Compromised (11 page)

T
he lady drops us off a few miles down the highway, like suddenly she decides picking up two random hitchhikers isn't such a good idea.

It probably isn't.

We look around. She leaves us on the shoulder, then turns off the highway where there's a cluster of houses. We watch as her broken taillight sputters and blinks. Her car becomes a dot on the horizon.

I smell my clothes. “I reek. Mold, mothballs, potpourri, and BO.”

“I'd kill for the perfume department at Macy's right now.” Nicole sniffs and scowls. “What's the deal with BO, anyway?”

I open my mouth and Nicole holds up her hand. “Rhetorical, okay?”

I nod.

“You know, don't you?”

“Know what?”

“Why we have BO.”

I shrug. “Kinda.”

Nicole shakes her head. “Save the science talk for later. You're so random,” she mutters.

I don't get it. I don't get her.

Nicole fidgets and gnaws on her nails. “Fuck, I could use a smoke.”

I could use some Pepto. But it looks like we're both out of luck.

I listen to Nicole talk all afternoon until we get to a town called Battle Mountain, Nevada. Right off Highway 80. The name of the town doesn't sound familiar, so I pull out the map.

“Oh crap.”

“Oh crap what?” Nicole asks.

“We should've changes routes. Back at Winnemucca. Gone to US Ninety-five.”

“So?”

“So now we've gone way out of the way.”

“So we take the scenic route. No biggie.” Then she starts talking about some guy named Domenico Raccuglia. She's white noise—like a radio that you forget is on. At least I'm getting used to it.

I watch her. I doubt Nicole's mouth has ever run out of batteries. At a 7-Eleven on the outside of town Nicole steals a couple of hot chocolate packets. We fill Styrofoam cups we find in the garbage with tepid water from the gas station tap and stir the chocolate with our filthy fingers.

“Do you, um, ever feel bad about stealing?” I ask.

“Do you ever feel bad about eating?” Nicole asks between slurps. She licks the last of her chocolate from the cup.

I stare at my cup. It has a red lipstick stain. My stomach turns. I suppose it would sound ungrateful to tell her that styrene is seeping into our fat cells as we drink, opening us up to a slew of health problems including the big C.

But the chocolate tastes so good. I swallow it down, clumps of powder sticking to my teeth. Food first. I'll deal with the carcinogenic effects later.

Funny. Three days ago you wouldn't have caught me touching Styrofoam, much less drinking from it. Back in the elementary birthday party days, when I got invited—occasionally—I'd bring my own cup just in case the
family wasn't eco-conscious.

We leave the bathroom and my stomach feels a little better. I tuck my hands into my coat sleeves and walk behind Nicole down the road. It's too dark to hitch, and we have to find a place to sleep for the night.

We find the bus station and hide behind an old Dumpster. I wonder how far out of the way we've gone. At least a hundred miles. I look at the map again. We'll go to Wells, then north on US 93. Probably better than backtracking to Winnemucca. Crap. Crap. Crap.

I lean my head against the freezing metal of the Dumpster. It seems like any sleeping arrangements on the street have to do with trash and transportation. I sigh and close my eyes, drifting to sleep.

“So what do you expect out of all this?” Nicole asks, jerking me awake.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you think this aunt will just open her arms wide and say, ‘Come and be the daughter I never had'?” Nicole says.

That was hypothesis one—pre-Nicole. “Is that what you expect from your dad?” I say.

“Jealous?” she says. “At least I know where he is.”

I am jealous, but I don't say anything. I wonder if her dad
will take us both in. Now that's a ridiculous hypothesis.

Nicole keeps talking. I come back to her voice when she's saying, “If she gave a rat's ass about you, you'd have a collection of American Greetings birthday cards with crisp five-dollar bills tucked inside. Well?” She raises an eyebrow and looks me up and down. She likes using snail mail as a proof of love. So she has some postcards. Big deal.

“Well what?”

“Have you even been listening?”

I don't answer. I don't have time before Nicole repeats, “What do you expect?”

“I guess I haven't thought about it.” Big lie. That's all I think about.

“So we're going four hundred miles hitching, freezing our asses off for something you haven't thought about?”

“More like five fifty,” I mutter.

“I didn't ask you to come along.”

“You're so—” Nicole starts to say.

“So what?”

“So fucking green. You probably think that if you click your heels, you'll end up at home with somebody named Auntie Em. Jesus, Jeopardy, for being so smart, you're about as retarded as they come.”

“And you? So you have a bag of postcards and a map. A
Mafia dad on the run.” I scrape some muck off my jeans. “At least I'm doing something about—”

“About what?”

