Saving June

  “Ew. Pass. What’s south?”

  “Oklahoma.”

  “Those are our only options? Lame!”

  “I think we should go south,” I say. “Call it a gut instinct.”

  Our thirtysomething waitress—Dottie, if her name tag is anything to go by—comes to the table, balancing two trays. She fills out her pink uniform in every way, looking round and soft and puffy. Dark roots show through peroxide-blond hair—the kind of dye job a single mother does with a home kit, bent over the bathtub, scrubbing it in while her kids take a nap.

  Dottie sets down my blueberry pancakes and eggs and Laney’s waffles and French toast. “I’ll be right back with yours, sugar,” she tells Jake.

  Jake pulls his spoon out of his coffee mug, licks it and says, “Thanks.” And then he winks, tipping back on his chair and watching her legs as she saunters to the kitchen.

  I reach out with my feet and slam his chair back down. “You’re a pig.”

  “What, I’m not allowed to say thanks?”

  “Not like that, you aren’t.” I spear a piece of pancake and stuff it in my mouth. “So we’ve got Missouri, Oklahoma, then…Texas, is it?”

  “Yup,” he says. “But only a little part of it. See?” He draws a line across the map with his finger. “After that, New Mexico, then Arizona. I’d say we should make a side trip to Nevada and hit up Las Vegas, but what’s the point in going to Vegas if you can’t gamble? So that’s out. We can cut straight through Arizona to California, drive up the coast to San Fran.”

  Dottie returns with Jake’s food, flashing him a smile that dimples her round apple cheeks and crinkles the corners of her tired eyes. “Here you go. You need anything else, you just holler.”

  Jake looks up at her as he bites into a piece of bacon. “Do you happen to know how far St. Louis is from here?”

  “I got some cousins down in Kirkwood, right around those parts,” she says. She taps her finger on her chin, considering. “I’d say it’s about a two-hour drive, ‘pending on traffic.”

  “And the famous arch thingamabob—can you, like, go on top of it?” asks Laney hopefully.

  I can’t believe she wants to play tourist. We already wasted hours of travel time going to the protest. Then again…maybe dragging this out isn’t such a bad idea. Last night’s phone call just reminded me of how much I do not want to go home yet.

  “The arch? Sure can! One year I took my baby girl Pearl on the tram. Course, she just ‘bout screamed her head off all the way to the top.” Dottie laughs and tilts her head at us curiously. “Where you kids from, anyway?”

  Laney tells her we’re from Michigan, and that we’re on our way to California. I kick her shin under the table as subtly as I can—why does she feel the need to give our exact destination?—but she just sticks her tongue out at me like a two-year-old. Jake doesn’t seem to mind that she’s said anything, though, so maybe I’m just paranoid.

  “California?” Dottie’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “I’ve never been. I bet you’ll see movie stars!”

  Laney’s face lights up. “You think?”

  “I imagine the place is crawling with ‘em. Now, you do me a favor. You run into George Clooney, you let him know Dottie sends her love all the way from the best damn breakfast diner in the state of Illinois. Tell him he needs to swing by and try one of our peach crumb pies—they’re legendary. World’s best. And you can quote me on that!”

  “Hey, Dottie, could I take your picture?” I grab my camera out of my backpack and hold it up. “I’m trying to document our trip.”

  She smiles nervously, hands twisting her ponytail. “Me? I don’t know, I’m such a mess—”

  “Come on,” Jake needles. “You can write your message to George Clooney on the back. If we see him, we can pass it on. Once he gets a look at you, he’ll be booking the first flight to Illinois.”

  “Aren’t you sweet?” she says with a laugh. “Deluded, but sweet. All right, take your picture if you must.”

  I peer one eye through the viewfinder. When the picture has been taken and materialized, it shows Dottie, her cheeks flushed, one hand cocked on her hip and the other balancing a tray. She writes, Dear George, You should get your cute butt down to New Sun Diner in the fine state of Illinois, ASAP. Call me!!! Love always, Dottie, on the back. She dots all of her i’s with little hearts.

