THIS NOTEBOOK IS PROPERTY OF JENNIE KIM

As the students at Fulton Edge Academy take their finals, you're driving through the Midwest, on your way to California. The girl, she sits beside you, in the passenger seat of your blue Porsche, writing her heart out in her notebook.

It's one of the few things she brought along.

She slipped back into the house as you sobered up, filling her school backpack with clothes, packing her Breezeo comics and grabbing her cell phone before writing a note to her parents.

Mom Dad,

I know you're gonna be upset when you realize I'm gone, but please don't worry too much. I'm okay. I'm with Lalisa.

Love you both,

Jennie

Needless to say, over twenty-four hours later, they're pretty freaking worried. She's only seventeen. They've already called the police. She's officially a teenage runaway. Her phone started going off not long after you got on the road, bombarding her with messages, begging her to come home.

The phone died after a few hours.

She forgot to bring her charger.

You? You've got your phone, with nearly a full charge. The only person who has called you is your sister, to warn you that someone leaked the Fulton Edge Academy security footage. Your fight with your father is all over the news, playing on a loop. It's a political nightmare, Speaker Manoban assaulting his own child. They're calling for his resignation.

Time keeps ticking away.

The miles between you and New York continue to grow as California edges closer. You offer to turn around for her. You don't want her to have any regrets. She tells you to shut up and keep driving west.

A few days later, you cross into the city limits of Los Angeles. The day you should've graduated. You find a small hotel that'll rent a room to an eighteen-year-old, just until you can get set up somewhere permanently.

"Let's go out," you say.

"Where to?" she asks.

"Somewhere nice. We're here. We made it. We should celebrate."

So you do just that. You take her out. She wears her graduation dress, the one her mother helped pick out—sleeveless, royal blue. She has to wear her everyday flats, because she forgot to pack extra shoes. It's simple. She feels so plain.

You tell her she's the most beautiful woman in the world.

Dinner is at a fancy steakhouse, the kind where portions are small and the bill is massive, but people don't complain because it's all about the atmosphere. Afterward, the two of you hit Hollywood Boulevard, seeing the handprints immortalized in cement before strolling along the Walk of Fame, looking at the celebrity stars as you hold hands.

"Someday, you'll be here," she tells you, smiling, as you pause and pull her to you. "You'll have your name on one of these stars."

"Yeah? You think I'm as talented as…" You glance down, to the nearest star by your feet, reading the name on it. "…Kermit the Frog?"

She laughs. "Well, now that I think about it, I'm not so sure. I mean, Gonzo maybe, but Kermit?"

"Maybe if I work hard," you say.

"Maybe," she agrees, kissing you.

You make out, right there, on Hollywood Boulevard. It's a beautiful moment. Nothing can ruin it—not even when a guy dressed like Darth Vader angrily tells you to get a room.

"We have one of those," you say. "How about we go make use of it?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

You make love to her, on and off, all night long. Now that those words are out, now that they exist between you, you can't seem to stop saying them.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Your first night in California is one of the best of your life. You're hopeful for the future.

The next day, all your credit cards get shut off.

The day after that, your bank account is frozen.

It's a quick descent, from hopeful to despondent. You're not surprised your father cut you off, but it hurts. What you have is maybe a hundred dollars in your wallet and a notice to vacate the hotel in 72-hours. What you don't have is a job. You're going to have to do something drastic.

So you leave the next morning before dawn, to try to figure something out, and you don't make it back until later that night, well after sunset. You sleep for a few hours before you're back at it again.

You finish earlier this time, though, around three o'clock in the afternoon. The girl is sitting on the bed in the hotel, writing in her notebook. She greets you with a smile.

"What are you writing?" you ask, sitting down next to her, not expecting her to answer. You ask all the time, and she always tells you 'a story'.

This time, though, she says, "Our story."

"Our story," you say. "That's what it is?"

"Sort of," she says. "It's my version of us."

"Can I read some of it?"

Her pen stalls. She hesitates. Carefully, she flips back to the beginning and hands it to you. "Just the first few pages."

You read, utterly fascinated, but you don't get far at all before you have a grievance to air. "See, now that's bullshit. This line right here. You said there was nothing special about you."

She snatches the notebook back. "About her, not me."

"But she's you. And I can assure you, the first time I saw you, I wasn't thinking…" You grab the notebook, and she refuses to surrender it, but you pull it close enough to read. "You're a commoner because not all girls can be royalty. That's bullshit. You're the queen, baby."

She yanks the notebook away, closing it and tossing it out of your reach. "I said it's my version. It's fictionalized."

"You should write my version."

"Which would be, what? Thirty pages of duck jokes followed by a whole bunch of smut?"

"Duck jokes," you say. "Or dick jokes?"

"Knowing you? Both."

"Funny, but no. It would be a story of struggle that leads to triumph." You stand up. "Come on, put your shoes on. Let's go for a walk. I'll show you."

"You'll show me."

Despite her incredulous tone, she listens, and the two of you walk around, strolling a few blocks. The neighborhood isn't the best, but it isn't too dangerous. Maybe a bit rundown, but it's quiet.

When you reach an old two-story white and blue building, you lead her around to the back of it, to a small outdoor staircase. You pull a ring of keys from your pocket. She looks at you with confusion.

Still, she follows you up those stairs, patiently waiting as you unlock a creaky door at the top. She steps inside, looking around the empty place.

It's an apartment. It's small. There's no other way to put that. The kitchen and living room merge together into one, beside a single bedroom just big enough to hold a bed. The bathroom is like a box, everything cramped together. The floor is made of old unfinished wood, scuffed and stained. The white paint on the walls is peeling, leaving patches of a peach color in places. There's only one window in the entire apartment, in the bedroom, blocked by an old air conditioner.

"I know it's not much," you say. "It's shitty, really. I know. But I'm eighteen, I've got no job and no credit, so it's the best I can manage right now."

"It's ours?" She looks at you. "You rented this?"

You hesitate, like your mouth doesn't want to admit that, before you nod. You're swallowing your pride. "It's ours."

"But can we even afford a place?" she asks. "How will we pay for it?"

"I got us some money," you tell her. "It won't last forever, but it should be enough to get us settled."

"Where'd you get money?"

You hesitate yet again. "I, uh… I sold my car."

You sold the blue Porsche. You tried to think of another way, but it was the only thing of value you had, that you owned. So you sold it, for less than it's worth, but if you're careful, it's enough to cover living expenses for a few months.

"This place is great," she says, wrapping her arms around you. "Our very first apartment together."

"And hopefully, the last," you mumble. "It's only up from here. As soon as things start coming together, I'm gonna build you a house."

You don't know this, but that girl? She doesn't need a house. She doesn't even need an apartment. She would've slept in the car. She wouldn't have complained at all about it. You didn't have to sell it, but you did, and as grateful as she is for that, she already feels guilty. She's worried, and she's scared, that this won't be a story of triumph. Because she believes in you. She wouldn't be there if she didn't. But the world isn't always kind to good people. Sometimes it eats them alive.