“About my life. I'm not waiting around for somebody to make my decisions.” I pull my legs to my chest and pile on old supermarket ads for blankets. I cough—my throat itches.

“So you're my inspiration. A regular James ‘Whitey' Bulger,” she says. “I'm just not gonna make a movie out of you.”

“Huh?” I ask.

Nicole rolls her eyes. “It's like I have to explain everything to you. Bulger.
The Departed
. Jack Nicholson.”

I close my eyes and refrain from saying, “Now look who's random.”

“Anyway, if you can find family, why can't I? Especially since mine is a lot easier to find. I don't have to chase a box of paycheck stubs and letters.”

“So go to Chicago and live happily ever after with your dad.”

Nicole shrugs. “I will.”

At least her dad gets me off the hook. I've gone through a bazillion hypotheses in my mind, and they all end up with me alone. Without Nicole. And I'm okay with that. I
look at Nicole. She's right. I only care about my plan. But what's wrong with that? Looking out for myself?

When did everything get so complicated?

Nicole is chewing on her fingernail. “Well, it's not like I have an address. How will I find him in Chicago? Should I just hang out at the Sears Tower waiting for him to drop by?”

“So look in a phone book.” All I want to do is sleep.

“He's probably changed his name a thousand times by now. I can't look up ‘Nicole's Dad.'”

I sit up, causing an avalanche of supermarket ads. “And this is my problem how?” I feel weighed down by her and then guilty for feeling that way.

“We're a team, right? Cosa Nostra?” Her arms are wrapped around her body now, like she's hugging herself. “We're in this together. Remember the rules.” She almost sounds hurt.

I sigh. “Listen,
Capone
, I'm just trying to find a way to get to eighteen, okay? Finish high school and go to college. I just need to make it to eighteen. If I can do that at an aunt's house in Boise, Idaho, or Wherever, U.S.A., I will. You can do the same. Get on the internet. Find your dad. Whatever.”

“So you can use me, then throw me away. Like trash.”

“How have I used you?” I ask, settling back against the wall.

“You've been eating, haven't you? Oh, the self-righteous morally correct won't shoplift. No. But she'll reap the benefits of it.”

“I could shoplift, too. It doesn't take a genius.”

“It takes skill. I'm not a hack lifter. I take pride in my work.” Nicole moves away from me. “Fuck, it's cold. What day is it?”

“Thursday, November twelfth?”

“I would have to pick the coldest fucking winter to run away. Christ.” Nicole puts her hands in her pockets.

Technically it's still fall, but I don't say anything. My throat itches, and I say, “I need cough drops or something. Maybe NyQuil. Yeah. That would be good.”

Nicole rolls her eyes. “Add it to our shopping list next to your lotion-scented triple-ply Charmin.”

I swallow back a reply and close my eyes, wishing I could shoplift everything I needed; kind of wishing I was more like my dad. He wouldn't be sleeping behind Dumpsters. My lids burn against the pupils and I rub them until I fall asleep.

I
run through the plan of the day in my head. I have to stay true to the purpose, follow the procedure. That's what I need to modify. I take out the MapQuest map I printed in Reno.

I think through the experiment again. I don't know if Nicole should be classified as a constant or not. Other than that, though, everything's pretty foolproof—precise. Not much can go wrong with it. We just need to find the library.

I take out the letter with the flower.

“It's pretty,” Nicole mumbles. I didn't realize she was awake.

“Yeah.”

“I wonder what flower it is,” she says.

I shrug. “We could look it up.”

Yeah. Like I really need to spend my time looking at flowers. It seems anything can throw me off course. It's hard to keep things on track. It's hard to think about what I'm really supposed to be doing when my stomach aches. I'm getting pangs—the contractions last about thirty seconds, then subside.

I'm hungry.

“What's the theme?” Nicole asks, lighting up a cigarette. She found a half-smoked one on the street. At least she's recycling them now.

I swallow down some saliva and debate about whether I should suck on some snow. I scoop some from a drift near the road. It's black from exhaust. Better not. “Your pick today,” I say. We're taking a break, lying on our packs behind some thick sagebrush bushes. I close my eyes and soak up what little warmth I can.

“The theme of the day, then, is…” Nicole pauses. “Hmmmm. The theme is—”

Nicole nudges me. “Hey. Are we going to talk about the theme or not?”

“What is it?” I sigh.

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh. Sorry. So what's the theme?” I ask again. I pull
out a T-shirt and put it on top of my sweater. Another layer might help get rid of this cold.

“Ahh, forget it.”

I shake my head and rub my eyes. “So what do you think your dad's like?” I finally ask.

