Let's Get Lost (8 page)

4

BREE BARELY NEEDED
to nudge the wheel in order for the Mercedes to swiftly maneuver in and out of lanes. This was not the first time Bree had ever driven a car. Alexis had on occasion given her lessons around their neighborhood or in the vast parking lots of shopping malls in Reno. But this was the first time Bree had felt the joy driving could bring, how a car could make its driver feel powerful, like a beast unleashed.

When the flow of traffic started to slow, Bree took the nearest exit. She drove cautiously and inexpertly on the city streets. She took them back downtown, looking for an audience at which to secretly flaunt their stolen car.

“Park here,” Leila said, pointing at a small lot. “Let's go find some celebratory ice cream.”

“Celebratory ice cream?”

“Nothing's more suitable,” Leila said, “not even alcohol. It's the secret every parent instinctively knows: Ice cream makes everything better. I'm surprised hospitals aren't all stocked with every flavor of Ben and Jerry's.”

Bree thought back to her parents' stints in the hospital, how she and Alexis actually used to go make ice cream runs, either to fill the time or because their mom couldn't handle eating anything else. “Now you're talking,” she said, parking the car. As they got out, Bree thought of something. “How'd you know, by the way? That hospitals don't stock any good ice cream. Who'd you have to visit?”

Leila turned quickly, as if caught doing something wrong. Then she cast her eyes downward and shrugged. “My little sister had tonsillitis.”

They found a shop nearby. It was decorated in the vein of an old-fashioned soda fountain; a long counter lined with stools, and, outside, a candy-striped awning over a couple of stainless-steel tables. “This looks so much like a place in San Fran,” Bree said, pulling out a chair and turning it to face the street. “They had all these crazy flavors, like roasted pineapple, spicy chocolate, and basil.”

Leila licked at her scoop of strawberry and put her feet up on the chair in front of her. “That sounds amazing.”

“Yeah. I could rarely afford to go there, which made it so much better when I could.”

“How long were you there?”

“Just a couple of weeks, right after I left home,” Bree said, watching the traffic go by.

“I've never been. How was it?”

“Bit of a shit show, to be honest.” Bree chuckled.

There was a certain amusement in watching how miserable everyone was sweltering, in their cars. Bree liked seeing the little details: ties loosened in a yank or two and then forgotten; conversations yelled into hidden, hands-free headsets; ponytails coming apart like fabric being unwoven.

“Come on,” Leila said, finishing off the last of her waffle cone. “It's been a while since my adrenaline spiked. Let's go find something to do.”

* * *

Bree and Leila passed a park busy with a number of Little League games. The basketball courts were a blur of bright-colored shorts and shirts. Swarms of bugs surrounded the overhead lights, and Bree parked but kept the engine on for the air-conditioning, then noticed the stale cigar stench and decided to crack the windows. A warm stream of air slipped in through the opening.

Bree thought about the arc of her day in terms of temperature, starting with the sunburn on the side of the road, the sweltering heat in Leila's car, the cold initial blast from the Mercedes, and now the miraculous way that dark could make the air pleasant. “People don't appreciate the Earth's rotation enough,” she said, slipping a finger through the cracked window.

Leila laughed. “That was a bit of a stoner comment.”

Bree shrugged, relishing the feel of the air on her finger. “Nah, I quit all the stoner stuff when I left San Francisco. The occasional weird comment is all part of seizing the day. The appreciation eventually just comes pouring out of you.”

Leila lowered her window and stuck her hand out. “How did you and your sister not get along? You're one of the coolest people I've ever met.”

Bree turned to face Leila with a smile. “We just clashed. She was always kind of uptight, and I'm...the way that I am. And this is a calmer version, too. A few months ago I was a little more, um, aggressive about having a good time.”

“And you said she was being too parental?”

“Yeah. Sometimes it seemed like we were just pretending. She'd get mad and scold me, and I'd throw out these exaggerated teenage clichés, like ‘You're ruining my life,'” Bree said in a bratty voice, lowering her window the rest of the way. “I kept expecting Alexis to finally crack a smile, or to cry, or something. But all she wanted to do was discipline me, and that only pissed me off more. I guess on some level I expected that what we'd gone through would bring us closer, you know, bridge the gap between our personalities. Instead, she shacked up with some law student and seemed to hate me more by the day.”

Leila didn't respond for a while. They both stared out at the game. “How did your parents die?”

Bree picked at the steering wheel's leather. “My mom had lung cancer. She got sick first. I was fourteen, and Alexis was eighteen.” She glanced over at Leila, then ran a finger along the length of the car door, her hands unwilling to keep still. “Within a year, Dad died, too. Sometimes I don't know whether to be thankful or appalled that at sixteen I've already lived so many lives.”

Bree sighed, then waved her hand through the warm air. “I'm glad I left,” she said, turning to smile at Leila. “I get to seize more days.”

