Rachel floors the gas pedal of her cherry red Malibu, sending us racing down the California interstate at speeds the manufacturer probably did not intend, even if the owner is an eighteen year-old birthday girl pretending to drive a sports car. When she spots a Highway Patrol cruiser on the other side of the median, she slows down to a respectable ninety. She shouts something at the windshield, then squeezes my hand. It feels pretty weak, but then again I've been spending the better part of the last three hours rocking out to a pair of bass-boosted earphones hooked up to the slate phone Rachel bought me a while back—a black rectangle you're supposed to use for making phone calls has turned out to be the most kick-ass music player I've ever owned.
Rachel smacks my shoulder a couple times. I take out my ear buds.
"So what did you do while you were all by your lonesome for three days?" she says.
"The usual shit: smoked, drew pictures of you, listened to music, talked to Mom, avoided step-ass. He finally stopped busting my balls about looking for a job next year after Mom got on his case about how long it took him to find one. How was your birthday bash?"
"Fairly tame. Which is to say, we visited a lot of our very domesticated relatives. Congratulations on adulthood, Rachel. Wishing you all the best in your final year of school, Rachel. Here's a little something to help you along, Rachel. Why, Aunt Janice, you shouldn't have."
"But she totally did. Five fucking grand."
I feel like counting it again, just to make sure it's all there and it's all real.
"Put the envelope in the glove compartment," Rachel says.
"Sure. I couldn't find anything in the news about your performance. How was it?"
"Nothing worth telling. I landed a bit part as a ghost in a gauntlet of underworld spirits that the Knight in Shining Armor passes through on his hero's journey. I stood opposite a teenage boy who was so nervous that he projectile vomited all over the front of my verdure gown. I got to sit in a three-legged wooden chair for forty-five minutes while I breathed in the lasagna he ate for lunch. Turned my champagne dress the color of table wine."
"Someone pukes on you and you're fussy about whether the cleaners will be able to work the pasta out of your costume. Sounds like you got the same upgrade Steph did."
"Upgrade?"
"You get promoted and your job gets shittier."
"That's how the world works. Some Hollywood producers started as hairdressers and got barfed on all the way to the top."
When we roll into downtown Los Angeles, I have to stick my head out the window to see all the way up to the tops of the buildings. Rachel taps my legs and asks me to pull up the directions on my phone. When she coasts to a stop in front of our luxury hotel, a swanky-looking, nicely-dressed dude in a black tuxedo vest, black tie, and freshly pressed black slacks greets us at the curb, then takes off back into the hotel as soon as I take my beanie off to shake the dust out of it. Rachel struts off after him.
"My manager gets on my case when I forget to wear my hat," is what he says, which is strange because he's not wearing a hat when he says it and neither is anyone else when we go to check in. Maybe these are the kinds of people who give you better treatment if you slap down stacks of hundreds in front of them.
"Thank you, dear," says Rachel as she scoops up the bills off the desk. "Why don't you sign in?" She points at her signature in the log book.
"Norma Jean Baker."
I take the pen and embellish two inches' worth of real estate with my calling card. When I'm done, the hotel manager swivels the book stand around and gives me a practiced smile that leaves enough room for four, maybe five hundred dollar bills between his tightly pressed lips.
"Spliff Smokenstein. Enjoy your stay, madam."
The first thing I need to do once I've kicked off my shoes and christened the toilet is hop in the shower and scrub the road dust off my body. It's also the first thing Rachel needs to do. As usual, she's still a skeleton, and also as usual, my body still reacts to her.
"Can you wash my hair for me?" she asks.
"Fuck yes, I can wash your hair for you."
She turns and arches an eyebrow at me.
"Thanks."
She rinses her scalp before I'm even done with the shampoo and jumps out of the stall, making a whole bunch of noise about spending all that money just to get a room that doesn't even have a working hair dryer. Instead, she dries her hair on the highway at eighty miles an hour while I drive her to an appointment that can't be missed because it's worth two grand, high-level contacts, and a boost to her portfolio. Even at these speeds, people are still passing us.
