsuddenlyfeltlike it was full of stones.“Whatisthis?”Iasked.

“A benefit,” Robinsonsaidbrightly.“Aparty.Majorstar power, because as youcan imagine, no one inHollywood wants to beaccused of not helping sickkids.” He climbed from thecab and held out his hand.“Comeon,let’sgoinside.”

“You are a sick kid,Robinson,” Isaid.“Mentally,I mean. They don’t just letrandoms crash the red

carpet.”“But we’re not randoms,

as you so ungenerouslycharacterize us. We are Axiand Robinson, the G-ratedBonnieandClyde.”He liftedme into the sunshine andsmiledhisdazzlingsmile.“Ifwe don’t belong here, whodoes?”

What could I do butlaugh? “I think stealing aHarley ought to at least earn

usaPG,”Isaid.“I’m in complete

agreement,” Robinson said.Then he held up a finger,signalingmetowait.“Asthekidssay,BRB.”

He walked up to thenearestgatekeeper, amiddle-aged woman dressed all inblack. I watched as men insuits and women in jewel-colored cocktail dresses filedpast her through the doors.

Thegatekeeperwas trying toignore Robinson, but I knewshe wouldn’t last. WhenRobinson turned on thecharm ray, few couldwithstandit.

Sure enough, a momentlater, she nodded andbeckoned me over. As Iapproached,shelookedatmewith… concern, or maybeeven pity. I shivered underher gaze. What exactly had

Robinsontoldher?“Youtwogo in over there,” shewhispered, and pointedtowardasideentrance.

And thenwewere inside,andtherewerefamouspeopleeverywhere. I saw MattDamon talking to MarkWahlberg by a potted fern,andTinaFey posing in frontofagiant standofpaparazzi.Camera flashes popped likefireworks, and in amatter of

seconds, I was no longerworrying about whatRobinson had said to thegatekeeper. All around uswere bona fide superstars,talking and laughing andguzzlingfreedrinks, just likeregularpeople.

“I’m seeing a lot ofexcellent facial work,”Robinson noted. Somehowhe’d gotten his hands on afluteofchampagne.

“ ‘I love Los Angeles. Ilove Hollywood. They’rebeautiful. Everybody’splastic,butIloveplastic,’”Isaid.

“Huh?”“AndyWarholsaidthat.”Robinson held out his

arm,andItuckedmyhandinthecrookof it,as ifwewereon our way to prom. Heleaned in close, and I couldfeel his breath inmy hair. “I

told you we’d get in, didn’tI?”

“And you were right,” Isaid.

“Which makes you…?”Hewaited,anexpectantsmileteasing the corner of hismouth.

Isighed.“Wrong.”Helaughedandpulledme

close.“Axiadmitsfallibility,”he said. “I’m going totreasure this moment

forever.”My cheek pressed against

hisshirt,Ismiledupathim.Iwould, too,I thought,butforawhollydifferentreason.Justdays earlier we were inKlamath Falls, and now wewereon the redcarpet.Whatcouldn’twedo,aslongasweweretogether?

15

THERE IS A LIMIT TO THESUCCESSOFanypartnership—andwe discovered ours laterthat evening,whenRobinsondecided it was time to teachmetodrive.

I said, “Robinson, I can’tlearnhowtodriveinastolencar.”

He shrugged. “It’s justlike any other car.Gas pedalontheright,brakeontheleft.Four gears forward, onereverse.”

He was always soconfident. But maybe thatwasbecauseeverythingcameeasily to him: he could hot-wireaHarley,sweet-talkjust

about anyone, and playwhatever musical instrumenthewasgiven.His free-throwpercentage was ridiculous,and nomatterwhere hewas,he could always find truenorth.

Me, I was not so sure ofmyself. About anything. “Idon’t know how I feel aboutthis,”Isaidsoftly.

Robinson reclined thepassenger seat and pretended

toclosehiseyes.“Ifeelgoodenough for the both of us.Time for me to relax andenjoyridingshotgun.”

I clenched my hands onthe steering wheel. You cando this, Axi, I told myself.You’ve played Grand PrixLegends! Then came theother voice: Yeah, and yousucked at it. You alwayscrashed right out of thestartinggate.

“Ready?”Robinsonasked.I nodded, even though I

wasn’t.Robinsonhad to leanoverandstartthecar,becauseI didn’t know how to workthescrewdriver.

“Okay. So check yourmirrors and see if it’s clear.Thenyou’regoing tosteponthe brake and shift intodrive.” He made it sound soeasy,likeIwasn’tbehindthewheel of a two-ton death

machine.I must have said this out

loud, becauseRobinson said,“Thatisaslightexaggeration.We’re in an empty parkinglot, Axi. How much damagecanyoudo?”

“I don’t know,” I saidgrimly.“We’llsee.”

For a second I thought ofmyphysicsclass, theone I’dskipped the day I metRobinsonatErnie’sdustyold

counter. A body at rest willremain at rest unless anoutside force acts on it.That’s Newton’s First Law.In other words, I was totallysafe—until I stepped on thegas.

But I took a deep breathand somehow successfullyshifted gears. When the cardidn’t explode, I forcedmyselftolightlypressthegaspedal. The car moved

forward. Slowly. Jerkily.Butit moved. “Oh my God, I’mdriving,”Isaid.

Robinson grinned. “Andthe prize for stating theobvious goes to…AlexandraMoore!”

“Shutup,”Isquealed.Robinson laughed. “Sorry

—I couldn’t resist. You’renormallyamuchmoresubtlethinker.”

“I hate you,” I said, but I

waslaughing,too.I was going twenty miles

anhouranditfeltlikeflying.Iwasalsoquicklynearingtheedge of the parking lot.“WhatdoIdonow?”

“Why don’t you tryturning,” Robinsonsuggested. “So we don’t, Idon’tknow,gobarrelingintotraffic?”

Islammedmyfootonthebrake and whirled to face

him. Sure, I’d had a goodthirty seconds of decentdriving, but some things justweren’t funny yet. “This ishard for me, you know!” Iyelled.

Robinson reached overandputhishandonmyarm.It was… calming. “Axi,” hesaid gently, “is it really hardforyou?Thinkaboutitbeforeyouanswer.”

I frowned. It was scary,

yes. Unfamiliar. But hard?Well, not really. It was likeRobinson said: gas pedal onthe right, brake on the left.Four gears forward, onereverse.

All I needed to do wasmoveforward.

It was almost as ifRobinson could see the fearleavingmybody.Hegavemyarm a squeeze. “See?” hesaid. “You get it. You’re

goingtobefine.”And I was fine. I drove

around the parking lot foralmost an hour whileRobinson,thehumankaraokemachine, sang driving songs:“OntheRoadAgain,”“IGetAround,” and “MustangSally.” I practiced turning,accelerating, and evenparallelparking.

Finally Robinson said, “Ithink you’re ready for the

street.”I said, “I think I’m ready

foryoutostopsinging.”“Deal.”Soattheedgeofthelot,I

lookedbothways—andthenIpulledintotraffic.

“Pedaltothemetal,Axi!”Robinsonsaid.

I was giddy, thrilled,scared. I was behind thewheel of a car, in fantasticLos Angeles, with the boy

whowaspossiblytheloveofmylifesittingnexttome.

“Whoa, you cut that guyoffthere,”Robinsonsaid.

“Idid?”“Don’tdrivelikeyouown

the road; drive like you ownthecar.”

“That’s funny,” I said,checking my mirrors andaccelerating,“becauseIdon’townit,andneitherdoyou.”

“IfIcanjustgetoffofthis

LA freeway /Without gettingkilled or caught,” Robinsonsang—it was some oldcountrysong.

Wasn’thesupposedtonotsing? “It’s not a freeway,” Ipointedout.

Anditwasagoodthingitwasn’t, because whathappened next would havebeenalotworse.

The other part ofNewton’s First Law?A body

in motion will remain inmotion,unlessacteduponbyanoutsideforce.

In this case, the outsideforcewasaparkingmeter.

I don’t know how ithappened. One minuteeverything was fine, and thenext minute we were at adead stop and blood waspouringoutofmynose.

16

DIZZY AND OVERWHELMED, ISTARED out the windowwitha T-shirt held to my face asRobinsonhurriedusonto the10.He’dhandedmetheshirtas he slid into the driver’s

seat. We had to leave thescene quickly—there werewitnesses.

“You’re okay, right?” heasked.

“I think so.” My voicecameoutverysmall.Iwasn’tworried about my nose—Iwas worried about havingsmashedupastolencar.

“Don’t worry,” Robinsonassuredme.“TheLAPD’sgotwaybiggerfishtofry.”

Buthisvoicesoundedsortof shaky. As if maybe hedidn’thaveany ideawhathewas talking about. And hekeptglancing in therearviewmirror, like hewaswatchingforflashinglights.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.ButIdon’tthinkheheardme.

Hiseyesdartedfromroadto mirror and back again.“Well, Axi, in the immortalwords of Dale Earnhardt

Senior, ‘You win some, youlose some,youwreck some,’”hesaid.“Everypathhasitspuddle, you know? Nothingventured, nothing gained!You can’t make an omeletwithout breaking some eggs.And who wants to live in aworld without omelets?Besideschickens,ofcourse.Imean, I’m sure they’d betotally fine with it, ecstatic,really—”

“Robinson, you’rebabbling,”Isaid.

“What?”Heturnedtome,hiseyesflashing.

Itooktheshirtawayfrommy face and felt a trickle ofbloodmakeitswaydownmylip.Ittastedlikesalt.“You’rebabbling,” I said. “Are youfreakingout?”

His eyes widened. “Who,me?No!I’mnotfreakingout.Nope,noway!Notme.”

“The fellow doth protesttoo much, methinks,” I said,feeling suddenly woozier.Robinson was usually socalm; seeing him flustereddefinitely didn’t make thesituationbetter.

Robinsonsaid,“Huh?”“A slight modification of

a Hamlet quote,” I saidweakly. I realized I wastappingmyfeetreallyquicklyon the floor—almost like I

wastryingtorunawayinsidethecar.

“Are you speakingEnglish?” he demanded.“Like,evennow?”

I clenched my hands. Itwasmy first realmoment ofdoubt.Deep,profounddoubt.As in:Whatwerewedoing?WasthiswholetriptheworstideaI’deverhadinmylife?

I guess I must have saidthat out loud, too, because

Robinson almost instantlycalmeddown.Hetookalong,deepbreath, thenleanedoverand squeezed my knee. “Wehad a little adventure, andnow it’s time to be movingon,”hesaidgently.“Thistripis a brilliant idea, Axi. Thebest.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.“Are we about to getcaught?”

“No,” Robinson said, this

time sounding certain.“We’re fine. Although we’remissing a headlight and youhave blood on your chin,which looks weird. Likemaybe you’re a vampire orsomething. But seriously.We’refine.We’rebetterthanfine. We’re invincible.What’s next on ouritinerary?”

Icouldn’tbelievehowfasthismoodhadchanged.Butif

Robinson felt confidentagain, I would try to, too.Because if I didn’t trust him,what was I doing drivingacrossthecountrywithhim?

“Well…Vegas, actually,”I said.Yes,wewere in overourheads—Iunderstoodthat.Butmaybe thingswould stillworkoutforus.

Robinson pounded thesteeringwheel.“Vegas,baby,herewecome!”

Icouldhearthehappinessin his voice. Part of mewantedtoshakehim,andtheotherpart adoredhim forhisunfailing optimism. HowmanytimeshadIbeenin thepits of despair, only to haveRobinson reach down andhaulmeupintothesunlight?More than I cared toremember.

“It’s all your fault, youknow,”Isaid,dabbingatmy

noseandchin.He snorted. “I’m not the

onewhocrashed.”“But you’re the one who

triedtoteachmetodrive.”“It’s a life skill, Axi. I’m

not going to be able tochauffeur you aroundforever.” He turned to smileat me then. Maybe it was atrick of the light, but itseemed there was a newglimmer of melancholy

behindhissmile.“Yes, you are,” I said

softly. But Robinson didn’treply.

17

WE DROVE ON THROUGH THENIGHT.ThedarkshapesoftheLosAngeleshillsgavewaytoflat nothingness, and then,after a few hours, an orangeglowblossomedinthesky.It

grew steadily brighter, andwhen the highway began itsgentle slope downward,suddenly a vast ocean ofglittering lights stretched outbelowus.

“Oooh,LasVegasain’tnoplaceforapoorboylikeme,”Robinson sang. Then heturned to me. “That’s GramParsons,” he said. “Did youlisten to that album I gaveyou?”

I hunched down in myseat, shaking my headminutely.

Robinson laughed.“Doesn’t matter. I can singthe whole damn thing foryou.”

“And you probably will,”Isaid.

Humming, he drove usdowntheStrip,whichwaslitup like Christmas times amillion. It was as bright as

dayonthestreet,eventhoughit was after midnight. WepassedsignsfortheBellagio,Bally’s, the MGM Grand—casinosIknewfromOcean’sEleven set in a landscape Iknew from Hunter S.Thompson’s Fear andLoathinginLasVegas.

“So we have to gamble,right?”Robinsonasked.

I nodded, suddenlyresolute. “I believe it’s

required.”Icleanedmyselfupina7-

Eleven bathroom whileRobinson ate his tenthousandth Slim Jim. ThenwewenttotheLuxor,mostlybecause it was shaped like apyramid. It even had a giantSphinx out front—anabsurdity we just couldn’tresist.

The moment we steppedinside,wewereinyetanother

world. The sound of pingingslot machines, the smells ofair-conditioning and sweat,the flashing lights above thepits: it was total sensoryoverload.

Robinson put his armaround my shoulders. “Youwanttowinbig?”heasked.

“Yeah, we’ve got twentybuckstoblow.”

“Is thatwhat your budgettells you? Well, that’s two

games of blackjack with aten-dollar buy-in.” Hegrinned.“That’sassumingwedon’twin,whichwewill.”

“Twenty dollars’ll lastlonger at the slots,” I said,becausesittinginasemicirclewithabunchofstrangersandtrying to decide whether totellthedealerto“hitme”wasmorethanIwasupfor.

Robinson eyed theblackjack table longingly.He

probably thought he couldcharm the cards into fallingthe way he wanted them to.Notme.Maybe Iwasn’tGGanymore,butI’dneverbethegambling type. Because itwas my babysitting moneywe were talking about, andI’d wrangled some seriousbratstoearnit.

Maybe itwas just aswellthat a burly guy in a blackvest came up to us as we

headedfor theslotmachines.HewantedtoseeourIDs.

“Well, you see—”Robinsonbegan.

The guy cut him off.“Save it. If you got an ID,you can play. If you don’t,scram.”

“Go on,” I said toRobinson.“Nowyoucanplaya hand of cards. I’ll waitoutside.”

He shook his head. “No

way, Axi, we’re in thistogether.”

Ilikedthesoundofthatalot.“Okay,whatdoyouwanttodonow?”

Robinson yawned sodeeply I decided not to waitfor an answer. I said, “Let’sgofindaplacetosleep.”

So we pulled into thenearby parking lot ofTreasures, which at first Ithought was a gift shop.

“Why’s itopenso late?Whoneeds a snow globe at twoAM?”

Robinsonlaughed—atme,notwithme.“It’sastripclub,you dope. This is Sin City,remember?”

I was too tired to takeoffense.Isettleddowninthebackseat and pulled mysweatshirtoverme.Robinsonsnaked his hand around hisseat in the front, and I

reachedoutandtookit.Herewe were in the car again,three feet of air and eightinches of foam between us.Whyhadn’tImadeamoveatthehotel?

“Tellmeabedtimestory,”Robinsonsaid.

“Singmeabedtimesong,”Iretorted.

“Flipacoin,”hesaid.Iagreed,andhelost.SoI

fell asleep to Robinson

singing,drumming lightlyonthedashboard.

There was agirlnamedAxi

who was arunaway.

Instead oftakingataxi

she tried todrivearoundLA.

She crashedhercarandhurthernose

and I don’tmeantobrag

but whoshouldrescueAxi

but acharmingscalawag?

It was a pretty goodlullaby,allinall.

Thesoundofringinglaughter

wokeme at 4AM.Ahandfulof dancers were leaving theclub,donewiththeirshiftforthenight.

Onepassedbythecarandspied me in the backseat.“Hey, girl,” she said, leaningin so close I could smellperfume and sweat. “Youcan’t sleep here. They’ll towyour car and take you andyour friend here to thepound.”

Robinson sat up, rubbinghiseyes.“Huh?”

“Y’all need to be gettingon home,” said another. Icould hear her smacking hergum.“Whereverthatis.”

Robinson leaned out thewindow and smiled at themlike they were long-lostfriends. “That is excellentadvice,”hesaid.“AndIthankyou for giving it. Butunfortunately it is not

possible forus to followitatthistime.”

The women burst intolaughter. One nudged theother with her bony hip.“Look at them! They’re ascute as kittens. Chrissy, youtake’emhomewithyou.”

The blond one calledChrissy looked us over. Shespentanespecially long timelooking at Robinson. “Mycar’s the white Chevy over

there,”shesaidfinally.“Y’allfollowmeout.”

18

SUFFICE IT TO SAY THAT IDIDNOT WANT to go. What ifChrissywasanaxmurderer?

ButRobinsonsaidthatforone, thechancesof thatwereveryslim;andfor two,being

killed with an ax wasconceivably more appealingthan spending another nightwith the emergency brakepoking into his side. So wefollowed Chrissy toward theoldLasVegasStrip(theplacethey used to call GlitterGulch) and into a modestapartmentcomplex.

“Here we go,” she said,pointingtowardasaggingredcouch in the middle of a

dingy living room. Neonlights from the signs outsidereflected on the bare walls.“Yousleepinthere,andyourboyfriend can have the floorin the kids’ room. It’scarpeted.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,”I said, out of habit. I couldseeRobinsongettingreadytodeliver his line—She askedmeout,butIturnedherdown—so I quickly added, “He’s

notmytype.”Chrissy raised one thin,

painted eyebrow. “Oh yeah?’Cause looks tome likehe’dbeeveryone’stype.”

Robinson, who seemedready to fall over fromexhaustion, made a show ofkissing his biceps. He wassuch a beautiful goof—ofcoursehewasmytype.

“Dork,”Isaid.“Nerd,”heretorted.

Chrissy cackled. “God,you two are seriously thecutest things ever. If youaren’t together, I don’t knowwhatyourproblemis.”

Then she handedRobinson a pile of blanketsand shoved him toward thedoor of a bedroom. “The kidon the left snores,” she said.“Fairwarning.”

She gave me one lasttired, vaguelymaternal smile

and disappeared into herbedroom. I lay on the softcouchandthoughtaboutwhatshe’d said: that if Robinsonand I weren’t together, shedidn’tknowwhatwaswrongwithus.

I didn’t know, either. Imean,therewasplentywrongwith us. But was that thethingkeepingusapart?

I couldn’t sleep, thinkingabout it.Abouthim.Closeto

dawn,Itiptoedintotheroomwhere he was sleeping. Helay on his side, his handtucked under his cheek. Iwatchedhimfora long time,countinghisslowbreathsandimagining I could hear thestrongbeatofhisheart.

Itsoundedridiculouseventome,butIcouldn’tstandnotbeing near Robinson—especiallynowthatI’dgottentospendeverynightwithhim

since we started this totally-insane-but-also-the-best-thing-ever trip. He made mefeel the kind of joy I hadn’tfeltsinceIwasakidandmyfamily was whole. And healsomademefeel…akindofrush I’d never felt before inmylife.

HowcouldIevergobackto being by myself—beingwithout him—now that Iknew these feelings were

possible?BeforeIknewwhatIwas

doing,Icreptforwardandlaydown beside him, matchingmybreathing tohis.WhetherornothewantedmethesamewayIwantedhim,wewereinthis together—that was whatRobinson had said. It hadnever occurred to me beforewhat a complicated wordtogetherwas.

19

I WOKE UP GASPING. THEREWAS A weight on my chest,crushingmyheart, squeezingtheairfrommylungs.Sothisisit,I thought, this iswhat itfeelsliketodie.

Next: Oh my God, Ihaven’t kissed Robinson yet.Exceptforthatonetime,agesago, when I had that beer,whichdidn’tevencount…

Iclawedatthecovers,mylungs screaming. Mydesperate fingers feltsomethinghardandround—asmall,bonyknee.

Therewasashriek,ahighgiggle, and suddenly theweight was gone. I sat up,

dazed and blinking. Therewasaboyonthefloor,gazingup at me with giant greeneyes.

“MynameisMasonDrewBoseman,” he said pertly.“I’mfour.”

“You must weigh fiftypounds,” I gasped, rubbingmy sternum, where he’d justbeensitting.

Then a small girlwanderedin,clutchingadirty

stuffed bunny. “That’s Lila,”Mason said. “She’s two andshedoesn’tknowhowtousethepotty.”

“I’m… Bonnie,” I said,mybreathfinallyreturningtonormal. “Nice to meet youboth.”

Mason ducked his head,suddenly shy, like he hadn’tjust nearly killed me. Lilasimply stared, then slowlybrought her thumb up to her

mouthandbegantosuck.“MaybeI’llgetupnow,”I

said, untangling myself fromthe clean but ratty blanket.Stilltheystared.

Iwalked into the kitchen,followingthesmellofcoffee.“Morning—”Ibegantosay.

But I stopped. BecauseChrissy, who was barefootandinasilkyrednightgown,had Robinson pressed upagainst the counter—and she

waskissinghim.And it looked for all the

worldlikehewaskissingherback.

I turnedaroundandstoodshaking in the hall. Had Ireally just seen that? Wasthere a chance I was stilldreaming? Mason looked upatmequestioningly.

I counted to twenty, thencoughed and tried tomake itsound like I was coming

downthehalltothekitchen.Iheard the shuffling of feet,the screech of chair legsagainstlinoleum.

This timewhenI roundedthe corner, Robinson was atthekitchen table, reading thepaper likehewas themanofthe house. “Morning,sunshine,”he said,pushingamug of steaming coffeetoward me. He needed ashave, and there was a

smudgeofdirtonhischeek.“He changed my oil, can

you believe that?” Chrissyasked me. Her cheeks wereflushed.

“That’snotametaphorforsomething, is it?” I asked,looking pointedly atRobinson.

He chose to ignore thequestion. “I woke up early.Thought I’d do a friend afavor.”

That was Robinson. Henever missed an opportunityto help someone out.Apparently, he also nevermissed a chance to kisssomeone—unless that personwasme.

Chrissy had hopped upontothecounter,andshewaslooking at him like she wasready toaskhim tomove in.Shemighthavetwokids,butshewas probably only a few

yearsolderthanwewere.Mason tugged at my leg.

“Did you know that deadsquirrels can eat you? Theyhave very sharp teeth. Deadsquirrels are cool. Alsodinosaurs are cool, andBatman, but Spider-Man isbetter because he got bittenby a spider.” Mason beganhopping up and down,narrowly missing my foot.“Supermancango intospace

because he can fly, but notSpider-Manbecauseheneedsawebandhecan’tshootitinspace because there’s nobuildings up there.” Hishopping had progressed to awildbouncing.

Chrissygiggled.“IswearIdon’tgivehimcoffee.”

“He’scharming,”Isaid—throughgrittedteeth.

“I’m not charming. I’mstarving!”Masonsaid.

I took a step forward.“Will you let me cookbreakfast?” I asked. “So youcanrelax?”

Chrissy looked at me insurprise.“Uh…okay.”

“You took us in—it’s theleastIcando.”Thefactwas,Ididn’tknowwhattodowithmyhands,andcookingwouldcalm me down. So I madeomelets for everyone, withcheddar cheese and snippets

of chives from a pot thatChrissy kept on herwindowsill. I thought aboutundercooking her omelet andputting bits of eggshell in it,but I reminded myself thatshe wasn’t really thewrongdoer. I’d told herRobinson wasn’t myboyfriend, so as far as sheknew,hewasavailable.

Not that I totally forgaveher.

“Wow, I lucked outbringing you two home,”Chrissy said, her mouth fullof eggs. “This is the bestomeletI’veeverhad.”

“I’vemadealotofthem,”I said. “I’m no gourmet oranything.”

Robinsonpointedhis forkat me. “Not true. She cancook anything. She’ll makesomeone a good little wifesomeday.”

“Watchit,”Iwarned.“It’s a compliment,”

Robinsoninsisted.“Ididn’t takeitasone,”I

said.“You guys bicker like a

brother and sister,” Chrissysaid, giggling. Then shelooked serious again. “Doyourparentsknowwhereyouare?”

Iturnedbacktothestove.“WepleadtheFifth.”

“We’re on vacation,”Robinsonsaid.

Chrissysighedandleanedback in her folding chair.“Okay,” she said, “I won’tpry. Everyone’s entitled totheir secrets. But here’s apiece of advice: get out ofLas Vegas, okay? Becauseyou come here and you justgetstuck.”

She gazed toward thewindow then, the one that

looked out over the NeonBoneyard,whereoldsignsgoto die. Something told methatgettingstuckwasexactlywhathadhappenedtoher.

IlookedatRobinson,whowas dumping sugar into hiscoffee.We’d never get stuckanywhere, not even if wewanted to. There was anundeniable reason for that—butitwasoneofoursecrets.

20

“IDON’TWANTTOTALKABOUTIT.”

So said Robinson when Iaskedhimwhathewasdoingtonsil-diving with a LasVegasstripperatnineo’clock

in the morning. (As if itwould have been just finelaterintheday.)

“Well,Iwanttotalkaboutit,” Isaid. Ihaddraggedhimand our few belongingsoutside as soon as breakfastwas over, trying to avoidgiving Chrissy a chance toaskustostay.

Robinsonlookedatmefora moment, his expressionunreadable, and then he

turned andwalked away. Hewound through the carsparked near the NeonMuseum, shaking his headand seemingly talking tohimself.

I felt so helpless. Was Icrazy? Had I imagined theromantictensionbetweenus?What if Robinson had neverwantedanythingfrommebutmy friendship? If that turnedouttobetrue,thenitwastoo

bad Chrissy wasn’t actuallyan ax murderer—because Iwasgoingtodiealong,slowdeathofhumiliation.

I wiped a bead of sweatfrommylip.Itwas10AMandalreadyhot.Isatdownonthetoe of a giant metal high-heeledshoe,whichusedtobepartof thesignfor theSilverSlipperSaloon.