“Way better than my crackhead mom, that's for sure.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Yeah. I think he was on some kind of undercover gig when he met her. I can't imagine him actually falling for her. Maybe it was a one-nighter and I could get a T-shirt that says
RESULT OF ONE NIGHT OF BAD JUDGMENT AND A WORSE CONDOM
.”

I laugh and say, “The odds of getting pregnant in a one-time encounter are about three to five percent. Just taking in a few variables, of course. So you'd be a pretty uncommonly cool T-shirt.”

“I'm like the lottery.” She smiles. She looks pretty when she smiles.

I shake my head. “Nah. You're more likely to get hit by lightning than win the lottery. Either way, though, you're a rare specimen.”

She laughs. “That doesn't make it sound so bad.”

“It isn't,” I say. “It's procreation. Perpetuation of the
species. Somebody's sperm has to fertilize somebody's egg. So why not create a you—a one-of-a-kind you with your very own genetic structure and all the doodads that go with it?”

Nicole smiles. Science, when explained right, makes a lot of people smile. When science works, it's magic.

“That's pretty nice,” Nicole says.

“It's doubly nice your dad sends you postcards.” I mean it. I wish I had something like that. Anything to show that somebody out there is…out there.

Nicole blushes. “It is. So, um, what's with the science stuff anyway? Your dad and mom into it or something?”

My eyes and nose sting. I think hunger has made me more emotional. I don't know where the science comes from. It's not like Dad did anything very scientific in his life. I always feel like Dad and I just coexisted—nothing in common except for half his DNA. Mom might have been a science person. I've never thought about that before, and it makes me sad. Another missing piece to the puzzle. I think I just like science because I do.

I don't have to be anything like Mom or Dad.

“We better get moving. While it's still light,” Nicole says. “We can talk and walk.”

I have a feeling Nicole can talk and do anything. The soles of my shoes slap the cracked road, kicking up pieces of loose gravel as we walk.

Nicole inhales and smashes her cigarette butt on the sole of her shoe. “Fuck. It's the last one. So,” she repeats, “what's with the science stuff?”

I bite my tongue and look at the shredded cigarette paper and ashes. I force a smile. “I guess the enchantment, you know?” I say.

“I thought scientists didn't believe in hat tricks and all that mumbo jumbo,” Nicole says.

“That's the thing. Science
is
magic.” I smile.

“How so?” Nicole asks.

“Who else can take mold and save someone's life? Or take one cell and create a kidney?”

Nicole shrugs.

“A magician.”

“I've never thought about it like that,” Nicole says. “That's kinda cool.”

“Kinda.”

“Magic,” Nicole whispers.

“Magic.” I nod.

“Okay,” I say. “Your turn. Why the mob?”

Nicole puffs on her hands. “The rules are clear, you know. Black and white. I kinda thought a scientist would get that.”

“Try me,” I say.

“They live by one law: loyalty. The whole idea is that if you're in, you're in. There's no real gray area. Parents are supposed to be like that.”

“Supposed
is the operative word.”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah.” Plus it's pretty impossible to parent from the can. Maybe that's why he signed those papers.

Nicole's eyes light up. “Loyalty, though. Think Pablo Escobar. He ran a pretty tight business when he was in jail. Then they hunted him after he escaped and killed him on the roof of a house in Medellin, Colombia. He was shot in the chest, leg, and ear. The ear was the fatal shot, and some people think he did it himself. You know—killed himself to be free. He wasn't gonna let them take him down.”

“And that's admirable?”

“Yeah. It's like saying ‘Fuck you' to the system.”

“By killing himself?”

“Yep. That takes balls. He went down free.”

Death is freedom?

Maybe for some.

Nicole spits out the grass and says, “I hope I wasn't chewing on jackrabbit piss. Wanna hitch?” She looks up at the sky. “It's gonna be dark soon.”

“Yeah. Let's try to get to the next town, anyway. Maybe there'll be a 7-Eleven where we can hang out until morning.”

“I can get us some more Swiss Miss shit. And maybe a pack of cigarettes. Fuck, I need a smoke.”

I rub my stomach. The human stomach can secrete up to three liters of gastric acid per day. I think mine has to be secreting double from the intense burning I feel. I can just imagine the acid working its way through my intestines and gastric walls. “That'd be nice, actually. The hot chocolate.” I decide not to ask her to lift the Pepto-Bismol.

“What, you don't have any special requests? Besides toilet paper, cough drops, and Pepto, of course.”

My stomach spasms again. “Nope.”

We put on on our packs and walk to the highway. A trucker for some fruit company gives us a ride to Carlin, Nevada.