"The cops in Arcadia Bay could retire off these people," I shout.
"They'd never catch them," Rachel says.
I accelerate.
No beer is allowed on set—the guy calling the shots is very particular about food and drink—so I chill on a high-backed stool with a bottle of root beer on a bar-style counter while I mess around with tweaking the thousands of photos Rachel has of herself on her laptop. While I'm doing that, the real Rachel appears in a ball gown wearing rouge make-up and a diamond tiara that's inlaid with actual diamonds. If she didn't wear her hair down to her shoulders, she could pass for Victoria Chase.
"And one from the side. Perfect."
Michael talks so fast I can't keep up, which is great because I don't have to.
"Now with the rose in your hands. Up against the wall. Fantastic."
Every shot requires six, eight, ten, twelve shutter flashes, then again from different angles and orientations using different lighting and slightly modified poses. His assistant actually busts out the measuring tape to tell Rachel where to put her limbs.
"Next costume. Back in five."
Rachel reappears in a white camisole, a blue cotton shirt, blue jeans, and cowgirl boots that come up to her shins. Rachel standing up, Rachel lying down, Rachel looking coy, Rachel looking vulnerable. Four costumes, three hours, two bottles, and one sketch later, she's finally done.
"What did you think?" Rachel asks.
"I was about to fall asleep. What are you modeling for, anyways?"
"Hand soap."
She shows me a magazine advertisement: a cowboy and a farm girl touch noses and hips in a straw-floored stable with horses watching. He used to keep one hand soft for her. Now, he can take care of business all day and all night long.
"Sounds like a winner to me," I say.
"Different setups for different demographics. This one is for a men's magazine."
"Obviously. What's in the soap that makes it so soft?"
"It's a byproduct of sake fermentation. Victoria's family has a pretty big investment in it."
"Should I be thanking Victoria?"
"I'll do that for you. We can do some shots later, if you want."
"Not really my thing, but thanks. Are you feeling okay? You look like a bed sheet."
"I just need to rest, that's all. But first, dinner."
Our path to Rachel's Malibu is blocked by a black Bentley whose owner is probably so loaded he just parks however the fuck he wants and pays his tickets in monthly batches. A guy in sunglasses and a dark blue suit jacket peers into the windows of Rachel's car. He puts his hands up when he sees us.
"I was just looking for a friend of mine. Clearly, I have the wrong car. Sorry about that."
Rachel has her shades on well before we leave the parking ramp's dim interior. She puts the back of her hand up to her forehead.
"Even the thieves in L.A. are well-dressed," I say.
"Probably just a talent agent scouting me out. Although I'm not sure what Men's Fashion would want with me."
"More like Hipster Monthly."
Rachel drives us down the main strip so we can soak in the sights: windowed shopping centers, stars on the sidewalk, a neon-lit soda fountain.
"Let's grab sodas there," I say. "Maybe they have food, too. Are you sure you're okay? Your cheekbones are sticking out of your face and you look like you're burning up."
"I just get hot flashes sometimes, that's all."
I open up the double doors for Rachel, then wait for her to do the same and end up swinging the door back open with my foot as I follow her into the restaurant. My eyes stop at the first thing on the menu: monster burgers and chocolate milkshakes. Rachel doesn't object, just closes her eyes and rests. I'm expecting thick slabs of meat between fluffy buns—ten minutes later, burgers the size of manhole covers appear on huge, white plates.
"Dude, this is awesome," I say as I unwrap the silverware I'm probably not going to use. "Should I make an eating challenge out of this?"
She opens her eyes.
"Please don't. Those face-stuffing contests are absolutely disgusting. Might I suggest a knife and fork, my darling elf barbarian?"