IhatedLasVegas.“What are you doing?” I

finallycalledtoRobinson.Hedidn’tanswer—hewas

stillpacing.Iwasn’tabouttofollow him up and down thestreet, so I stared at all thedead signs. There was onethatsaidWEDDINGCHAPELandanother right next to it thatsaidSIN.

I thought about all thepeople who had come toVegas looking for love ormoney,andwhataminuscule

percentageofthemmusthaveactuallyfoundit.

Robinson appeared at myside,andeventhoughhewasfinally saying something, itwasn’t anything I wasinterested in. I’d listen whenhe explained the kitchenkissing. In themeantime, I’dkeep looking at the signs:GOLDEN NUGGET, JOE’SLONGHORNCASINO…

Then Robinson grabbed

myarmandturnedmetowardhim. He said, “The thingabout a Boxster is, it eatstires. Especially if you dumpyour clutch. But since wearen’t in this for long-termownership…”

I scrutinized the shoe’speeling paint. “I don’t knowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”

Robinson sighed,exasperated. “I’m talkingaboutaPorsche,Axi,because

we’retakingone.”Hepointedto a low black shape ahundred yards off. “It’s anoldermodel,soitwon’thavea tracking system. Hard tosteal cars that send out littlebeacons to the LVPD, youknow?”

Finally I looked at him.“Wehaveacaralready.”

“I’msickofit,”Robinsonsaid.“Weneedabetterone.”He kicked at the tip of the

shoe.“I don’t want to steal

anothercar,”Isaid.“Oh, my beloved

Aximoron—you don’t haveto,” he said. He flashed mehis beautiful grin, thenboundedaway.

I clenched my fists andstared up at the white desertsky. Robinson was crazy—He kisses some girl andthen calls me his beloved?

Whatgives?There was a screech of

tiresasRobinsonpulledupinfront of me. “Get in,” heordered.

IfIdidn’t,wouldhedriveoffwithoutme?Honestly,helooked like he might. It wastimes like these whenRobinsonseemedlikethebadboymyfatheralwaysclaimedhewas.

I barely hadmy seat belt

on before Robinson gunnedtheengineandpeeledoutintothe street. He was goingsixty-five before I evenblinked.

“That’s what I meant bydumping the clutch,” he saidcalmly. “In case youwondered.”

I stared out the window,refusing to look at him. “Ididn’t,”Isaid.

We were heading out of

town, leaving the glitteringlightsandbrokenpromisesofLas Vegas behind us.Quickly.

“Slowdown,”Itoldhim.Robinson only laughed.

“Speed never killed anyone!It’s suddenly becomingstationary… that’s what getsyou.”

Icrossedmyarms.“Yeah,if a thousand other thingsdon’tgetyoufirst,”Ihuffed.

ButitwasRobinson’sturnto ignore me. He began towhistle Bruce Springsteen’s“Born to Run,” and he kepton doing it, over and over,until Iwas ready to beg himtostop.

Then he saw the flashinglights coming up behind us,andsuddenlyIdidn’thaveto.

21

OBJECTS INMIRRORARECLOSERTHAN THEY appear. That’swhat your car’s side mirrorwilltellyou,butIamheretosay that the minute you canmake out that the object you

see is a police car, it isalreadywaytooclose.

“Robinson,” I hissed,panicrisinginmyvoice.

“Maybe they’re not afterus,” he said. “I was onlygoing… hmm, twenty milesover the speed limit. Heck,it’s practically a crime to goanysloweraroundhere.Thisis Las Vegas, baby—everything’s legal but goodbehavior.”

I could tell by the soundof his voice that Robinsondidn’tbelievethisbutwantedme to.He didn’twantme tobe afraid. He never had, foraslongasI’dknownhim.

“Pull over to the right-hand shoulder.” Theamplified, crackling voicecame through a megaphonemounted on the side of thepolicecar.

Robinsonglanceddownat

the speedometer as ifcheckingtoseehowhighthenumbers went. Like he waswonderingifheshouldtrytooutruntheguy.

“Don’t even think aboutit,” I warned. “Do what thepolicemansays.”

“You don’t sound muchlike Bonnie,” he saidreproachfully.

“ForGod’ssake,thisisn’ta movie. This is life! Pull

over!”I was reaching for the

wheel to yank it to the rightwhen Robinson slowed,flicked on his turn signal aspolite as you please, andeasedontotherightshoulder.

“See? I can followdirections,” Robinson said.He tried to keep his tonelight.

Butitdidn’tmatternow.Iputmyfaceinmyhands.We

were caught. I saw theheadlines,thecourt-appointedlawyer, the hideous orangejumpsuit they’d make mewear.WasIoldenoughtobetriedasanadult?

“It’s going to be okay,”Robinsonsaidquietly.

Liar,Ithought.The officer approached

Robinson’s window. FrommyangleIcouldseeonlyhisbelt and the soft, round

stomach above it. “Licenseand registration,” he saidgruffly.

Notevena“please.”“Sir,”Robinsonbegan,“is

thereaproblem?”The officer’s hand shot

out. “License andregistration,”hesaidagain.

Robinson smiledingratiatingly. “I believe Iwasgoingthespeedoftraffic—perhaps it was a trifle fast

—”“License and

registration.”Robinson turned to me,

his eyes wide. “He seems tohave a somewhat limitedvocabulary,” he whispered,and to my horror, I almostburstintogiddylaughter.

I covered my mouth asRobinson made a show ofrooting around in the glovecompartment. “It’s in here

somewhere,”hesaid.The cop began tapping

impatientlyontheroofofthecar. Then he leaned in andlookedatbothofuscarefully.Hehadsmall,meaneyesandan angry mouth. “Not manykids got a car this nice,” hesaid. “You’d think theirfolks’d teach ’em how todriveit.Butspoiledlittlerichkids—they don’t listen totheirparentsmuch,dothey?”

Itwasthefirsttimeinmylifeanyonehadevermistakenmeforrich.

“I liked him better whenhedidn’ttalk,”IwhisperedtoRobinson.

Robinson pulled out theregistration and handed itover. The cop inspected it.“License,”hesaid.

“Sir,thisisallamistake,”Robinson said. “I’m verysorry for speeding. If you’ll

justletusgowithawarning,I promise I’ll never do itagain.”

The cop barked out alaugh. “I heard that onebefore.There’sasuckerborneveryminute,son,butyou’renotlookingatone.”Hestaredphilosophically down thehighwayandthenturnedbackto us. “See, these rich kids,”he went on, his eyes narrowandcold,“if their folkscan’t

teach’emthings, thelawhasto.Thelawjustlovestogivelessons.”

Robinson was so used tocharming people. I’d seenhim talk his way out ofdetentions, and into aHollywood party, andeverything in between. Sonow he looked as though hecouldn’tbelievewhathewashearing. But he nodded. “Ofcourse, sir. I understand. I’m

going to have to get out,though. I keep my walletunder my seat, and I can’treach it from in here.May Istepout,sir?”

The cop backed away.Robinson reached over andgrabbed my hand. Hard.“Bonnie,”hewhispered.

“What?” I asked. But hewas already out of the car,and I could still feel thepressureofhisfingersonmy

skin.I saw it all through the

window. At first Robinsonkept his hands in the air, toshow the cop he meant noharm. But the next thing Iknew, there was a flash ofmovement, a grunt, and thenahollerofrage.

Robinsonyelled,“Getout,Bonnie,Ineedyou!”

Without thinking, Iobeyed.AndthatwaswhenI

saw the love ofmy life—carthief,trespasser,andkisserofstrippers—pointingaguninayoungcop’sface.

Inearlyfelltomyknees.IreachedouttothehoodofthePorschetosteadymyself.Themetalofthegunglintedinthedesert sunlight.This can’t behappening, I thought.This isdefinitelyadreamorascenefrom a movie—or ahallucinationorsomething.

Robinson half-turned tolook at me and, I swear toGod,winked.

My jaw dropped. If I’dthought he was a little crazybefore, now I was sure he’dgone utterly insane. Then Isaw that tiny smile flicker atthecornerofhismouth.Thatsmile I knew better than myown.Itsaidtome:Thisisalla game, Axi.No one’s goingtogethurt.

Itookasteptowardthem,and I prayed that he wasright.

“I’m really sorry that Ihave to do this,” Robinsonsaid, turningback to thecop,“butyougavemenochoice.”

The cop’s face was redandglistening.Hewassilent,full of brutal but impotentrage.He seemed tohave lostthe power of speechaltogether.

I lookedupanddown theroad, watching for traffic.NeverhadIbeengladderthatRobinson stuck to the backroutes.

“Bonnie,” Robinson said,“you take his cuffs and putthemonhim.”

Fumblingly,IdidasIwastold. When I snapped themetal around his wrist, thecopflinched.“I’msosorry,”Iblurted.“Aretheytootight?I

don’t want them to be tootight, but I don’t exactlyknowhowtoworkthem.”

The cop merely turnedredderintheface.

Robinsonwas jittery, likehe might jump out of hisflannel.Evenonabackroad,someone could drive by atany moment. “Again, I’mreallysorryaboutthis,sir.It’sjust that we’re on amission.Wehavetokeepmoving.It’s

alife-or-deathsituation.”Thered-facedcopcleared

histhroatlikehewasgoingtosay something. But then hismouth contorted and opened,andhespit.AwhitishglobofmucuslandedrightonthetipofRobinson’scowboyboot.

“Well, that was rude,”Robinson said, soundingshocked.

As if the cop should bemore polite. I wondered if

Robinson had somehow hithisheadinourfenderbenderandtheblowhadknockedhisconscienceoutofwhack.

“You kids have no ideathetroubleyou’regoingtobein,” the cop suddenlybellowed. His anger and hisscarlet face frightened me. Icouldhardlylookathim.

Maybe it wasn’t the copwho was the problem—maybe it was us. The teen

outlaws.Maybe I was kind of

terrified of who we’d soquickly become. We’d justthreatened a police officerwithhisowngunand lockedhim up with his ownhandcuffs!

Howhadourtripgottensoout of control after I hadmappeditouttoperfection?

And why… didn’t I careanymore?

Isuddenlyfeltexhilarated.Unstoppable. This was themomenttomakearealchoiceabout the rest of my life, nomatterhowafraidIwastodoit.

I steeled myself anddraggedmy eyes up to meetthe cop’s. “We’re not goingtogetcaught,”Isaid.

I said it softly but firmly.Itwasapromise.Aprayer.Awish.

22

ROBINSON TOOK A STEP BACKFROM THE cop, using the gunto point toward the door ofthe police car. “Bonnie,” hesaid to me, “you’re going toneedtodrivethecruiser.”He

turned to the cop. “I haven’ttaught her how to drive astickyet,”heexplained.

By now I was nearlynumb with shock, but Iclimbed into thedriver’sseatof the black-and-white. Gaspedal, turn signal, ignition.Everything looked to be inpretty much the same place.Meanwhile Robinson wasgently shoving the cop intotheback.Thankgoodnessfor

the glass between us,because, even cuffed, thatguy petrified me. If lookscould kill, Robinson and Iwouldhavebeengoners.

“Yougonnabeall right?”Robinson asked me, pokinghisheadinthefrontwindow.

I put both hands on thewheel, one at ten and one attwo. I tried to seem like Iwasn’t having a small heartattack.“Well,therearen’tany

parkingmeterstohit.”He gave me a crooked

smile. Maybe it was totallyinappropriate,butIneededit.

“Awesome, you’re goodtogo,then.Nowfollowme,”he said. He got into thePorsche, drove a little way,thentookadirtroadofftotheleft. We followed it for acouple of miles, passingnothing but dirt and scrubbysage.

I refused to look into therearview mirror because Icould practically feel thedeath glare the police officerwas giving me. I was so onedge from the last fifteenminutes that I knew if Imethiseyes Iwasgoing to freakout completely, crash, andendupkillingusboth. Iwasgrippingthesteeringwheelsotightly that my fingers wereturningwhite.

WhenRobinsonstopped,Ibraked too hard andscrambled out of the car,barely remembering to put itinpark.

“Whoa,” Robinson said,catchingmebytheelbowasIstumbled toward him.“Everything okay? He’s alllockedupinback?”

“No, I let him out,” Isnapped, yanking my armaway. Breathe, Axi. “Sorry.

Nerves.”“Let’sgetoutofhere.”“But—” I glanced at the

police car. The cop wassittingmotionlessintheback,butIthoughtIcouldhearhimcursing.

“Someone will find him,don’tworry,” Robinson said,pointing into the distance atwhat looked like tracthouses—or a mirage. Everythingwas flat all around us. The

desert was so empty. Therewasn’tevenacactus.

Robinson took my armagain and ledme toward thePorsche. When we werestrapped in, he gunned theengine, and we shot out ofthere inagreatcloudofdustthatbillowedupsohighithidourcrimecompletely.

“We’ve got to ditch thePorsche,”Robinsonsaidashepulled onto the main road.

For some reason he washeadingbackintotown.

Suddenly I began toshake. My legs jumped andtwitched and even my teethwere chattering.Hadwe justdonewhat I thoughtwe did?“Robinson—”Isaid.

“What?”Helookedatme,concerned.

“I can’t steal a car rightnow. My nerves can’t takeit.”

“No problem,” Robinsonanswered. “We can go backtoAxi’sPlanA.”

“I don’t even rememberwhatthatis,”Imoaned.

“Thebus,ofcourse—petridish for superbacteria.Because I don’t know aboutyou, darlin’, but I’m justitching for some kind ofdreadful infection.” ThenRobinsongrinnedmaniacally.

“Tellme—honestly.Have

youlost.Your.Mind?”As usual, Robinson

ignored my question andinstead pulled into a busstationontheedgeofthecity.“There it is! Our ticket tobacterialmeningitis.”

WegotourbackpacksandleftthePorscheinafirelane.I just wanted to be gone. Ididn’t have time to write athank-you note to the owner,but it was probably just as

well.Nowthatwewerebonafide criminals,we should trytoleavefewercluesbehind.

Inside the station, it wasdarkandcoolandgrimy.Allmyadrenaline-fueledcouragehad faded, and I wanted tocurlupinaballinthecorner.“Where dowe go?Weweresupposed to see the GreatSand Dunes next,” Iwhispered.

Robinson scanned the

departure board.“Interesting,” he said.“Becausethesefamousdunesof sand happen to be nearAlamosa,Colorado,correct?”

I frowned in confusion.“Howdidyouknowthat?”

“My dear, that bus leavesinmoments. See?”Robinsonpointed. “The luck of thetraveler is with us.” He wasalready walking toward theticket booth, one hand

reachingforhiswallet.Could it really be that

simple?“IthoughtitwasluckoftheIrish,”Icalledweakly.

He turned around andshrugged. “Who cares?We’ve got our ride. But foryour information, mygrandma was an Irish rosefromCountyCork.”

I looked at him insurprise, because Robinsonnever, ever talked about his

family. “Okay, but whatabout the cop?” I asked,hurrying up to him. “Wecan’tjustleavehim.Wehavetocallsomeone.”

“I thought you weren’tGGanymore,”Robinsonsaid.

I couldn’t tell if he wasjokingornot.“JustbecauseIwant to make sure someonedoesn’t die of heatstroke?” Ifound an old pay phone andfished in my pockets for

change. I told the womanwho answered that I’d beenoutridingmyhorsewhenI’dcome upon a cop car in themiddle of nowhere. I mademyself sound young andstupid, but I gave all thenecessarydetails.

She wanted to know myname.“CaroleAnn,”Isaid.

“You did a good thing,CaroleAnn,”shesaid.

Lady,ifonlyyouknew.

23

THERE’SANOLDSAYINGABOUTHOW only the guilty sleepwellinjail.Theinnocentmanstays awake all night,freakingout,while theguiltyone sleeps like a baby. He

figures he’s finally where hebelongsandhemightaswellgetsomeshut-eye.

RobinsonandIweren’tinjail,ofcourse—wewereonaGreyhound. But it wasuncomfortable and smellyand confined, the way Iimagined jail to be. And wehadn’t been on the busmorethan five minutes beforeRobinsonleanedover,puthishead on my lap, and fell

asleep.Guilty, I thought. We’re

bothsoguilty.For a while I stared out

the window, watching theflat, dry land go by. I stillcouldn’t believe the waythings had turned. A fewhours ago, Robinson makingout with someone else wasjust about the worst of myproblems. Now? Try felonyassault, grand theft auto, and

whoknewwhatelse.Back in the moment, of

course,whatwe’ddonemadeperfectsense.We’dhadtodoit. A stolen Porsche, ahijacked gun, and suddenlycuffingandabandoningacopseemed like a fine ideabecause, hey, it would keepusoutofjuvie.

Fornow,Ithoughtdarkly.Realitycamedownonme

withacrushingweight.What

in the world had we done?This was supposed to be aroadtrip—alark—anditwasturning into a crime spree.What would we do next?Steal a kid’s lunch money?Robabank?

In theseataheadofusanoldladywasknitting.Icouldhear her needles sliding andclicking. Every once in awhile she’d turn around andsmileatme.At first Ismiled

back,butthenIstartedtogetnervous.Was it possible sheknew something? Could sheread the guilt on my face?Did the Nevada policeemployundercoveragentsoldenough to collect SocialSecurity?

I shook Robinson awake.He sat up, rubbing his eyes,andgavemeagrumpylook.

“We can never doanything like that again,” I

saidquietly.“Ever.”Robinson ran his hand

through his tousled hair andsighed.“Iknow,Axi.Doyouthink I wanted it to happenlike that? You know that’snot me. But we couldn’t lethim stop us.” His dark eyes,with their heavy lashes,searchedmyface.Hewantedto be sure I knew he’d donethe only thing he could. “Idon’t want this to end,” he

said.“Notyet.Doyou?”Ishookmyhead.Iwanted

to go on like this with himforever,exceptIwantedmorekissingandlesscrime.“Whatif we’d—” I began, butRobinsonheldupahand.

“There’snopointinwhat-ifs.What’sdoneisdone.”

“You sound like mymother,”Isaid.“Who,Ihavelately realized, was usuallyfullofBS.”

Robinson grinned, thenfaced forward and said hi totheoldlady,who’dturnedtolookatusagain.“Itwastotalinsanity, I admit that,” hewhispered to me when sheturnedbackaround.“But it’sover, okay, Axi? Everythingis going to be fine. In thewordsofIrvingBerlin,oneofthegreatestsongwritersofalltime, from here on out,there’s nothing but blue

skies.”Maybe I’m an idiot—

actually, I’m definitely anidiot—but hearing him saythatmademefeelbetter.

Robinsonreachedoutandbrushed a piece of hair frommy cheek. “I never wantanything bad to happen toyou, Axi,” he said quietly.“And while I have not yetbeeninone,Isuspectthatjailisbad.”

“Youthinkit’sworsethana pediatric cancer ward?” Iblurted.

Robinson seemed to pale.Thenhe laid his headonmylap again. “I promise,” hesaid, “we’ll never dosomethinglikethatagain.”

“Pinkie swear,” I said,holdingoutmylittlefinger.

Weshookonit.“AndAxi?”Helookedup

at me from below, his eyes

wide and deep enough todrownin.

“What?”“I’m sorry about Chrissy.

Honestly,shecameontome.Ittookmebysurprise.AndIdidn’twanttoberude.”

I sighed. Robinson wastheonlyguyintheworldwhocould deliver that line andactually have me believe it.“Yeah,Iknowhowmuchyoudislikerudeness,”Isaid.

“I do,” Robinson said,closing his eyes. His voicegrewsleepyagain.“Rudenessisso…rude…”

Ismiled.AndthenIrestedmy head against the greasybuswindowandfellasleep.

24

WEGOTOFFATTHEALAMOSASTOP AND stuck out ourthumbs, trying to lookwholesome and innocent.When that didn’t work,Robinsontoldmeitwastime

formetoshowsomeleg.“You show it,” I

countered. “You’re the onewho always charmseveryone.” (Also? I hadn’tshavedsincewelefthome.)

“Exceptthatcop,”hesaidruefully.

Eventually,aniceoldmanin an El Camino pulled up.Wetoldhimwewereheadedto the Great Sand DunesNationalPark,andhenodded

approvingly and drove usright up to the visitors’center.Hewouldn’teventaketenbucksforgas.

Instead, he slipped me atwenty as I was pulling mybackpack from underneaththe seat. “Go out for dinnertonight,” he urged. “Y’allneed some meat on yourbones.” For a moment hegazed wistfully at the sanddunes,gleaminggoldenatthe

base of blue, snow-cappedmountains. “If my Meg wasalive, I’d call her up and tellher to put a roast in theoven.” His eyes seemed tofilm over. Then he snappedback to the present. “Takecareofyourselves,allright?”Andthenhedroveaway.

I tried to shake off thestrange,sadfeelinghisgood-bye had given me. I lookedover at Robinson, who was

waving at me from the edgeof a creek that cut along thebaseofthedunes.

“It’s like someone pickedup a piece of theSahara andput it down inColorado,” hesaidwhenIapproached.

“It’s amazing,” I said,snappingapicturethatIknewwouldn’t do it justice. “Whydo people end up in townslike K-Falls when there areplaceslikethisintheworld?”

“That’s an excellentquestion,”Robinson said.Heflunghisarmsoutwide,asifhecouldhug thewholehugevista. “We should probablynever go back.” He lookedprettypleasedbythatidea.

We began walking up aridge to the topof thedunes.Itwastoughgoing—thesandwas loose, and our feet sankdeep into it. I could hearRobinson breathing hard

behindme.Aswenearedthetop, the wind picked up thesand and flung it, stinging,againstus.

“It’s like full-bodyexfoliation,” Robinson said,wipingthegritfromhisface.“There are people who paygoodmoneyforthis.”

“Theglass isalwayshalf-fullforyou,isn’tit?”Iasked.Iwould have smiled, but I’dhavegottensandinmyteeth.

Optimismwasoneofhisbestqualities.

Stinging sand aside, wearrived in a spot that wasbreathtakingly beautiful. Onnearby dunes we saw somepeople hiking up and otherssliding back down on whatlooked like snowboards.Theirdelightedshoutscarriedthrough the air, which wasalready shimmering withheat.

Robinson began to struman imaginary guitar: “Evencastlesmadeofsand…”Thenhe looked at me somewhatsheepishly.“JimiHendrix.”

“Iknow,”Itoldhim.“Mydad has that album.” Isquinted into the distance.Beyondthedunes, theprairiewas full of yellowwildflowers. I held mycamera at arm’s length andtookapictureofussquinting

and grinning, on top of theworld.

Wemighthavehikedbackdown then, but I turned andsaw an old plastic sled half-buried in the sand. I pointed,and Robinson’s eyes lit up.“Are you thinking what I’mthinking?” I asked, but Iknewhewas,soIdidn’twaitforananswer.

Iclimbedontothefrontofthe sled, andRobinson stood

behindme, his hands onmyback. He began to run,pushingme,andthenheleaptin. He wrapped his armsaround my waist and buriedhis head in my hair as weraced down the slope. Thewind whipped the sand intomy face, but I didn’t care—Iscreamedwithdelight.

Atthebottomofthedune,we lay on the sand,breathless.

“Wow,”Robinsonsaid.“Who needs snow?” I

yelled, flinging up my arms.“Wanttogoagain?”

Ofcoursehedid.Wespentagiddy,thrilling

hour hiking up and thenracing down, after which wewere so hot and tired wecouldbarelymove.

“I’m dying of thirst,”Robinson said, collapsing atmy feet. “Also I think my

noseisfried.”“ ‘Whatmakes the desert

beautifulisthatsomewhereithidesawell,’”Isaid.

“Huh?” Robinson asked,rubbinghisnose.

“It’salinefromTheLittlePrince.”

“Youandyourbooks,”hesaidteasingly.

“It wouldn’t kill you toreadone.”

Heraisedadarkeyebrow.

“You never know. Itmight,”he said, and smiled. “Sowhere’sthatwell,then?”

Itossedhimawaterbottlefrom my backpack, but itarced wide. He scrambled togetit,thenopenedthelidanddrained the liquid in abouttwoseconds.

“You’re lucky I’ve gotanother one for myself,” Ichided. “Otherwise thatwould’ve been very greedy.

Veryscalawag-ish.”He snorted. “I know you,

Axi.Ofcourseyouhaveextrawater. Now I’m going toclose my eyes. Wake me inten.”Thenheputashirtoverhis face and fell asleep, justlike that, at the bottom of asanddune.

We washed off the grit incold, clear Medano Creek,and we set up our tent at a

nearby campground. Afterdinner—canned chili heatedover the fire—we stored ourfood and packs in the metalbearproofboxon theedgeofthecampsite.

Nightcamesuddenly,asifsomeone had blown out thesun like a candle. And thenthe stars burst from the sky,morethanI’deverseeninmylife. I staredup,dazzled,andbythispointalmosttoospent

tospeak.Robinson looked up, too.

“There’s something IwantedtosaytoyouthatInevergotachanceto,”hesaid.

I knew not to get myhopes up by now. “What’sthat?”Iasked.

“Youthrowlikeagirl.”“You are such a jerk,” I

said,laughing.Ipickeduptherinsed-out chili can and tookaim.“I’ll showyou throwing

likeagirl!”“I’m kidding. Those are

the last lines from themovieSahara,” he said. “Since wespent the day in the desertandall.”

Iputthecanbackdown.Iwas too exhausted to throw,anyway. Instead, I took adeep drink of water. And Ilookedatthelong,leanshapeof Robinson through thedarkness, thinking that there

weremanydifferentkindsofthirst.

25

WESTOLEAPICKUPJUSTAFTERDAWN, as the sun was risinggoldenoverthemountains.

Isn’titcrazy,howmatter-of-factlyIcansaythat?

Well,YourHonor,weate

breakfast,andthenwestoleatruck. Granola bars and aChevy,sir, if specificsmattertothecourt.

If I ever meet that judge,I’m sure he’ll ask me, “Didyou two think you wereinvincible?” And I’ll lookhim right in the eyes. “No,sir,” I’ll tell him. “In fact, Ithoughttheopposite.”

The engine of ourborrowed truckwas loudand

rattling, and the radio playedonlyAMstations.“Thisthingneeds a new muffler,”Robinson said, frowning.“The exhaustmanifold couldbecracked,too.”