  As we finish our breakfasts—admittedly, the food is really delicious—we decide that the best course of action is to drive to St. Louis and spend the day there. Riding in the car for so long makes Laney restless, plus she’s really into the idea of visiting the arch, and Jake mentions wanting to stop by some jazz clubs or something. I’m not interested in any of it, but they can drag me along, if they want. Otherwise I’ll end up just sitting around and thinking about how sad I am. Might as well do that and the touristy stuff at the same time. Yeah, I’m multitalented that way.

  Dottie clears our plates when we’ve scraped them clean and brings out three slices of peach crumb pie in Styrofoam containers. “On the house. You can save a piece for George,” she says airily, and dismisses our modest objections with a wave of her hand. Jake lays some crumpled bills on the table, including what looks to be at least a sixty-percent tip, give or take.

  Jake Tolan: Secret Overboard Tipper, at least when it comes to overworked, yet resilient, bubbly waitresses with bad dye jobs. Who would’ve thought?

  The afternoon is blazing by the time we hit St. Louis, and once we find it, Laney drags me along for the ride to the top of the arch thingamabob—or, as the plaque underneath it proclaims, the Gateway Arch. There are white pod-type cars for the trip up, and in a few minutes we’re at the top viewing area, where the small windows treat us to a breathtaking view of the city sprawled out below, tall buildings jutting into the picture-perfect blue sky. It makes me wish I’d brought my better camera instead of my Polaroid.

  When we come down, Jake is waiting for us, juggling two chili dogs, three Cokes and some fries. He hands one chili dog and a Coke to me, and the fries and a Coke to Laney.

  “How was the ride?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  “It was awesome!” Laney plops down on the grass and shoves a handful of fries into her mouth. “You have, like, no sense of adventure.”

  “I do too!”

  “Oh, come off it. You’d never do anything fun if I didn’t drag you into it, kicking and screaming.”

  “Maybe I’m just not in the mood for having fun right now,” I retort sharply.

  A wave of instant regret hits me at the hurt look on Laney’s face.

  “It was a joke, Harper,” she says. Her voice is calm but firm. “Look, I know that this is a…bad time for you. The worst, even. I get it. I get it, and I’m trying to be patient, because I know you don’t mean it when you turn me into your punching bag. But cut me some damn slack already, would you? I’m on your side here.”

  She’s right. Of course she’s right. I know if I don’t stop being so awful and pushing her away like this, one day she’ll reach her breaking point, and she won’t be there at all. And what would I do then? She’s my best friend. My only real friend. I need her.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. I sit cross-legged on the grass beside her, and after a minute, I bump my shoulder against hers. “Anyway, your idea of fun is driving to Canada to get your tongue pierced.”

  I steal one of her fries and smile a little, and Laney smiles back, which makes me feel better.

  “What’s your point? It’d be wicked. I’d do it just to see my mother’s face.” She pauses to mop her mouth off with a napkin. “Hey, Jake, thanks for the fries.”

  “Yeah, well, I figured you might be hungry,” he says. “By the way, I found a pay phone and got hold of Seth. He got back to White Haven with Danny and Anna. Devon’s the only one in the group who got arrested. He’s still in jail.”

  “He can’t afford bail?” I ask.

  “Oh, he can afford it. His parents are loaded. But Seth tells me h
e’s really stoked about starting a hunger strike.”

  God, what an idiot. Laney rolls her eyes and says, “He says that now. Just you watch, boy’s gonna get shanked.” She stands up and pulls out her cell phone. “I’m gonna go call Seth.”

  Jake and I watch her walk away, and then he looks at me with his eyebrows raised. “So, what do you want to do next?” he asks. “Museums? Garden tour? The zoo?”

  “No zoos. They make Laney depressed. During a third-grade field trip, she tried to convince me to help her liberate the penguins and set them free in the North Pole.”

  “There aren’t any penguins in the North Pole. They’re native to the Southern Hemisphere.”

  “I know, but she thought they were Santa’s pets.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “She’s funny.”

  An unsettling feeling creeps into my stomach. I’m used to boys who chase after Laney and her long blond hair and even longer legs, but for some reason, the idea of Jake doing the chasing annoys me. I don’t know if it’s because part of me is stupidly attracted to him, or if it’s because I’m trying to be protective of Laney. If I’m honest with myself, it’s probably a little of both.

