From What I Remember (16 page)

“Totally agree.”

“And…it’s majorly queer, but I secretly love Shakira and Enrico Iglesias. And…Gloria Estefan. It’s a Latino thing.”

“Yeah, must be.”

I laugh, because it is queer. And no one I know would ever admit anything like that without a gun to their head.

“‘You know my hips don’t lie. And I’m starting to feel you boy…’” I sing, shimmying my hips as best I can in a car seat. Okay, so I know the song.

“The boy knows his Shakira.” Kylie smiles, really smiles, with her whole face.

“Shakira is seriously hot. I mean, I wouldn’t turn down a private concert.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Langston. I’m talking about her music. I have a total soft spot for Latino pop. I’m genetically inclined toward it. That and Israeli folk songs.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m kidding. Though my mom is Jewish and made me listen to them when I was little. But they’re awful.”

Thwack.
A seagull hits the windshield, recovers, and then zooms away. It’s so surreal and surprising that Kylie and I start to laugh. And soon, neither of us can stop, we’re releasing the stress. It feels good. Scratch that. It feels great.

Eventually, we both catch our breath and chill.

“Wow. Kind of beautiful,” Kylie says, pointing outside the window.

We’ve been talking so much I haven’t even noticed the awesome coastline that stretches on, endlessly.

“Some nice swells out there,” I say.

I can spot surfers in the distance waiting on the waves. It would be nice to come back and shred. Like maybe when I can come by choice, on a vacation or something, instead of having been abducted.

“So what’s in this amazing speech we almost got ourselves killed for?” I ask Kylie.

“You know, just lots of brilliant insights and sage advice that will change your life.”

“That really paints a picture for me.”

“I can’t give it all away now. You have to be surprised tomorrow.”

“Just tell me one thing you’ve got.”

“Okay, well, I quote a lot of people. You know, like Winston Churchill, Bill Clinton, Desmond Tutu. And one of my favorite quotes is from Golda Meir. ‘Create the kind of self that you will be happy to live with all your life. Make the most of yourself by fanning the tiny, inner sparks of possibility into flames of achievement.’ I kind of use that as a jumping-off point.”

“Sounds interesting.” And that’s all I say, which is probably not what Kylie wants to hear. But the truth is, I’m thinking she’s not blowing me away. I mean, do we really care what Golda Meir has to say? Who even knows who she is? And the quote sounds pretty standard-issue graduation speech.

“What? You don’t like it?”

“No. It’s good. It’s just…I’m sure it’ll be great. Really.” I so don’t want to get into it. I know less than nothing about graduation speeches, except the shorter the better. “Seriously, it’s a good quote. I know you’ll do an amazing job tomorrow,” I say, eager to put this conversation to bed.

“You bet I will,” Kylie says. She looks out at the road. I can tell she’s annoyed.

I never should have brought it up. Jesus, she’s sensitive. Conversationally, we’ve hit a standstill. Luckily, we don’t have much farther to go. I see a sign for Ensenada on the left. Kylie pulls off the highway. End of the road.

Kylie flags down a guy crossing the street, and in impressively fluent Spanish asks for directions to the bus station. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says “Jessica Bernstein’s Sweet Sixteen—June 16, 2007.” It’s pretty hilarious. I mean, I probably went to that stupid party, and somehow the T-shirt ended up on this guy’s back. Most likely some cleaning lady who takes the hand-me-downs from rich people gave it to her brother’s family back in Ensenada. What a long, strange trip that T-shirt has been on. I pull out my iPhone and snap a quick picture of him.

We drive about a mile down the road, turn in to the center of town, and park on a street that runs along the side of a big plaza. Kylie throws the keys onto the front seat.

“I am so done with this truck.”

“Tell me.”

“Now we just have to find the bus station and we’re good to go.”

“If you say so.” It’s all too easy to be believed, after the day we’ve had.

“We just have to hope the bus won’t be hijacked.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem for you. You’ll just do a Keanu and take it over.”

“So, what? You’re like a connoisseur of action movies?
Speed
,
The French Connection
?”

“Not really. But I know stuff. Yeah.”

We leave it at that.

As we walk toward the bus station, I keep looking over my shoulder, thinking the dudes are going to pop up at any moment and shoot us dead. But it doesn’t happen, and we make it to the station in one piece.

I feel a huge sense of relief as I watch the woman slide two tickets for the three o’clock bus to San Diego under the glass divider. It’s all good. Everything is going to be okay. An hour ago, I was shaken to the core, shivering in my own sweat, convinced I was about to die. And now, all I have to do is kill a few hours in Ensenada.

Sweet.

The ticket seller leans forward and says something to Kylie in Spanish. I watch as a look of concern sweeps across her face, wiping away her smile. It’s like a shade being drawn. Kylie slides the tickets back under the divider and then looks at me. Jesus. I don’t know if I can take another hitch in the plan. I’m already running on fumes.

“What?” I ask. I hate not being able to understand. I should have studied Spanish and just ignored Dad. I live on the border of Mexico. I can say maybe ten words in Spanish, and one of them happens to be the word for hand-job. Pathetic.

“She asked me if we have our passports or birth certificates,” Kylie says.

“Jesus, I didn’t even think of that. We can’t get over the border without them?”

“No.” Kylie takes in a sharp breath and doesn’t seem to exhale.

I feel dizzy, like the floor is spinning. This day is really beating the shit out of me.