“Awesome, a brokengetaway car,” I said. “Andwow,arewelisteningtoElvisrightnow?”

“Loveme tender, lovemetrue,” Robinson sang. Thenhestoppedabruptly.“It’snot

like I had time to give it acheckup before I stole it.”Was it just me, or did thatsound a little… huffy?“Anyway,varietyisthespiceoflife,andwecantradeupatthenextstop.Wouldyoucareto tell the chauffeur wherethatis,Ms.Moore?”

I shrugged.The next stopI’d planned was Detroit,fourteenhundredmilesaway.“I don’t know. The world’s

biggest ball of stamps?Carhenge? The HoboMuseum?” We were drivingnortheast, toward Nebraska,headingintowhatresidentsofthe East and West Coastslikedtocallflyovercountry.

“Carhenge?” Robinsonasked,soundinginterested.“Ibet that’s like Stonehenge,butwithcars.”

“Wow, ten thousandpoints for you,” I said. He

gave me a hurt look. “I’msorry,”Imumbled.

IwasirritablebecauseI’dbeenawakemostofthenight.And it wasn’t theclaustrophobic tent or thehardground;itwasRobinson.What was I supposed to doabout him? About us? We’dbeen through so muchtogether—and our journeyhad started well before thetripbegan.Wasn’tittimefor

me to tell him how I felt(evenifIwasn’texactlysurehowtodescribeit)?

I spent a long timethinking about what I’d say,and revisingmy lines, but inthe end I was about assuccessful as I’d been withmygood-byenotetoDad.Asin:Not.At.All.

Sample:Robinson, I thinkI loved you from the firstmomentIsawyou.(ButIwas

high on painkillers that day,soI lovedeveryone.)When Ilook at you, I see a betterversionofmyself.(Wait—soIwant to kissmyself?) Idon’tknowwhatI’ddowithoutyouin my life. (Um… not stealcars?)

It was stupidly,infuriatingly impossible. Nowonder I hadn’t writtenanything decent in ages—Icouldn’t even figureouthow

totellaboythatIlovedhim.That whenever I looked intohis eyes, I felt like I wasdrowningandbeingsaved,allatthesametime.ThatifIhadto choose between dyingtomorroworspendingtherestof my life without him, Iwould seriously considerpickingimminentdeath.

IwasafraidofwhatIfelt.Butwas that the only reasonit was so hard to admit it to

him?Orwas I afraid that hedidn’t feel the same? Yes, Iwasdefinitelyafraidofthat.

Now, as we drove insilencethroughthewide-openmorning,Iwantedsomuchtoslide over to his side of thebench seat. I wanted to putmy hand on his leg and feelthe answering tremor gothroughhim.Iwantedtosay,Pulloverandkissme.

I took a deep breath. I

couldn’t sneak over towardhim,inchbycowardlyinch.Iwas just going to have to gofor it. All or nothing, Axi.Nowisthetime.

Iclosedmyeyes,offeringaprayertothegodsofyounglove, Cupid or Aphrodite orJustin Bieber: Don’t let thisbeaterriblemistake.

When I opened my eyesagain, I saw that the truckwasdriftingtotheright.

“Robinson?” I said, myvoice rising as we veeredtowardtheshoulder.

He didn’t answer, and Ilookedover.His facewas sopaleitlookedalmostblue.Hebegan to cough—a terrible,racking,wetsound thatcamefromdeepwithinhim.

He looked at me and hiseyeswerefulloffear.

And suddenly he wasvomiting.

Blood.“Stop the truck!” I

screamed, reaching for thewheel.

We were already on theshoulder, and Robinsonsomehowmanaged to hit thebrake while still gagging.Carswhizzedpastus,shakingthecabwiththeirspeed.

“OhmyGod, Robinson!”Icried,movingtowardhim.Iwasholdingoutmyhandsas

ifIcouldcatchtheblood—asifIcouldstopitfromcomingout of him and then put itback inside, where itbelonged.

The air swam in front ofmyeyes.Iwascrying.

After a horrible, endlessmoment, Robinson stoppedcoughing. He wiped his red-streaked mouth with thesleeveofhisflannelshirt.

“It’s not that much,

really,” he said weakly,lookingathisshirt.“I’mokaynow.”

But I knew this if I knewanything: Robinson is notokay.

Then again, it waspossiblethatIwasn’t,either.

parttwo

26

AND SO NOW, UNDER ACOLORADOSKYsoblueithurtmy eyes, we arrived at theterrible truth. You can plotyour escape, you can ditchyourlifeandyourfamily,and

youcanracedownatwo-lanehighway in a stolen car. Buttherearethingsyoucanneveroutrun.

Things like cancer.Becausethatcomesalongfortheride.

I managed to get us to ahospitalforty-fiveminutesupthe road in La Junta.Robinsonlaywithhisheadinmylap,andIachedtorunmyfingers through his hair and

tell him everythingwould beall right. But because thetruck didn’t have powersteering, Ineededbothhandsonthewheel.

And I wasn’t sure thateverythingwouldbeallright,notatall.

Thesmallhospitalwaitingroom was freezing cold, litwith the kind of harshfluorescent light that makespeoplelookasdampandgray

as fish. Robinson shiveredand leanedagainstme.Therewasabloomofdarkbloodonhis T-shirt. He buttoned hisflannel self-consciously.“Otherwise I look like I’vebeenstabbed,”heexplained.

“I’mnot sure that’sabadthing,” I said. There werefour other people in thewaiting room, and by thelooks on their faces, they’dbeenthereawhile.

Robinson shook his head.“I just need to sit down,” hesaidinaraspyvoice.

The woman at the deskglanced at me warily as Iapproached. Maybe she sawthe fear in my eyes—ormaybe she thought I washomelessorondrugs.Icouldseemy pale reflection in thecorner of a mirror, and Icouldn’texactlyblameher.

“Can I help you?” she

asked. Her name tag readDEBBIE.

“Myfriendissick,”Isaid,pointing to Robinson, whowashuddledonaplasticchairinthecorner.Thesceneinthetruckplayedoverandoverinmymind.Itwasnightmarish.

“The doctor has beenpaged,” Debbie said. Sheinspected my face, frowninglightly. “Do you need to seehim,too?”

“I’m absolutely fine,” Isaidstiffly,eventhoughIfeltlike I might collapse fromexhaustion.

I rejoined Robinson, andwesat in thecorner forwhatfeltlikehours.Eventually,anoldmanwithhisarminacastleanedoverandputhisgoodhandonmyknee.

“It’s a Saturday morning,hon,”heoffered.“Mostofthedoctors and whatnot are

fishing.”Ibitmylip,hard.Wehad

no doctor.Andwhenwe gotone, I knew what it wouldmean: blood workups, fine-needle aspiration biopsies,positron-emissiontomography scans.… Thethoughtofgoingthroughthisagain made me want to runandhide.

“Welcome to small-townAmerica, Axi,” Robinson

said, “where the bowlingalleyandtheElkslodgehavelarger staffs than thehospital.”

“Don’t worry, the doctoris coming,” I said. “Hey, inthe meantime, we can watchTV.Iknowyouhaven’tbeengetting your daily doselately.”

Robinsonnodded.“IfonlyyouhadaSlimJimandaboxof Oreos, everything would

beperfect.”I tried to wipe a spot of

blood from his collar. “Youreallyhavetoeatbetter.”

“I know,” Robinson said.“I’mintheERbecauseoftoomany Slim Jims and notenoughTV.”Helookedatmeslyly.

Oh,ifonlythatweretrue,Ithought.ForjustamomentIclung to awildhope that thedoctor would give him a

spoonful of extra-strengthMaalox,andthenwecouldbeon our way to the GatewayArch in St. Louis, or theworld’s largest ball of twine.But I’d seen his blood, theway it was dark, almostcoffee-colored. I knew thatmeant it came from hisgastrointestinal tract—wherethecancerhadbeen.

Wheremaybeitstillwas.“Whydotheyhavetopick

the Home ShoppingNetwork?”Robinsonasked.

I looked up. A lady withlong red nails was sellingfigurines, smiling at thecamera with glossy lips andblindingly white teeth.“Comeon.Don’ttellmeyoudon’tlovethatjadeelephant,”Iteased.

Why were we talkingabout crap made in China?About junk food? The

elephant we needed to talkabout was the one in theroom: Robinson’s blood, hisillness,whichwasn’tamatterofnutrition.

On the other hand,ignoring that truth wasexactly how we’d gotten asfar as we had.We didn’t sitaround and mope. We tookcharge; we took off. Welaughedandwedrovetoofastand we stuck our heads out

the window and gave cancerthe finger. Because weunderstood that a personcouldbedead longbeforeheor she actually died. And nomatter what the future heldforus,wedidn’teverwanttobethatkindofpeople.

Robinson blinkeddrowsily. “I do kind of likethe elephant. I think jade’ssupposedtobegoodluck.Wecouldprobablyuse a littleof

that.”His voice was thick with

sleep.Hiseyesclosed,andheleaned his head on myshoulder. I squeezed hisfingers,stillwrappedinmine.Justlikehe’dsaid,wewereinthistogether.

“Everything’sgoing tobefine,” I whispered. ButRobinson had fallen asleepalready,andhecouldn’thearmelie.

27

THE BITTER IRONY OF MY LIFEWASTHAT twoyearsaftermysister, Carole Ann, died in apediatric oncology ward inPortland,Oregon,Ibecameapatient in the same wing. I

recognized all the nurses,who’d shaken their heads indisbelief. “Both Moorebabies?” they’d whispered.“Both?”

If God or fate or karmahas decided you’re going togetcancer, though,youcrossyour fingers for a kind likemine. Hodgkin’s lymphomais not uncommon, whichmeansthatdoctorsknowalotabout it, and by now they’re

pretty good at curing it.That’stheglasshalf-full.

“Yeah, the glass half-full…ofshit,”Robinsonusedto say. I’d met him for thefirst time in that place, andeverytimehe’dcurse,I’dsortof punch him in the arm,becauseIdidn’t like it.But Idid like him, which madebeingtherealittlebiteasier.

Don’tgetmewrong.Evenahighly curable cancer isno

walk in the park. Yes, thehospital walls were paintedprettycolors,thenursesworeWinnie-the-Pooh scrubs, andsome of the older kidspretended the ward was aboarding school completewith uniforms of thin bluegowns, fuzzy slippers, andbald heads covered incolorful scarves. But beingthere and being sick totallysucked.

Until the day I metRobinson. Until the day hefoundme.

Iflifewereamovie,we’dhave had what they call a“meetcute.”Sortoflikethis:I’d knock into Robinsonwhile carrying a giant stackof magazines I’d borrowedfrom the waiting room. Andall those good, trashyweeklieslikeUs,People,andLife & Style would slide

everywhere on the floor. I’dmake a joke about studyingformy pop culture quiz, andhe’d laugh as he helped mepickupthemess.Bythetimethe magazines were back inmy arms,we’d have realizedwe were totally hot for eachother, and hilarity andromancewouldensue for thenextninetyminutes.

In real life, it went likethis:inanarcotichazefroma

bad reaction to a chemotreatment,IwasstaringattheTV, convinced that Barneythe purple dinosaur wasspeaking directly to me.WhenIfailedtodecipherhismessage,Ifellasleep,wakinglater to see a beautiful dark-hairedboysittingnext tomybed. I knew then that I haddied, because unless I hadbeen transported to heaven,therewas noway a guy that

hotwouldbesmilingatme.But Iwasn’t dead. It was

Robinson, and he was real.Hesaidtome,“Youlooklikeshit. I feel like shit. Let’s befriends.”

And just like that, wewere. That’s how magneticRobinson was: he could tellyou that you looked terrible,andyou’dstilladorehim.

Robinson was sicker thanIwas,buthedidn’tactlikeit.

He had a rare kind of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma calledBurkitt’s.Thenonmeans it’sworse.

“Burkitt was the doctorwhodiscovered thecancer inequatorial Africa,” Robinsoninformedme.“It’salotmorecommon there.” He soundedalmost proud of his strangeand exotic cancer. Then hegrinned.“Burkittalsohadthiswhole elaborate theory about

the right posture for taking acrap.He said if you squatted—you know, like a baseballcatcher—you’d never getcolon cancer. Seriously, youcan’tmakethisstuffup.”

I looked up Burkitt’simmediately. For patientswithRobinson’snumbers(hiscancer was Stage IV) thesurvivalratewas50percent.

There were kids on theward who’d only have to

have a foot amputated or amysterious lump removed,and then they’d live to be ahundred. Why Robinson?Why this disease? ButRobinson was philosophical.He said, “Fifty percent? I’veseenworse.”

Weallhad.A 50 percent chance of

survivingwasaflipofacoin.So the night after I learnedwhattheoddsforhimwere,I

sat up in my adjustablehospital bed, held a pennytight in my palm, andsqueezed my eyes shut.“Heads, he lives,” I said. Ididn’tevenwhisperwhattailsmeant.Ithrewthepennyintotheair,andwhenIcaughtit,Ihad to breathe deeply for alongtimebeforeIcouldlook.

Itwasheads.Ican’t tellyouhowmuch

weightIputonthatcointoss.

I believed in it with everysingle cell of my body.Ourluck would not run out.That’swhatItoldmyself.

Buttheywereonlywords.My mom could predict rainby the dull ache in her knee.My childhood dog, Sadie,could sense the mailmanwhenhewas still twoblocksaway. In this weird, quietway, they knew what wascoming.

Andnow,sodidI.Now, in the cold, cold

waiting room, Robinsonleaned against me. I couldfeel his breath. I imagined Icould see the faint, preciouspulse of his heartbeat,fluttering beneath the skin.Hewassobeautiful,soalive.

Butforhowlong?Ididn’tneedadoctortotellmewhatI already knew. Robinson—my better self, my heart, my

life—was very possiblydying.

Our luck would not runout?Please, Axi. Everythingruns out eventually.Everything.

28

EVENTUALLY, ROBINSON WASADMITTED to the La Juntahospital, and a nurse took ustoaprivateroom.Shehelpedhimintoabed,andIhoppedup on the empty one beside

him.“Are you going to write

this down?” Robinsonwondered aloud. “In yourjournal?”

“I only write down thegood parts of ouradventures,”Isaid.

Robinson snorted. “Youcan’t write a book without aconflict.”

Isaid,“Whosaidanythingabout a book? This is my

journal.It’sapinknotebookIgot at Walgreens for twoninety-nine.”

Robinson shrugged. “Youneverknow…”

For some reason, thismade me laugh. “Sure, I’llwriteabook,”Itoldhim,“aslong as you promise toactuallyreadit.”

He held up his littlefinger.“Pinkieswear.”

But before I could lean

toward him, a voice boomedfrom the doorway. “So—justwhat do we have here?”Welooked up to see a beardedgiant wearing a lab coat andstaringatus.

He introduced himself asDr. Ellsworth, and he hadn’teven asked Robinson’s lastnamebeforehelaunchedintoa list of questions. DidRobinson use drugs?Alcohol? Had he traveled

internationally recently? Hadheeverhadanulcer?Washeallergictoanyfoods?Hadheeatenanyspinachduring lastmonth’sE.colioutbreak?

Robinsonshudderedatthethought of spinach. Heanswerednotoeverything.

I was still amazed by thedoctor’s size. He could havebeen a circus strongman, butnow he was bending overRobinson’schest, listeningto

hisheartandlungs.Hewasfrowning.He palpated Robinson’s

stomach, and Robinsoninhaled sharply, wincing. Ihad to look away then. Icouldn’t bear to see him inpain.

Afterseveralminutes,Dr.Ellsworth spoke. “I’m goingtosendyou togetaCTscanand an X-ray. There are…abnormalities.”

Just because I wasexpecting to hear somethinglikethisdidn’tmeanitdidn’tknock the wind out of me. Idrew in a wobbly breath asRobinson said, “Actually, ifit’s all the same to you,Doctor, I’d rather not havethosethings.”

“You might be a very illyoungman,”thedoctorsaid.

Robinson watched him,blinking his dark eyes.

“Might,” he allowed. “Butlet’s just leave it at that. Nonews is good news, right? Inthe meantime, I do think Ihave a touch of the flu orsomething.” He offered thebest rakish grin he couldmuster, which, consideringthe situation, was prettyimpressive.

“You have walkingpneumonia,” Dr. Ellsworthsaid.“Andpleurisyislikely.I

cantellyouthatrightnow.”“Please let that be all he

has,” Iwhispered. Isuddenlythought of the orb Robinsonhad bought me in MountShasta,andIreachedforitatthebottomofmybackpack.Iran my fingers over itssmoothsurface.Itwasbothaworry stone and a good-luckcharm.

The doctor turned to me.“And you?” he asked. “Are

you in need of any medicalcareyou’dliketorefuse?”

Ishookmyhead.“I’mjusthere for moral support,” Isaid.

Dr.Ellsworthwalkedoverto the side of the bed I wasborrowing and touched myneck. His fingers were cool.“Iseethescarrighthere,”hesaid. “It’s from a radiationburn,isn’tit?”

I moved away from his

touch, saying nothing. Iwasn’t a patient here, and Ididn’t have to answer. Itdidn’tmatterwhat I’d had. Iwasclear.Inremission.

Although, as my dad’sfriendCritterusedtosay,Justbecause it’s sunny todaydon’t mean the shitstormain’tcomin’.

Dr. Ellsworth crossed hisarms over hismassive chest.“What’s going on with you

two?” he asked. “Where didyoucomefrom?”

Robinson and I looked ateachother.Heshookhisheadalmostimperceptibly.

I spoke for us. “We can’tsayatthemoment.”

Dr.Ellsworthgaveusbothsharp looks. “This is not agame.Itismybeliefthatthisyoungmanherehasamassinhis abdomen. A tumor. Doyou comprehend the

seriousnessofthat?”Robinson tried to sit up.

“Hey, Axi. What’s thedifference between a doctorandalawyer?”

I knew this joke—it wasone of Robinson’s standards.AndIwasonlyhalf-surprisedhe was trotting it out now.Playingalong,Isaid,“Idon’tknow.What?”

“Alawyerwill robyou;adoctor will rob you and kill

you,too.”Dr. Ellsworth made a

sound in his throat—achoked-back laugh? A gruntofannoyance?“I’m trying tohelp,”hesaid.

“Then bring in a TV,”Robinson quipped.“Preferablyonewithcable.”

The truth was, Robinsonand I had a routine down.We’dperfectedit in thehallsof the Portland cancer ward.

Thenurseslovedus.Wewerethe Abbott and Costello ofcancer. “Hey, Robinson,” Isaid. “What do you call aperson who keeps gettinglymphoma over and overagain?”

“I don’t know—what?”Buthewasalreadylaughing.

“A lymphomaniac!” Icried.

Robinson whooped andpretended to slap his thigh.

“Oooh,thatwasagoodone,”hesaid.

Dr. Ellsworth sighed. “Ifthere were a drug to preventgallows humor, I’d prescribeit for both of you.” But Icould tell that he thoughtwewerejustatinybitfunny.

He stepped toward thedoor. “I’mgoing togiveyousome intravenous antibiotics,and I’m going to encourageyou to think very hard about

thosetestsImentioned.”“I don’t like tests,”

Robinson said. “I always failthem.”

“Where are your parents,youngman?”

I glanced at Robinson.That was a question whoseanswerIdidn’tknow,either.

Robinson turned away.“I’m a legal adult,” he said.“Do you want to check myID?”

Dr. Ellsworth gaveRobinson one more longlook,thenshookhisheadandlefttheroom.

Robinson closed his eyes.“I’mjustgoingtotakealittlenap,” he said. “If you canstand to be without mycompanyforawhile.”

I got up and pulled thethinblanketoverhim.Ididn’twant him to leave me, noteven for aminute. “I think I

canmanage,”Isaidsoftly.He said, “You should

closeyoureyes,too.”“I’m not tired,” I said,

lying again. But I knew Icouldn’t sleep, anyway; Ineeded to watch him. Tomake sure he didn’t startcoughingagain.Tomakesurethe blood stayed inside him,where itwas supposed tobe.To watch his chest rise andfall,riseandfall.

Isatdownbyhisbedside.Ihoped theantibioticswouldwork their invisible cellularmagic, and quickly. And Iwished that what Robinsonneededwas only—to use histerminology—alittletune-up.Becauseweweren’tgoing tostickaround togetsixweeksof chemo in La Junta. Thatwasn’tintheplan.

A few minutes later, Ilooked up to see that Dr.

Ellsworth had returned.“We’re moving you to adifferent room,” he said. “Idon’twantyoutoofarfromaventilator. Or the nurses’station.”

Robinson looked over atmeandofferedafaint,sleepysmile. “Precautionary, ofcourse,”hesaid.

“Of course,” I repeated.“You just have a touch ofwhatever’s been going

around.” Like cancer wascontagious, the way doctorsonce thought it was. Like itwasnomoreseriousthanthecommoncold.

I didn’t dare look at Dr.Ellsworth. He was going toadd crazy to Robinson’s listof diagnoses, I could alreadytell. And that was just finewithme.

Because as far as I knew,nobodyeverdiedofcrazy.

29

INTHEEVENINGTHEYSEDATEDROBINSON, because hisbreathinghadbecomelaboredandpainful.That,apparently,wasthepleurisy.Ormaybeitwas the pneumonia. I didn’t

want to know. When theysaid things like “peritonealfluid analysis” and “lowplatelet count,” I put myfingersinmyears.

Alone, I read everymagazine I could find: GolfDigest,SportFishing,andFitPregnancy. None held anyusefulinformationforme,butconsidering I’m a golf hater,a vegetarian, and a virgin,that was not exactly

surprising.Then I wandered the

corridors,noticingagainhowmuch one hospital resemblesanother.Theysoundthesame(the beeps of heartmonitors,thehiss of oxygenmachines,the murmuring tones ofvisitors).Theyservethesamefood(syrupy,too-sweetgrapejuice;soggydinner rolls;andpink, plastic-looking ham).They even smell the same

(odors of disinfectant,recycled air, and bodies andwhat comes out of them—amix I can only describe aslavatorial).

As terrible as La JuntaGeneralwas,atinypartofmerelaxedalittle.Unliketherestof our cross-country journey,thehospitalwardwasknownterritory. A place I couldnavigate. And I guess I wasglad to have a roof over my

headagain.ButasRobinsonwouldbe

the first to point out, youcan’tbeBonnieandClydeina hospital. You’re in adifferentmoviealtogether.

“Pace much?” one of thenurses asked with a friendlysmile when I walked by thestationforthetwentiethtime.

I smiled. “Sorry. Juststretchingmylegs.”

“No worries, keep at it,”

she said. “Exercise does abodygood.”

She looked like shecouldstand to get a little exerciseherself, but she was busyplaying FreeCell on hercomputer. Slow night in theER,Iguess.

I turned down a newhallwayandcameupona setof heavy double doors.Pushing them open, I foundmyselfinthefoyerofasmall

chapel.It was utterly unlike the

rest of the sterile whitehospital.Thefrontwallwasadeep red. There was a plainwooden altar with LEDcandles flickering alongsideit. There was no statue ofJesus on the cross, though—no Mary or Ganesh orBuddha or L. Ron Hubbard,either, or whoever it waspeopleprayedtoaroundhere.

There was just that red—thered of valentines, of blood.Faint classical music camefrominvisiblespeakers.

Isatdownonabench.Myparents had taken me tochurch about three timesbefore they lost interest inshushingCaroleAnnandmeevery other second. Now Iwastheonlyoneintheroom,soIdidn’tquiteknowwhattodowithmyself.Iputmyface

in my hands. Anyone whopokedaheadinwouldthinkIwaspraying.

I thought of Carole Annand Robinson—and myself,too. How we’d all beenaffected by forces that feltterrifying and supernaturalbut were actually justterrifyingandbasic.Cancerisabnormal cells dividingwithout control and invadingothertissues.It’s thatsimple.

But it was still always amystery: Why in the hell ismybodytryingtokillme?

Before I went intoremission, I hated my bodyfor betraying me. Andconsidering that I was beingtreatedforcanceratthesametime Iwas suddenlygrowingbreasts and having to shavemy legs and stick giant padsinthecrotchofmyunderwear—well, it felt like my body

wasaddinginsulttoinjury.HavingRobinsonwithme

on that journey meanteverything. We were able tolaugh at howweakwewere.We had contests over whohad the worst mouth sores(chemo causes them; they’reawful).Wegoadedeachothertoeatfoodwhenfoodwasthelastthingwewanted.

We’d saved each other,Robinsonandme.Oratleast,

hehadsavedme.But whyme?Whywas I

doingsowellwhenRobinsonwas so sick? When CaroleAnnwasdead?

What I know aboutsickness—beyond the fear,the uncertainty, and thenightmarish drudgery of it—is that it builds a wallbetweenthesickandthewell.Back in the pediatriconcologyward,Robinsonand

I had been on the same sideof that wall. Now I couldn’tbear the idea of any wallbetween us. I wanted toexperience what he wasexperiencing. I wanted to bewithhim.Foreverything.

In a way, I felt like mybodywasbetrayingmeagain—butthistime,itwaskillingme by keeping me well. Iknew that wasn’t rational. Itwasn’t like I wanted to get

canceragain…right?I stared at the flickering

lights for a long time.Whennopriestorangelorepiphanyfrom above came to answermy question, I decided to gobacktoRobinson.

He was getting theintravenousantibioticsforhischest infection.They’dgivenhim morphine, too, becauseotherwise the medicine hurttoomuchgoingin.

Robinson turned towardme and smiled. His eyelidswere heavy, his skin pale.“Have I ever told you howbeautifulyouare?”heasked.

I straightened the edge ofhis blanket. “That’s themorphinetalking,”Isaid.

But still I blushed. And Ihopedandprayed that itwasreallyhimtalking.

30

IWAS STANDING ON THE EDGEOFTHEcliffagain,anddream-Robinson was beside me,holdingmy hand. I knew hewas supposed to tell mesomething that would

reassure me, but he was sosilent he could have been aghost.

I took a step forward,about to plummet into thedepths—

Iwokewithastart.Inthedarkness, therewas

soft rock playing from theradio at thenurses’ station, akind of music that Robinsonliked to claimwas as deadlyas cancer.Thenurses always

hadagoodlaughatthatone.I was about to close my

eyesandrollbackoverwhenIsawtheshapeatthesideofmybed.Robinson.Hemovedforward and touched myshoulder. Even in thedarkness, I could see that hehad his clothes on—not ahospitalgown.“Axi?”

