High School Hangover (12 page)

“Maybe if we find them and explain what happened they’ll give us a ride back home.”

“Do you really think they’re going to believe Buck McAllister’s kid just happened to pass out in one of their moving vans? Even you don’t believe that. But they would believe you and then you could get back home,” he says, wheels turning in his head so fast I can practically see smoke coming out of them.

“I’m not leaving you,” I tell him adamantly. “We go together or we don’t go.”

I guess I never really did believe that Jack was responsible for getting me into that truck. He may not be completely dependable, but he did come looking for me, so that counts for something.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get home,” he admits, looking flustered.

“A guy at the pawn shop offered me five hundred dollars for my purse,” I volunteer. I hate the thought of parting with it but desperate times and all that crap.

“That might get us bus fare home,” he says, considering it. “But I know it means a lot to you.”

“Maybe I can take out a loan and then send them a check when I get home and they can send it back to me,” I think, realizing it is the perfect solution.

Suddenly a door I didn’t notice bursts open in the alley and four men pile through it. I recognize two of the voices as the men outside the moving van. Before I can react, Jack’s lips come crashing down on mine. The unexpected kiss startles me so much that my legs start to crumple underneath me. Jack scoops me up, clutching my waist securely, never pulling his lips off mine.

This isn’t my first kiss, but this is the first kiss that makes me feel like glitter might shoot out my ears. This kiss feels better than being the only person in the class to ace a test. This kiss just might make up for a missing lab project.

“Get a room,” one of the men yells, slamming the door shut again.

Jack jerks his lips off mine and scans the alley. “Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me down the alley as fast as I can manage in these stupid heels. Physically, I’m trying to keep up with Jack, but mentally, I’m still back soaking up that toe-curling kiss.

I know I should feel guilty because of Leo and all, but all the feelings I had for Jack are starting to come back to me. This whole time I didn’t think he reciprocated because he stood me up. But maybe he was telling the truth the whole time, maybe someone really did steal our project out of his locker.

“I don’t think they’re following us,” Jack says, glancing behind us.

I kind of forgot we were even in danger.

“I’m really sorry about that back there. It was the only thing I could think to do,” Jack apologizes.

For a second, I don’t understand what he is apologizing for, and then I realize he’s talking about the kiss. That heart-thumping, mind-blowing, firework-exploding kiss was just to distract the moving van drivers from recognizing us. He hasn’t been pining away for me for two years. I can’t believe I read the situation so wrong. I may ace all my subjects, but I’m a complete failure at reading people. This is officially the most humiliating moment of my entire life. I can’t let Jack figure out how that kiss really affected me.

“I appreciate you saving my life and all, but a Tic-Tac wouldn’t kill ya,” I reply, hoping I’m convincing.

Jack laughs uncomfortably. “Yuck, next time I’ll just let them have you,” he replies, swiping his sleeve against his lips.

I kind of want to die right now. We walk silently for a few minutes until we emerge onto an oak-lined street in the middle of a pristine neighborhood. We pass neatly trimmed emerald rectangle yards with cookie cutter houses barely distinguishable from one another. I glance nervously behind us watching the alley get farther and farther away. I’m paranoid about getting lost in a strange town.

I make a mental note of the street names and directions we are heading as we turn down another street. This block only has one colossal house on it. It reminds me of Tara from
Gone with the Wind
. Mom has made me sit through that movie more times than I care to remember. I kind of wish she could be here with me to see it because she would love it. Okay, I’m being totally weird. I think the stress of our situation has finally pushed me over the edge.

“Eww...look, rivals,” Jack says, breaking our awkward silence. He points to a short bus parked in the estate’s circular driveway adorned with Cubs graffiti on each window. A large sign hangs off the back that says,
Chicago or bust
.

“I wish we had some eggs or soap or something,” I joke. Living such a short distance from Saint Louis, it is practically a law that every Higginsville resident is a die-hard Cardinal fan. The Cubs are our evil nemesis.

“They’re going to Chicago,” Jack says, pointing out the obvious.

“Um, yeah, no kidding.”

“Laney, they’re going to Chicago.” It takes a minute to sink in to my overly stressed brain.