Rachel cuts pint-sized triangles out of her burger before sliding them off her fork with her teeth. I wish I had bigger hands so I could eat this thing without having half the lettuce and tomatoes fall out the back of it onto my plate.
"You should take a picture," I say. "This is some serious food."
"It beats eating ice cream off a tablecloth," Rachel says. She takes another bird-sized bite of burger.
"What?"
"My dad took us to an upscale restaurant once: one Michelin star, authentic Rembrandt pieces on the walls, restrooms with attendants and hanging toilet paper folded into origami cranes—the kind of place that makes you feel like you're inconveniencing them by actually using what you paid for. After our three-course meal, they brought out a giant platter of ice cream. Instead of setting it on the table, the chefs put scoops of grade A, organic, certified Belgian cream down on the tablecloth, swirled butterscotch and chocolate in artistic patterns, topped it all off with cherries, and wished us bon appétit."
"Are you serious?"
"Absolutely. After that, they probably went back into the kitchen and laughed their asses off at the idiots that just paid them half a grand to eat off the table."
"Who the hell pays for that?" I say.
"People with more money than sense. At least here you get your money's worth. Well, you do, anyways. I'm probably going to need a take-home box."
"You ate, like, three bites."
"That's probably as much as a normal hamburger."
The waitress brings over a pair of styrofoam boxes.
"I overheard your conversation," she says. "I have to warn you—these don't reheat very well."
"That's okay. I got what I wanted." Rachel hands the waitress a hundred. "Keep the change."
The waitress hugs her.
"You're an angel," she says.
I keep working at my burger and only stop when Rachel's nose turns into a leaking faucet that drips blood instead of water. I help her rip napkins out of the overstuffed dispenser. She holds them up to her nose.
"Just bunch them up into your nostrils," I say.
"I don't want people laughing at me."
"Dude, who cares how you look? I'll drive us back to the hotel."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I can handle myself, Chloe. We've been over this."
"Over what? You said you need to rest."
"Would you stop being dense? I know what you're thinking."
"You clearly don't, because I don't even know what I'm thinking."
"I haven't been doing that."
"Oh, that shit. I didn't say you were, but now that you mention it, that would explain things."
Rachel walks out of the restaurant. I follow. When I ask her for the car keys, she just gets in the car and starts it up. The tail lights come on. I stand behind the car. We stay like that, frozen in time, until another potential monster burger victim rolls into the parking lot looking for an empty spot and can't find one.
Rachel's shades are glued to the windshield as she drives us through intersection after intersection. She slows to a stop at a late-turning red light.
"I wish you would listen to me," I say.
The light doesn't stay red for very long. Rachel turns to me as if she's going to say something and the front end of a garbage truck smashes out her window and caves in her door. Her shades flip down to her chin. She slumps over onto the steering wheel.
"Shit!"
A guy runs in front of the windshield, sees Rachel, gets on his phone.
"What am I supposed to do?" I ask.
I can't hear Rachel breathing. I don't hear the guy outside talking. The cars around me sit still. Are their engines running? My hands are here. So are my legs. My head is attached.
"What do I do?"
"Love until it hurts," Dad says.
He sits in the back seat, but he's a million miles away.
"It already hurts," I say. "I want it to stop hurting."
"It never stops hurting. You just have to learn to live with it."
Dad's gone.
"Or without it."
I kiss Rachel on the temple and put my head up against hers.
Ambulance. Rachel. Bed. Equipment. Two men.
"You had the wind knocked out of you," says a doctor. "You escaped with minor bruises for which you'll need to take daily aspirin; fortunately, the automobile took the brunt of the collision. You should be out of here the day after tomorrow."
I climb onto Rachel's bed and hug her.
"Don't tell my dad," she says.
"You almost died and you're worried about your father finding out."
"We'll have to use the money from Aunt Janice and most of what's in my personal bank account."
"From our escape fund. If that ever even happens, now."
"Don't talk like that, Chloe. Shit happens."
"And every time shit happens, Chloe Price is there."