Ipushedmyselfup.“It’s time to leave,” he

saidsoftly.

Heplacedmybackpackatthe foot of my bed and heldout his hand to help me up.His fingers were warm andreassuring, as if I were thesick one. Robinson wasalways so careful withme. Irememberedwalkingthelonghalls of the Portland hospitalwith him, the two of us soweak we shuffled likeoctogenarians.

“Octo-what?”he’dsaid.

“Octogenarians.People intheireighties.”

He’d laughed. “Oh, Idon’t have to worry aboutlivingthatlong.”

I’d stopped in my tracks.What about that coin toss?Didn’t that mean anything?“What are you talkingabout?”I’ddemanded.

Robinson grinned. “Axi,I’mgoingtobearockstar—I’ll wear out my body by

sixty-five,” he explained.“Too many decibels. Toomuch rock ’n’ roll. You canread about me in bookssomeday. I’ll be the guyslayed bymusic. I knew thatdude, you’ll say. He wascool.”

Now,inthemiddleof thenight, in the middle ofnowhere, I touchedRobinson’s shoulder. “Areyousureyou’reokay?”

Faintly, I could see himsmile. “I think I’ve seenenoughofLaJunta,”hesaid.“We’dbetterbemovingon.”

31

I DIDN’T BOTHER ASKING HIMTO LOOK away while Ichangedintoever-so-slightly-less-grimyclothes.Forone,itwas dark, and for two, whatsecrets did I still have from

him?Besides the fact that I

loved him, obviously. Butmaybeitwastimetoletgoofthatsecret,too,ifonlyIcouldbebraveenough.

Robinsonhadmovedovertothewindow,hisfacedimlylit by theorangeglowof theparking lot lights. When Iwasdressedinmyjeansandarumpled sweater, I went tostandbesidehim.

“Did you know thatCancer is the dimmestconstellation of the zodiac?”heasked.

WhenIshookmyhead,hepointed to the dark sky. “It’sover there. And it doesn’tlookanythinglikeacrab.”

“I didn’t know you weresuchanastronomer.”

Out of the corner of myeyeIcouldseehisgrin.“Axi,I have facets you can’t even

imagine.”I felt almost dizzy when

hesaidthat.Isitpossiblethatyou can love someone morethan you love life itself, andyetyou’restillnevergoingtoknowforsureeverythinghe’sthinking?Iwanted—Ineeded—to see every facet ofRobinson that I could, for aslongasIcould.

“And the crazy thing?”Robinson went on. “Every

star that you see out there isbigger and brighter than thesun. They only look smallbecause they’re fartheraway.” He was still gazingout the window as if amessagewerewrittenforhiminthesky.

Themessageisrighthere,Robinson, I wanted to say.Lookatme,andI’lltellyou.

Still,though,Iwasmute.Itentatively moved closer to

hissideandclumsilyknockedinto him with my hip. For amoment I worried the bumpI’d given him was too hard.How fragile was he? Butwhen he didn’t seem tonotice,IwonderedifIshouldtry it again. I wondered if Ishould grab his hand. Iwondered if I should tacklehim, throw him to the floor,and kiss every inch of hisfrail,beautifulbody.

I scooted closer to himagain,andthistimeitfeltlikeitregistered.Hewassuddenlymoreawareofme.Hestayedverystillasenergyseemedtorippleintheairbetweenus.Iheldmybreath,andIthinkhewasholdinghis,too.

Now is the time, Axi, Ithought.Carpediem.

Ireachedacrosshimtohisfar hand and turned himtowardme.“Ihavesomething

totellyou,”Iwhispered.“I’m all ears,” he

whisperedback.Hewaited silently, giving

my eyes time to search hisface: his high forehead, hisdeep-seteyes,hisfullmouth.

I opened my lips, butnothing came out. I was thewriter, the reader—and now,whenItrulyneededtosaythethingsI’dbeenwantingtosayforwhatseemedlikeforever,

wordswereutterlyfailingme.“It’sokay,”Robinsonsaid

softly.What’sokay?Icouldhave

asked.Nothingisokay!We’rein a hospital because youcould be dying! How manymore chances will I have tochicken out before you’resuddenlygone?

IfIcouldn’tsayanything,I had to do something.Rightthissecond.OrImightnever

gettofeelthesensationofhislipstouchingmylips.

I couldn’t live withoutthat.

Andthatwasall it took.Iwrappedmyarmsaroundhisneckandbrushedmyfacesoclosetohisthathisunshavenchin tickled my skin. Andthen—Ikissedhim.

When our lips met, in arush ofwarmth and softness,electricityfloodedmybody.I

wassurethatIbegantoglow.ThatIwasfullofstarlight.

Finally.ThiswaswhatI’dbeen aching for. And fromthe way Robinson’s breathinstantlymeltedintomine…Ifeltforalltheworldlikehe’dbeenachingforit,too.

Why on earth had wewaitedsolong?

Robinson’sarmstightenedaround my waist, and hishands found their way into

myhair.Atinymoanescapedfromhisthroat,andhekissedme full-strength, like he’dnever been sick and neverwouldbeagain…likehewasmorealivethanever.

AndsowasI.Afteraminute,oranhour,

we pulled apart, breathless.Mycheekswereburning,andmy whole body felt like itwas vibrating. Like it wassinging.

At first Robinson’s eyeslooked so solemn that mybreath caught in my throat.Then,likealightblinkingonin the darkness, came thesmile that I craved, thatcrookedgrinfulloflife.

“I love you,AxiMoore,”hewhispered.“WhatelsecanIsay?”

I shook my head andsmiled,my eyes glistening. Iwasstillsooverwhelmedthat

Icouldn’tsayaword.If this was what life was

likewithoutwords—a lifeofdoing,notjusttalking—Ijustmightbewillingtogivethemupforever.

32

IT WAS TIME TO GO. WEHURRIED OUT into thedarkness, Robinson’s armwrapped around myshoulders.Itwaslikeahug—as if now that we’d finally

really touched, we couldn’tbeartoletgoofeachother—but itwasalsohimusingmetoholdhimselfup.

I was still glowing. I feltbrighterthananyofthestars.

KissingRobinsonwaslikecoming to the end of thedesertandfindingaspring.Itwas sunshine after years ofwinter. It was Christmas inJune. It was—oh, give me abreak,whybotherwithdumb

poeticphrases?WhatIfeltwasjoy.Joy that totally swept

away theanxietyofbreakingout of a hospital againstmedical advice. My list ofrebellious feats was growinglongerbythesecond.

Attheedgeoftheparkinglot, Robinson leaned downand gave me another deepkiss. Then he pulled away,smiling.“SuddenlyIfeellike

Icandoanything,”hesaid.I felt exactly the same

way. Everything would befine.Orevenbetterthanfine.Magical. “Just tell me thatanything doesn’t includetakingadifferentcar,”Isaid,pressingmyhand against hisscratchy cheek. “This isexcitementenough.”

Robinsonkissedmeagain,his lips soft but urgent. Atthisrate,we’dneverleavethe

parking lot—and maybe Ididn’t even care, as long asthiskepthappening.

“I’dneverditchChucktheTruck,”Robinsonsaidafterawhile. “He needs to seeDetroit.”

I laughedgiddily—clearlythe making out was messingwithmyheadalittle.“ChucktheTruck?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Robinsonsaid. “Second cousin to

CharleytheHarley.”He laughed at his own

joke and climbed into thetruck. He started the engine,revving it a few times towarm it up. Then, for somereason, he scooted over intothe passenger seat, where Iwasabouttosit.

I quit my giggling. “Um,Robinson?”Isaid,eyeingtheempty space behind thesteeringwheel.

Heleanedbackagainsttheheadrest. “Yeah, I know Isaid I felt like I could doanything… but I think it’sprobably better if you driverightnow.”

I noticed that his voicehadbecome raspy again, andhe had his hand over hischest, as if he were havingtroublebreathing.

“Then we should turnaround and go back to the

hospital!” I insisted. “Detroitwill still be there in a coupleofdays.”

Robinson shook his head.“Noway,Axi.I’mdonewiththatplace.”

“Butwhat if it’snotdonewithyou?”

Hepattedtheseat.“Comehere,Axi.Sitbesideme.”

Iwentaroundtotheotherside and clambered onto thetruck’s high bench seat.

Robinsonputhisarmaroundmy shoulders, and I buriedmyfaceinhisflannelshirt.Itsmelled like the hospital, butunderneath that, like him.Likesoapandpineandboy.

Of course I wanted toleave. I wanted to be alonewith Robinson again. Iwanted more of what we’dstarted in the hospital. A lotmore.

Butwasthisamistake?

When Robinson spokeagain, his voice seemedstronger. It also seemed likehe’d been reading mythoughts. “Who cares ifleavinghereisamistake?I’dmake this mistake again, amillion times,” he insisted.“We’re together.That’swhatmatters. I want to take thistrip with you. That’s all Iwant. That’s all I need. I’mnot going to be irradiated or

scanned or biopsied orwhateveritistheywanttodotome.”

I spoke into his shirtbecauseIdidn’twanttomoveaway from him, not even asingle millimeter. “But whatif it’s a death sentence? Torefuse treatment now?” Iwhispered.

Robinson scoffed. “Ahospital is a death sentence.Youcancutyourfinger,geta

staph infection, and the nextthing you know, you’rechecking out the grass fromunderneath. Leaving now,Axi,ischoosinglife.”

I could hear the quickbeating of his heart. “Butwhatifit’sashorterlife?”

He shrugged. “Well, asKurtCobain said, ‘It’s betterto burn out than to fadeaway.’Although,actually,hewas quoting a Neil Young

song.”Isatupsuddenly.Whatin

the world was I going to dowith this infuriating person?“May I remind you thatCobain used it in his suicidenote?”

“Well, you have to admithe had a point, GG,”Robinsonsaidmildly.

I closed my eyes andbreathed in deeply, calmingmyself. Robinson’s hand

reached out, and his fingersslipped betweenmine, tryingtoreassureme.

What if doing what youwanted and doing what wasrightseemedliketwoentirelydifferent things? What if bylivingthelifeyouchose,yousomehowdoomedyourself—or worse, someone youloved?

After a minute, I openedmy eyes. We couldn’t know

the future or how long itwould last. We could onlychoose tobehappyandaliverightnow.

“Okay, okay, you win,Robinson,” I said. “But onlyon these conditions.” I heldup two fingers. “One: do notcallmeGG,remember?Two:you are not allowed to die.Doyouhearme?”

Robinson grinned andsalutedme.“Yes,ma’am,”he

said. “Agreed. Ten-four. Etcetera.”

We shook on it, as if itwerejustthatsimple.

And then I gritted myteethandstarteddriving.

33

ROBINSON FELL ASLEEPALMOST IMMEDIATELY. Thiswas fine with me, because Ineeded complete and totalfocusonmynewassignment:piloting a speeding death-

and-dismemberment trapacrossthecountry.

Because,FYI, car crasheskill way more kids thancancer does. Those crossesyou see on the side of thehighway,thelittlewhiteoneshung with fading silkflowers? They’re for peoplemy age. (“People who weretexting,” my dad liked toremind me—because henever wanted to blame

Budweiserforanything.)Imanaged not to become

a highway statistic in thoseearly hours, but there wereoccasional… problems. Forinstance, I pulled into aTexaco for gas but didn’tknow how to operate thepump, and Robinson wassleeping so deeply I couldn’twake him. After I beggedsomeniceoldmantohelpmefillmytank,Igotbackonthe

highway going in the wrongdirection.Forthirtymiles.

After I turned around, Itriedplaying the radio softly.It barelyworked, so I turnedit off and had only mythoughts to keep mecompany:

I never knew how damnbigtheUnitedStatesis.

Where’s the nearestStarbucks?

How comemy dad hasn’t

foundmeyet?The miles ticked by,

monotonous but nerve-racking. Eventually, I juststarted talking out loud tokeepmyselfcompany.

“Don’ttakethisthewrongway,” I said, though I knewRobinson was still indreamland,“but Idon’t thinkI ever believedwe’dmake itthis far. Like, wouldn’t mydad call the cops when he

wokeupandfoundmegone?OrevenjustcallCritter?Thatguy’sahumanbloodhound.”

Critterhadevenfoundthediamondthathadfallenoutofmy mom’s engagement ring—in a river.Not that havingthediamondbackencouragedhertostickaround.

“Obviously, I’m notsaying Iwant tobecaught. Iwant to keep going. But Iguess I wonder if we’ve just

beenreallyluckysofar?Oristhere a certain amount of…disinterest on my dad’s partconcerningthelocationofhisremainingdaughter?”

I tookasipofcoldtruck-stop coffee. It felt good totalk about it, even if—orespecially because—Robinsonwasn’tlistening.

“And then there’s you,” Isaid to Robinson’s sleepingsilhouette. “Where are your

parents? Aren’t they worriedaboutyou?Dotheyhaveanyideawhereyouare?”

When I met Robinson onthecancerward,he’dbrushedoff all talk of his family.Nosad-eyed father sat with himwhile he got his chemo; noweepingmotherheldhishandwhilehewasbombardedwithradioactiveparticles.

He was, for all that therest of us could see, 100

percentalone.Ontheotherhand,noone

was more popular. Robinsoncould turn a Domino’sdelivery guy into his newBFF in five minutes. Once Iheard two of the nursestalking about how theywanted to adopthim.Andofcourse he could’ve had hispick of girls, on or off theward.Hewasmagnetic.

Out of everyone, he’d

chosenme.Iwashisfamily.When we were

discharged, Robinsonfollowed me to KlamathFalls. “We need to sticktogether, Axi,” he’d said.“Plus, I have an uncle there.Says I can live in hisbasement.”

I didn’t question it—all Icared about was not sayinggood-bye.

I realized nowhowmuch

he’dleftbehindinthecourseof his life: his parents, hisuncle, the doctors whowantedtotreathim.Itwasasifhe’drunfromeveryonebutme.

“Am I enough,Robinson?” I heard myselfask. “Can I really beeverythingyouneed?”

He shifted in his sleep,stretching out his long legs.But he didn’t wake up to

answerthatcriticalquestion.“Iwonder,”Iwenton,“if

it’s possible to go so far thatI’llstopbeingafraidofusnotevercomingback.” Ichewedon my lip for a while, thendrank some more bittercoffee. “I thought I’d figuredout the risks. I thought I hadeverythingplannedout.ButIhadn’tcountedonyougettingsick.”

I sneaked another glance

athim.Hiseyelashesmadeadark curve against his palecheek, and his left handtwitched,movinginadream.

Therewasanother thing Ihadn’t counted on. And thatwas falling in love, as fastandirrevocablyasyouwouldfall off a cliff, and realizingthat loving someone mightmean to simultaneouslywantto slug them and hold themand possibly have to watch

themdie.… I hadn’t countedonthat.

I reached over andtouched his cheek. “I loveyou,” I whispered. “Pleasestaywithme.”

In his sleep, Robinsonturnedandsighed.

34

ROBINSON AND I STOOD, OURFINGERS intertwined, andstaredat theruins:crumblingbuildings, burned-out houses,litter-strewn sidewalks, andtheemptyhulkofanoldFord

factory.“Welcome to Detroit,”

Robinson said happily. Hewas feeling much bettertoday, and I was hoping ourlocation had nothing to dowith it. “Motor City.Motown. I could have beenstuck growing up here ifmyparentshadn’tleft.”

“It was probably a littlenicer back when they weregrowing up here, huh?” I

said, all the while hoping itwasn’tsymbolic that thefirstplace Robinson and I visitedtogetherasacouple(becausethat’s what we were now,right?)wasintotalshambles.

With the tip of his boot,Robinson sent an empty canof Red Bull arcing into thesummer air. “Yeah, probablyitwas.”

I took a picture of amildewed sofa with a bunch

of pigeons perched on it. Toour left, a tree was growingoutthesideofabuilding.

“I guess it could bebeautiful, in a way, if youwere into romantic decay orsteampunk or something,” Isaid. “Or maybe we shouldimagine it like the ParthenoninGreece.A bunch of grandoldruins.”

Robinson noddedthoughtfully. “That old Ford

factoryiswheremygrandmaand grandpa met and fell inlove,” he said. “On theassembly line.” He gesturedoff vaguely in anotherdirection. “And down thatway was the Chrysler plantwhere my mom and dad didthesamething.”

Ibentdownandpluckedadandelionfromacrackinthepavement. “So I guess thisused to be a pretty romantic

placethen,”Isaid.Robinson was quiet,

gazing out on the desolation.Thinking, maybe, about hisfamily, wherever they were.So it tookme completely bysurprisewhen hewhirledmetowardhim.Heheldmeclosefor a moment, his armstightening around me. Andthenhebentdownandkissedme,longanddeep,untilIfeltthat familiarsoftening inside,

my legs going wobbly. Likemaybe if he didn’t keepholding me up, I mightdissolve.

When he pulled away, hesmiled. “What do you meanusedtobe?”

Ikeptmyarmsaroundhiswaist.Iwantedtobeasclosetohimaspossible,foraslongas possible. “I standcorrected,” Isaid, lookingupathim,backlitby thesun,so

the ends of his dark hairlookedliketheywereonfire.“Two generations of yourfamily fell in love here.That’s pretty amazing.”Thinking:Nowthree.

He nodded, but he didn’telaborate. His eyes had thatfarawaylookinthemagain.

“Iguessyoucomebyyourcarobsessionnaturally,then,”I continued. Iwanted him tokeep talking, becausehewas

always so tight-lipped abouthisfamilythatIknewalmostnothingaboutthem.

“My dad always said hisfirst baby was his 1967Mustang,”Robinsonoffered.

“Soyougrewuphere?” Iasked.

Robinsonbegantowhistlethat Sufjan Stevens songaboutDetroit.

I jabbed him in the ribs.“Seriously, you’re not going

to answer? You tell me youloveme, but you don’t wantto tell me where you werefreaking born?” I waslaughing, but I was a littleoffended,too.

When Robinson lookeddown at me again, his facewas clouded. “I’m just not…in close touch with myparents these days. It makesme sad to think about them.SoItrynotto.”

Seeing as how he’d hadenough hardship lately, Idecidednottopresstheissue.“Justgivemeanatalcity.”

Robinson smiled. “Youandyour fancywords.Natal.World, I ask you:Who saysnatal besidesAlexandra JaneMoore?”

I jabbed him in the ribsagain. There wasn’t anyonebutpigeonstoanswerhim.

“No, Iwasn’t born here,”

Robinson said finally.“Chrysler moved the plantbeforeIwasborn.Myparentswent to North Carolina, andthat’swhereIshowedup.Mydad worked for a steelcompany for a while, andthen he opened up his ownauto repair shop.” Robinsonbegan to whistle some othersong I didn’t recognize,endingourconversation.

Isighed.“Atthisrate,it’ll

take me fifty years to learnaboutyourchildhood.”

He reached out andtouched my cheek with hisfingertips. “Oh, Axi-face,whocaresaboutthepast?Wehavenow.”

“Axi-face?” I repeated. Itookhishandandbroughthisfingers tomy lips.Smiling, Ikissedthemontheirtips,oneaftertheother.

He nodded. “It’s new.

Youlikeit?”“I’ll get back to you on

that.” The truthwas, I’d likeany pet name he came upwith. But I wasn’t going toadmitit.

For awhilewe just stoodthere, being quiet with eachother, our fingers touchinglightly. We watched birdscircling overhead, and theclouds shifting. It struck methen that the earth could be

covered in trash andwreckage, but you couldalways find something thatseemed clean and perfect.Maybe that was a metaphorforsomething.

After a while I leaned into give Robinson a gentlekiss. He tookmy face in hishands. “So,” he said, “can Ibuyyoudinnerorwhat?”

Ismiled.“Doesthatmakeitadate?”

Grinning back, heshrugged. “Depends. Am Igoingtogetpastfirstbase?”

“Pig,”Isaid,laughing.“Pig!” he repeated.

“Speaking of which, let’s goeatsome.”

35

WE PLAYED MOTOWN IN THECAR—Diana Ross, StevieWonder—as we drovedowntown. Robinsonhummed and tapped hisfingersonthedash,following

the drumbeats and addinglittleflourishesofhisown.

Wefoundarestaurantfullof Christmas lights andorange-velvet banquettes, itswalls hung with funkyinstruments and dozens ofblack-and-white pictures ofDetroit in its old-timeyheyday. Someone wasplaying the piano in thecorner, loudly, and the placewaspacked.

“It’s like a speakeasycrossedwith aTGIFridays,”Isaidaswesatdown.

“Or,like,ifLiberacewerea gangster and this was hislivingroom.”

“Or it’s the hangout of apimp who likes jazz andantiques,”Isaid.

Robinson grinned. “It’sawesome.”

We found a table in thecorner, and the waiter came

by and set two small glassesfull of clear liquid on thetable. “Hungarianmoonshine,” he said, bywayof greeting. “It’s Ed’sbirthday.”HeseemedtothinkweshouldknowwhoEdwas.“I’ll be back to take yourorderinaminute.”

Robinson and I looked atthe glasses and then at eachother.“Shouldwe?”Iasked.

He pretended to look

disappointed. “I have somany fake IDs. I reallywanted the chance to useanotherone.”

We held up our glassesand clinked them together.“Sláinte,”Isaid.

“Slan-cha?” Robinsonsaid, frowning. “I’ve heardthat before… what does itmean?”

I shrugged. “Dunno. It’sjustsomeoldIrishtoast.”But

ofcourseIknewexactlywhatit meant. It meant “health.”Because didn’t that mattermorethanjustaboutanythingthesedays?

We knocked our glassesback, and the liquid burneddown my throat, making meshudder. “Is that whatradiatorfluidtasteslike?”

Robinson was sloshing itaroundinhismouth.Thenheswallowed.“Thisismorelike

rubbingalcohol,I’dsay.”I could feel it in my

stomach now, warming me.Was it possible that I feltlooser, almost light-headedalready? “Funny how a tinylittle shot makes me feel sorebellious, when I’m alreadyacarthief.”

“I believe your term wasborrower,”Robinsonnoted.

“Because that’s going togo over really well with the

judge,”Isaid.“Oh,youwereonlyborrowingthatPorsche?Noproblem,then!”

“You guys aren’t fromaroundhere,areyou?”

Robinson and I bothlooked up, startled. Guiltypeople are jumpy people, Iguess. But it was only ourwaiter, who looked like he’dhad a shot or two of themoonshinehimself.

“No, sir,” Robinson said,

politeascanbe.The waiter pointed a

fingeratus.“Well,whenyougo back home, tell yourfriends how the Big D isdoing just fine. I know youwent and saw the closed-upfactories; everybody does.But don’t remember just thedead stuff. Remember this.”Hewavedhisarmaroundthehappy, noisy room.“Remember the music and

the moonshine. Is that adeal?”

RobinsonandInodded intandem, and the waiternodded back, satisfied. “Beback in a minute for thatorder.”

When he left again,Robinson reached for myhand. “He’s right. You haveto remember the good stuff,Axi.”

There was something

about theway he said it thatmade a chill crawl up myspine. Like he was talkingabout much more than justDetroit. But I smiled andshookhishandanyway.“It’sadeal.Scout’shonor,”Isaid.“Pinkie swear. Blah blahblah.”

Robinson smiled. “Youreallyarebeautiful,youknowthat?”hesaid.

I looked down at the

tabletop, but he reached outandtuckedafingerundermychin, tippingmyfaceupsoIhadtolookrightintohisdarkeyes.

“I mean it. Someoneshould tell you that everysingle day of your life. Andrightnow,itgetstobeme.”

“It’s always going to beyou,”Iwhispered.

He smiled again. “Getoverhere.”

I went around to his sideofthebooth—andIsatdowninhislap.Itsurprisedbothofus.

“Axi,” he said, his voicesoft and throaty. He ran afingertip along mycollarbone.“InevertookyouforthePDAtype.”

Ishiveredunderhistouchand pressed my forehead tohis. When I spoke, our lipsweretantalizinglyclose.“I’m

learning how to livedangerously,”Isaid.

Hemovedafractionofaninchcloser,sohislipsalmostbrushedmine. “Andwhat doyou think of it?” hewhispered.

I could almost taste him,and I held out for anotherlong, delicious momentbefore finally pressing mymouth against his. Pushingmy fingers into the tangle of

his hair. We kissed, andwarmthfloodedmybody.

“Ilikeit,”Iwhispered.“Alot.”

Iwasnearlydizzy.Sothisis what being intoxicatedfeels like. But it wasn’t fromtheshotI’dtaken.

I am here to say thatmoonshine has nothing onlove—andlust.

36

“THE BLUE STREAK, THEMEAN STREAK, and theMillenniumForce,”Robinsonsaid. “I want to go on all ofthem.You only get to go ontheMeanStreak,Axi.”

He was pretending to bemad at me because I’d toldhim he couldn’t have a SlimJimuntilhe’deatenabanana.Who are you, my mother?he’d asked. I told him Icouldn’twatchhimeatthingsmade from mechanicallyseparated chicken, aka slimypink meat paste, anymore.Then he’d accused me ofbeingasnottyvegetarian,andIhadtackledandtickledhim

inthecabofthetruckuntilhepleadedformercy.

Now we were inside thegates at Cedar Point, theroller-coaster capital of theworld, nestled away inSandusky, Ohio. Robinson,thedaredevil,andme,theonewhogetsqueasyonswings.

“I feel like the JuniorGemini might be more myspeed,”Isaid.

Robinson snorted. “Axi,

you’vedonethingslatelythatwerealotscarierthanarollercoaster.” He cocked a fingeratme,mimingagun.

“Don’tremindme,”Isaid.“So.Shallwe?”heasked,

andheldouthisarm.How could I refuse him?

My scalawag, my partner incrime, my heart. He seemedlikehewas inperfect health.Was he? I didn’t know, butnowwasthetimetoenjoyit.

We stood in the first linefor an hour at least,surrounded by tired parents,their hyperactive eight-year-olds and sullen thirteen-year-olds, and a handful ofsunburned retirees apparentlywilling to risk a heart attackto pull four g’s on a singleplummet.

