Happiness for Beginners (2 page)

And then, with dread, I knew what he was going to say.

“—on the same survival course.”

I set Pickle down. “I'm sorry. What?”

“We're going to the same place,” he said, like it all made perfect sense. “Duncan said you wouldn't mind giving me a ride.”

It didn't make sense. Why would this kid Jake be going on the same trip as me? How could the universe even let that happen? This was something I was doing for myself, on my own. A Back Country Survival Company course, no less. BCSC courses were famously hard-core, invariably grueling, and occasionally life-threatening. It was a big deal for me. It was supposed to be a spiritual journey. It was supposed to signify my bouncing back after the worst year—or six—of my life. Duncan's goofy friend could not be coming, too. He was not invited.

“But this is something I'm doing alone,” I said matter-of-factly, in a mind-melding tone that always worked beautifully on the first graders in my class.

“Well,” he said, “it's twelve people plus the instructor, so you won't exactly be alone.”

Not a first grader, then. “But, I mean,
alone
like
on my own
.”

“On your own with eleven other people,” he confirmed. “And me.”

This was crazy. “How can you be coming on my trip?”

“Technically,
you
are coming on
my
trip,” he said. “Duncan only knew about it because I was going.”

Duncan
. This was all his fault. Again. As usual. “But he never said anything about you,” I said.

“I think at the time you signed up, I thought I couldn't go. But now I can.” He shrugged, looking pleased.

This was not the plan. The plan, as I had fantasized for the last six months, was to drive out to Wyoming and have a brave adventure with a bunch of strangers that would totally change not just my life, but my entire personality. The plan was to set out alone into the world, conquer it, and return home a fiercer and more badass version of myself. The plan did not include anybody but me—especially not, of all people, Jake.

I made an apologetic face. “I'm so sorry,” I said, like this settled things, “but I'm supposed to stay with my grandmother on the trip out.”

“Grandma GiGi? She loves me.”

“She couldn't,” I said. My grandma GiGi didn't love anybody except me. And Duncan. On occasion.

“She does. I swear. Call her.”

“I'm not going to call her. I've got things to do. On the drive back, I have to go to a bar mitzvah to see some old friends.”

He nodded. “The son of your high school boyfriend and your high school best friend. Right? Why would you go to that?”

I gaped. This kid knew way too much about my life. “I'm going,” I said, “because we're friends on Facebook now, and because they asked me to, and because it's not healthy to hold a grudge.”

“You're friends on Facebook?”

“Yeah. Except I never, ever go on Facebook.” I blinked. “Why do you even know about any of this?”

“Duncan told me,” he said with a shrug. “That's fine. I don't need a ride back. Just out.”

“You're not coming back?” I said.

“
Eventually
I'm coming back,” he said. “But first I'm going to Baja. Like four days after the BCSC trip ends. I fly out of Denver.” He paused. I guess he expected me to ask him why he was going.

I didn't.

He continued. “I snagged a research assistantship for a field study on whales.”

I stared at him.

“We're going to row out to their breeding grounds in little fishing boats and study how they interact with humans.”

I gave in to curiosity. “Why?”

“Because it's fascinating.”

“Is it?”

“It is. The whales swim up to the boats—voluntarily. People pet them.”

“Why?”

He frowned like he couldn't imagine how I could ask that question. Like I should get it. Which in truth, I did. Why would you pet a whale?
Because it wanted you to.

“It's powerful,” he said. “People cry. People burst into show tunes.”

“
Show tunes
?”

“People say they are never the same again.”

“I don't see what's so great about petting a whale.”

He leveled his gaze at me. “Yes, you do.”

“No, I really don't.”

We stared each other down.

After a minute, he went on, as if that tangent about whales had somehow settled the ride-to-Wyoming question.