“They’ll be really close to Missouri,” I shout, finally getting it. He forces me to fist bump him before we finally start up the lengthy driveway. We pass a bench surrounded by gazing balls and well-tended flowers. A sign in front of the bench says Primrose. “They named their house, Jack. I don’t think they are going to be the type of people to let strangers crash their road trip.”

I start getting worried that this might be a sorority house. I don’t think I could take a bus full of girls all fighting for Jack’s attention the entire way back home.

“The worst they can say is no,” Jack says.

Before we can reach the palatial white door, it flings open to a conversation so loud I practically have to slap my hands over my ears. A frail-looking elderly man emerges battling with a walker that has four green tennis balls shoved onto its feet. I jump back as Jack lurches forward to help the man un-stick his walker from the edge of the door.

“Let me help you with that, sir,” Jack says kindly, jerking the walker until it is flush with the concrete porch.

“Jack?” the elderly man asks, looking confused. He’s not the only one because I can’t imagine how Jack knows someone a thousand miles away. But the look on Jack’s face is the most confused of all because it is apparent that he has no idea who this man is.

“Yes, sir. I’m Jack,” he replies kindly.

“Jack,” the man shouts scooting closer to Jack and throwing his bony arms around him.

A plump, flame-haired woman, who looks like she might take makeup advice from Effie Trinket, shimmies out the door and pulls the old man off Jack. “This isn’t Jack, Arnie. Jack’s been dead for forty years, remember?” she says, but it doesn’t seem as if Arnie heard her because he is gazing at Jack like he’s a God.

“I’m sorry, kids,” the redhead apologizes. “Arnie’s got Alzheimer’s and he thinks every new face is his son, Jack,” she explains.

Jack and I exchange heartbreaking glances. Primrose must be a retirement home. This is the best news I’ve gotten all day. Old people are my peeps.

“Come on, Arnie. Let’s get you on the bus. We’re going to see the Cubs remember?” she says, attempting to pull Arnie in the direction of the bus. But Arnie won’t budge. He sticks to Jack’s side, gazing up at him in wonder.

“Let’s go, Dad,” Jack says, ushering him toward the bus. “Go, Cubs,” Jack says, urging Arnie up the two steps outside the bus. He follows Arnie, helps him get seated, bows to tell him something then stows his walker and hops off the bus. It is one of the sweetest gestures I’ve ever seen.

“Wow, you need to marry that one,” the redhead informs me, fanning herself with a clipboard.

I’m about to explain that Jack and I aren’t an item when more elderly people shove through the front door. Everyone is shouting over each other and I can’t understand a thing anyone is saying. They struggle out the door with enough bags to clothe a small village even though there don’t seem to be that many of them.

A Santa Claus doppelganger throws open a side hatch on the bus and starts throwing the luggage inside as he whistles a Lady Gaga tune.

“Are you kids selling something?” the redhead asks politely, as she glances at her clipboard. I have a feeling she is serious about keeping a specific schedule that we aren’t on.

From my experience, senior citizens are a fairly distrustful bunch. My own grandparents have been known to slam the door on a Girl Scout pedaling cookies. They always think you have a motive. I’m going to have to play this just right to get them to agree to give us a ride. I just wish I had more time to formulate the perfect plan.

Before I can squeak out a word, Jack bounds up and blurts out, “Can we hitch a ride with you guys?”

Alrighty then. Apparently we aren’t going with subtlety.

“Where are you kids from?” the concerned redhead asks, scrutinizing our ridiculous attire. “I thought the prom was last weekend,” she adds, looking concerned.

“We’re kind of in a bind. We need to get to Missouri and we don’t have any money. If it isn’t too much trouble, we’d like to hitch a ride to Illinois,” Jack finishes smoothly, taking the bag from her shoulder and adding it to the pile waiting to be stored inside the bus.

“Honey, you can ride anywhere with me,” I hear a crackly voice say. The three of us turn to see a tiny woman teetering on high heels wearing hot pink capri pants and a white T-shirt bedazzled with the letters, GILF, in pink rhinestones. I know those letters can’t possibly mean what I think they mean. But when I see her drape a wrinkled arm over Jack’s shoulder, I know her shirt isn’t a typo.

