“So you’re sporty,” I said, trying to get her talking again. “What do you play?”
She looked surprised. “How do you know that?”
Because you have great shoulder muscles. “I’m psychic.”
“Wait, really?”
I shoved her lightly. Yup. Great shoulder muscles. “It’s just a vibe, silly. You look sporty, I dunno.”
“Well, you’re right. I’m a swimmer.”
“Cool.” Why did I intro with this? There was literally nothing in the world I knew less about than sports. I may as well have asked her about astrophysics.
More silence. My brain decided nervous chatter was the solution. “I’m not a great swimmer. And I won’t go in the ocean past my waist.”
“Really? Why?”
I hummed the Jaws theme song. She looked mystified, so I said, “Jaws? Have you never seen that movie?”
“No. I mean, it’s really old.”
“Dude, it is still so scary. You have to watch it sometime.”
We reached the corner, and I pointed left. “The 7-Eleven is down there, by the stoplight.”
I held my camera to my chest to keep it from bumping as we walked. She retreated into a moody silence, her brows drawn together. Her shadow flickered tall and short between the streetlights, looming beside us. It was one of those strange highlighted moments you get sometimes, where the whole day—sleeping late, working in my darkroom, wasting hours on Instagram—blends together into one high-speed, blurry memory reel, stopping short at this frozen, hi-res moment. Like a living photograph.
Then it slipped away, and I was just walking down a suburban sidewalk a few paces behind a pretty girl who looked more distressed than the situation warranted.
I reached for her arm and said, “Hey. Stop. Hang on.”
She turned to me. “What is it?”
It was the first time I got to see her face straight on, and her features were sharper than I’d imagined. I wanted to put my finger into the groove between her pointy upper lip and her thin, high-bridged nose. Her brows were straight, a natural scowl.
And I forgot what I was going to say. I fumbled for words. “I’m glad you showed up tonight. I’m always alone at those things if my friend Nico doesn’t come.”
She smiled a little sadly. “I’m always alone too, just tagging along with Liz. It feels so good to be outside. Like we escaped from prison.”
She was right; it did feel like that. What was pulling us back to the party, anyway?
Inspiration struck. “What time do you need to be home?”
She shrugged. “My mom doesn’t really care. And we’re in a fight.”
“Perfect. Do you want to go have an adventure?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, maybe go downtown, to the Gaslamp Quarter?”
A little smile crept across her face. “Can we still get a snack first?”
I laughed. “Of course. First food, then adventure.”
“Oh thank God. I’m starving.” The words tumbled out of her, and for the first time, she didn’t look shy or avoid my eyes. The snap of personality crackled, sweet and warm. My hands crept toward my camera, but I held them back. If I wanted a photo, I’d have to earn it.
That was fine with me. I loved a challenge.
The Uber smelled so strongly of cherry air freshener, I was sure we were going to asphyxiate. I rolled down the window an inch, letting in a hissing snake of wind that ruffled my hair into my eyes. Outside, the freeway flowed past, smooth in a stream of lights. My camera bag nestled tightly against my leg. I always carried it instead of a purse, but I never kept my camera in it. That went around my neck.
“You girls warm enough back there?” the driver, a balding man, asked over the seats.
“We’re fine, thanks,” I replied. “Are you using Google Maps or Apple Maps or Waze or what?”
He shot me a surprised look in the rearview mirror. “Google Maps.”
I pulled up Google Maps and started tracking his route, making sure he wasn’t a serial killer taking us somewhere off-grid. Mick was glowering at her phone, thumbs flying across the screen.
“Everything okay, Jagger?”
“Liz is mad that I left.” Her thumbs jab-jabbed and she hit Send.
“She doesn’t feel unsafe, does she?” I’d thought Liz had plenty of female friends to back her up, but maybe I misread the situation.
“Oh, nothing like that.” She lifted her eyes from the screen. It lit her face up from the bottom, giving her a spectral look. “I guess she … It’s complicated. She likes me to be there, but she wants me to be … different. More fun. Less shy.” She slipped her phone into the small blue purse resting on her lap, and I felt angry with this Liz I didn’t even know.
Her purse buzzed. We both snapped our eyes to it. “Do you want to answer it?” I asked.
“I think I’ll talk to her tomorrow at swim practice. It’s always better to let her cool down.”
I remembered my ex, a hot-tempered girl named Brianna who got pissed off every time I stopped shadowing her like a puppy dog. Obviously it didn’t last; I’m not an easy person to keep on a leash.
Mick relaxed back into the seat, stretching her legs out in front of her and folding her hands behind her head. I could see the line dividing her abdominal muscles through her T-shirt, which made me dizzy. Oblivious, she said, “Forget about my friend drama. Tell me about you. You go to Bonita, you like to take photos, and you’re scared of sharks. What else?”
It was like having the camera suddenly turned on me. I couldn’t think of a single thing about myself, not with her freaking ab muscles visible through her freaking shirt. I looked up at the ceiling and tried to collect myself. What did I like? I had to like something, for God’s sake. Inspiration struck. “I like old movies,” I cried, relieved. I sounded like a kid who’d figured out the answer to a math problem in class.
“Oh yeah? Any in particular?”
Eyes still on the ceiling, I said, “My favorite right now is Pulp Fiction.”
“What’s your favorite movie of all time?”
“Vertigo,” I said without hesitation.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“I’ll show it to you if you want.” It was a really premature invitation, and I regretted it instantly. Earn it, I reminded myself.
The driver dropped us off unmurdered at the northwest end of the Gaslamp Quarter, a historic section of downtown San Diego full of bars and shops. It’s always packed with college students laughing drunkenly and high school kids trying to blend in with them.
On the corner of Fifth and E Street, jammed into a crowd of people waiting for the light, we looked at each other.
“So,” I said.
She pressed her lips into a smile. “So.”
The light changed, but before we could step into the crosswalk, a herd of middle-aged tourists on Segways whizzed past against traffic.
“That’s eight points,” I said, already lifting my camera to my eye and capturing the shot. I wasn’t sure if it would come out; the lighting was iffy at best.
“What’re the points for?” Mick asked.
“I have a rating system for tourist nonsense; it’s a scale of one through ten. Groups on Segways are an eight.”