Robinson sawmepickingnervously at the hem of myT-shirt. “I’m tellingyou, this

is going to be awesome,” hesaid. “You’re going to loveit.”

He reached out andstrokedmyhair,andthenhisfingers moved down to myneck, kneading gently,reassuringly.

I almost moaned inpleasure. “Whatever yousay…” Suddenly I wasn’tthinking about the ride at allanymore. I was thinking

about his hands. “Just keepdoingthat.”

He laughed, rubbing myshouldersnow,hisbodylongand warm against my back.“Isthisallittakes?”heasked.“A little back rub and toughAxi Moore turns into aquivering pile ofacquiescence?”

“Ooh, that’s a big wordfor you,” I teased, trying toreclaim somemeasure ofmy

sass.Itwasn’teasy.“Maybe a good

vocabularyiscontagious,”hesaid.

“Mmmmmmm.”“Although it seems like

youmightbelosingyours.”“Mmmmm,lower…”Robinson pulled me

against him then, wrappinghis arms around me frombehind.“Maybeweshouldn’tgettoocarriedaway,”hesaid

intomyear.Isighed.“Iguess…”“But you’re not afraid

anymore,areyou?”Ishookmyheadfirmly. I

wasn’t.Of course, my heart did

beginpoundingassoonasweclimbed into the rear car ofthe Millennium Force, but Itoldmyself itwasbecauseofexcitement, not fear. I toldmyself that compared to all

the things we’d done thatwereauthenticallydangerous,like stealing cars and ridingmotorcycles and breakingintopeople’spools,thiswasawalkinthepark.

When we rose slowly upthehill, the tracks amazinglysmoothbeneathus,IgrabbedRobinson’shand.Aheadofuspeople were alreadyscreaming.Myknuckleswentwhite around Robinson’s

fingers.“Hereitcomes,”hesaid.When it seemed that the

carcouldclimbnohigherintothe faultless summer sky,wecame to the top, paused forone silent, anticipatorysecond—and then plungeddown.Downdowndowndowndown.

I screamed more loudlythan I ever would havethought possible, and beside

me Robinson let out a wildwhoop of joy.We raced andlooped above the park, thewind making my eyes waterandthecarwhippingmebackand forth. I never stoppedscreaming,not forone singleinstant. And Robinson, hejust laughed and laughed,letting my fingernails dighalf-moonsintohisskin.

When we finally sloweddown on the last approach

and pulled under the awningtostop,IturnedtoRobinson,an enormous smile on myface. “Wow,” I declared. “Iwanttodothatagain.”

He gaveme a triumphantlook.“Iknewyou’d like it. Iknow you better than youknow yourself.” Then hereachedup. “Givemea littlehelphere,willyou?”

I bent down and grabbedhis hand, felt the weight of

his palm in mine. “Thanks,”hesaid.Hebrushedmybangsout of the way, and then hislipsagainstmyforeheadweresoftandsweet.

Holdinghandsloosely,wewalked out onto theconcourse, which was linedwith flowers, streaming withpeople, and fragrantwith thesmells of fried food andsunscreen.

“Let’sgetcottoncandy,”I

said.“And sodas as big as our

torsos,”Robinsonadded.“And nachos and licorice

ropes,” I cried, beginning toskip.

Robinson laughed as Ituggedhimalongbehindme.“I think the roller coasterknockedascrewloose.Don’tyou want some kale orsomething?”

“Tomorrow! Today we’re

going to act like normalteenagers!”

Because today I actuallyfelt like one. As if nothingmade Robinson and medifferent from anyone elseourage—notsickness,crime,or anything. We werecarefree.Lucky.Immortal.

“Have I ever told you Ilove you?” Robinson asked,catchinguptome.

“Yes,buttellmeagain,”I

said,stoppingtopressmyselfagainsthim.

“Iloveyou,”hesaid.“Iloveyouback,”Isaid.Andthenwekissedonthe

midway as crowds of peoplestreamed around us and theroller coaster carscorkscrewedoverhead.

37

“SO,” ROBINSON SAID,“ONWARDTOTHEBigApple?”We were finally heading forthe truck, soexhausted it feltlike we ought to take turnscarryingeachother.

“No one calls it the BigApple, you know,” I said.“That’satouristthing.”

“Andwe’re not tourists?”he asked, lifting one darkeyebrow.

“No,we’readventurers,”Isaid.“Explorers.”

Robinson handed me thesouvenir key chain he’dbought at the last gift shopbefore the exit. It was a tinymodel of the Millennium

Force, tucked inside a snowglobe. “Sinceyou’re a drivernow and all,” he said,grinningcrookedly.

“Of course, I don’t haveanykeys,”Ipointedout.

“Hey,ifyoudon’twantit,I can hook it to myscrewdriver or my cordlessdrill.”

Butofcourse Iwanted it.ItwasapresentfromtheboyIloved.“I’mgoingtogetyou

something, too,youknow,”Isaid,givingthesnowglobealittleshake.

Robinson demanded toknowwhatitwas,butIshookmy head and mimed zippingmylips.“It’sasurprise.”

As I climbed into thedriver’s seat of the truck, Icaught Robinson eyeing asporty black BMW parkednext tous.“Don’teventhinkaboutit,”Isaid.“Ican’tdrive

astick.”“I’ll teach you that next,”

hesaid.“Andthen,ATVs.”“Then dirt bikes,” I said.

“Why not?” Becauseeverything was going to bejustfinefromnowon.Maybewe really did have all thetimeintheworld.

With Robinson as mynavigator, I gotusonto I-80.Wehadalongdriveaheadofus, and the back roads just

weren’t going to cut it. Iwanted something lined withStarbucks.

“Doesn’t time moveslower the faster you go?”Robinsonasked,staringoutatflatgreenfieldsandsignsforPacificPridetruckstops.

I thought back to myphysics class,which felt likeit was about a million yearsago (so what does that sayabout time?). “It’s only a

matter of nanoseconds orsomething. Time movesslower the closer you are totheearth,too.”

“That gives me anexcellent reason not to gomountainclimbing.”

“As ifyouneededone,” Isaid.

“True. Somehow thethoughtofplunginghundredsof feet to my death neverappealed to me.” He toyed

with the key chain,watchingthe snow sift down over thetiny roller coaster. “Do youever think about whathappens after?” he askedsuddenly.

“After what?” I asked,movingintothepassinglane.

“After we earn ourwings,”hesaid.Helookedatme, waiting for a reaction. Ikept my eyes on the road.“Don’tjoke,”Isaid.

Robinsoncrossedhisarmsover his chest. “I’m notjoking.I’masking.”

“After we ‘earn ourwings’…”

“Don’t you remember?NurseSophieusedtosaythatall the time. She was totallysincere.”

Ipressedharderonthegaspedal. I was actually goingthe speed limit now.“Because she believed that

whenyoudie,youbecomeanangel,” I said. “Whereas youthinkwejusttakeadirtnap.”

Robinson snickered.“Sorry. That dirt nap thingalwaysgetsme.”

“It’snotfunny,”Isaid.But the truth was, we’d

joked about death constantlyback in the ward. All of ushad, because somehow itmade us less afraid.Oh, I’msooo tired, someone would

say, I think I’llgosleepwiththe fishes. Someone elsewould pipe up: Lately I’vebeen thinkingaboutbuyingapine condo. Or: Yeah, I’mplanning on going into thefertilizerbusiness.

It was flipping Death thebird. And it made awfulthings like chemotherapy-induced nausea and hair lossjustslightly less awful.But Ithought—or hoped—that

Robinson and I had left thatsort of thing behind us. Thatsuchhumorwasno longer…medicallyrelevant.

“Idon’tknow,Robinson,”I said, gripping the steeringwheel. “I want to thinkthere’s something on theother side, but where’s theevidence?Noonesendsyouapostcardfromtheafterlife.”

“Which is totally rude ofthem,”hereplied.

“I know, right?” I raisedmy fist. “Do you hear that,CaroleAnn?Rude.”

Robinson reached overandputhishandonmyknee.“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’llwriteyou.”

I felt like I’d beenpunchedinthegut.

AndIwanted to laugh, toshow that I knew he wasjoking. But I wasn’t entirelysurehewas.

38

WE CROSSED THE WIDEEXPANSE OF Pennsylvaniawhile Robinson slept. In thedark it looked like any otherstate,and I shot through it atseventy-five.

In East Orange, NewJersey, atmidmorning, I sentRobinson into a Pathmark tobuy groceries (“healthystuff,” I’d said, fullyexpecting him to try to passoff Froot Loops as actualfruit)while Iwentacross thestreet to a place called AllThatGlittersIsGold.

Thankstomydad,Iknewmyway around a pawnshop.Which was how, for fifty

bucks and the pearl-and-goldbracelet that had been mymother’s, I bought Robinsonanacousticguitar.

“Where’d you go?”Robinson asked when Ipulled up outside thePathmark. He set the bag ofgroceriesinthebackseat,andIwasshockedtoseeanactualbananainit.

“Just a quick errand,” Isaid,tryingnottosmileatthe

thought of the guitar hiddenunder the tent behind thebackseat. “Did you honestlybuyfruitandvegetables?”

Heleanedoverandkissedmyneck.“Tellmewhereyouwent,” he said, his lipsticklishonmyskin.

Idrewinmybreath.“No.”Every time he touchedme, Ifelt mywhole body begin tohumandshiver.

“Tell me,” he said again,

moving frommyneck tomyearlobe, his mouth light andteasing.

“Robinson,” I whispered.I’dtellhimanything,I’dgiveup every secret I’d ever had,ifhekeptdoingthat.

I pulled him toward me,mymouthfindinghis.BeforeIknewit,myfingerswereonthe buttons of his shirt. Imanaged to get the top twoundone,butthensuddenlyhe

moved away from me. Hebacked up against the cardoor, rebuttoning his shirtquickly.

I satup straight,blinking.Confused. Didn’t he want it,too?

“What?” I asked. “Why—”

“Security guards,”Robinson said, noddingtoward the burly guyswalking up and down the

rowsoftheparkinglot.Therewere three of them

—two only a stone’s throwaway. But they could havebeen sitting in the backseatand I wouldn’t have noticedwhileRobinsonwasfillingupallmysenses.

“Weshouldprobablygo,”he said. “We can, um, dosomemoreofthatlater.”

Mycheekswerepinkwithembarrassment. “Okay,” I

said. As if I didn’t want toshout,Hellyes,wewill!

Robinson smiled. “Butyou know what? I think Iwanttodrive.”

I was so relieved that hewas feeling good, so thrilledat the way I could kiss himnow whenever I wanted—security guardsnotwithstanding—that I,small-town girl Axi Moore,didn’t freak out at all when

the New York skylinebecame visible along theturnpike, with its hills andvalleysofsilveryskyscrapers.I didn’t care that we sat intraffic outside the HollandTunnelforforty-fiveminutes,or that Robinson got lost onthe way across town to theEastVillage.

He was driving. He washappyandstrong.Thatmadeeverythingokay.

39

TOGETHER, ALONG WITH ACRUSHOF tourists,wewalkeddownSt.MarksPlace, tryingon cheap sunglasses at theoutdoor booths and browsingatwo-storystorecalledTrash

and Vaudeville, whereRobinson posed for a picturein a silver pleather bikerjacket and I triedon a brightblue wig. We stopped in toSt. Mark’s Bookshop, and Igot a copy of Whitman’sLeaves of Grass and a bookofDylanThomaspoems.

“Poetry?” Robinson said,lookingaghast.

“Justreadone,”Isaid.Robinson opened the

Whitman to a random pageand cleared his throat. “ ‘Achildsaid,Whatisthegrass?fetching it to me with fullhands; /Howcould I answerthe child?… I do not knowwhatitisanymorethanhe./Iguess itmustbe theflagofmydisposition,outofhopefulgreen stuff woven.’ ” Helooked at me, intrigued.“Okay,” he said, “I like thatwell enough. ‘Hopeful green

stuffwoven.’”I laughed. “I’ve got

something you’ll like better,though.” I took his hand andledhimdownthestreettothecar.

“Is it my surprise?” heaskedexcitedly.

“Look under the tent,” Isaid.

WhenRobinsonpulledoutthe guitar, his whole face litup.Heheftedtheweightofit

in his hands and plucked astringexperimentally.

“Axi,how—”“Let’sgoplayit,”Isaid.I

didn’t want to have to tellhim that I’d given up mymother’s bracelet—the lastthingIhadofhers—tobuyit.AndthatIwasn’ttheleastbitsorry.

Hand in hand,wewalkedover to Tompkins SquarePark and found a bench

beneath a ring of ginkgotrees.Robinsonstrummedforamoment,findingthechords.They seemed familiar tome,butIdidn’trecognizethetuneuntilhebegantosing.

“Movingforwardusingallmy breath,” Robinson sang.The song was “I Melt withYou.”

I haven’t talked aboutRobinson’s voice, and this ispartlybecauseIcan’texplain

it. It’s clear and rough at thesame time; it’s intimate butalso demands an audience.It’susuallysoft,butsomehowyouhearitnotjustwithyourears but with your wholebody. And with your heartmostofall.

Peoplewhowerewalkingby began to stop to listen ashe sang. Robinson didn’tseemtonoticethemgraduallygathering around him,

though.Hiseyeswereonhisboot, tapping on thecobblestones.Everyonceinawhile, he lookedatme, rightinto my eyes, singing: “I’llstop theworld andmeltwithyou…”

Soon there was a bigcircle of people, young, old,andinbetween.Mostofthemwere parents, with kidscarrying stuffed bunnies orpockmarkedNerffootballsor

—the older ones—iPhones.And these parents all knewthe song, because it was theone they’d danced to twentyyearsearlier,whentheywereinhighschoolandinloveforthefirsttime.

Atfirstafewofthemjustmouthed thewords,but then,quietly, they began to sing.Then others joined in, too,andtheylosttheirhard,blankcity faces and smiled, and in

anotherminuteitwasadamnsing-along. I swear to God,there were people with tearsin their eyes, because that’show beautiful Robinson iswhenheplays.

When the song ended,there was silence. For amoment I felt like the entirecitywent quiet and took onelong, sweet breath. Likeeveryone, everywhere, wasthinking about life, and how

it is the happiest and saddestthing,themostwonderfulandthemostterribleandthemostprecious.

Then the silencebroke.Awoman in a bright yellowdressbegantoclap,andthen,just the way the singing hadgrown, so did the clapping,until the applause was reallyloud. There was anotherwomanblowinghernose,anda man staring up at the sky

and blinking really hard andfast—but most people werejustsmiling.

An old man steppedforwardandplacedhiscaponthe ground. “You forgot topassthehat,”hesaid.

Robinson looked up,startled. “Pardon?” he said.He was still in the world ofthe song. He didn’t realizetherewasanyonebuthimandme.

The old man looked alittle like Ernie. He turnedbacktothecrowdandcalled,“Cough it up for the youngperformer,allright?”

Robinson and I watchedas almost every personsteppedforwardwithquartersand dollars. I saw a womangive her daughter somemoney,andthegirltiptoedupandputatwentyintothehat.She was about Carole Ann’s

age when she died, the ageshe’d be forever. Her hairwasevenred,likemysister’s.

“Thankyou,”Iwhispered.Then it was all over, and

thepeopleleft.RobinsonandI were alone again. The hatwasfullofmoney.

Robinson was smiling atme. “We’re rich,” he said,andhepulledmeontohislap.

Andtruly,then,itfeltlikewewere.

40

WEDECIDEDTOSPLURGEONAHOSTEL thatnight. It soundedlike a better idea thansleeping on a park bench,though we would’ve hadplentyofinterestingcompany

hadwegonethatroute.The Grand Street Hostel

was on the edge of LittleItaly, where it bleeds intoChinatown, and it lookeddecent enough from theoutside. Therewere a coupleof backpacker types smokingout front, and the guy at thedeskwasfriendlyinastonedsortofway.

But Robinson and Iquickly learned that the

difference between a hosteland a hotel goes way, waybeyond the minor distinctionin spelling. When the s isadded, you subtract thingslike privacy, comfort, and inthiscase,ceilings.Thehostelwas a maze of tiny, thin-walled cells, sloppilyconstructed inside anenormoushangarlikeroom.

“It’s a bit more prison-ythan Imight have expected,”

Robinsonsaid.“No kidding,” I agreed,

stepping over a lone boot inthehall.“Ifeellikeweshouldhavegottenfingerprinted.”

Luckily, we had our ownroom, with two single bedspushed right up against eachother,andaboutsixinchesoffloorspaceoneitherside.

“Well, the sheets lookclean,atleast,”Robinsonsaidbrightly. Then he gave me a

quick kiss and headed downthehalltothebathroom.

I sat on the corner of thebedandlookedupatthenon-ceiling. I could hear one endof an unpleasant cell phoneconversation from a nearbyroom. It’s not my fault yougotkickedout,someonesaid.Everyone’s hated you foryears.

I hummed a little, tryingto give this person some

privacy. The song was“Tangled Up in Blue,” butyouwouldn’tknowit,sinceIcan’tcarryatune.Ican’tplayan instrument, either. “It’sokay,” Robinson used toassureme. “You’ll makemeagreatroadiesomeday.”

I hummed faster andplucked at the corner of thesheet. I realized I wasnervous, but also excited.Robinson and I hadn’t been

aloneinaroomtogethersinceLA, when we ever-so-chastely watched Puss inBoots. What would happentonight, I wondered. Howunchastewouldwebe?

This was another thing Idefinitelyhadn’tplanned for.ItwasaroadI’d justhavetofeelmywayalong.

Nopunintended.When Robinson came in

from the bathroom, his hair

was wet and he smelled likeIvory.His shirt hung looselyonhis shoulders, and hewaswearingblueplaidboxers.

Heplacedhisfoldedjeanson top of his backpack. Thebedsighedashesatdown.

“Hi,”Ihalf-whispered.“Hi back,” he said softly.

“Well.What do youwant todonow?”

I knew the answer to thatquestion,even if itkindof…

scared me a little. I took adeepbreath,willingmyselftobebrave.

Islippedmyshirtovermyhead.

Robinson sucked in hisbreath. And then he gentlyswept the long waves of myhair away from the back ofmyneckandkissedmethere.I shivered, goose bumpsrisingonmyarms.

Icouldfeelhisbreath,the

impossible softness of hislips. I tilted my head back,andherana fingerdownmyneck, stopping in the hollowofmy clavicle for amomentbefore tracing each of mycollarbones. He kissed alongmy shoulders, tickling mewith the tiniest scratches ofhisunshavenchin.

We fell back against thebed,andaboveme,Robinsonshruggedoffhisflannel.Then

he bent his dark head down,andwewerenothingbut lipsand tongues and teeth untilwe had to stop to catch ourbreath.

Then we lay there, oureyes locked in the half-light.Robinson was looking at methe way you’d look atsomething you’d lost amillion years ago and neverthoughtyou’dfind.

I gazed back at him in

wonder, realizing how muchof him there was still todiscover: the scar on theinside of his palm, the blueveinsinhiswrist,thetriangleof freckles on his chest, justto the left of his breastbone.These small, secret places. Iwantedtoknowallofthem.

ButIdidn’tknowhowfarthings would go tonight. Iwanted to be slow—and Iwantedtogofast.

Robinson cleared histhroat. “Do you—?” hebegan.

“I don’t have anyprotection, if that’swhat youweregoingtoask.”Myvoicecame out too loud, and Ishrank back against him inembarrassment.

He made a noise—agrunt?Ahalf-laugh?

“I don’t want to havekids,”Iblurted.

Then he really did laugh.“Whoa, Axi. Moving a littlefast,arewe?”

I pulled the blanket upovermyface.Thiswasallsonewtome.CouldIhelpitifIwasdoingitwrong?

But still, there wassomething I wanted him toknow.Iforcedmyselftokeeptalking, though part of mewas ready to die ofhumiliation. “I didn’t think

we were about to make ababy,Robinson.Imeantitasa philosophical thing.Between the Moore familycancergenesand,like,globalwarming, any kid of minewould be doomed. She’d beborn with blue eyes and atickingtimebombinsideher,justliketherestofmyfamily.Talk about getting dealt ashitty hand of cards.” I triednottosoundasbitterasIfelt.

Robinson was slowlystroking my fingers. “Theblue eyes are so nice,though,”hesaidquietly.

I smiled and placed myhandonhissmoothchest.Hisarm was tucked under myneck, and as we lay there, itfelt like we were extensionsofeachother.Likeourbodiesand our hearts had to betogether to make one whole,perfectperson.

41

THE NEXT MORNING WE WOKEUP IN that same position—through some miracle,Robinson’s armhadn’t fallenasleep during the night. Wegot coffee and big, pillowy

bagels from the corner deli.We asked for them toastedand dripping with butter—Robinson’sfavorite.Thenwetook the subway up to theMetropolitanMuseumofArt.

When a panhandler madehis way through the subwaycar, dressed as if it werewinter instead of June,Robinson reached into hispocket and produced acrumpledfive.

The panhandler bowed asheacceptedit.“Moneyandabeautiful woman. You haveeverything,sir.”

“Well, actually, now youhave my money,” Robinsonpointedout.

The panhandlerconsidered this fact for amoment. “But who needsmoneywhenyouhaveher?”

“My thoughts exactly,”Robinson said. He put his

arm around me like Ibelongedtohim.

Whenwe got to theMet,we wandered among thehuge, high-ceilinged rooms,ogling famous works we’donly seen in tinyreproductions: Monet’sRouen Cathedral, VanGogh’s Cypresses, GeorgiaO’Keeffe’s Black Iris, andJackson Pollock’s AutumnRhythm.

And although I wasstaring at masterpieces, whatI kept seeing was Robinsonthe night before, shirtless,lying next to me. It made ithard to concentrate.Sometimes, when he lookedat me in a certain way, Iwondered if he was havingthe same experience. “Apretty girl who naked is / isworthamillion statues.”Thepoet e. e. cummings wrote

that.(NotthatI’dbeentotallynaked.Just…partially.)

Robinsonstopped in frontofMadameX, a portrait of abeautiful woman by JohnSingerSargent,andshookhishead in wonder. “We suredon’t have art like this inKlamathFalls,”hesaid.

“Wedon’tevenhavefallsinKlamathFalls,”Ireplied.

I’d thought that maybe apart of me would miss my

hometown.Crappyas itwas,itwasstillmine.ButImissednothing—because everythingthattrulymatteredtomewaseither already gone or righthere next to me in themuseum,holdingmyhand.

When we ended up infrontof theEgyptian tomb—the one where HoldenCaulfield almost has abreakdowninTheCatcher inthe Rye—Robinson bent to

wipe a scuff from the toe ofhisboot.

“I’lltrynottotakethisasasign,”hesaid.

“Asignofwhat?”Iaskedsharply.

“Doom,” Robinsonanswered. “Isn’t stumblingacross a pharaoh’s tombworse than, like, a black catcrossing your path? Youknow, King Tut’s curse andallthosestories…”

I slid my hand into thebackpocketofhisjeans.“No,Scalawag, don’t be silly.Wewere randomly walking. Wecould have just as easilyended up in the café orsomething.”

“Whichremindsme—”“—thatyou’rehungry.”“Exactly.” He stood up a

little straighter, and I couldsee thewayhe shookoff hismoment of worry. “Do you

knowwhatelseIwant?”“No,”Isaid,buttheword

caughtinmythroat,becauseIdid know, of course. I justwantedtomakehimshowmetheanswer.

Robinson backed me upagainst the wall and pressedhis lips to mine. My armscircledhiswaistandIarchedmyselfagainsthim.ThiswaswhatIwashungryfor…

A group of kids in Camp

TreetopT-shirtsfiledintotheroom, sowe ducked into thetomb to make out in secret.Wehardlyevencaredwhenafew giggling kids spied usand called some of theirfriendsover.

But we pulled apart and,exchanging some gigglesourselves, quickly made ourexit.

42

OUR FINAL NEW YORKDESTINATION: Nathan’sFamous. It was all the wayout on Coney Island—whichisnotactuallyanislandbutisso far away fromManhattan

on the lurching, sluggish Ftrain that it felt like anentirelydifferentworld.

Whenwefinallygotthere,the beach was as wide andflat as a parking lot, thewaves small and distant.There were a lot of people,and some of them wereactuallyswimming,whichnoone in Oregon did without awetsuit.ThePacificiscold.

ThoughRobinson seemed

drained,westrolledalongtheboardwalk past bumper carsand an arcade popping withdigital gunfire. People wereflyingkitesandskateboardingand jogging and hawkingcheap souvenirs, like hugefoam sunglasses and T-shirtsthat said KEEP CONEY ISLANDFREAKY.

“You want to ride theCylone?”Iasked,pointingtothe roller coaster in the

distance. “Or the WonderWheel?”

Robinson shook his head.“Let’sjustgetthehotdogs.”

Because he seemed sotired all of a sudden, Isuggested, ever so delicately,the ideaofgoingback to thehostel. But Robinsonwouldn’thearofit.

“I needmy daily dose ofnitrates,” he said. “Plus,we’retourists,andit’sourjob

tobetouristy.”So we turned up Surf

Avenue,where the enormousgreen sign for Nathan’sloomed above the street.There was a big outdoorseating area, with seagullsperchedneartheplastictableswaiting for scraps. The airsmelled like the seaandbeerand grease. Not thatappetizing,inmyopinion,butRobinson’s whole demeanor

had changed. He looked likeakidonChristmasmorning.

“HowmanyshouldIget?”heasked.

“I don’t know,” I said,scanningthemenu.“Two?”Iwas going to have to orderthe Caesar salad, since thiswasn’t exactly the place togetatofudog.

Robinson scoffed at two.“Sonya ‘the Black Widow’Thomas ate more than forty.

Saysrightthereonthesign.”“But that was a hot dog–

eating contest,” I said. “Thisisjustameal.”

Robinson considered thestatement. “True. I’ll settlefor… four. One with chili,onewith sauerkraut, and twoplain.”

“You’retakingyourlifeinyour hands,” I saiddisapprovingly.

“Only my gastrointestinal

tract,” Robinson countered,andIgrimaced.

Instead of eatingwith therestofthecrowd,wetookourfood back to the beach andsat on thewarm, gritty sand.It was littered with cigarettebutts and half-buried beercans.Butstill!Theoceanwasa gorgeous blue-green, andthe weather was perfect, andweweretogether.

