Davy puts the gun against his shoulder. Final one. I cover my ears with both hands. For a brief moment, I see Porter looking anguished and confused, then he pulls my head against his chest and wraps his arms around me. Boom! I jump against him, but he doesn’t let go. And it helps. ?e explosion is muffled. I have a solid anchor, and I don’t want to let go. It’s embarrassing how hard I’m clinging to him now, but I don’t even care, because he’s safe and warm. It’s just that he’s prying me off him, trying to tell me something, and I really should be listening.
“We have to go, Bailey,” he’s telling me. “Now.”
I see why.
Red and blue lights. ?e police are here.
“To repress one’s feelings only makes them stronger.”
—Michelle Yeoh, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)
14
“I have to nd Grace,” I shout at him as we’re racing across the sand.
It’s total chaos, everyone scattering, half of them clogging the upward trail to the parked cars—but that’s where the police lights are.
“Gracie knows how to take care of herself,” Porter yells back. He’s got my hand locked in his, and he’s shouldering his way across the main path, heading toward the dark area of the beach, away from the bon re. Away from the people. “She’s been in this situation before, and she’s got a million friends who can get her home.”
?at doesn’t feel right to me. I try to tell him that, but it’s so loud, I can’t even hear my own voice. Now it’s two cop cars—not one. And it strikes me just now: What if it’s Wanda? Would she arrest me, even if I haven’t been drinking? I picture Dad having to come pick me up from the police station and my stomach twists.
“CCPD,” a booming male voice says over the squad car speaker. “Hands up where I can see them.”
Holy crap. ?ey’re arresting someone. Hopefully it’s Davy and his rock-blasting shotgun.
Porter gets us past the main herd of eeing cattle. We jog around a boulder and he spots a secondary path through dry coastal brush that a couple of other partygoers are climbing. It’s dark but serviceable. “Stay low,” Porter tells me, and we head that way, sneaking through the dry grass. Just before we crest the hill, we have to stop and wait for a cop car with a high-beam spotlight to nish sweeping the area. When I’m half a second away from having a stroke, I get a text from Grace: Where are you? To which I reply: Escaping with Porter. Are you safe? She answers: Yes, okay. Was worried I lost you. Tell P to go N on Gold to Cuangua Farm. Text me when you get home.
I show Porter the texts. He nods, and when the coast is clear, we jog past a million parked cars until we get to what appears to be a sky-blue Volkswagen camper van—the kind from the 1960s and ’70s that are long and surrounded with a ring of windows. Surfer vans, my dad calls them, because they’re big enough to haul longboards on top. ?is one is covered with peeling sur ng stickers on the back windows and has painted white fenders. Porter opens the passenger side and slips into the driver’s seat from there, then beckons me in after him.
“Shit!” He’s shoving the keys in the ignition as ashing lights head in our direction again. ?e engine protests and doesn’t want to catch, and it’s like a bad horror movie. “Come on, come on.” And then— nally!—it rumbles to life, loud as you please. Wheels spin, kicking up sand, and then we’re off, turning away from this nightmare, trundling as fast as a fty-year-old bus can go, which isn’t very fast at all, but who cares? ?e whole nasty scene is in Porter’s rearview mirror.
I click on my seat belt and immediately melt into the seat. “Jesus.”
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened back there?”
“No.”
His brow furrows. “I’m sorry about all that … about Davy.”
“Yeah. He’s a complete dirtbag. No offense, but why are you friends with him?”
Fingers lift and fall on the steering wheel.
“We grew up sur ng together. He used to be my best friend. His family life has gone down the toilet, so my dad took him under his wing for a while, trained him. My mom felt sorry for him. He practically lived at our house for a while. ?en he got hurt sur ng a few years ago. Has a leg full of metal and pins.”
?e limp.
“He’s in a lot of pain, and it screwed up any chance he had of sur ng seriously. Made him bitter and angry … changed him.” Porter sighs heavily and scratches his neck. “Anyway, he started screwing up, and I told you about how my dad is. He wouldn’t tolerate Davy’s BS, so he stopped training him until he gets his act cleaned up. And on top of all that, Davy basically thinks I’m an idiot for not wanting to go pro, because he says I’m privileged and throwing it away. Also …”
Whatever he was going to say, he seems to think better of it and clams up. I wonder if it had to do with all the drunken smack talk Davy was spewing at the bon re. About that girl they mentioned outside the vintage clothing shop, Chloe.
“Anyway, I’m sorry about all that,” he says. “I’ll go talk to him tomorrow when he’s sobered up. No use seeing him tonight. It’ll just turn into a st ght. Always does. And who knows, maybe he got arrested this time. Might do him some good.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I can’t imagine having a best friend you hate. ?at’s messed up.
