My gaze slowly falls to her lips. They’re Mars red tonight, the curve of her bottom lip accentuated. If I knew anything about art or how to make it, Rooney’s lips would be my main source ofinspiration. I shake the thought loose. I’m driving Rooney to the beach so that she can be inspired to do her work for a program that I’m a part of. I can’t be thinking these thoughts.
A honk from a couple of lanes over breaks my attention. I face forward, hoping Rooney didn’t see me staring at her. How long was I looking at her mouth?
I redirect my attention to the music and adjust the volume. “Here, pick a song,” I say, handing her my phone. “It’s connected to Bluetooth.”
She scrolls slowly, her red-painted nails moving up and down. “I’m going to put it on shuffle, and your playlists can decide,” she says, wedging the phone into the cupholder before rummaging through her bag. “Thank goodness I brought car snacks. We might be here all night.”
Rooney sets a bag of mixed Asian rice crackers between us. We alternate reaching in for handfuls, and I become hyperaware that our hands could collide at any moment. The first few songs are jazz. The sounds of crunching fill the silence in the car as the sun drops slowly. Another thirty minutes pass, and we’re only north of Griffith Park. We’re zoned out staring ahead at the sea of lights when Queen’s “Under Pressure” comes on. At the first few beats, Rooney springs to life, her initial reaction to turn up the volume.
“Timely!” she shouts while she sways side to side in her seat. “Pressure! Pushing! Down! On! Me!”
I tap my finger against the wheel.
Rooney takes her sunglasses out of her bag and sings into them. “Sing it if you know it, Jack! And I know you know it because this shuffle is on your playlist.”
She holds her sunglasses in front of my mouth, indicating for me to sing.
I lean in. “Dee-day-da” is what comes out right as Freddie Mercury sings it.
We both laugh at the perfect timing. A knot of tension releases in me that feels familiar from our night in New York. Before I can fight it, we’re both dancing in place and sing-shouting, “Let me out!”
I can say with clarity and certainty that traffic has never been so fun before. And it’s because of Rooney. The heat from before comes rushing back, a mixture of my heart racing from all the movement and the sudden realization that I like her. Like her in the way that I shouldn’t. Even though I’m her liaison and even when she’s leaving in ten months. These feelings I have toward Rooney are already set in motion. All I can do now is try to stop them from developing into something bigger.
Naming this feeling is freeing in a way. In this moment, I am at ease. We could not move another mile for the rest of the night, and I would be okay with that. No, not just okay. I would be happy about it. Ecstatic, even. A part of me hopes that they shut the entire highway down right now, and we can be here. Stuck together.
“It’s almost six, Jack, and we’re nowhere near the exit we need to take. I’m supposed to be meeting them right now,” Rooney says with a whine. She stuffs a handful of crackers into her mouth. “I hate bailing on people.”
I wonder if going off-highway would be faster. But we’re already late. Getting from here to the beach isn’t going to happen in twenty minutes.
“Are there night clouds you might be able to look at?” I ask.
“Not the kind I’d want to see. Noctilucent clouds are rare,” she says with a sigh.
“It sounds like you’re learning a lot from this league. That’s cool.” When she doesn’t say anything, I add, “I’m sorry, Rooney. I don’t like canceling plans, either.”
Rooney gives me a look of appreciation. “Fine. You’re right. I’m calling it.” She types something into her Cloud Lovers League app.“I let them know I can’t make it, and we can turn around. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I hope you didn’t cancel plans for this.”
If canceled plans means watching a new space documentary with Sprinkles, then yes. Plans were canceled.
Rooney directs me to the nearest exit.
“This is wrong. We should be going east,” I tell her. “Is your GPS redirecting?”
I see a sly smile on Rooney’s face. “It’s time for me to do Fate Test 5,” she says. “‘Go the wrong direction on purpose.’ Let’s see where we end up.”
Once we’re off the exit and free from the standstill, Rooney randomly calls out left or right, and I follow her instructions. We weave through roads and into different neighborhoods. Fifteen minutes and several winding roads later, there’s a sign for the Hollywood Bowl Overlook off Mulholland Drive. I turn my car into the parking lot.
“You can’t see the beach. But you can see the clouds,” I say, putting the car into park.
“And really, that was the whole point,” she says, grinning. “Right on time, too. We’re even closer to them up here.”
We get out of the car and climb the stairs for a better view to take in the sights. There’s a look of amazement on Rooney’s face. The terrain rolls out ahead of us, the green of the treetops blending into the concrete of the city. We loom over the Hollywood Bowl as our eyes follow a natural path leading out toward a miniature version of downtown resting on the skyline.
“It’s so expansive,” Rooney says, leaning forward against the railing. “I almost didn’t even see the sign.”
In the distance, the Hollywood Sign looks like a speck, a star against a mountainside of sky.
“The Hollywood Sign is like clouds. You get used to it and forget it’s even there,” I say.
