One Week (3 page)

I shake my head. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Like I said, it works.” He looks at me sideways. “But you’re not moving, huh?”

“Well, where exactly do you suggest I go?” I gesture around the train car. “There aren’t any other empty seats. Believe me, if there were, I’d be sitting
anywhere
else.”

“My next plan was going to be to spill soda on you, but somebody already beat me to it.”

“Yeah, and he ruined my shirt!” I complain.

“Like you don’t have fifty more.” Goth Geek waves his hand dismissively.

“Well, not
with
me, I don’t. It’s frigging freezing in here.”

He looks below my throat for the first time—he had been studiously avoiding any chest-glances, which I was surprised by but appreciated—and sees my very prominent goosebumps. He sighs.

“Here,” he says, and digs in his duffle bag. He hands me an old sweatshirt. I eye it distastefully—who knows when it was last washed—but I’m desperate.

“Thank you,” I say as I pull it on.

“Don’t spill anything on it,” he says.

*  *  *

I wake up to Goth Geek shaking my shoulder.

“You got drool on my sweatshirt,” he says.

I hastily wipe my mouth. Ugh, I did drool. Gross. “Sorry.”

“I need it back, anyway,” he says.  “We’re here.”

Here. Where’s here? I sit up and look out the
window. Right, Santa Barbara. Scene of many a summer weekend spent at yacht clubs and charity barbecues with my father, as he tried to get me to mingle with the right people and I tried to point out that I was eleven and eleven-year-olds don’t mingle. I strip off the sweatshirt and hand it to the geek, who shoves it in his backpack and gets up out of his seat without a word. He walks down the aisle and off the train without looking back. Bye.

I stand up and stretch. My neck feels permanently bent sideways from sleeping in that tiny-ass seat. At least my shirt has dried. It’s all stiff and weird-feeling and probably ruined, but it’s opaque now, which is really all that matters. I hoist my bag over my shoulder and exit the train. I look around, yawning. Where did Goth Geek say I was supposed to go now?

Oh God. A bus. Right. Do they have first class on buses? Probably not. I stretch out the crick in my neck and contemplate another experience like the one I’ve just had, only probably worse. Just kill me now.

Or maybe they’re not that bad. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever actually been on a bus before. Could be fun. I start walking over to the bus terminal, trying to bask in my newfound sense of open-mindedness and purpose.

I stop in my tracks. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. A bus to where? I know he said…somewhere. Still in California, I think. San Francisco? I try to think for a moment, but I honestly have no idea. Damn it. Great going, Bee. Way to get yourself all the way to—oooh, Santa Barbara. How daring. What a badass you are.

I shake my head, and try to get that sense of purpose back. I can figure it out. I mean, how hard can it be? New York City—popular destination, right? I’ll just go and find a route map or ask an Amtrak worker or whatever. People do this every day. There’s probably one of those big boards like in the movies, with the flapping signs as the trains depart, or are delayed, or whatever. Though those always looked pretty confusing, come to think of it.

I walk into the station, and it is immediately clear that there is no big board here. This is a small station, and it’s mobbed. I thought the line at Union Station was long? This place has only one teller, and there are about fifty people waiting to see her. I look around for a helpful route-searcher person, but that person does not seem to exist. Amtrak’s customer service leaves something to be desired. I do see a stand where there might once have been route maps, but it’s empty. And it doesn’t look like the beleaguered teller is going to have time to refill it anytime soon.

Someone bumps into my shoulder, and I realize I’m blocking the door. I move over to the side, and bite my lip. This is kind of a problem. Even if I sacked up and got in that line, by the time I got the help I needed, I would probably have missed the stupid bus to wherever-the-hell. Another person bumps into me, and I turn to tell
them to back off, when I realize that I’m still in the way.
There isn’t anywhere that
isn’t
in the way in a place this small and crowded. I see the sign for buses, and decide to go be in the way over there. Maybe inspiration will strike.

Or maybe, I admit to myself, I’ll spot Goth Geek and follow him. In a totally subtle, he’d-never-realize-I-was-doing-it kind of way, of course. I round the corner, and jump back—accidentally stepping on the guy behind me’s foot in the process.