“So it's just the ride out. You won't even know I'm there. I'll even sit in the backseat, if you want. Or you can strap me to the roof rack. I thought about making a music mix—but then I was like, ‘No way, dude, she's got her own music'—so I'll just stay out of your way and not even make a sound and we'll listen to whatever you want. Even Carly Simon, or whatever—”

“No!” I almost shouted. I felt a rising sense of panic. Here was my life, proceeding without my consent. Again. “Look, I don't know what Duncan told you, or promised you, but I'm sorry: I cannot give you a ride. You'll just have to go on a different trip.”

“But it's non-refundable.”

I knew that, of course. “Then you'll just have to take the bus. Or something.”

Jake studied my face. “Okay,” he said. “No problem.”

I exhaled. “Good. Great! I'll see you in Wyoming.” I bent down to grab Pickle's carrier.

“Except…?” he added.

I stood back up empty-handed. “Except what?”

“Except I'm pretty short on cash,” he said. “I don't think I have enough for a bus ticket.”

I closed my eyes. “You're short on cash?”

He shrugged. “We went over budget on the nook.”

I glanced at the nook for confirmation. Then I looked back like,
Seriously?
“What about your parents?” I asked.

“Parent,” he corrected. “Just my dad.”

“Can't he help you out?”

“He's in Texas,” he said, shrugging like he was on Mars. “And he doesn't exactly know I'm going on this trip.”

I put my hands on my hips and tried to come up with another answer. Any other answer. Down at my ankles, Pickle was whimpering.

“It's cool,” he said. “I can see it doesn't work. I'll just hitch.”

“You're not hitching,” I said.

“No, I've done it before—”

“You are
not
hitching,” I said, in my teacher voice, and it felt for a second—before I realized the opposite was true—like I'd won.

“Okay,” he said, shrugging. “I'll ride with you.” Then he gave me a half grin that I couldn't help noticing made a very high-caliber dimple. “If you insist.”

 

Chapter 2

It's a thousand and one miles from Boston to Evanston, give or take. You can drive it in a day, but it's a long day. A fifteen-hour day, according to Google.

That's why I'd wanted to leave early—before the sun was up. That's why I'd wanted to get Pickle set up with Duncan the night before. If I made it home fast enough, I'd get a good visit with my grandmother. My grandmother who'd raised Duncan and me after our mother lost interest. My nothing-short-of-fabulous grandmother, who wore a bun with chopsticks in it, who I adored.

As it was, though, I had to wait for the vet to open so I could bring Pickle in for boarding.

Pickle was never happy about much, but going to the vet made her positively suicidal. As I waved a falsely cheerful good-bye, I felt a squeeze of regret and wondered if I should have left her at Duncan's place after all. But I couldn't have. That dog didn't know how lucky she was. If nothing else, the party last night had likely saved her life. If I'd left her with Duncan, I'd no doubt have returned weeks later to a desiccated pile of fur and a befuddled-looking brother, scratching his head, saying, “I
thought
she got awfully quiet.”

Walking back to my Subaru after the drop-off, I realized I'd parked so hastily that I'd left one tire partway up on the curb. I hadn't even noticed at the time, but, back out front, the wonky tire was the first thing I saw. The second thing I saw was Jake, standing right next to it, holding a Starbucks coffee.

“Nice parking job,” he said, handing me the cup.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Thought I'd save you the trouble of picking me up.”

“What if you'd missed me?”

“Well, that would have been the opposite of saving you trouble,” he admitted. “But that's not what happened.”

I took in the sight of him: bed-head hair, cargo pants with no belt, and a surprisingly clingy T-shirt with Snoopy on it. His duffel bag leaned against the car.

“Worried I'd skip town without you?” I asked.

That made him smile. “You bet,” he said.

“I thought about it,” I said.

He rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a book with a whale on the cover. “I'll read the whole time,” he said. “You won't even know I'm here.”

I gave him a look. “Right.”

“Ready to go?”

“Not really,” I said, but I unlocked the door anyway.

As I watched him shove his bag into the way back, I wondered how he'd known where to find me, but then I remembered the Pickle packet I'd assembled for Duncan, with a highlighted map to the vet's.