“It's been a good day,” Leila said.

“Very good day,” Bree repeated, glad that Leila wasn't pressing the conversation. “So, what's next?”

“I don't know. I was thinking of covering a bit more ground today. We could go take this car back, pick my car up, and head north for a few more hours.”

“Where do you usually sleep?”

“Every now and then I'll get a motel room, but they're so goddamn lonely, I'd much rather sleep in the car.” Leila turned down the AC and then lowered her window all the way, leaning her head partly out to sniff the air. “You're more than welcome to tag along, if you don't have any other plans.”

“Sweet,” Bree said. “No plans. Just how I like it.”

“Let the adventure continue, then,” Leila said, reading Bree's mind.

A cheer sounded from the soccer field. Bree watched the kids from the scoring team run into a massive hug, the parents applauding wildly, happiness plastered on everyone's face. The kids on the other team looked on at the celebrations as if they wished they'd been invited.

“So,” Bree said, as she moved to put her seat belt back on and start the car, “why the Northern Lights?”

“They've been my obsession for a while. My portfolio for school just wouldn't be complete without them,” Leila said, just as a cop car behind them let out a quick howl of its siren. The sound was gone almost as soon as it had started, as if it were just clearing its throat to politely interrupt the conversation. Red and blue lights shimmered across the inside of the car. Another squad car pulled into the lot, parking directly behind the Mercedes. It switched on its floodlights, and Bree turned away from the blinding glare in the rearview mirror.

“What are the chances that's not for us?” Leila asked.

Two officers climbed out of each car, hands on the butts of their guns. One of them pointed a flashlight at the Mercedes, which seemed a little redundant with the lights from the cruiser beaming onto them. They approached from either side of the car, taking slow and measured steps. Bree shielded her eyes from the bright lights and wished they'd just get it over with.

The soccer game had slowed to a near halt. All the kids were busy looking at the Mercedes and the police cars, and the adults were halfheartedly trying to get them to keep playing, although they, too, were distracted.

Bree felt somehow bad for the soccer ball rolling slowly out of bounds, temporarily forgotten. Bree imagined that the ball loved nothing more than to be kicked across the field, to feel the blades of grass give way beneath its weight. If not for the very real possibility of getting shot for it, Bree would have sprung out of the car, raced across the field, and kicked the crap out of that ball. It would sail up over the goal, past the edge of the field, across the street, and over the row of houses, rising up higher and higher in the sky like a misfired bullet or a missile seeking destruction.

 

5

THE HOLDING CELL
they were in was about ten by ten feet and surprisingly clean. Bree was lying down on the narrow bench built into the wall, hanging off its edge though she was pressed against the wall. It was made of cold, unforgiving concrete that stiffened her back. Not without a certain amount of satisfaction, she rubbed the sore spots where the handcuffs had pressed against her wrist bones, almost sorry to know that they wouldn't scar.

“Is it just me,” Leila said, “or is this cell more comfortable than you'd expect?” She was sitting near Bree's outstretched legs, looking at the floor with her arms hanging low and her fingertips grazing the ground.

Bree ran her finger along the underside of the bench and examined the whorls of her fingerprints for signs of dirt. “Cleaner, too.”

Leila sat up quickly, her eyes wide. “Holy shit! This is my first time in a jail cell.”

Bree lifted herself up onto her elbows, looking quizzically at Leila. “Mine, too.”

“We should be celebrating. This is something to tell the grandkids about.”

“That's a good point. How should we celebrate?”

“You think they'll bring us some ice cream if we asked them nicely?”

“If that doesn't work, it's your turn to kiss someone to get what we want.”

“Deal,” Leila said, rising from the bench and walking over to the bars, which weren't the dirty gray of iron but had been painted a pleasant beige. “Excuse me, officers,” she called down the empty hallway. “We haven't received our complimentary scoop of ice cream yet.” She paused for a moment. “I know my rights!”

She turned back to Bree and frowned exaggeratedly. “I don't think we're gonna get any ice cream.”

“Bastards. We'll have to think of some other way to mark the special occasion.”

“Have any ideas?” Leila walked back to the bench and took a seat with her feet tucked under her.

“I'd suggest streaking, because I've never done that, and it might be nice to cross another thing off the list
while
celebrating. But we don't have much running room in here. Plus, maybe it wouldn't be the smartest decision to add to our criminal records so soon.”

“Alleged criminal records,” Leila corrected. “Are you worried?”

“Nah,” Bree said, lying back down as if to flaunt her carelessness. “I'm sure everything will be fine. Plus, they pretty much just wrote my college essay for me. I'll talk about learning from the hardships of my rebellious teenage years, and I'll get accepted anywhere I want.” After she said this, Bree realized that there was a tiny inkling of worry in her belly. But it wasn't for herself—she was a minor and at worst might go to juvie for a few months. It was a concern about what might happen to Leila.