I swivel in place and let my legs hang off the hospital bed.
"I wish we had never met," I say.
Rachel sits up.
"You don't mean that. I'm the one you should be blaming. Trust me, I blame myself. I was the one who threw the wine bottle at you. I made you sit at my bedside in the hospital for a week. I was the one who left you alone all summer long. But I'm an adult now. Things are different. And I swear to you, none of that will ever happen again, so long as I live."
"That's the problem."
Rachel starts fumbling with the black bands of her black and blue baby bracelet. I stand up off the bed.
"I was never here," I say.
Tears stream down Rachel's face.
"Sometimes, I let things get away from me," she says. "But I've always come back for them. I was there in Principal Wells's office, at your mother's wedding, when Frank had what you needed…when you played with Steph, when you did it again with Victoria, when you shot Nathan down, when you freaked Kate out. I've been there to support you no matter what. Does that mean anything to you?"
I feel nothing.
"It hurts, Chloe. It really hurts."
She stands up, ties her bracelet onto my wrist, links her fingers with mine.
"But you don't walk away from eternity just because it hurts. Do you remember what the priest said at your mom's wedding?"
"No."
"'Til death do us part." She runs her thumb over my tattoo's skull. "Our bond goes beyond that. Not even death will keep me from you."
She pulls me down onto the bed with her, puts my head on her chest, strokes my hair.
"Wherever you lay your head," she says, "that's my home."
We're out of there two days later with a month's supply of aspirin and a thousand bucks. Rachel's car was never hit by a garbage truck that didn't run a red light.
"We'll have to cut back on those hilarious souvenirs," she says.
"Yeah, hilarious."
We spend the rest of August meandering west of the Mississippi. Rachel and I do everything we talked about and then some. According to Rachel, the most amazing part of the entire trip is that my mouth doesn't get us in trouble at all after we leave L.A. She changes her mind after we get intimate under the night sky in New Mexico in the back seat of her car with all the windows open.
"Best I've ever had," Rachel says.
She takes a puff off my cigarette and coughs up her lungs. I laugh and show her how it's done.
"Best ever?" I say.
"Yep. To be fair, I have nothing to compare it to."
"I should have seen that one coming."
She punches me in the arm.
We eat greasy diner food at a hole-in-the-wall in Oklahoma that's somehow better than anything Mom's ever made. Rachel can't afford a Hollywood-sized tip, so she turns on the charm and it seems to work just as well as Benjamin Franklin did. Our asses freeze solid in a snow-ringed Colorado mountain town where gas is expensive and the rush of early autumn air feels like magic. All this time to explore the world and we choose to spend it in the most far-flung, time-forgotten places clearing our minds and chatting away happily about nothing at all.
We're driving down an endless Nebraska highway between never-ending corn fields when Rachel's dad calls.
"Just fine. We're in the Midwest, checking out kitschy Americana…let me guess, another birthday present? That many? I'll ask her right now." Her phone goes between her legs. "He has something big waiting for me when I get home. You ready to go back to Arcadia Bay?"
I get pulled over in the middle of nowhere for exceeding a speed limit that wasn't even posted. It's twenty-five bucks for driving California-style in the middle of Nebraska. I think about offering him a hundred so I can speed through the rest of his state, but then I remember we don't have that much. Also, that would probably cost me more than a hundred.
"You were doing so well," says Rachel.
"It was the prospect of going back for another year that threw me. You really want to mooch off your dad for that long? I thought we were going to make our own way."
"We are, once we graduate. For now, we should take these people for everything they're worth. When we get back, I'm going to tell Dad you're spending the night every night from now on. We'll lock the door and make the most of my star globe."
I light up a cigarette and turn around on our way to the interstate. The guy who gave us a ticket is still parked on the side of the road. Normally, I'd flip him off, but Rachel has a better idea—we lock lips as we drive past him. I keep my middle finger where he can't see it.