“Canyoubelievethattwo

weeks ago we were on abeach in California?”Robinsonasked.

“Crazy,” I said, taking astabatalimppieceoflettuce.“We’vedonesomuch.”

Robinson waggled hiseyebrows at me. “Notenough, if you know what Imean.”

“Pervert,” I said, nudginghimwithmybaretoe.

Hebitintohissecond—or

was it third?—hot dog andnudgedmeback.

I decided to abandon mywilted, greasy salad and layback in the sand, watchingthe kites swoop and diveaboveme. Imusthave fallenasleep for a little while,because when I woke,Robinson wasn’t next to meanymore.

I looked around for amoment, and when I didn’t

see him, I got up and beganwalking toward theboardwalk.Maybehe’dgoneoff to find the HeadlessWoman or Insectavora, thetattooed fire-eater.Maybe hewas buying me a ConeyIsland shot glass to go withmyCedarPointsnowglobe.

Buthewasn’tdoingeitherof those things. Instead, Ifound him leaning against afence,shaking.

Andvomiting.I reachedout to touchhis

shoulder, but he waved meaway. I took a step back.“You need to see a doctor,Robinson,”Ipleaded.

Afteramomenthelookedup,hisfacepaleandhiseyesred and watering. “Beforeyougoall dramaonme,”hesaid,“itwasthehotdogs.Nottheyou-know-what.”

“And how do you know

that?”Iasked.“I’m fine now. And

actually, this is totallyawesome,” he said, wipinghisfaceandtryingtosmileatme. “I could so beat thatBlack Widow lady—I’ll justeatandbarf,eatandbarf,andthat way I can consume anunlimited number of hotdogs.”

I sighed. “You are sick,Robinson.Inalotofways.”

“But you love me,” hesaid,reachingformyhands.

“Ido,”Isaid.Somuch.Robinson fell asleep on

the train home, and Ipractically had to carry himup to our cell in the hostel.Heseemedfeverish,butItoldmyself it was just sunburn.Windburn. Whatever itneeded to be, as long as itwasn’tanotherinfection.

I sat for a long time,

listening to the soundsof thecityallaroundus,butmostlyjust watching him sleep.Werehischeekslessfull?Hiseyesdeeper,more sunken? Itcould be happening soslowly, so subtly, that Ihadn’tbeenabletoseeit…

I lay down besideRobinsonandcurledmybodyaroundhis,rememberinghowI’d refused to tell him abedtime story back in Las

Vegas. I pressed my checkagainst his beating heart andvowed Iwould never say notohimagain.

43

“WEHAVE TOGO TO PHILLY,”ROBINSONannounced.

“Wedo?”He nodded. “I’m not

sayingthistripisabucketlistor anything, but it is

extremelyimportantthatIeataPhillycheesesteak.”

Ihandedour roomkey tothe stoned front-desk clerk,and we stepped into thesunshine. “Tell me you’rejoking,” I said, thinking, Hecan’tkeepahotdogdown,sowhy on earth is he talkingaboutcheesesteaks?

Robinson shook his head.“Today I want to doeverything, Axi. Every silly

thingIcanthinkof.”I put my hand on his

waist, slipped my fingersunder theedgeofhis shirt tofeelhisskin.Icouldfeelhimshiver at my touch. “Asopposed to yesterday, or thedaybefore,whenyouwereagood boy and did only whatotherstoldyoutodo?”

He laughed and wrappedhis arms around me. “Okay,youhaveapoint.”

I didn’t want to spoil themood,butIhadtosaywhatIwas thinking. “We’ve had alot of fun, and we candefinitely keep on having it.But I think you should see adoctor,justtobesure.”

Robinson shook his headagain, this time moreemphatically. “No can do,Aximoron. Places to go,peopletosee…”

I looked at him carefully,

weighing his stubbornnessagainstmine.IfIfoughthardnow, maybe I could get himto go. Just a minor checkup,I’d say, a quick ear to thelungsandheart,maybeatinylittleX-rayandreadingofhisLDH levels. I’d sit in thewaiting room, staringat stalemagazines and waiting forgoodnews.

Because maybe it wouldwork out.Whowas to say it

couldn’t?On the other hand, if

Robinson went to thehospital, hewould resentmefor it. Intensely,andpossiblyeternally.

Whose trip is it, Axi? Iaskedmyself.Yours?Orhis?Because in the end, someonehadtomakethecall.

“It’s less than two hoursaway,” Robinson said,interrupting my thoughts.

“It’s not like I’m asking youtodrivemetoDaytona.”

“You’re not going to dothatnext,areyou?”

“No, ma’am. Scout’shonor.”

I sighed. “Fine,” I said.“Youwin.”

He smiled his beautifulsmile.“Iloveitwhenyourollyour eyes like that,” he said.“It’sadorable.”

“Oh,stop.”

“And when you sort ofwrinkle up your nose, likeyou smell something funny,but it’s really that you’retrying to decide whether tolaughorbeannoyed.”

“Oh,really.What else doyou love about me?” I wasannoyed,butitwasatmyselfrather than at Robinson. Ornot annoyed, exactly—morelike…scared.

We were at the car now,

and I was climbing into thedriver’sseat.“Let’shearit,”Isaid. I pulled into the streetand pointed us toward theHolland Tunnel. You’dalmostthinkIhadalicensetodrive.

“Well, everything,”Robinson said. “Butspecifically? The list is kindoflong.”

“Youaresuchaflatterer,”Isaid.

Robinson didn’t sayanything for a while afterthat. In fact, wewere on theother side of the river beforehe spoke, and I thought he’dfallenasleep.

“Ilovehowyoutouchthetipofyournosewhenyou’rethinking hard aboutsomething,” he said, turningtofixhisgazeonme.“Ilovehow you tuck your hairbehindyourearsbutitalways

slips right back downimmediately.Iloveyoureyesand your perfect lips. I lovethat your nail polish, whenyou bother to wear it, isalways chipped. I love howyou use fancy words that Ihave to look up at home. Ilove the tiny little crescentmoon of a birthmark on thetipofyour leftpinkie. I lovetheway—”

I didn’t need to hear any

more. I needed to kiss him.SoIpulledovertothesideofthe road, and there, with theNew York City skylinebehindus,Idid.

“It’s going to take a lotlonger to get to Philly thisway,” Robinson said, talkingandkissingandsmilingallatonce.

“We have time,” I said.“Wehavesomuchtime.”

44

“SO,SCALAWAG,DOYOUWANTTOGOTOPat’sKingofSteaksor Geno’s?” I asked, pokingRobinson awake—gently, ofcourse. We’d made it toPhilly in under two hours,

and now I was parkedbetween the two cheesesteakinstitutions, which stood ablock away from each otherlike captains of opposingteams.

Robinson yawned andstretched. “You know,” hesaid, frowning slightly, “I’mnotactually thathungryrightnow.” For a moment heplaced his hand over hisstomach—a strange kind of

gesture for him. “What I’dlikeisanicewarmdrink.”

Ilookedathimsharply.Itwaseightydegreesout,andIwas sweating against thetruck seat. “You’re not cold,areyou?”

Being cold meant thatRobinsonmighthaveafever,and if he had a fever, thatmeant he might have aninfection, and if he had aninfection, then he needed to

get to a hospital. Stat.Because infections in whatdoctors like to call animmunocompromised person—a person like Robinson,who’d had high-dose chemo,radiation therapy, and a stemcell transplant—could bedeadly.

I reached toward hisforehead to feel it, but hebrushed my hand away.“No!” he said, a little too

loudly. “I just thought someteasoundednice.Thenwegogetthecheesesteak.”

He got out of the truckand startedwalking. I stayedwhere I was, staring at himthrough the windshield,feelingbothmadandworried.What was I supposed to do?Drag him to the ER so theycould take his temperature?Hewouldn’tletme.

SoIgotoutandcaughtup

to him—easily, because hewaswalking at an oldman’space. Like every step tookconcentrationandeffort.

“A little caffeine and I’llbe good to go,” he said,pointing to a coffee shop attheendoftheblock.

Pleaseberightaboutthat,Ithought.Itookhishand.

In the café we found awindow table and sank intothe worn but comfortable

seats. Then a salesman typeburst in and commandeeredthetablenexttous,talkingonhiscellphoneandatthesametime waving the waitressover,asifitwereamatteroflife and death that he gotservedbeforewedid.“…QRcodes are going to increasethe conversion rate of yoursales funnel—” he wassaying. When the waitresswalkedbyheshouted,“Large

Earl Grey with soy milk onthe side and raw sugar, twolumps.”

Robinson glared at himfor a moment. “This is theCityofBrotherlyLove,jerk,”he muttered. Then he restedhisheadonthetable.“Man.Idon’t know why I’m sotired.”

I wanted to scream,Becauseyouhavecancer?

Instead, I reachedoutand

ran my fingers through histhick, dark hair. I’d almostforgottenwhathelookedlikewithout it. It took awhile togrow back after the chemo,but when it did, he grew itlonger.

“Thatfeelsgood,”hesaid,hisvoicemuffled.

I took a deep breath,steelingmyselfforwhatIhadtosay.“Robinson,weneedtoget you back to a hospital—

actually,ourhospital.I’llusemy credit card and we’ll flyhome.Wecanbethereintenhours.”

“I don’t like planes,”Robinsonsaidtothetabletop.

“You have to see Dr.Suzuki. Now. She’ll knowwhattodo.”

“Every time I hear hername, I think about violinlessons. Have you heard ofthe Suzuki method of

teachingmusic?”“Don’t change the

subject.”Robinson lifted his head

fromthetable.His tiredeyesmet mine. “You say she’llknowwhattodo.Butwhatifthere’snothingtobedone?”

“There’s alwayssomethingtobedone,”Isaid,myvoice rising. I didn’t likethisnewfatalistic toneofhisatall.

“You’ve plannedeverything so perfectly, Axi.Please don’t get all freakedoutnow.”

I reached for his handsand gripped them hard. “Butwhen does it end,Robinson?We can’t run like thisforever.”

“We’re not going to,” heassured me. “We just haveone more stop to make. It’sthelastone.”

“One last stop?” I asked.“Where’s that? Please don’tsay you want to go to NewOrleans to eat jambalaya orsomething.”

He laughed and squeezedmyfingers.“No.Mystomachis no longer dictating ourtravels.But it’s…well, it’sacoupleofstatesaway.”

“A couple of states?” Irepeated.IdoubtedChucktheTruckwouldmakeitthatfar.

Next to us the salesmanhadbegunshouting.“No,Ed,the goal is to shorten theamount of time it takes theprobable purchaser tobecomeaproductowner!”

Both Robinson and Iglared at him now. He’dtaken a table that could haveseated six, and he wastreating it like his desk.Scattered across it were hisiPad, a BlackBerry, a leather

binder, a copy of thePhiladelphia Inquirer, carkeys…

Hiscarkeys.It was then that I had an

ideathatwouldhaveshockedthe old Axi Moore to thedepths of her soul. Goodthingshenolongerexisted.

“Axi?” Robinson said,wavingahandinfrontofmyface.“Aren’tyougoingtogetonmycasefornottellingyou

whereIwanttogo?”“Yes,” I said distractedly.

“Later.” I was staring at thesalesman.Get up, I thought.Getup.

“The numbers don’t addup,Ed,”heyelled.

And then, as if what I’djust imagined were totallymeant to be, the salesmanstood. Still yammering intohis Bluetooth, he made hiswaytowardthebathrooms.

I got up and threw a fiveonthetable.“Meetmeatthesoutheast corner of theblock,” I said, and Iwas outthedoorbeforeRobinsonhadevenopenedhismouthtoaskmewhy.

Outside, I half-joggeddown the street, clicking theautomatic lock button on thekey chain and watching forthe answering flicker ofheadlights. Would it be the

blue Acura? The silverToyota? I had such amightysenseofpurposethatIhardlynoticed the racing of myheart. I was taking care ofRobinson. Ifheneeded togosomewhere, I was going toseetoitthathisjourneytookplaceinareliablevehicle.

I’d crossed onto the nextblock and was nearing thethirdwithoutasinglechirpofa car. My pulse quickened

andmyheadbegantohurt.Iwasstealingacar.Inbroaddaylight.Fear began to trump my

sense of purpose. I startedjogging faster. Where areyou? Flash your lights, Iwhispered,likeIhadmagicalpowers or something. Orphenomenal luck. It didn’tmatterwhich.

Finally,whenIwasabouttogiveup,Iheardthebeepof

a horn answering its remotekey. I turned toward thesound and gasped. It was amidnight-blue Mustang GT.Aconvertible.

I started cackling like acrazy person. Robinson wasgoingtofreakout.

Easy as pie, I opened thedriver’s-sidedoorandjumpedin.Theseatsweretanleather,and the inside sparkled likethat salesman spit-shined it

everymorning.Hewasgoingto seriously miss his ride. Awave of remorse came overme,butIshookitoff.

The Mustang practicallyleapt into the street. I pulledup to our truck and quicklytossedourbagsinatthesametime I called to Robinson,who was leaning against atelephone pole as if standinguponhisownweretoomuchwork. “Hurry, the bus is

leaving.”Hewalkedtowardmeand

hiseyeswidened.“Wha—”“Justgetin.”Ittookhimanothersecond

to wrap his head around thedirective. But then he slid innext tome,and Igunned theengine.

Andweweregone.“How—what—I don’t—”

Robinsonstuttered.“AmI—”“Keys, Clyde,” I said,

feigning completenonchalance. “They’re somuch easier than a cordlessdrill.”

“I just don’t—” Hecouldn’t even finish asentence.

“I borrowed them fromthe loud guy in the coffeeshop.”

Robinson’s eyes widenedeven further as he lookedaround the car. He ran his

hand over the dashboard.“Four-point-six-literV-8withthree-fifteen horsepower andthree hundred twenty-fivepound-feet of torque. PureAmerican-mademuscle. Thisthing is a beast, Axi.” Heturned to beam at me. “Justwhen I thought I could notpossiblyloveyoumore.”

He began to laugh—astrong laugh like I hadn’theard in days. “Seriously,

thank God,” he finally said,gasping for breath. “For aminute,Ireally,trulythoughtI’ddiedandgonetoheaven.”

45

ROBINSON TOLD ME TO DRIVESOUTH,SO Idid.Foronce,noquestions asked. I’d doanything he askedme, and Ihad to admit, the Mustangwasamajorstepupfromthe

truck. It had power steering,air-conditioning, and,according to Robinson, “anaftermarket Bose speakersystemthatcostsmorethananew Kia.” It just ate up themiles.

He was staring sleepilyout the window now,watchingtheworldgobytheway Iused todo.“Haveyounoticed,” he said once, “howthis entire country is, like, in

patterns? It goes city, thensuburban sprawl, thenfarmland. And then city,suburban sprawl, farmlandagain…”

“And you’re never morethan fifty miles from aMcDonald’s,”Ijoked.

“That’s a relief,” heanswered.

Later that evening, afterspeeding through Delaware,Maryland, and half of

Virginia, I pulled into a reststopinthemiddleoftheBlueRidge Mountains. In thehumid twilight, I spread outour sleeping bags near theborder of trees. I didn’tbotherwiththetent,becauseIdidn’t want to draw anyattentionourway.Accordingto the strange logic of theinterstate rest area system,sleeping is fine, but campingisn’t. And although camping

atarestareawouldbeprettylowonmy listofcrimesandmisdemeanors, I saw noreason to be awakened by acop tapping his flashlight onourtentpole.

IheldouttheSlimJimI’dbought for Robinson at thelast gas station,buthe shookhis head. “That Filet-O-Fishwehadfordinnerissittinginmy stomach like a ball oflead,” he groaned. “I think

I’mgoing to have to sleep itoff.”

“I told you to order thesalad,”Isaid.“Itwasgood.”

He snorted. “Getting asalad at McDonald’s is likegoing into Car Toys andcoming out with a pencilsharpener.” He slipped intothe sleeping bag, notbotheringtoremoveanythingbutthebeltfromhisjeans.

“Well, I feel just fine,” I

saidabithuffily.“Well, you don’t have

cancer,”hesnapped.I sucked in my breath

sharply and held it. In thesilence that followed, Iheardthe crickets chirping and therushingwavesofcarspassingbyonthehighway.IfIclosedmy eyes, I could almostimagine it was the sound oftheocean.

I felt Robinson reaching

formyhand. “I’m sorry,”hewhispered. “I shouldn’t havesaidthat.”

Iturnedtohim,tearsnowwetting my cheeks. “What,we should just pretend thateverything’s all right? Weshould just believe what wewant tobelieve? Is thatwhatweshoulddo,Robinson?”

He was quiet for amoment, his brow furrowedin concentration. “I don’t

knowwhatweshoulddo,”hesaid softly. “Wake up anddrive some more tomorrow.Try to laugh. Love eachother. I mean, what else isthere?”

“I’mscared,”Iwhispered.“There’s nothing to be

afraid of, Axi.” He broughtmy hand up to his lips andkissedit,rightinthecenterofmypalm.

“Again, is that what we

want to believe? I just feellikewe’re stumbling forwardnow, hoping for the best. Imean, where are we going?And where is the roadmap?Themetaphoricalone,Imean—the directions. LEGO setscome with directions.Temporary tattooscomewithdirections. Once I saw anentireWebpagededicated totelling you how to ordercoffeefromStarbucks!”

“Really?”“Yes!Steponeis‘Decide

whatyouwanttoorderbeforeyour turn in line.’ I’m like,oh, really?Wow!Thank yousomuch!Ineverwouldhavethoughtofthat.”

Robinson was laughingnow. I was glad I’d cheeredhim up, but I wasn’t feelingany better. “Where are thedirections for the big things?Because I want them,” I

cried. “What are theinstructionsfor,Idon’tknow,life?”

Robinson’s laugh slowlyfaded. “Axi, if we haddirections,itwouldn’tbelife.It would be an assignment.Gruntwork.Notknowingisamajorpartofthedeal.”

Iknewhewasright,butIdidn’t like it. Sighing, Iscooted as close to him aspossible, but the zippers of

our sleeping bags kept usapart.

“ ‘As far as the laws ofmathematics refer to reality,they are not certain; and asfarastheyarecertain,theydonotrefertoreality,’”Isaid.

“Huh?”saidRobinson.“Einstein,” I said. “Mr.

Foxhadthatwrittenatthetopofhischalkboard.”

“Ilikeit,”Robinsonsaid.“Well,Iwantcertainty,”I

said.I felt likeRobinson and I

were caught between twodifferent worlds. There wastheworldwe’dbeenlivingin—a world of freedom,beauty,and,okay,yes,utterlywonderful and terribleirresponsibility—and thenthere was the darker, sadderworld that I sensed we wereabout to enter. I wanted toknowhowtonavigateit.

Robinson tilted his headcloser tomine. “YoucanputitonyourChristmaslist.”

I turned away. “Don’tpatronize me. I don’t evenknow where we’re drivingto.”

Robinson rolled over andstaredupat thesky. Itwasadeep, velvety blue, and littlepinpricks of stars wereappearing, more and moreevery minute. “Here is

certainty,” he said. “I loveyou, Axi Moore. And I willnever not love you, for therestofmylife.”

Thetearscameagain,andI didn’t bother to wipe themaway. “I love you, too,” Iwhispered. “For the rest ofmylife.”

We kissed, wrapping ourarms around each other andholding on tight. And then,exhausted,wesaidgoodnight

andclosedoureyestosleep.Lyingthereinthesummer

night, it was almost as if Icould feel the earth movingbeneath us, turning on itsaxis.Andas I listened to thecricketssingingtoeachother,Iwondered if the rest ofmylifeandtherestofRobinson’slife meant two entirelydifferentlengthsoftime.

How do you knowanything for sure? I thought.

ButIknewtheanswertothatalready.Youdon’t.

FinallyIfellasleep.Inthemiddleofthenight,Robinsonand I rolled toward eachother,ourarmscrossing.Thenight seemed toholdus, too,inabig,soft,darkembrace.

Robinson’svoicewaslowand groggy. “Maybe weshouldgetmarried,”hesaid.

Icouldn’tspeak;myheartwas too full. Full of joy and

surprise—and futility, too,becausetheydon’tletyoudothatatsixteen.Iputmyheadonhis chest,wishing I couldmelt into him entirely. ThebestIcoulddowasmatchmybreathing to his long, steadybreaths. In a moment, Irealized that he was asleepagain.

It was possible he hadn’tevenbeen truly awake in thefirstplace.

46

IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON,SOMEWHERE in NorthCarolina,we tookan exit offthehighwayandendedup ina park, near the shore of asmalllake.

“Let’s stop for a littlewhile,”Robinsonsaid.“Ilikethisspot.”

Ringed by trees androlling hills, the lake wascalm, reflecting the blue skyback at itself. I rolled downthe window and breathed inthe smell of clean, piney air.“It’sprettyhere,”Iagreed.

We climbed out of theMustang and walked towardthe edge of the shimmering

water. Robinson bent down,selectedaflatstone,andthenskipped it across the surface—one,two,threetimes.

He snorted. “Terrible. Iusedtobeabletodotwelve.”

I stood beside him andsnaked my arm around hiswaist.Itfeltsogoodtobeofftheroad—tofeelmymusclesloosening,my gas-pedal footslowly uncramping. “Maybewe should rent a paddleboat

or something. Take a break.Drivesomemorelater.”

Itwaslikehehadn’tevenheard me. “I used to lovecominghere,”hesaid.

“What?”His eyes swept over the

lake, but he seemed to beseeing some other thing. Orsomeothertime.“Weusedtobuild these crazy rafts andtow them over in wagons.Then we’d see how many

kids we could pile on thembefore they’d sink.We’d getintroublebecauseyouneedapermit for a boat. And we’dalwaysarguethatweweren’tonaboat—wewereonaraftmadebynine-year-oldsoutofpackingcratesandbigpiecesofStyrofoam.”

“Wait a second,” I said,dropping my arm from hiswaist and takinga stepback.“Are you talking about this

lake?”“Of course,” Robinson

said. “Iwas born threemilesaway.”

Before I could stopmyself, I shovedhim,andhestumbled a little. “I’m sosorry,” I said, grabbing hishand.“Butwait.Youbroughtme…home?”

“Iwantedyoutomeetmyparents,”Robinsonsaid,asifthis were the simplest, least

surprisingthingintheworld.Iwas totallygobsmacked.

Ididn’tevenknowwherewewere, really, and now I wasabout to meet Robinson’sparents, who until now hadbeenaboutasrealtomeasacoupleofunicorns.

“Welcome to Asheville,North Carolina,” Robinsonsaid, gesturing to the treesandpathsandjoggersaroundus. “Formerly Tuberculosis

Central, and now known asthe Paris of the South, or, tothe writers of Rolling Stone,theNewFreakCapitalof theUS.”

I shook my head indisbelief. I didn’t knowwhether to kiss him or kickhim. “Youwait until now totellme?”

He smiled. “A guy oughtto surprise his girl once in awhile,”hesaid.“It’sromantic

thatway.Nowlet’sgoseethesights,suchastheyare.”

And for thenexthour, heshowed me around hishometown. I saw the shopwhere he bought his firstguitar; the elm tree that hebroke his arm falling out of;the elementary school wherehe’d started a rock ’n’ rollclub (“It got huge, eventhough some super-ancientdudes protested, saying rock

’n’ roll was ‘the devil’smusic,’ ” Robinson saidproudly).

Nothing was particularlyspecial—and yet everythingwas extraordinary because itwas a part of Robinson’spreviously classifiedchildhood.Iwantedtostopatevery corner, peer in everywindow. I wanted to stopstrangersandaskthemtotellme a story about Robinson.

He’d opened the door to hispast, and I wanted to walkrightthroughit.

Robinson touched myarm, directing my attentiontoward a drugstoresandwiched between a caféand a crystal shop. “Look,”hesaid.“There’sevenaplacelikeErnie’s.But the coffee’seven worse—it’s like batteryacid. I swear it once ate ahole inmy jeans.”He shook

his head at thememory. “Ofcourse, it could have beenactual battery acid that didthat. I certainly spentenoughtimeinmydad’sshop.”

“Hisshop?”Iasked.“He owns a car repair

shop.Robinson’sRepairs.”“Wow, he named it after

you?”Robinson shrugged

noncommittally.“Sortof.”“What do you mean, sort

of? Who else would it be—the Swiss Family Robinson?Jackie Robinson? RobinsonCrusoe?SmokeyRob—”

“Hey, see that?” heinterrupted. “That’s thestreetlightthatmybrotherranhis custom-built Cheemerinto.”

“Cheemer?” I said. “Idon’t know what a Cheemeris.” Clearly the shop-namingconversation wasn’t going

anywhere.“A Chevrolet with a

BMW engine,” Robinsonexplained. “You know,Chevy plus Beemer? JayLenohasone.”

“Oh,” I said, wishingthese names meant anythingto me. “So it’s like anautomotivemash-up.”

He laughed.“Exactly. It’sthecarversionofthatEazy-Eand Johnny Cash thing,

‘Folsom Prison Gangstaz.’ Igot beat for the street, Tapumpinyajeep—”

“You should probablystop,” I said. “That guy overthere is looking at youfunny.”

“Like I care,” Robinsonreplied, but he stoppedanyway. He seemed tiredagain. “Drive that way, whydon’t you?” He pointedvaguely to the east, and that

was how I saw the BiltmoreHouse, an enormous GildedAge chateau built by aVanderbilt whose nameRobinson couldn’t recall. Itlooked like a fairy-tale castle—a place where Cinderellawould live happily ever afterwithherprince.

Where was my happily-ever-after, Iwanted toknow.Whydidthatsillygirlgetonewhen my chances were so

slim?Without even thinking, I

pulled onto the shoulder ofthe road. I looked over atRobinsonasifIwereabouttoaskhimthesequestions.

“Oh, this is perfect,” hesaid. “This is a very specialplace.”

Ilookedaround.Wewerestopped in the middle of abunch of trees. “What’s sogreataboutit?”

Robinson unbuckled myseat belt and pulled metoward him. He brought hismouth close to mine andwhispered, “It’s where I didthis.”

Andthenhekissedme,solong and sweet and tenderthat I almost cried—becausehere we were, together, andmaybe this was finally theendoftheroad.