A moment passed in which Bree realized how eerily quiet it was. There was just the low hum of a fluorescent lightbulb somewhere down the hall. There was no clue as to what was happening in the outside world.

Leila stood up and walked to the bars. “Anyone? Ice cream?” Her voice broke the silence and echoed down the hallway, eliciting no response. “Jerks!” She plopped down onto the floor, resting her back against the bars, her legs stretched out in front of her. She took off her flip-flops and examined them for a few moments. “Don't you think it's a mistake to let prisoners into a jail cell wearing shoes? They could conceivably be used as weapons. I mean, mine are too light to cause much damage, but I could really slap the hell out of someone.”

Bree raised her legs to look at her shoes. They were skater sneakers, once solid black but now faded and tattered, their soles rubbed smooth from Bree's journey. The right one was stained by some unrecognizable, crusty material that she had never noticed before. “Mine are heavy enough to cause some damage. I'm somewhat attached to them, but if it means becoming the first people to break out of jail using only their footwear, I'll gladly sacrifice them.”

“Well, we can't just come out guns blazing. We would need a plan.”

“Of course,” Bree said, sitting up from the bench and joining Leila on the floor. “We should take a hostage. When someone comes to get us, we can use my laces to tie him up. I'll hold a shoe to his head while you slap a clear path ahead.”

“What do we do when we make it outside?”

“That's when we start letting the footwear fly. In the confusion of the shootout, we make a break for a squad car. We hot-wire it, take it to a safe location, and paint it red.”

“Then we'll live out the rest of our lives as fugitives,” Leila said, her voice gleeful. “We'll drive through the whole country, taunting the authorities. Then we'll cross the border and go as far north as the Canadian roads will allow. We'll watch the Northern Lights, then come back to the States and go all the way south to Patagonia to see what the sky does on that side of the world.”

Bree was about to voice her approval when they heard the opening and closing of doors, then the heavy footsteps of an officer walking down the hall. “The state requires us to provide you each with a phone call to get in touch with a lawyer or relative,” he said as he pulled his keys out.

Bree stayed put, quiet. She could feel Leila and the cop eyeing her expectantly. Leila asked the cop to give them a second and then went over to take a seat next to Bree and waited for Bree to meet her eyes. “I have no one to call,” she said softly. “Do you?”

Bree exhaled, maybe exaggerating a little to show that the question was like a punch to the stomach. She shook her head.

“I was hoping maybe you had an aunt or uncle,” Leila said.

“Nope. Not anywhere nearby anyway.”

Leila brought her hand up to her mouth and bit on the corner of a fingernail. “As surprisingly okay as this stay in jail has been, we're probably going to be in deep shit if we don't call someone. Like, life-ruining deep shit. If there was anything else for us to do, anyone else at all to call, I wouldn't ask you to do this. Unless you can think of something else, we need to call your sister.”

“Maybe things aren't that bad,” Bree said. “We should wait until someone comes to talk to us and we find out exactly what we're facing.” The words didn't even sound convincing to herself, but she was trying to push away the thought of calling Alexis. They hadn't talked in over nine months. Bree had this one recurring nightmare that she was hitchhiking and every car that would stop was driven by Alexis, with Matt in the passenger seat.

“Bree, you and I both know that's not a good idea. We had a hell of a day.” She motioned around the jail cell and smiled, still speaking softly. “But I think it's safe to say, this is as far as we go. Now the consequences start to kick in. And if we don't have someone to help us out, they'll be worse than they have to be.”

“Leila...” she started to say, but she didn't know how to go on.

“I know you didn't leave home under the best of circumstances,” Leila said. “But what else can we do?”

“You don't understand,” Bree said, surprised at how close to crying she was. “‘The best of circumstances' is a hell of an understatement. I can't just call after all this time and ask her to bail me out of jail.”

The silence of the cell returned, broken only by Bree's heavy breathing. She brought her knees up to her chest, barely able to fit her feet onto the narrow bench. She picked at the crusty spot on her shoe, which flaked away with a nauseating crackle.

“You can't do a whole lot of life-seizing in here, Bree. I know you don't want to talk to her. But you have to. You're sisters. I'm sure she she'd just be happy to hear your voice.”

Bree stopped scraping the thing on her shoe and leaned her head against her knees. “I kissed her fiancé.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice, remembering the look on Alexis's face. “I was just being wild, you know? A little rebellion is to be expected when you're being babied. She caught us. As soon as I saw the look on her face, I packed a bag and left.”

Bree had thought that the next time she saw Alexis, they'd both be well into adulthood, the wounds they'd inflicted on each other rubbed smooth and painless by time. She'd even had little fantasies of running into her on the street somewhere—New York, maybe—and they'd crack smiles and say, “How's it been?” and go grab a cup of coffee. By then everything would be forgotten or at least irrelevant.