Who are these people? They seem more like teenagers than senior citizens.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Millicent, he’s young enough to be your great grandson,” the redhead thunders, looking disgusted.

“Shut up, Ginger,” the GILF shouts. “I’m Milly,” she coos, touching Jack’s cheek. “Do you hunt cougar?”

“Get on the bus,” Ginger orders, looking ready to crack her clipboard over the GILF’s coiffed head.

“Once you go granny, it’ll knock you on your fanny,” Milly whispers seductively to Jack. She puckers her painted cherry-red lips and blows him a kiss then saunters off.

“Wow,” Jack utters, his face dotted with splotchy red spots. “I think I just got sexually harassed. I feel so dirty,” he says, shivering in the ninety-degree weather. All the misery I’ve gone through since waking up this morning was so worth that moment.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Ginger apologizes. “I wish I could say her mind is gone but she’s been that way for twenty years.”

“That’s okay. I’m flattered, I guess,” Jack says, clearly flustered.

“That was so awesome,” I giggle.

“Hey, Dollface, I loaded the coolers full of drinks and snacks,” a deep male voice with traces of a New York accent says from behind us. A man dressed in a fluorescent orange track suit carrying a portable oxygen machine appears at Ginger’s side. Her face instantly turns almost the same color as her hair.

“Thanks, Dom,” she forces out.

“Anything for you,” Dom replies, giving Ginger a wink. He doesn’t look as old as the other residents because his face is more weathered than wrinkled. He’s got the kind of look that would blend in as an extra on a mob movie. The remaining black strands of hair on his head are slicked straight back and he’s wearing enough cologne to choke a buffalo.

Ginger seems to need a moment as she has gone back to fanning herself with the clipboard. Jack and I exchange eyebrow raises. Who knew that a retirement home got more action than the Playboy mansion?

“Ginger, we can’t budge him,” a woman says, exiting the house. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that reads “Best Grandma in the World.” She has curly gray hair, a button nose, and piercing blue eyes. She’s pretty much the only normal person I’ve seen come out of this house so far. “Oh, hello. I didn’t realize we had guests,” she says to me and Jack.

“This is Gertrude or Trudy as we like to call her,” Ginger introduces her. Trudy shakes our hands and offers us a warm smile. There is something so comforting about her that I almost feel like I might make it out of this mess in one piece.

“Bernie still says he’s not coming?” Ginger asks Trudy.

“He won’t budge an inch off that bed. Do you think he’ll be okay by himself?” Trudy asks her.

“I hate this. I’m going to be worried about him the whole time. Maybe we should cancel,” Ginger says.

“We are
not
cancelling,” Milly yells out her window. “If he doesn’t want to come, that’s his problem.”

Trudy and Ginger roll their eyes at each other.

“I’m sorry, kids. You don’t need to be hearing all this nonsense,” Ginger says. “I sure don’t mind if you kids tag along, if you don’t mind all this craziness, but I need to clear it with the others first.”

She waddles onto the bus followed by Trudy.

“If we go with them, it’s going to take longer to get home then if we pawn your purse,” Jack tells me, which I already deduced by the snail’s pace that most of these folks are moving at.

Jack’s right. If we have to stop a million times, we’ll never get home before Monday. I don’t want to explain to Mom that I blacked out in a moving van and lost about twelve hours of my life.

I hear some shouting from the bus, and few seconds later, Ginger emerges from the bus with a giant smile on her face. The seniors must have signed off on giving us a ride. I hate that I’m going to have to break her heart by telling her that we changed our minds. But getting home as soon as possible is the most important thing. Jack and I can just hang out for a while then go pawn my purse and catch a bus.

A soft breeze swirls around us and a clump of my frizzy curls blows in my face. Jack delicately brushes it behind my ear. I’m instantly transported back to that amazing kiss.

“We’ll get you home on three conditions,” Ginger says. I’m trying to pay attention but my eyes are drawn to Jack’s lips. Maybe taking a little bit more time to get home wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. What am I saying? I’m starting to think that energy drink fried more than just my memory. “You have to change out of those dreadful clothes, we need help driving, and,” she says theatrically like a drum roll has started, “what happens on the party bus, stays on the party bus.”

“Actually, Ginger--,” Jack starts, but I interrupt him.