47

THE HOUSE WAS A THREE-STORYVICTORIANwithahigh,round turret, stained-glasswindows, and an enormousporch.Thefrontstepsbowedin the middle, and the paint

was beginning to fade andpeel. But it was picturesquethat way—a little bit ofshabbychic.

There were rosebusheseverywhere,blossominginalldifferent colors: snow-white,yellow tipped with sunsetorange, the soft pink of aballet slipper. The rosesclimbedatrellisontheporchand spilled over the railings,filling the air with their

gloriousperfume.I climbed the steps after

Robinson, cold with nerves.He gaveme a quick squeezeandthenrangthedoorbell.

For a moment, nothinghappened.Iheardavoiceandbarking inside, and then awoman who I assumed wasRobinson’s mother appearedin the doorway. When shesaw who had rung, sheopened her mouth as if to

shout, but instead she fell tothe floor—she just sort ofcrumpled in the hall, like amarionettewhose strings hadbeencut.

Robinsonyelped,“Mom!”And hewent to help her up,but before he got to her, aman who had to beRobinson’s dad appeared inthe hall. He saw Robinson,and for a second he justgapedathim.

They were acting likethey’dseenaghost.

Awkward! I thought—andthey had yet to even noticeme, the other unannouncedvisitor.

Ofcourse, if I showedupat my apartment aftervanishing theway I had,mydadwouldprobablyassumeIwas some booze-inducedhallucination and slam thedoorinmyface.

Robinson’s dad slowlybent down to pick up hiswife.Itwasliketheywereinsome kind of slow motion.When they both were finallyvertical again, their shockstarted giving way to a kindof joy I couldn’t rememberseeing in my father since Iwas a little girl. Robinson’smom grabbed her son andsqueezed him hard. “Oh myGod!” she cried. “You’re

here!Imissedyousomuch!”Robinson’s dad was

wiping his eyes, trying tokeep it together. He reachedout and grasped Robinson’sshoulder. “Oscar,” he said,his voice full of wonder andrelief,“youcameback.”

Robinson was blinkinghard and fast and maybesnifflingalittlebit.AndIwascrying, too, at the sight oftheirreunion,andatthesame

time thinking,Oscar?Who’sOscar?

The barking began again,anda small browndogcamewaddling up as fast as hershort legs would carry her.“Leafy!”Robinsoncried.

She was as fat as asausage, and herwhole bodywaggedwhile her tail stayedstill. Robinson got down onthe floor, and she proceededtoattackhiminanecstasyof

yipping and licking. “Sit,girl,” he said, laughing, andsheobeyedhimforaboutfivemillisecondsbeforelaunchingherself at him again. “I loveyou, too,” he said, rubbingherlongbrownears.

Then a tall man wholookedalmostexactlylikeanolder, burlierRobinson cameinto the hallway and said,“What’salltheruckus?”

When he saw Robinson,

herushedforward.Helookedlike he was going to tackleRobinson, and withoutthinkingIjumpedinandshotmy arm out, as if I—all fivefeet five inches and 120pounds of me—could blockhischarge.

The man stopped shortand said, “Wow, hotbodyguard,man.”

IflushedasRobinsonandhis brother hugged and

slapped each other on theback.

Then Robinson steppedaway and put his armprotectively around myshoulders. “Everyone,” hesaid,“thisisAxi.”Helookeddownatmeandsmiled.“Mypartnerincrime.”Andtheninfront of everyone, he kissedme—alittlelesschastelythanImighthaveexpected.

“Well, well,” said his

mother,snifflingandtryingtosmile at me, too. “Axi, I’mglad tomeet you.”And theninstead of shaking my hand,she pulled me close into herrose-smelling neck, and Irealizedhowlongithadbeensince a mother—any mother—had held me. “Oh, I’msorry,dear,”shesaid,pattingthedampspotshe’dmadeonmy shirt. She laughed,embarrassed. “I’m a bit

overwhelmed.”Robinsonmadetherestof

the introductions.“That’smybrother, Jonathan. He’stwenty,buthe’sprobablystillliving here, because he’s abum like that.”The affectionwas obvious in Robinson’svoice.

Jonathanpretendedtotakeoffense. “I’ve got my ownplace,”hesaid.“I’mjustoverhereborrowingDad’stools.”

“Andwaiting to seewhatyour mother will make fordinner,”hisfatheradded.

“Maybe,” Jonathanallowed.

Robinson said, “And thisismydad,Joe,andmymom,Louise,buteveryonecallsherLou.”

“And what about you?” Iwhispered.“Oscar?”

He gave a slightlyembarrassedshrug.“Youcan

see why I go by Robinson,”he said. Then he pulled meclose to him again. “Ipromise,” he whispered,“that’sthelastofmysecrets.”

48

AFTERADELICIOUSDINNEROFLASAGNA, garlic bread, andsalad, during which thereweremoretearsandmorefitsof laughter than I couldcount, Robinson took my

hand and ledme to the backofthehouse.

“Iwasn’t allowed tohavegirls in my room,” he said,“butI’mgoingtoassumemyparentsareoverthatbynow.”Hepushedonaratherricketydoor, but instead of openinginto a bedroom, it led to aporch, with windows on allthree sides. The paintedwoodenfloorwasscuffedandpitched; there was a wicker

loveseatalongonewallandadouble bed shoved againstanother. Guitars and ampswerearranged in thecorners,alongsideneatstacksofCDs.

“Thisisyourbedroom?”Iasked, thinking of my darkclosetofaroombackhome.

“It’s the old sleepingporch.Thisplacewasonceaboardinghouse for TBpatients,” Robinson said.“People with tuberculosis

were supposed to sleep infresh air, so there are roomslikethisalloverAsheville.”

“I loveit,”Isaid,runningmy finger along thewindowsill.

Robinsonsankdownontothe bed. “I slept on the floorout here for two weeks,” hesaid. “Staking my claim.Finally, they said it could bemine.”

I sat down next to him.

Thesheetswerecleanandthepillows freshly plumped;either someone had sneakedin to make the bed, orRobinson’s mother had keptup his room as if he’d onlygone out for a walk. “Yourparents are amazing. Whyweren’t you with them—allalong?”Iasked.

Robinson frowned. “Wewent to Portland because ofthe experimental

immunotherapyprogramwithDr. Suzuki. She’s the bestthere is, right? But myparents were living in thisterrible motel and going tothehospitaleveryday,and itwas just awful. It was toohard on them. I said, ‘Pleasego home. This isn’t what Iwant.Idon’twantyoutoseemegothroughthis.’”

“And they just left?” Idon’t know why it shocked

me as it did, considering theway my own mother splittown.

“They didn’t want to,believeme.ButImadethem.Isaidifthingsgotreallybad,obviously they could comeback. But things didn’t getreally bad—they got better.The immunotherapy washelping, and Igotdischargedfromthehospital.”

“The same day as me,” I

said, smiling at the memoryofthatperfectmorning.

“Right.AndI’dplannedtocome back here, but thenthere was the problem ofyou.”

“Theproblem?”Iasked.He smiled. “The problem

of having a giant crush onyouandyounotknowingit,”he said. “But conveniently,my uncle had just movedclosetoyourhometown.You

were going to K-Falls, and Idecided to follow you. Iwantedtobewithyou.”

I flushed. “I’m glad youdid.Butstill—Ican’tbelievetheyletyoudoit.”

“I told them I’d comeback here in the fall. Dosenioryearatmyold school.They understood—I wantedtopretend like Iwasnormal,at a school where no oneknewIhadcancer.Iwasjust

a kid who got to studysomewhereelse forawhile.”He smiled. “A semesterabroad,inbucolicK-Falls.”

I snorted. “You’d betterlook up bucolic in thedictionary.”

“Idon’thaveto,becauseIhave you,” Robinson said,rollinghiseyes.

“Oh, right,” I said,nudging him with my foot.But his story still didn’t

entirely make sense to me.“Whywouldn’tyouevertalkaboutyourfamily?Whyweretheysuchahugesecret?”

Robinsonsighed.“Ididn’tlike talking about thembecause I felt so guilty. Iknew itwas selfish ofme tobe away from them. But Iwanted to see things, Axi. Iwantedtohaveabiggerlife.”He reached up and twisted astrand ofmy hair around his

fingers. “I wanted to fall inlove.”

Inodded.Itwasn’t totallyinsane, I guess. “But you,like,wrotethemandstuff?”

“Of course,” he said.“TheyknewIwasokay.”

“Butwhatabout this trip?How’dyouexplainthat?”

He smiled. “I told themschoolwasout—”

“Eventhoughyouweren’tin school anymore,” I

interrupted.“Well, they didn’t know

that.And theyweren’t goingtocheckthecalendarandseethat there were three moreweeks of classes I shouldhave been in. I told them Iwas going to CampMotorsport. It’s a summercamp for gearheads.” Hepaused thoughtfully. “Itsounded pretty cool,actually…”

I rolledmyeyes. “You’recrazy.”

“Butyouloveme.”I leaned over and kissed

him on the side of his softmouth.“Ido.”

A blast of music camefrom the garage, whereRobinson had said Jonathanwas fixing up an old Buickintoacustomracer.

“Did you know we’dcomehere,then?”Iasked.

Robinson shook his head.“I thought we’d go back toOregonfirst.Butthen…”

He didn’t finish thesentence,butIcouldfillitin.He’dstartedfeelingsick.Andhe’dwantedtogohome.

Iunderstoodthat.I’dwantto run to my mom, too, if Ihad onewhowas any use tome. If I knewwhat state shewaslivingin.

I looked out the window

then, and I saw all thesefloating lights. They wereyellowish green, flashing onand off. “What are those?” Iasked.

Robinson gaped at me.“Haven’t you ever seen afirefly before? A lightningbug?”

“A what? No! We don’thavetheminOregon.”

Robinson sat up andpeeredoutatthelawn.“Ihad

noideayouweresodeprived.They’re the best bugs in theworld because they can lighttheir butts up. It’s how theyfindmates.”

“They’re beautiful,” Isaid.

Robinson reached up andbrushed the hair from myface.“Notlikeyou.”

“Don’tbecorny.”“I’m not. I’m dead

serious.” He paused. “Dying

serious,Ishouldsay.”“No, you should not say

that.”Robinson sighed. “Oh,

Axi,I’mtired,”hesaid.“Tellmeabedtimestory.”

“Sing me a bedtimelullaby,” I said with a smile.“Like inVegas.” I hadeveryintention of giving in thistime,butnotthateasily.

“Story,”heinsisted.“Song.”

“I’llflipacoin,”hesaid.“No!Don’t!”Iyelped.Helookedatmestrangely.

“Whynot?”“Justdon’t.”“Okay, fine. Then you

havetotellthestory.”Welaybackonthebed.I

tookadeepbreathandbegan.Afairy-talebeginning.“Onceupona time, therewasagirlandaboy.”

“So far so good,”

Robinsonsaid.Herolledoverso that his face was in myneck. “The girl was alwaysbossing the boy around,” hesaid, his lips brushing myskin.“Shekepttellinghimtoeatbetter.”

“The girl had only theboy’s best interests at heart,”Iretorted.

“Mmmm,”saidRobinson.Already his voice was thickwithsleep.

“She wanted to take careofhim,”Iwhispered.“Andtobetakencareofbyhim.”

I paused, listening to themusic coming from thegarage. It was Bob Dylan, Ithought,butIdidn’tknowthesong.

“She knew how luckythey were,” I went on,“becausetheyhadfoundeachother. She understood thatsometimes people had to

search for years to findwhatthey wanted. Whereas some—the charmed few—juststumbleuponit.Likechildrenonabeach.Somecomehomewith only rocks and brokenshells,whileothersunearthaperfectsanddollar,fragilebutbeautiful.”

Robinson sighed.By nowhewassleeping.

“And the girl understoodsomething else—and maybe

the boy did, too. Love wasmagical and infinite. Butluck,intheend,wasnot.”

Out in the garage,Jonathanturnedupthemusic,and Dylan’s nasal,sandpapery voice finallyreached me clearly. “Thefuture for me is already athing of the past. You weremy first loveand youwill bemylast.”

Iclenchedmyfistsagainst

my sides. I looked out thewindowforastartowishon,but clouds had come in theevening.Theonlylightswerethose of the fireflies, turningonandoff,onandoff.

49

ROBINSON’S PARENTSWELCOMED ME LIKE a familymember—and they saidnothing about me spendingthenight intheirson’sroom.Joe, who was a history buff,

told me all about theAsheville tuberculosissanitariumsthenextmorning.(EvenF.ScottFitzgerald,myninth-grade literary crush,had spent time in one.)Jonathan walked me aroundthe car he was working on,explaining various thingsabout its engine that I didn’tunderstand and promising totakemefora rideassoonashegotnew tires.Loubought

tempehbaconwhenRobinsonmentioned I didn’t eat meat,andoneafternoonshebraidedmyhair.

“I always wanted adaughter,” she saidwistfully.“Thoseboys and their cars. Ilove them to the moon, butit’s horsepower this andcarburetor that, and I alwaysthought to myself, Who’sgoing to help me prune theroses?”

“I don’t have muchexperiencewithgardening,”Iadmitted.DadandIhadhadaspiderplantinourapartment,but it was probably all driedupbythen.

“You’d like it,”Lou said.“You’re a careful person, Icanseethat.”

Used to be, anyway, Ithought.

“It’s like theLittlePrincesays,” she went on. “ ‘You

become responsible, forever,for what you have tamed.You are responsible for yourrose.’Youcan’ttameastockcar, Axi. It’s not the samething.”

Ismiled.“I’vequotedthatbooktoyourson.”

“Oscar—I meanRobinson, I guess—couldnever be persuaded to readit.”

And then we walked

outside, into the soft summerair, and she showedme howto deadhead the roses sothey’dbloomallthewayuntillatefall.Whenwecameback,we had armfuls of blossoms,enoughtoputineveryroom.

The point is, life withRobinson’s family wouldhave been perfect if onlyRobinsonhadn’tbeengettingsicker, minute by minute. Itwas as if being back home

allowed him to finally stoppretending he was all right.Andhadtherebeenanydoubtabout his prognosis—or anydenial of what it meant—avisit from his childhoodspecialist had wiped thataway.

“I recommend you callhospice,”thedoctorhadsaid.Meaning:allyoucandonowis keep him comfortable.Until.

Word spread quicklyaround town, and visitorsbegan to arrive, bringingcasseroles and cookies andboxesofKleenex.Therewasa procession of friends,neighbors, classmates, andsoccer coaches who hadknownandlovedRobinson.

Robinson held court onthe old sofa in the livingroom, pale and covered withblankets,eventhoughtherest

of us were in short sleevesand dabbing at our sweatingupper lips. His spirits werehigh, though he tired easily.And though he was in pain,herarelyhitthebuttononhismorphine IV—he said itmadehisheadfeellikeahot-airballoon.

Everyone had stories totell, like the time Robinsonwon the Soap Box Derbyrace, then just keptgoing for

another half-mile becausehe’dneglectedtogivehiscara set of brakes. About howhe’d “borrowed” the highschool’s mascot costume toperform a gut-busting bump-and-grind during halftime atthe homecoming game. Oneneighbor told me thatRobinson mowed and rakedher lawn for her but alwaysrefused payment, and apimply twelve-year-old told

me that when he was eight,RobinsonhadsavedhimfromdrowninginBeaverLake.

Itwas as if Iwere seeingRobinson’s life flash beforemy eyes, in the words andstories of the people wholovedhim.

When he felt goodenough,Robinsonentertainedhis guests with tales of life“out West,” which he madesound way better than it

actuallywas.“If Klamath Falls has a

boom in tourism, it’ll bebecause of you,” I told himoneevening. “And they’ll allcomehomedisappointed.”

“K-Falls has its charms,”hesaid.

“Ohyeah?Nameone.”“HernameisAxiMoore,”

he said. “Sheesh, that waseasy.Oh,andWubba’sBBQExpress has that great pulled

porksandwich.”See what I mean? Spirits

high.During the days, I passed

around snacks and reheatedbowlsofpastaorsoup in themicrowave. Even though wein the houseweren’t hungry,everyoneelsewas.Itwaslikea dinner party that neverended.

Lou moved through thehouse as if in a dream, or a

nightmare. Joe looked paleand scared. Jonathan, onRobinson’s orders, hung asign on thewall that saidNOCRYING ALLOWED—not thatanyone was capable offollowing that particularorder.EvenfatLeafywhinedand barked, as if she hadstoriesaboutRobinson,too.

“Sheused tobeanagilitychamp,” Joe said once,shaking his head. “Can you

believeit?”“Now she’s an eating

champ,” Jonathan added,tossingheracracker.

I bent down and rubbedLeafy’sfeatheryears,andsheresponded with a warm lickof my hand. I had a suddenpang of longing for my olddog. Or maybe it was alonging for the healthy,lovingfamilyI’dneverreallyhad.Itwashardtotell.

50

“CLOSE YOUR EYES,”ROBINSON SAID. HE wasreaching into the drawer bythe side of his bed. Ipretended to squint, thenopened my eyes wide as he

pulledoutapocketknifewithagleamingsilverblade.

“Whenaknife’saround,Ilike to pay attention,” I said.“Sort of as a matter ofpolicy.”

Helaughed,thencoughed.“I’m not going to point it atyou,”hesaid.“Onlythis.”Hegestured toward the sleepingporch’swainscoting.

“What are you going todo?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said.“You’ll see. Just close youreyes.”

Iwatched him dig the tipintothewood,andthenIdidas he asked. I don’t knowhowmuch timepassed,but Imust have fallen asleep,because the next thing Iknew,Robinsonwasnudgingmeawake.“Look,”hesaid.

Carvedintothewalloftheporch was a message:

B&C4EVER.“Bonnie and Clyde,” he

said. He was smiling at me,his perfect, crooked grin.“That’sus.”

“Forever,”Isaid.We lay back down, and

Robinson wrapped his armsaroundme.I tracedtheveinsof his wrist, their delicateblue lines showing throughhisskinlikearoadmap,andIthought of the map in my

backpack, the one we’dmarkedwith every stop:LA.The redwoods. Detroit. Ithought, too, of my bag ofsouvenirs. Magical objects—a snow globe, a glass orb—that in certain lights lookedexactlylikejunk.

“I miss you already,”Robinsonsaidsoftly.

“I’m here,” I whisperedback.“I’llalwaysbehere.”

“ButIwon’t,”hesaid.

In my chest swelled anache unfathomably deep anddark. And I said nothing,because Iknewhewas right.I kissed his face, his lips—andthensomehow,weslept.

But in the middle of thenight, we woke up, andwithout words we turnedtoward each other.Robinson’shandsreachedforme, and his mouth presseditself against my neck. I

brought his face up to mine,hungry to taste his lips. Wekissed, and I heard a lowmoan—mine.IrealizedIwastrembling.

Robinson smiled, lightlytracing the linesofmybrow,my nose, my mouth. “Don’tbenervous,”hewhispered.

How could I not benervous? I knew what wasgoingtohappen.Theairwascharged with it. We were

going to kiss until we werebreathless, and then… andthen…

I moved closer to him,running my hand along hishipanddownhisthigh.Ifelthim shiver as I brushed myfingers along the smoothnessofhisstomach.

He caught my hand andheldit.“Iloveyou,”hesaid.

“I love you back,” Iwhispered. And then I slid

my fingers out of his so Icouldtouchhimagain.

We kissed for whatseemed like hours—sometimes tenderly,sometimes almostdesperately. Sometimes westopped and just looked ateach other. As if we werememorizing our bodies andmemorizing this moment. Ifelt like I was made ofnothingbutlonging.

Then Robinson pulledaway, and I watched as heslipped his shirt over hishead. His white skin seemedto glow in the half-light. Helooked at me questioningly,and then he reached for thebuttonsonmyblouse.Hewaswhisperingmyname.

“Do you want to—” heasked.

“Yes,”Isaid.We wriggled out of the

restofourclothes,andthenIwrappedmyarmsaroundhisback. I guided him towardme.Iwantedtopullhimintomy body—as if we couldbecome one person; as if,finally,Icouldprotecthim.

Robinson was breathinghard and we were kissing. Itouched him everywhere,even as I felt myselfdissolving. He waswhispering words into my

mouth, but I couldn’tconcentrate on what theywere, because somethinginside me was unfurling. Iwas no longer Axi Moore. IwasmeandIwashim;Iwasthe night and the stars. Thetwoofuslayonthatbedandshudderedwithdesire.

Afterward, he slept rightagainstme,andIstaredatourinitials in the flickeringcandlelight.B&C4EVER.

And somehow I knew itwas true. We would betogetherforever.

51

I OPENED MY EYES TO THESOUNDOFbirdsmakingaloudandunmelodiousracketinthebig oaks in the backyard. Isnuggled closer to Robinson,glad they hadn’t woken him

up, too. Leafy, who’d takento standing guard outside hisroomat night, came inwhenshe heard the rustling ofblankets,andsatatthefootofthe bed. She immediatelybegan whining, because sheknew I couldn’t resist thosebigbrowneyesofhers.Inthefourdayswe’dbeenhere,I’dalready fed her almost anentireboxoftreats.

“Hush,Leafy,”Isaid.“Be

patient.”She wagged her tail and

whined more loudly, andwhenIdidn’timmediatelygoin search of theMilk-Bones,shebegantobark.

“Quiet,” I whispered.“Robinson’sasleep.”

But behind me there wasno movement, despite thenoise,and a terrible, panickyfeeling came over me. Iturned to look at Robinson’s

chest,andIsawthatitwasn’trising or falling. He wasn’tbreathing. And suddenly Iwas backing out of the bed,my hands clutched to myface.

Leafybeganyappingevenmore loudly—a treat wascoming anyminute now, shewas sure of it—and I didn’tbothertoshushherbecauseitdidn’t matter. Nothingmattered. Idugmynails into

my cheeks, and the tearscame out fast and hot. Iwasgasping for breath, and Icouldn’t say his name, eventhough Iwanted to scream itout.

Robinson,comeback!I’mnot ready! I’m completely,totallynotready!

Leafy’s barks took on atone of wild confusion. Igrabbedherbythecollarandburied my face in her warm

neck, and I thought, Oh myGod, how am I going to tellLou? How am I going to doanythingeveragain?

I had a mouthful ofLeafy’shairandshewasstillbarking,butmoresoftlynow,dissolving into a pitifulwhimper.

Itwasdone.Itwasover.AndI’dbeenasleep.

52

A HAND CAME DOWN ANDTOUCHED MY shoulder, and Ijumped like I’dbeenburned.I looked up through tear-blurredeyes.

Robinson’s face, seeming

to float above the bed like aghost’s.Andthenhisfamiliarlowvoice.Hesaid,“Axi?Areyouokay?”

I nearly fell over. It washim.Hewasalive.“DoIlookokay?” I yelled. I crawledback up onto the bed andgripped his hands as if he’drescued me from drowning.Never in my life had I beenmorerelieved.“Tellme:doIlookokay?”

“Your eyes are sort ofred,” he said, his voicegroggybut teasing. “Areyouallergic to Leafy orsomething?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Igasped. I let go of his handsand lay down next to him inthe bed, pressing myselfagainst his sideand trying tocalm my breathing. I’d beensoclosetolosinghim.

“Oh, you probably won’t

have to bother,” Robinsonsaid.“Something’salreadyonthatjob.Butdon’tworry.I’mstillaroundtotortureyou.”

“Neverstop,”Isaid.“I’ll do my best.”

Robinson patted the edge ofbed, and Leafy hopped up,too, though it was obviouslynot easy for her. I watchedhim pet her soft head andears. He yawned and thenmoved around in the bed,

restlessanduncomfortableashe woke up to his sicknessandthepainitcausedhim.

I ranmy finger along theside of his cheek. “Do youwantanything?”Iasked.

Hedidn’t answerme.Hiseyesclosed,andI thoughthewas falling back to sleep.He’d been sleeping so muchlately. As his breathingbecame more regular, Islowly eased out of the bed

andwenttothedoor,readytocheckonhisparents.Thenhesaidsoftly,“Yes.”

“What?”“I want more time,” he

said. His lashes were darkagainsthispaleskin.

I bit my lip and felt thestingoftearsagain.“Okay,”Iwhispered. “Coming rightup.”

When I was in thehallway,hecalledmeback.

“Axi,”hesaid,half-sittingupagain.“Listen,okay?Firstthing: Leafy does not needanother treat, no matter howmuchshethinksshedoes.Soleave the Milk-Bones in thepantry. Second thing: there’sa hole in your shirt, and youshouldgetmymomtosewit.Third thing: like that dumbMason Jennings song says,there are so many ways todie.”

I held up a hand. “Whoa,Robinson—”

Heignoredme.“Itdoesn’tmatterwhattheendlookslike—what matters is that itcame.Bam,you’redone.Butlife, Axi? There are degreesoflife.Youcanliveitwellorhalf-asleep. You can gosledding down a sand dune,oryoucanspendyour life infront of the TV.And I don’tmean to sound like a stupid

after-school special, but youhave to keep living the waywedidtheselastweeks.Risk,Axi. That’s the secret. Riskeverything.”

Inodded,tryingnottocryagain.“Okay.ButImightnotkeepstealingcars.”

“That’sallright,”hesaid.“What am I going to do

—?” I asked. I couldn’t saythe final two words of thesentence:withoutyou.

Robinson smiled. “Youshouldprobablytrytonotfailphysics.Andyoushouldkeepwriting.”

I thought of my journal,the sloppy, haphazard notesin it and all the pages to befilled.AtleastI’dtakensomepictures on our trip. “I’llwritethegoodparts.”

“No,youhavetowritethegoodand thebad.”Robinsonpicked at the edge of the

blanket. His eyes were sohuge and serious. “You canwrite all about me, and I’llliveforeverthatway.”

What could I say? I sankdownontoachairandputmyheadinmyhands.

“Youknow,yourswastheonly book I ever wanted toread. So just write it, Axi.You can do it. You can doanything.Imean,lookatyou.You’re not GG anymore—

you’re so much bigger thanher.”

Ilaughedbitterly.“Idon’tmissher.”