“There's no way I can call her. Not after what I did.”

A tress of dreadlocked hair fell across Bree's eyes, and she tried halfheartedly to undo some of its knots.

“Let me talk to her,” Leila said after a while.

Bree took a deep breath and shut her eyes. “She won't come.”

“We might as well try.”

Somewhere, beyond the doors of the holding cell, a phone was ringing. “You don't want to test out the escape plan with the shoes? I think we were really on to something there,” Bree attempted.

Leila laughed and squeezed Bree's arm. “Don't worry. I'll take care of everything.”

She lingered there for a moment. Bree could hear the cop shifting his weight outside, a slight wheeze to his breathing. Leila gave Bree's arm another squeeze and then called out to the officer that she was ready.

Bree watched Leila and the cop walk down the hall, filling it with the echo of rubber soles hitting the linoleum floors.

* * *

Bree couldn't tell how long she and Leila been in the jail. However long it might have been, it was long enough to let the stillness in. That's when she really started to grasp the awfulness of a jail cell. Before, she'd thought that it would be cruel to have clocks hanging around jails, forcing the prisoners to literally watch time go by without them. But now she realized that not having clocks around was the more severe punishment. Just day followed by abstract day, and you, motionless, in the middle of it.

A buzzer interrupted Bree's musings, and the set of doors at the end of the hallway swung open. It'd been so long since Bree had seen a familiar face.

More than anything, she was surprised by the fact that Alexis still looked the same. She was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, pajama pants, and no makeup, so that she looked even younger than she was, closer to Bree's age. Bree had always thought Alexis was prettier than she, and she looked it now. Well-rested, too, as if Bree's absence had been a relief.

A cop was walking beside her, going through a set of keys and clearly not sure which one he needed. Bree didn't stand up, but she watched her sister's slow approach.

Leila lifted herself off the floor and stepped away from the door. She gave Bree an attempt at a comforting smile, although Bree couldn't say she was very comforted. Her stomach was a mess of nerves. She thought she might actually throw up in front of everyone.

Alexis's face was actually quite serene, almost expressionless, only a little different than how she'd looked months ago. Bree remembered the tightening jaw muscles that would preface all those lectures.

Bree kept waiting for something big to happen. For Alexis to yell at her or, for some reason, hug her. But she couldn't gauge what Alexis was thinking at all.

The cop led Leila and Bree down the hall in silence. They went through a few bureaucratic procedures, signed a few forms. One of the officers talked for a while and said, “Do you understand?” when he was finished, but Bree hadn't been listening, so she just nodded. Of all things, Bree was wondering if there were direct flights from Reno to Kansas City or if Alexis had needed a layover. How long had they been in the cell?

A young cop behind a counter gave Leila her keys and told her where her car had been towed. He handed Bree back her duffel bag. As the officer had Alexis sign a couple more forms, Bree felt the pang of anxiety growing, constricting her chest as if it actually had the power to yank at the muscles of her heart. When they were led outside, Bree took a step away from Leila, as if to keep her safe from the altercation sure to ensue.

Here it comes
, Bree thought.
A lecture, the big explosion of Alexis's unique brand of sisterly love.
But Alexis just kept walking straight ahead toward the parking lot. There weren't many cars parked, and they all looked the same whitewashed color under the glow of the streetlights. The streets were quiet, the whole suburb past its bedtime.

“That's it?” Bree called out to her sister. “You don't have anything to say?”

Alexis turned around. She looked as if she was about to start yelling but just said softly, “No, Bree. I don't have anything to say to you.” She turned back and kept walking to her rental car. It took Bree a second to register that her sister's cheeks were wet, dripping with tears that Bree hadn't noticed at the jail.

“I'm not going back with you, you know,” Bree called out, her resolve weakened by the fact that she couldn't remember her sister ever crying before.

“Wonderful. Thanks for making that clear.”

Bree stopped walking after her. A white car about twenty feet away flashed its headlights as Alexis unlocked its doors remotely.

“Yeah, I thought so. You're glad to be rid of me.”

Leila took a step toward Bree, as if meaning to reassure her but not knowing how.

“Glad to see you haven't changed. Keep it up. Your immaturity is really one of your best traits,” Alexis said, now standing by the driver's side of the car. She swung open the door but stayed outside the car, staring at her keys and her feet, a fresh onslaught of tears streaming down her cheeks. They came out so effortlessly, barely a contorted muscle in their wake. Bree had the notion that her sister wasn't actually crying, that maybe Alexis had picked up some sort of disease, and tears were just a symptom.

“Like you were glad to be rid of them,” Bree said.

And for once, Alexis's face contorted into a look of flat-out anguish. Bree almost felt relief at the sight of it, at its undeniable honesty.