“Sorry,” I mutter, and peek around the corner. Goth Geek is right there. He’s using the payphone and seems mighty unhappy with the person he’s talking to. I can’t understand what he’s saying, it’s too loud with all the bus noise, but from the way he’s tugging at his fried follicles, the conversation is not going well. He slams the phone down and marches off, using his duffel bag as a weapon, knocking people out of his way.

Great—he’ll clear a path, and then he’ll get on a bus. I’ll get on that bus a casual minute or two later, and everything will be fine.

Except he’s not getting on a bus. He’s walking out of the station. I scramble after him, and watch, mystified, as he stomps down the sidewalk, heading downtown.

Well, damn. I look agonizingly back at the line for the teller, and scramble to catch up with the Geek. Who is walking incredibly fast. And my feet are killing me; strappy kitten heels do not make for particularly good stalker shoes. I snort at the absurdity of the situation—how did I end up here? Chasing after some random guy so that—joy of joys—I can get on a
bus?
I don’t even know if he’s still going to New York! Maybe his angry phone call fight ended with him refusing to go to New York—or being informed that he was no longer welcome there. But if that were the case, he’d be getting back on the train to LA, right? I mean, there’s nothing in Santa Barbara. I’ve been here, I know. Cute little houses that cost millions of dollars, and a ton of antique shops and cafes that charge way too much for a cup of tea. That’s it.

So the working theory—as much as I have one, jogging along and looking like an idiot—is that the fight was irrelevant to Goth Geek’s travel plans, and the bus just doesn’t leave yet, and he’s going to do a little sightseeing in the meantime, burn off some of that irritation.

I skid to a stop as Goth Geek ducks into a bar. I roll my eyes—seriously? Not that I’m what you’d call qualified to be the alcohol police or anything, but how cliché can you get? He’s got a whole town to wander—not much of one, granted—but instead he’s going to head to the nearest bar and get wasted just like every other college dumbass I’ve ever known. His phone call must have gone even worse than I thought.

I collapse on the curb and kick my shoes off, rubbing my feet. At least this gives me a chance to rest. I check my phone. Two frantic texts from Julia saying that my father called looking for me. And an irate message from my father demanding to know why Thom Derrek had been left alone in our house, and where the hell was I? I guess they’ve noticed I’m gone.

I consider texting Julia telling her where I am and that I’m okay, but I decide against it. If my dad tries to get it out of her—and he will—she’ll fold like a...thing that folds really easily. A fan? A T-shirt?

I rub my eyes. I must be really tired. My brain is speaking nonsense, and my decision-making skills are, shall we say, questionable. I’m also starving. I ran out of the house before we’d started dinner, and it’s getting pretty late now. I dig through my bag looking for a snack, but all I come up with is some gum. And it’s sugar-free, of course.

I chew it anyway—maybe I can trick my brain into thinking I’m getting some food—and haul my ass up off the curb. I reluctantly put my shoes back on, and peek cautiously in the window of the bar. Yep, there’s the Geek, knocking back shots like they’re going to run out, and showing no sign of stopping anytime soon. Way to go, dude. I make a note not to sit anywhere near him on the bus in case he pukes.

In the meantime, though, what the hell am I going to do? My un-fooled stomach rumbles agonizingly, but I can’t exactly go running off in search of something to eat—Goth Geek could head out at any moment, and I’d have no idea. I look up and down the street desperately, but there’s nothing. There’s a Motel 6, a seedy-looking dentist’s office, and a car repair shop. Not even a magazine stand or a fruit cart. How can that be? How did I end up on the one street in Santa Barbara that isn’t selling overpriced food?

There’s nothing for it. My stomach will just have to wait. I glare at the Geek through the concrete wall of the bar and try to make myself as comfortable as is possible in a stiff cashmere top, jeans that look good but are just a tiny bit tight when I’m sitting down, and shoes that seem intent on exacting revenge for being walked on.

I stand and wait outside what must be the reekingest bar in Santa Barbara for a full fifteen minutes before the idiocy of my situation really sinks in. Even if by some miracle the Geek emerges in a state fit to get himself back to the station, I could certainly have waited in that line and figured it out for my damn self by then.

I push myself off the wall and march back to the bus station, shaking my head and muttering at my stupidity, the Geek’s stupidity, and the stupidity of the population of Santa Barbara, just on principle. When I get back, it seems like the line has somehow grown
longer,
if such a thing were possible. I shift back and forth on my heels, and try to imagine myself someplace else. Like a massage table.

