I hit the gas station parking lot and see a familiar face pumping gas. I head over and lean on his car—all chill like—even though I’m out of breath and there are ten jocks on my tail.
“Of all the 7-Elevens in all of Addison,” I say with a smile, “you end up at this one.”
Pony takes off his sunglasses. “Isn’t this the only 7-Eleven in this town?”
“Shhh,” I say.
“It must be fate, then,” he says, and smiles.
I nod toward his Volvo station wagon. “Get all the ladies with this ride?” I ask.
“Why do you think I had to move?” he asks.
“Weird question, but want to harbor a fugitive for a few minutes?”
Pony returns the gas nozzle to the pump. “I knew you’d ruin me,” he says. “Get in.”
I duck around to the passenger side of his obvious parental hand-me-down and hop inside. From this spot, we have a great view of the skyline. He starts up the engine, and some indie rock-country band blares from the speakers. He yells over the music, “Rainbow Kitten Surprise!”
“Cool,” I say.
He turns down the volume. “Do I want to know what’s going on?”
“Definitely not. Let’s keep this on a need-to-know basis.”
“Will do,” he says, then grabs a package of pretzel M&M’s from his shirt pocket.
We sit in silence. The sun is setting, staining the sky an unreal watercolor pink. I look over at him. “Pony, if we’re going to be friends, I can’t have you talking this much. Seriously, it’s on and on with you. Story after story. When will it end?”
He laughs. Oh no. He’s really freaking cute when he laughs.
“You got me.”
“Do I?”
“You wish,” he says.
“You wish,” I repeat.
He ignores me. “I can be quiet, especially at first.”
“OK, then, talk! Tell me something,” I say.
“Well . . .” He thinks for a second. “I was just at my first job interview.”
“Fancy businessman,” I say. “Did you get the job?”
“I did.”
“No shit? Congrats, Pony!”
“Thanks,” he says shyly.
I’m about to ask more about this job but get distracted by a couple football guys running into the 7-Eleven. I slump down in my seat. Pony looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Your turn,” he says. “Tell me something about you. We could start with why you are on the run . . .”
He wants an explanation. That’s fair.
“I know we just met, Pony, but I feel like I can tell you this. I’m a spy from Russia.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” I ask innocently.
“That,” he says.
I know what he’s talking about. My stories. I’ve always told them, probably since I could form sentences. The stories became more frequent after my mom moved out. And even more frequent after what happened this summer. I turn to Pony, unsure how to answer.
Sounds crazy, but I want to tell him everything. There’s this feeling growing in my stomach, warm and happy. I could blame it on the tablespoon of vodka and prank spree, but I think it might be something else.
“Can I see your phone?” I ask.
“Why would I give my phone to a Russian troll?”
“Troll?” I ask, deeply offended.
“Pretty troll?”
I ignore him being cute and grab his phone from the cup holder.
“Give me your passcode,” I demand.
“No way, spy.”
I’m not getting in this phone, and time is running out. There are only two things you can do with a locked iPhone: call 911 and get into the camera. Calling emergency services seems dramatic. Instead, I slide the camera open, switch to video, hold up the phone so it’s level to my face—at a generous angle—and hit record.
“Hi Pony. It’s me, Georgia. Four-six-nine-three-two-seven-six-five-five-zero. That’s my number. You didn’t ask for it, and you certainly don’t deserve it, but now you have it. Byeeeee!”
I end the video and toss the phone into Pony’s lap. “Guess the ball is in your court,” I say, then get out of his car. Maybe Mia is right: I do need to move on. What would she think about me dating the new guy?
PONY, 6:55 P.M.
My windows are down, the volume is on high, and I’m driving way too fast. (Well, as fast as a station wagon can go without exploding.) A girl gave me her number. Not just a girl, a cute cheerleader. I love my new life, and my new school, and the new Pony. I’m bouncing in my seat like I’ve eaten a pound of sugar.
I pull up into my usual spot on the street by the mailbox. My dad commandeered the garage for his Man Cave of beer drinking and football watching, so the driveway is reserved for my parents. But it’s empty. The windows are dark. No one is home. This does not happen often.
This is standard-issue army housing at its finest. A cookie-cutter two-story house with two trees in the lawn, tucked in between two other cookie-cutter houses. The house is painted bright yellow, like the inside of an egg. Mom has been vocal in her dislike of the yolk house, but she knows it’s more of a long-stay motel than a home.
She decorates and arranges each house we live in nearly the same. Same couch, coffee table, dining table, all in the same place from house to house. It’s my mom who makes anyplace a home.
I drop my bag at the door, no time to waste, and spread out on the couch . . . with my shoes on. I’m a rebel.
Mom is usually cooking dinner now, but she must be out shopping. Probably at Target—that place is like crack for moms. They wheel the big red carts around looking for their next hit of smartly designed wash towels.
I dig the remote out of the couch cushions and put on Netflix. I’ve been working my way through the cannon of David Cronenberg. He’s made movies for decades, but I’m focused on his campy horror films from the eighties. Movies like Videodrome and Scanners are equal parts awful and awesome. They leave me completely unsettled.
I’m finishing up one of his biggest hits, The Fly, the creepy story of a man changing into a fly. I suppose he’s also transitioned, M-T-F (man to fly). The scenes really stick with me. There’s no way to look at Jeff Goldblum the same after watching him morph into a big slimy fly.
The movie ends and the credits roll. That’s my dream—to work on a movie set and see my name crawl across the screen. What job would I do? Who knows. How do I get there? No idea. But I would do anything. I’d even oversee the trash cans full of fake blood and green slime.
It’s fair to say that I’m at the obsession level with movies. It started very young with Disney and Pixar and escalated to Kubrick and Scorsese. Movies have helped me get through some dark times. They are my escape from the real world, even for just ninety minutes.
I grab my phone and watch the video of Georgia reciting her phone number. It’s real. And she’s real cute. I was frozen when she was sitting in my car, recording it, but now I feel like I can fly. My head is swimming with possibility.
I watch the video again. And one more time to get the number. Now I can reach out to her whenever. Matter of fact, she wants me to reach out. I open a text window and stare at the blank screen.