“Duncan showed you the packet,” I said.

Jake nodded and slammed the hatchback closed. “You're very thorough.”

I was. In fact, I'd truly gone overboard. Letters of explanation to the vet. Letters of explanation to Duncan. More information than anybody needed. I felt a sting of shame that swung right over to resentment at Duncan for forcing me to be that way. “When it comes to Duncan, I am.”

“Want me to drive?”

“No.”

No, I did not want him to drive. If it were up to me, he'd be crammed back there with his duffel, and I'd be up front, alone with all the music I'd collected for the journey: Joni Mitchell, Nina Simone, Indigo Girls. The plan had been to sing my lungs out on the drive west, to team up with everybody from Annie Lennox to James Brown and belt out every emotion in the human repertoire. And then, hopefully, by the time I hit Wyoming, to be done with them all.

Of course, I wouldn't be belting anything out in front of Jake. That's not the kind of singing you do with a stranger. Or a friend of your brother's. I glanced over at him. Driving a thousand and one miles today in songless silence while this kid played video games on his phone was not what I'd signed up for.

But there it was. Life never gives you exactly what you want. That didn't change the fact that it was time to go. We buckled up and I edged us out into the street.

“So,” I said, as we joined the flow of cars. “It's one thousand and one miles from here to Evanston.”

“One thousand
and one
?”

“Roughly.” I nodded. “Google says it'll take fifteen hours and twenty-two minutes,” I went on, glancing at the clock on the dashboard, “and it's eleven minutes after nine now, thanks to Duncan, so we won't make it in time for dinner. We should arrive at my grandma's house—”

“After midnight,” he finished.

“Right,” I said, giving a little sigh. I wondered if I should call and tell Grandma GiGi not to wait up. She was a night owl, but she wasn't literally nocturnal.

“I bet we can still get you there for dinner,” Jake said. “A late one, anyway.” I could see him thinking. “Google's assuming we're driving sixty-five miles an hour. But we'll be doing eighty or ninety, at least.”

“Seventy,” I corrected. “Or whatever the speed limit is.”

“Okay,” he said, still calculating. “You'll be driving the speed limit, and I'll be driving whatever gets us up to an average of eighty.” He turned and checked the backseat. “Yup. Duncan predicted you'd pack a cooler of snacks.”

I felt like I was being teased, but I wasn't quite sure about what.

“So,” he went on, “we won't have to stop for meals, which'll save some time.” He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling while he did the math. “Eighty miles an hour into a thousand—
and one
—is more like twelve hours. Ish. Fewer if we pee in bottles.”

“Girls can't pee in bottles,” I said.

He glanced over. “I bet you could. If you tried.”

Was he complimenting or insulting me? I shook my head. “That's where I draw the line,” I said. “At peeing in bottles.”

He gave in with a nod. “Probably a good place for it.”

“But the rest of the plan,” I said, adding a tiny shrug as I realized it was true, “I love.”

He looked pleased with himself. “Thanks.”

So he had a can-do attitude. So he'd brought me a cappuccino. So he was willing to pee in a bottle to get me to my grandma's on time. Also: I had to admit the morning sunshine around us was insistently cheery. Maybe the drive wouldn't be so bad, after all. I lifted my coffee and took a sip just as he decided to strike up some more conversation:

“So,” he said. “How's life without your dickhead ex-husband?”

My response was to choke on that coffee so violently that Jake had to take my cup in one hand and grab the wheel with the other.

“Sorry,” he said, when I'd resumed command of the wheel. “Guess that's a tender subject.”

“No,” I said, defiantly pawing at my watering eyes. “It's not a tender subject.”

Here, to underscore the point, I used another favorite teacher voice—the Mary Poppins. This one implied that every problem had a solution, that the world deep down made perfect, comforting, and pleasant sense, and that if you carefully maintained the right spoonful-of-sugar attitude, you might even one day find yourself traveling over London by the stem of your parasol.