  “You’re not trying to get into her pants, are you?” I ask, eyes narrowed.

  Jake’s mouth falls open with surprise. Then he closes it again and says, a little tightly, “I said she was funny, not that I wanted to bang her. But good job on jumping to conclusions.”

  “I know how guys look at her, okay? Especially guys like you.”

  Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. Jake scrunches the hot dog wrapper up in one fist, the paper crinkling sharply. The way he’s staring at me makes me want to break eye contact, or take back what I said, but I don’t do either.

  “‘Guys like me’?” he throws back at me cuttingly. “You don’t know anything about me, Scott. Even if I did like Laney that way—which I don’t—I wouldn’t do anything. Not when Seth’s made it clear he’s interested.”

  I scoff. “Because guys never abandon all codes of friendship in pursuit of a piece of ass.”

  “No, some of us don’t,” he snaps. He rises to his feet abruptly and throws his trash in a nearby garbage bin, then pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket.

  I actually almost believe him, is the thing. Or maybe I just want to believe him. It’d be nice to think there are some guys out there who are better than that, but I know I’m right. I know how boys are. How men are. My father, Tyler, that asshole Kyle—they’re all the same. They all have a bottom line. Jake, too, has an agenda; I just don’t know yet what it is.

  “Hey,” I say, standing up. He turns, and I gesture to his cigarette. “I want one.”

  “Why should I share when you’re being such a bitch?” he sneers.

  So, I guess we’re back to that. One step forward, two steps back.

  I walk over to him and say, “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “I’m an asshole?” he echoes incredulously. “Are you freaking kidding me right now?”

  “Just give me one.”

  He does, and he lights it for me, leaning in close as he does. God, those eyes. They really pull you in. And I can’t help it; I kind of enjoy pushing his buttons. Maybe because he’s so willing to push mine right back. In some twisted way, it makes him even sexier. Fucking teenage hormones. I wonder if this is what it’s like for Laney, with all those boys she messes around with. It would explain a lot.

  “You know that’ll kill you,” Jake deadpans, nodding toward my cigarette.

  “Maybe that’s the plan,” I shoot back, which is stupid, because it’s not like—I don’t want to die, really.

  I just—I want—I don’t even know. I want to scream. I want to want to cry. I want to feel like a person again. I want June here, so she could lecture me on what an idiot I am for picking up such a nasty habit. I want to be back in Grand Lake, sitting on my roof with her next to me, smoking one of my mom’s stolen cigarettes, knowing that my sister is there without even having to look. The same way it felt in my dream.

  I close my eyes and breathe in the mingled smoke of our cigarettes because it’s the closest I’m going to get. Because I want so many things, and I’m not going to have any of them, ever again. Because there’s no way to fill in the empty spaces June left behind.

  When I open my eyes again, Jake is staring at me. He shakes his head. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” he says.

  I exhale a stream of smoke and sigh, staring up at the blue sky overhead. “Trust me. I know.”

  chapter nine

  The pizza in St. Louis tastes different. Not bad different, just…different.

  “It’s called Provel cheese,” Laney says. Laney watches way too many cooking shows.

  We’ve just finished up an early dinner at some pizza place after spending the day doing, well, pretty much nothing. Jake napped on a bench in the park for a while, his hat pulled over his eyes, leaving Laney and I to entertain ourselves with playing cards and newspaper crosswords. Finally we got bored enough to wake him by tipping the bench until he rolled off and onto the grass. We were highly amused by the startled girlish yelp he made when he hit the ground. Jake, not so much.

  Now we’re in some place called the Blue Lounge, because Jake claims it would be nothing short of tragic to pass through St. Louis without soaking in some jazz.

  I don’t know if I’d go so far as to use the word tragic, but I am enjoying the band. And I’m not the only one—there are a few older couples on the wooden floor, holding each other close and swaying to the music. Everyone looks like they belong in one of those old Rat Pack movies; it makes me glad Laney insisted we change before coming here. She looks stunning in her short red dress, not that that’s a surprise—she looks stunning in anything. And I don’t look too out of place wearing one of Laney’s skirts with a belt and a strappy tank top. Jake, of course, fits in seamlessly with his black fedora.