When I finally get up to the teller and ask her if she could please tell me what bus I take to get to whatever train it is I take to get to Chicago to get to New York, she looks at me with disbelief.

 “Do you see that there are fifty people behind you?” she asks. “Tell me what ticket you want and I’ll sell it to you.”

“I don’t need a ticket,” I explain. “I already have a rail pass, I’m just not quite sure how to use it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Do I look like a route planner to you, ma’am? There are maps over there at the kiosk. Next!”

Ma’am? “The maps are all gone. Could you please just tell me how to get to New York? I’m sure it sounds insane—you can’t
possibly
only get to New York by taking a bus—but that’s what somebody—some idiot—told me and I really don’t know where to go, so can you please help me? Please?” I feel a blush rising as I babble, but really, I’m desperate. And I’ve waited in this line for a long time. I’m not going to just walk away, I’ll beg if I have to.

The teller really looks at me for the first time and sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t take the trains, I just sell the tickets. This is a small station. Trains are being rerouted from Ventura so we’re unusually overloaded today. There’s a station attendant who could help you, but he’s off sick today. I wish I could tell you how to get where you’re going, but I really have no idea.”

My heart sinks. “Okay,” I say. “Sorry. Thanks for your help.”

I turn to go, and she calls “Next!” I’m sure the next person knows where they’re going. I check my phone. It seems I waited in that line for half an hour. I suppose it’s
possible
that there’s still time before the bus leaves. I didn’t see the Geek come back, and I had a pretty good line of sight on the door.

I wish I could think of any other way.

I walk back to the bar, wincing with every step, determined to haul the Geek out onto the street and beat him until he coughs up the route. But when I’m half a block away I see him walk out of the bar and shield his eyes from the streetlight.

And then he trips over his own feet and falls down.

I watch as he tries to get up, and falls back down again. It would be funny, except for how I’m hungry, I’m tired, and if it’s time to get on the bus—and it had damn well better be, because anything would be better than this—then I’d like the dumbass that fate has made me dependent on to get me on that stupid freaking bus so this ridiculous and humiliating experience can be over with.

“All right, Geek, on your feet,” I say as I haul at his shoulders—I’m tempted to use his hair, but you never know, it might be so burned by cheap hair dye that I’d just pull it out. “Let’s go, we have a bus to catch.”

He peers blearily up at me. “Barbie? What the hell you still doing here?”

I pull harder, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my empty stomach. “Up,” I say firmly. “Bus. Now.”

He gets up and leans against me unsteadily as he looks down at his watch. “No. No, no, no, Barbie. No bus now,” he slurs. “Bus long gone. No bus for Barbie.”

I shove him off me and he falls down again, giggling to himself. I take him by the shoulders again and shake him. “Are you still going to New York? When is the next bus?” I want to shake him harder, but I’m afraid he’ll puke on me.

“No place else to go but New York,” he shrugs.
“Tomorrow morning. Bus tomorrow morning.”

I want to scream. Tomorrow morning? What the
hell am I supposed to do until then? I look down and resist the urge to kick him. “What bus?” I demand. “Where is the bus going?” Because I’ll be damned if I’m going to follow this asshole around for another second.

He looks up at me, confused. “New York? Aren’t I going to New York? We just talked about this.”

“No, you said the bus goes somewhere, and then from there you take a train to Chicago, and then to New York, remember? So where does the bus go?”

His face is blank. Of course it is. I’m going to kill someone. Preferably him.

The hell with it. I’ll just go to the Canary Hotel, have some of my favorite mac & cheese and chickpea fries, and I’ll figure this all out in the morning. I shove the Geek back onto the sidewalk, and start to look around for a cab. But then I stop.

I can’t go to the Canary Hotel. If I use my credit card, my dad will see the charge, and he’ll get on his stupid plane and he’ll be here before I even have a chance to finish checking in. He called ten times while I was waiting out here, and each message was more and more irritated. I finally had to turn my phone off. I pull out my wallet and check my cash level. $15. Well, that’s definitely not going to pay for a room at the Canary. I look back at Goth Geek, who is currently sitting on the curb with his head between his knees. I walk over there and shove him forward and pull his wallet out of his back pocket. He has eighty bucks. I eye the Motel 6 across the street warily.