Kylie thanks the ticket seller and walks away. What is she thanking her for? Reminding us that we are once again totally screwed?

Kylie heads over to a wooden bench in the corner and collapses onto it. I sit down next to her. I can feel myself slipping into the panic and fear. The sitting is only making it worse. I get up and walk out of the station, leaving Kylie behind. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want to talk to her. I’m back to being pissed at her for getting us into this. I can’t help myself. I don’t want to be here. And it’s starting to look like there’s no way out.

I wander out to the street. My mood has dipped dangerously low. I look around the town. It’s not a bad place. There are bars and restaurants everywhere, and little pastel houses. It’s the kind of place I expect to end up in on some crazy spring break during college, slamming back shots of tequila and cruising the streets all night. But not today. Not now.

“I know this sucks. I’m really, really sorry. I should have never gotten you into this,” Kylie says, appearing at my side. She seems eerily calm. And genuinely sorry.

“It’s not all your fault. I mean, I’m a big boy. I could have bailed,” I say.

I both do and do not mean this. She didn’t want any of this to happen any more than I did. At least she’s not whining about it like me.

“What are we going to do?” I ask. Because hell if I know.

“I have a passport at home. But I can’t call my parents and tell them what’s going on. I just can’t. They’ll freak.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Couldn’t you tell them you came to Mexico on, I don’t know, some kind of senior prank or something, and they could come down with our passports, or meet us at the border?”

“Not gonna happen. Listen, I can’t let them know any of this. It’s just…it’s a long story. Trust me. It would be a very, very bad idea.”

My eyes meet hers. I want to make sure I’m getting my point across.

“Shit.” That’s all Kylie says. And then she walks across the road to a little park. There are about a million pigeons and a few old guys playing dominos. Kylie sits down on a mound of grass and stares out at the harbor. I lie down on the grass next to her, staring up at the sky. It’s a cloud-free day, perfect for surfing, biking, running. Instead, I’m stuck at a dirty bus station waiting on a miracle.

“Things are, like, hanging by a thread at my house. I seriously think this would push my mother over the edge.” Kylie lies down, rolls onto her side, and stares at me. “Just when we thought everything was going to be okay, it all goes to hell again.”

“What do you mean, hanging by a thread?”

Kylie heaves a sigh. “My brother Jake is special needs. He has Asperger’s syndrome. He requires a lot of attention. I mean, he goes to school and stuff, but everything is really hard with him. It’s practically my mother’s full-time job to worry about him, except for the fact that she actually has a full-time job as a nurse. And my Dad is always away, working out of town.”

Kylie pauses to make sure I’m still with her. I am.

“I’m kind of the glue that holds things together. Between taking care of Jake and working as a nurse, Mom doesn’t get around to doing things like making dinner or laundry. Anything, really. So that’s all me. I don’t know what they’re going to do tonight if I don’t get home.”

“That’s a lot of shit to deal with.” No wonder Kylie never smiles.

“Usually it’s okay. I’ve got systems for getting things done quickly. And I really like spending time with Jake. The worst part is the mental stuff. I feel like they’ve got all their hopes pinned on me, since Jake will never become the doctor they wanted him to be. I’ve already kind of disappointed them by choosing film school over premed at Brown. So I try not to stress my mom. If I call and say I’ve been smuggled into Mexico illegally in the back of a U-Haul, I might as well be hurling my entire family in front of a moving train.”

Heavy.

“I’m sorry. That sounds shitty. I’ll give you an eighty-nine on the life-sucks scale,” I say.

“I didn’t even crack ninety? Are you grading on a curve?”

“Totally. You get an A minus in overall suckage.”

“Cool. I feel so much better. Okay, your turn.”

“My Dad is sick, with cancer.”

I blurt it out, just like that. I’m not sure why. Maybe because we barely know each other. And, most likely, we’ll never see each other again after today. It’s easier to be honest.

Kylie looks startled. Cancer has a way of doing that to people.

“My Mom, who kind of has a compulsive need for everything to be perfect, is in denial. So she never talks about it. My older brother is an outcast because he refused to go to law school and join my dad’s firm. Instead, he plays guitar in a crappy band in dive bars around Seattle. I am the last remaining beacon of hope, kind of like you, I guess. I’m expected to go prelaw at UCLA and join the firm. If I do what I want to do, like my brother did, it would be the ultimate blow to my dad.”

“Wow. That sucks.”

Kylie looks at me with such sad eyes that I actually feel bad. So I lie to her.

“You know, they cure cancer all the time these days, so, hopefully, he’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, hopefully.”

Neither of us says anything for a minute.

“So, what
do
you want to do?” Kylie asks.

“I don’t know. Lots of stuff. I’d like to try a few different things. Just not law.” I hedge. I don’t want to go there.

“Congrats. You’re the big winner, Max Langston. Cancer trumps disabled sibling. Cancer trumps everything. I’d say that’s a ninety-seven on the suckage scale.” And just like that, Kylie changes the mood. I’m grateful, because I’m not sure I could have done it.

“Excellent. I love winning.”

I don’t mind talking to Kylie. In fact, I’m digging it. If this were any other day, I’d say we should kick it and grab lunch. But it’s not any other day. It’s the last day of high school, the day before graduation, and we’re stuck in Ensenada, Mexico.

hat if I ask Will to drive down?” I say. “He’ll be totally into it. He can go to my house, get the key from under the mat, and then grab my passport. Can he get into your house?”