“I loved her,” Robinsonsaid. “And I loved the sickgirlyouwerewhenImetyou,and I loved the good studentandthebaddriver.Ilovedthecar thief, the hitchhiker, thequoter of novels I haven’tread, and the hater of SlimJims…AxiMoore,I’veloved

everyyouthereeverwas.”I walked over to the bed

andlaidmyheadonhischest.“I’ll always be your girl,” Iwhispered.

“Iknow,”hesaid.I watched the way our

fingers intertwined, and Ithought, What are handsmade for but this? Forholding.Forholdingon.

53

THE DAYS BLURRED INTO ONEANOTHER as Robinson begantodreammoreandspeakless.Time had lost meaning forhim,butIwasovercomebyasense of waiting. Something

was coming, something thatwould be dreadful darknessandthatwouldalsoberelief.

We stayed with him inshifts: Lou in the mornings,Joe in the afternoons,Jonathanintheevenings,andme at night. I read to himfromLou’sbooks:Steinbeck,Whitman, Fitzgerald,Hemingway. She read himTheLittlePrince.

One night, in the middle

of my watch, I slippedoutside into the warmdarkness. The crickets weregoingcrazy,andthelightningbugs were like tiny lanternsflashing a kind of insectMorsecode.

Through the window,Robinson looked small andfrail under the covers, like alittlekidinhischildhoodbed.Likeheoughttobeclutchingateddybear.

Ipickedastarandwishedas hard as I could thatsomehowIcouldprotecthimfrom what was on thehorizon.

We’re in this together,Robinson used to say. Iremembered the first timehe’d ever said it to me, atdinnertimeinthecancerwardwhen we’d been handed atrayofbrownslopandgreenpeas. “We’re in this

together,” Robinson haddeclared. “Axi, we can dothis.” He’d lifted his forkhigh in the air, like a sword.“We can eat this… this…whateveritis!”

It was a joke back then;now itwas real.Wewere inthis together for just a littlebit longer, becausewhatwascoming next, Robinson wasgoing to have to go throughalone. I would have traded

mylifeforhis,but therewasnoonetoofferthisto.Noonewho could make theexchange.Nostar thatwouldgrantmywish.

At three o’clock thatmorning, I was dozing, myhand on his, when suddenlyhewasawake.

“Themotorcycle,”hesaid,hisvoicehauntedandurgent.“Doesithavegas?”

I was instantly at

attention.“Yes,”Isaid.“I think theheadgasket’s

blown—it’sseepingoil.”“Your brother’s looking

into it,” I said. WhateverworldRobinsonwasinnow,Iwould play along. “He saysnot to worry, he’ll take careof it. It’s going to be up andrunningrightaway.”

“What about the clutchcable?It’sworn.”

“He’llfixthat,too.”

Then Robinson looked atme for a long time.At somepoint, he seemed to comeback to himself. “Axi,” hewhispered.

“Hi,”Iwhisperedback.Hegazedaroundtheroom

at the Bob Dylan poster, theleaningguitars, all the thingshe’d left behind when hewent away to the hospital.His fingers fluttered, and Ireachedouttograbthem.

I knewwhatwas coming.WhatIshouldsay.

There was a stone in mythroat, but I swallowed hard.“It’sokay,” Isaid.“It’sokaytogo.”Thefinalstop.

Hebroughtmyhanduptohis lipsandkissedit, right inthe center ofmy palm. Thenhe closed my fingers aroundit, as if the kiss weresomething Icouldholdon toforever.

I climbed into bed withhim. He shifted, sighing.“Axi,”hesaid.

“I’mrighthere.”I held his head in my

arms. I pressedmymouth tohis cheek. We are in thistogether.

“Axi,”hesaidagain.ItoldhimIlovedhim.He

loved me, too, he said—always.And I heard him saymy name again. He

whispered it over and overuntil it didn’t sound like myname at all anymore. It wasonly sound, only rhythm.Almostlikeasong.

“Axi.”Hesighed.“Axi.”And then, finally, he was

silent.Outside, the song of the

cricketsseemedtocrescendo.I reached intomy pocket fortheluckypennyIhadflippedso long ago in the cancer

ward,hopingthatitsomehowmeantRobinsonwouldmakeit. I’d kept that penny withme every single day after itshowed me heads, that hewouldalwaysbewithme.

Now I held it tight, andthenI flipped ithigh into theair and watched it land. Buton what, it didn’t matter.There was no questionanymore, no wish—only theanswer, and the emptiness it

brings.

epilogue

54

IN BUCOLIC KLAMATH FALLS,EARLYFALL isbrightanddry.The leaves are alreadyturning brown, lettingthemselves be blown fromtheir branches into sad little

pilesonunmownlawns.My dad is down in the

courtyard, searching for thewatchhedroppedonhiswayhomefromthebar lastnight.He’sbeenlookingforhalfanhouralready. (Ifyouaskme,I think Critter found it andtook it straight to Jack’sPawn.)Dadkeepslookingupat me, sitting here on theapartment’stinybalcony,likehe thinks that any minute I

mightvanishintothinair.I’m not going anywhere.

My first community servicesession isn’t until tomorrowafternoon. See, when I gotback home, the first thing Idid was walk to the policestationandturnmyselfin.

Yup.OnceaGG,alwaysaGG.

I think I knew from themoment we stole the Harleythat I was going to have to

makeamendsforourjourney.It was the right thing to do.And even thoughRobinson’seyes are likely rolling out ofhisheadrightnow,Ithinkhemight have been smilingdown on me, too, when thejudge handed me mysentence. Grand theft auto isa felony and usually landspeople in jail, butmiraculously I was onlycharged with a misdemeanor

andwasbanned fromgettinga driver’s license until I turntwenty-one,andI’mbasicallygoing to do communityserviceuntilmyarmsfalloff.

It’scompletelyworthittome.Afterall,thepeoplewho“lent” us their cars gaveRobinson and me anincrediblegift,andI’llgladlypick up trash for the rest ofmy life if I have to. In fact,I’m thinking about

volunteering for the policedepartment,too.

“Axi,” my dad calls up,“shouldn’tyoubeheading toschoolsoon?”

“I’ll be down in aminute,” I reply. Ugh. I’dforgotten about mymandatory physics tutoringsession, which starts in anhour. Turns out you can’tpass a class when you ditchthe last threeweeksof it and

stopbeingabletounderstandthe supposedly importantlawsofphysics.

Those laws don’t explainwhy Robinson had to die.They don’t explain how I’llkeep going without him. SoI’m pretty sure I don’t carethat much aboutunderstanding how “theentropy of any isolatedsystem not in thermalequilibrium almost always

increases.”Butthen,likeacontrarian

voice from the heavens,something from class popsrightintomymind:abodyinmotion tends to stay inmotion; a body at rest tendsto stay at rest. That’s thedefinition of inertia, a wordthat would have madeRobinsonrollhiseyes.

Iaminmotion.Iwillstayin motion. Maybe one of

those magical forces of thephysicaluniversewillkickinandkeepmegoing,nomatterhowmuchpainIfeel.

Ornot.I wrap my arms around

myself, inhaling the scent ofRobinson that lingers on hisflannel shirt, which I’mwearing. And my tears wellup and start to spill out allover again. I’m just really,reallytired.

“Hey, Axi, check thisout!” my dad calls. I leanover the balcony and hepoints to a part of thewithering rosebush in theyard—onesolitaryflowerstillmiraculously in bloom. Ismile weakly. I was hopinghe’dfinallyfoundhiswatch.

“Youokay?”heasks.Ishrug.Imean,howamI

supposed to answer thatquestion? I saw Dr. Suzuki

last week, and my cancer isstill in remission. My five-yearsurvivalrate?Almost93percent.

So technically, yes, I’mokay.Technically.

ButasIsitherelettingthesun warm my face, I knowthatthere’sapartofmethat’smissing. It’sas if thedoctorshad sliced somethingessentialout.AvitalpartthatI was sure I needed to keep

me breathing. Not justexisting. Even now,sometimes I think I hearRobinson’s laughter, and foramomentmyheart lifts.ButwhenIturnmyheadtolook,it’s never him. It’s thewind,or the call of a bird, or ahallucinationofmyownmaddream.

I think itwas loveat firstsight for both of us; it justtookusalittlewhiletofigure

it out. That wasunderstandable, consideringwe were being stuck withneedles, shot through withradioactiveparticles,possiblypoisoned by the horrificsubstances the hospital triedtopassoffas food,and then,when we got discharged,running away and stealingcarstogether.

Sowehadotherthingsonourminds.

Of course, sometimes Ithinkmaybewedidknowourfeelings right away, but wecouldn’t admit them toourselves. Like we secretlythought, Okay, cancer isscary,butloveisterrifying.

And it is. But it’s alsoexhilarating and bewilderingandmiraculous.

Right before Robinsonand I left on our trip, I’dwrittenapaperontheFrench

essayist Michel deMontaigne. (“Ooooh,faaaahncy,” Robinson hadteased.)“Thegreatestthingintheworld is to know how tobelong to oneself,”Montaigne wrote. And whileMontaigne was a very smartman, I’m sure, in thisparticularinstancehe’sfullofshit.

The greatest thing in theworld is to know how to

belong to someone else. ThewayRobinsonandIbelongedtoeachother.Weheldonastight aswe could, as long aswecould.Itwasn’tenough.

Andyetithastobe.At night when the stars

come out, I look up andremember Robinson at thewindowof thehospital inLaJunta,mestandingsoclosetohim that it took my breathaway. I think about what I

didn’tsaythen,whichisthis:the stars we see aren’t evenreal stars. We see the lightthat theygaveoffmillionsofyearsagobutthatisonlynowreaching our eyes. We don’tsee a star as much as amemory.

“Rememberthemebeforethis,” a pale, sick Robinsonsaid to me. “Remember themewiththeguitar.”

AndsincememoryisallI

have now—unless you counta glass orb, a key chain, ashirt, and a penny that oncewaslucky—Itriedtodowhatheasked.

“Write about us,”Robinson urged. “Tell ourstory.”

And I did it; I told ourstory. You hold it in yourhands.

I just wish I could havedone it better.How can you,

throughmy plain and simplewords, possibly experiencethe joy I feltwhenRobinsonjumpedintothatLosAngelespool, sledded on the goldensand of the Great Dunes, orkissed me in an ancienttemple? How can youunderstand what Robinsonmeant tome?His laughwaslikeapealofbells.Hereallydid consider Slim Jims to betheir own food group.When

heplayedtheguitarandsang,whether it was in the cancerward or in Tompkins SquarePark, everyone stopped tolisten.Hewasmagic.

“Axi!” my dad shoutsfrom below. “I found it!”He’s holding up his Timexand grinning like it’s awinninglotteryticket.

“Good for you!” I calldown.As if he’s thekid andI’mthemom.

I feel like I owemy dad,runningoffthewayIdid.Healmost drank himself todeath, worrying and missingme.I’mtryingtomakeupforthefactthatIbarelygotbackintimetosavehim.

I only wish I could havesavedRobinson,too.

But I know Robinsondidn’t wantme to be brokenafterhisdeath.Hewantedmewhole, well, and writing.

Aboutus.“Make sure to throw in a

lot of words I wouldn’tunderstand,” he’d said—using the last bits of hisenergy to tease me. “And alot of fancy metaphors andstuff.”

I just nodded. I’d doanythinghewanted.

Loving Robinson madeeverything seembrighter andmore beautiful. And if life

has faded a little since he’sbeengone,it’sstillalotmorevividthanitusedtobe.Nowthe sun dazzles. Thatvermilion rose flings itsperfumeintotheair.Andthebreezesoothesme,ifIletit.

Most days I think of himand smile, even if I have tocry my eyes out first. Henever stopped believing hewas lucky. Maybe not luckyenough to survive, but lucky

simplytohavelived.He was my light, my

heart,mybeautiful scalawag.AndIwas—Iam—hisGG.

OSCARJAMESROBINSON

JUNE21,1996–JULY6,2013

Missingmeoneplace,searchanother.Istopsomewherewaitingforyou.

—WaltWhitman

AbouttheAuthors

JAMESPATTERSONhascreatedmore enduring fictional

characters than any othernovelist writing today. He isthe author of the Alex Crossnovels, the most populardetective series of the pasttwenty-five years, includingKiss the Girls and AlongCame a Spider. JamesPatterson also writes thebestselling Women’s MurderClub novels, set in SanFrancisco,andthetop-sellingNewYorkdetectiveseriesof

all time, featuring DetectiveMichaelBennett.Hehasalsohad more New York Timesbestsellers than any otherwriter, ever, according toGuinness World Records.Since his first novelwon theEdgarAward in 1977, JamesPatterson’s books have soldmorethan280millioncopies.

James Patterson has alsowritten numerous #1bestsellers foryoung readers,

includingtheMaximumRide,Witch&Wizard,andMiddleSchool series. In total, thesebooks have spent more than220 weeks on nationalbestseller lists. In 2010,James Patterson was namedAuthor of the Year at theChildren’s Choice BookAwards.

His lifelong passion forbooks and reading led JamesPatterson to create the

innovative websiteReadKiddoRead.com, givingadults an invaluable tool tofind the books that get kidsreading for life. He writesfull-time and lives in Floridawithhisfamily.

EMILY RAYMOND is theghostwriter of numerousyoungadultnovels,includinga #1 New York Timesbestseller. She liveswith her

familyinPortland,Oregon.

JamesPatterson.comFollowJamesPatterson

onFacebook.DownloadtheFREE

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BooksbyJamesPatterson

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Shesaysshe’sinnocent.Thepolicedon’tbelieveher.Herown

brothersdon’tbelieveher.Youprobablywon’tbelieveher,either.

Foranexcerpt,turn

thepage.

I HAVE SOME REALLY BADSECRETS TO SHARE withsomeone,anditmightaswellbe you—a stranger, a readerof books, but most of all, apersonwhocan’thurtme.Sohere goes nothing, or maybeeverything. I’m not sure if Ican even tell the differenceanymore.

Thenightmyparentsdied—after they’d been carriedout in slick black body bagsthrough the service elevator—my brother Matthewshouted at the top of hispowerful lungs, “My parentswere vile, but they didn’tdeserve to be taken out withthe trash!” He was rightabout the last part—and, asthings turned out, the firstpartaswell.

But I’m getting ahead ofmyself, aren’t I? Pleaseforgiveme.…Idothatalot.

I’d been asleepdownstairs,directlyundermyparents’ bedroom, when ithappened.SoIneverheardathing—no frantic thumping,no terrified shouting, nofracasatall.Iwokeuptothescreamof sirens speeding upCentral Park West, maybeone of the most common

soundsinNewYorkCity.But that night it was

different.The sirens stopped right

downstairs. That was whatcausedmetowakeupwithahundred-miles-an-hourheartbeat. Was the buildingon fire? Did some oldneighborhaveastroke?

I threw off my doublelayerofblankets,wenttomywindow,and lookeddown to

the street, nine dizzyingfloors below. I saw threepolice cruisers and whatcouldhavebeenanunmarkedpolicecarparkedonSeventy-second Street, right at thefront gates of our apartmentbuilding, the exclusive andinfamousDakota.

A moment later ourintercom buzzed, a jarringblat-blat that punched rightthroughmyfleshandbones.

Why was the doormanpagingus?Thiswascrazy.

Mybedroomwas the oneclosest to thefrontdoor,soIbolted through the livingroom, hooked a right at thesharksintheaquariumcoffeetable, and passed betweenRobertandhisnonstopTV.

WhenIreachedthefoyer,I stabbed at the intercombutton to stop the irritatingblare before it woke up the

wholehouse.I spoke in a loudwhisper

to the doorman through thespeaker: “Sal? What’shappening?”

“Miss Tandy? Twopolicemenareon thewayuptoyourapartmentrightnow.Icouldn’t stop them.Theygota nine-one-one call. It’s anemergency. That’swhat theysaid.”

“There’s been a mistake,

Sal. Everyone is asleep here.It’s after midnight. Howcouldyouletthemup?”

Before Sal could answer,the doorbell rang, and thenfists pounded the door. Aharsh masculine voice calledout,“Thisisthepolice.”

Imadesurethechainwasin place and then opened thedoor—butjustacrack.

I peered out through theopeningand saw twomen in

the hallway. The older onewasasbigasabearbutkindof soft-looking and spongy.The younger one was wiryand had a sharp,expressionless face,something like a hatchetblade, or… no, a hatchetbladeisexactlyright.

The younger one flashedhisbadgeandsaid,“SergeantCapricorn Caputo andDetective Ryan Hayes,

NYPD. Please open thedoor.”

Capricorn Caputo? Ithought. Seriously? “You’vegot the wrong apartment,” Isaid.“Nooneherecalled thepolice.”

“Openthedoor,miss.AndImeanrightnow.”

“I’ll get my parents,” Isaid through the crack. I hadno idea thatmyparentsweredead and that we would be

theonlyserioussuspects inadoublehomicide.Iwasinmylastmomentofinnocence.

ButwhoamIkidding?Noone in the Angel family waseverinnocent.

“OPEN UP, OR MY PARTNERWILL KICK down the door!”HatchetFacecalledout.

It is no exaggeration tosaythatmywholefamilywasabout to get a wake-up callfrom hell. But all I wasthinking at that particularmoment was that the policecouldnotkickdownthedoor.

This was the Dakota. Wecouldgetevictedforallowingsomeonetodisturbthepeace.

I unlatched the chain andswung the door open. I waswearing pajamas, of course;chick-yellow ones withdinosaurs chasing butterflies.Not exactly what I wouldhave chosen for a meetingwiththepolice.

Detective Hayes, thebearish one, said, “What’s

yourname?”“TandyAngel.”“Are you the daughter of

MalcolmandMaudAngel?”“Iam.Canyoupleasetell

mewhyyou’rehere?”“Tandy is your real

name?” he said, ignoringmyquestion.

“I’mcalledTandy.Pleasewaithere. I’llgetmyparentstotalktoyou.”

“We’llgowithyou,” said

SergeantCaputo.Caputo’s grim expression

told me that this was not arequest. I turned on lights aswe headed toward myparents’bedroomsuite.

Iwasclimbingthecircularstairwell, thinking that myparentsweregoingtokillmefor bringing these menupstairs,when suddenly bothcops pushed rudely past me.BythetimeIhadreachedmy

parents’ room, the overheadlight was on and the copswere bending over myparents’bed.

Even with Caputo andHayesintheway,Icouldseethat my mother and fatherlooked all wrong. Theirsheets and blankets were onthe floor, and theirnightclothes were bunchedunder theirarms,as if they’dtried to take them off. My

father’sarmlookedlikeithadbeentwistedoutofitssocket.My mother was lyingfacedown across my father’sbody, and her tongue wassticking out of her mouth. Ithadturnedblack.

I didn’t needa coroner totellmethattheyweredead.Iknew it just moments after Isawthem.Diagnosiscertain.

I shrieked and ran towardthem, but Hayes stopped me

cold. He kept me out of theroom,puttinghisbigpawsonmy shoulders and forciblywalking me backward out tothehallway.

“I’m sorry to do this,” hesaid, then shut the bedroomdoorinmyface.

I didn’t try to open it. Ijust stood there. Motionless.Almostnotbreathing.

So, you might bewondering why I wasn’t

bawling, screeching, orpassing out from shock andhorror. Or why I wasn’trunning to the bathroom tovomit or curling up in thefetal position, hugging myknees and sobbing.Or doingany of the things that ateenage girl who’s just seenhermurdered parents’ bodiesoughttodo.

The answer iscomplicated, but here’s the

simplest way to say it: I’mnot a whole lot like mostgirls.At least,not fromwhatI can tell. For me, having ameltdown was seriously outofthequestion.

From the time Iwas two,when I first started speakinginparagraphsthatbeganwithtopicsentences,MalcolmandMaudhad toldme that Iwasexceptionally smart. Later,they told me that I was

analytical and focused, andthat my detachment fromwateryemotionwasasuperbtrait. They said that if Inurtured these qualities, Iwouldachieveorevenexceedmy extraordinary potential,and this wasn’t just a goodthing,butagreatthing.Itwasthe only thing that mattered,infact.

It was a challenge, and Ihadacceptedit.

That’s why I was moreprepared for this catastrophethanmostkidsmyagewouldbe, or maybe any kids myage.

Yes,itwastruethatpanicwas shooting up and downmy spine and zinging out tomyfingertips.Iwasshocked,maybe even terrified. But Iquickly tamped down thescreaming voice inside myhead and collected my wits,

along with the few availablefacts.

One:Myparentshaddiedinsomeunspeakableway.

Two:Someonehadknownabout their deaths and calledthepolice.

Three: Our doors werelocked,andtherehadbeennoobviousbreak-in.Asidefromme, my brothers Harry andHugo and my mother’spersonal assistant, Samantha,

weretheonlyoneshome.Iwentdownstairsandgot

my phone. I called both myuncle Peter and our lawyer,Philippe Montaigne. Then Iwent to each ofmy siblings’bedrooms,andtoSamantha’s,too. And somehow, I toldthem each the inexpressiblyhorriblenewsthatourmotherandfatherweredead,andthatit was possible they’d beenmurdered.

CAN YOU IMAGINE THE WORDSYOU’DUSE,dear reader, to tellyour family thatyourparentshad been murdered? I hopeso, because I’m not going tobe able to share thosewretched moments with youright now.We’re just gettingtoknoweachother,andItakealittlebitoftimetowarmup

topeople.Canyoubepatientwith me? I promise it’ll beworththewait.

After I’d completed thathorrible task—perhaps theworsttaskofmylife—Itriedto focus my fracturedattention back on SergeantCapricorn Caputo. He was arough-looking character, likea bad cop in a black-and-white film from the fortieswho smoked unfiltered

cigarettes, had stainedfingers,andwascoughinguphis lungs on his way to thecemetery.

Caputolookedtobeaboutthirty-five years old. He hadone continuous eyebrow, afurry edge over his stonyblackeyes.Histhinlipswereset in a short, hard line. Hehad rolled up the sleeves ofhis shiny blue jacket, and Inoted a zodiac sign tattooed

onhiswrist.Helookedlikeexactly the

kindofdetective Iwanted tohave working on the case ofmymurderedparents.

Gnarlyandmean.Detective Hayes was an

entirely different cat.He hada basically pleasant, faintlylined face and wore awedding ring, an NYPDWindbreaker,andsteel-tippedboots.Helookedsympathetic

touskids,sittinginastunnedsemicircle around him. ButDetective Hayes wasn’t incharge, and he wasn’t doingthetalking.

Caputo stood with hisbacktoourmassivefireplaceand coughed into his fist.Then he looked around theliving room with his mouthwideopen.

He couldn’t believe howwelived.

And I can’t say I blamehim.

He took in the eight-hundred-gallon aquariumcoffee table with the fourglowing pygmy sharksswimming circles aroundtheirbubbler.

His jaw dropped evenfartherwhenhe saw the life-size merman hanging by itstail from a bloody hook andchain in the ceiling near the

staircase.He sent a glance across

the white-lacquered grandpiano, which we called“Pegasus” because it lookedlikeithadwings.

And he stared at Robert,who was slumped over in aLa-Z-Boywith a can ofBudin one hand and a remotecontrol in the other, justwatchingthestaticonhisTVscreen.

Robert is a remarkablecreation. He really is. It’snext toimpossibletotell thathe, his La-Z-Boy, and hisvery own TV are all part ofan incredibly lifelike,technologically advancedsculpture.Hewascastfromareal person, then rendered inpolyvinyl and an auto-bodyfiller composite calledBondo. Robert looks so real,youhalfexpecthimtocrunch

his beer can against hisforehead and ask for anothercoldone.

“What’s the point of thisthing?” Detective Caputoasked.

“It’sanartisticstylecalledhyperrealism,”Iresponded.

“Hyper-real, huh?”DetectiveCaputosaid.“Doesthat mean ‘over-the-top’?Because that’s kind of athemeinthisfamily,isn’tit?”

Nooneansweredhim.Tous,thiswashome.

When Detective Caputowas through taking in thedecor, he fixed his eyes oneach of us in turn. We justblinkedathim.Therewerenohysterics. In fact, there wasnoapparentemotionatall.

“Your parents weremurdered,”he said. “Doyouget that? What’s the matter?Nooneherelovedthem?”

We did love them, but itwasn’tasimplelove.Tostartwith, my parents werecomplicated: strict, generous,punishing, expansive,withholding.And as a result,we were complicated, too. IknewallofusfeltwhatIwasfeeling—an internal tsunamiof horror and loss andconfusion. But we couldn’tshowit.Noteventosaveourlives.

Of course, SergeantCaputo didn’t see us asbereaved children goingthrough theworst day of ourtenderyounglives.Hesawusassuspects,everyoneofusa“person of interest” in alocked-doordoublehomicide.

He didn’t try to hide hisjudgment,andIcouldn’tfaulthisreasoning.

Ithoughthewasright.My parents’ killer was in

thatroom.

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Contents

CoverTitlePageWelcomeDedication

PrologueOne

Two

PartOneChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8

Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18

Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25

PartTwoChapter26Chapter27

Chapter28Chapter29Chapter30Chapter31Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37

Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40Chapter41Chapter42Chapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46Chapter47

Chapter48Chapter49Chapter50Chapter51Chapter52Chapter53

EpilogueChapter54

AbouttheAuthors

BooksbyJamesPattersonAPreviewofConfessionsofaMurderSuspectNewslettersCopyright

Copyright

Thecharactersandeventsinthisbookarefictitious.Anysimilaritytorealpersons,livingordead,iscoincidentalandnotintendedbytheauthor.

Copyright©2014byJamesPatterson

ExcerptfromConfessionsofaMurderSuspectcopyright©2012byJamesPattersonCoverdesignbyLaurenHarmsCoverphotograph©GettyImages/dr03mbbAuthorphotographbyDavidBurnettCovercopyright©2014byHachetteBookGroup,Inc.

Allrightsreserved.In

accordancewiththeU.S.CopyrightActof1976,thescanning,uploading,andelectronicsharingofanypartofthisbookwithoutthepermissionofthepublisherconstituteunlawfulpiracyandtheftoftheauthor’sintellectualproperty.Ifyouwouldliketousematerialfromthebook(otherthanforreviewpurposes),priorwrittenpermissionmustbe

obtainedbycontactingthepublisheratpermissions@hbgusa.com.Thankyouforyoursupportoftheauthor’srights.

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PhotographsbySashaIllingworth

ISBN978-0-316-20702-7

E3