  I know Laney sensed something had transpired between me and Jake to mess with my mood when she came back from her phone call with Seth. On the way to the jazz club, she kept looking at me weird, asking if I was okay, asking if I’d had enough to eat, asking if she could do anything.

  After the tenth time she asked if I was sure I was okay, I said, exasperated, “Laney. I’m fine. Relax.”

  “Of course she’s not fine,” Jake said to Laney. “Her sister is fucking dead. But that doesn’t make her an invalid. Get off her back.”

  That shut Laney up. She fell silent, and I punched Jake in the shoulder and told him to shove it, even though I was grateful he’d put an end to the line of questioning.

  I know Laney is worried, so I’m trying to pull it together for her sake. It’s hard not to think of everything in the context of what it would be like if June was here, to not want to curl up in a ball and remain in the fetal position until we reach California, but I’m trying.

  This is what I tell Jake, after we’ve staked out a table in the club and Laney’s disappeared into the bathroom. I don’t mean to bring June up; it just sort of spills out of me. Somehow it’s easier to talk to Jake about her than it is Laney. Maybe because I know there’s nothing I could say that would hurt him. And he’s clearly not afraid of hurting me.

  “Think of it this way,” he says. “You’re experiencing everything she’ll never get to. It’s, like…a tribute, or something. Not living your life won’t help anyone.”

  It is comforting, I guess, to think of it that way. I take my camera and snap a shot of the dance floor, then turn and take one of Jake’s profile, his face thoughtful as he listens to the band play. He gives me a look when the flash goes off but doesn’t comment.

  When Laney returns to our table, Jake pushes back his chair and says, “Now, which one of you ladies is going to take the first dance?”

  “Not me.” Laney wrinkles her nose. “I’m still feeling a little gross. Too much grease on those fries earlier, I guess.”

  “I suppose that leaves you
then,” he says to me.

  “No way.” I shake my head, tugging at my skirt. I haven’t worn one of these things willingly since…well, pretty much never. “Not happening.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “She really doesn’t,” Laney says around the lime from her water glass. “Trust me, I’ve tried to get her to, many, many times. Like I said earlier—she’s got no sense of adventure.”

  “That’s not true,” I say defensively, but my cheeks heat up, and I realize that, okay, maybe she has me on this one.

  “Prove it.”

  Jake holds out his hand and waggles his eyebrows. I know both he and Laney expect me to wrap my ankles around my chair legs and refuse to budge. That is, in fact, my first instinct, but then I think: Jake is right. I need to experience things. Push beyond my comfort zone. Even if I make a fool out of myself in the process.

  With a defiant look shot Laney’s way, I accept Jake’s hand and let him draw me onto the wooden dance floor. He wants to play it that way? Fine. Then it’s on.

  At first I move to wind my arms awkwardly around his neck, the way I did ages ago at the sixth-grade dance when nerdy Arnold Beaman asked me, and I said yes, partly because I felt sorry for him, and partly because Laney was too distracted flirting with her harem of prepubescent boy toys to bail me out in time. But Jake stops me, guides one of my hands to his shoulder and takes the other in his, entwining our fingers. His other hand rests lightly on my hip. The contact makes me feel flushed all over.

  “This isn’t freshman year homecoming,” he reminds me. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to cop a feel.”

  “You better not.” I pause, feeling awkward and cumbersome as he starts to shuffle across the floor with me stumbling along ungracefully. “Wait, wait—I don’t—I don’t know even how to dance like this!”

  “It’s easy. Just follow me.”

  I stare down at our feet, trying to move in time with him, but it’s like no matter what I’m a half step behind. I’m about to inform Jake of my reneging on this dancing thing, when all of a sudden his Converse comes down on my toes. I jump and cry out in surprise. And now everyone, including the band, is staring at me. Oh, and what is that I spy out of the corner of my eye? Laney, stifling a giggle into her hand. Some best friend she is.