“I’m over here by Perkins Day, and I need a ride,” I told her. “Can you come get me?”
“At Perkins Day?”
“Near there. Just down the street.”
There was a pause, during which time I heard laughter behind her. “God, Ruby . . . I wish I could. But I’m supposed to be home in an hour.”
“It’s not that far,” I said.
“I know. But you know how my mom’s been lately.” Since the last time Peyton had come home smelling like beer, her parents had instituted a strict accountability program involving constant tracking, elaborate sniff tests, and surprise room searches. “Hey, did you try Marshall? I bet he can—”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. Peyton had never quite gotten Marshall’s and my arrangement; an incurable romantic, to her, every story was a love story. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
There was another pause, and again, I could hear what was happening around her: laughter, someone’s radio playing, a car engine starting up. It was true what I’d said: it wasn’t that far from there to here, only fifteen miles or so. But at that moment, it suddenly seemed like a long way.
“You sure?” she asked. “Because I could ask someone here.”
I swallowed, leaning back against the side of the booth. On the opposite side, above the phone, someone had written WHERE DO YOU SLEEP? in thick black marker. Scratched underneath, less legibly, was a reply: WITH YOUR MAMA. I reached up, rubbing my face with my hand. It wasn’t like I’d expected anyone to come rescue me, anyway. “Nah,” I said. “That’s all right. I’ll figure out something.”
“All right,” she said. A car horn beeped in the background. “Give me your sister’s number, though. I’ll call you tonight, we can catch up.”
“I’m still getting settled,” I told her. “I’ll give you a call in a few days.”
“Okay,” she said easily. “And hey, Ruby.”
“What? ”
“I’m glad you’re not a hooker or a murderer.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”
I hung up the phone, then stepped out of the booth to finish off my Coke and contemplate my next move. The parking lot, which had been mostly empty when I first got there, had filled up with Perkins Day students. Clearly, this was some sort of off-site hangout, with people sitting on the hoods and bumpers of their expensive cars, slumming at the Quick Zip. Scanning the crowd, I spotted Nate off to the right, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the driver’s-side door of a black SUV. A dark-haired girl in a ponytail and a cropped blue jacket was with him, telling some story and gesturing wildly, the Zip Coke in her hand waving back and forth as she spoke. Nate, of course, was smiling as he listened, the epitome of the Nicest Guy in the World.
Then something occurred to me. I glanced at my watch. It was just before four, which meant I had a little over an hour before I’d be late enough for anyone to notice. It was enough time to do what I had to do, if I got going soon. All I needed was a little help, and if I worked things right, maybe I wouldn’t even have to ask for it.
As I hitched my backpack over my shoulder and started toward the road, I made it a point not to look at the Perkins Day contingent, even as I passed right in front of them. Instead, I just kept my focus forward, on the big intersection that lay ahead. It was a long walk home, and even farther to where I really needed to be, making this a serious gamble, especially considering how I’d acted earlier. But part of being nice was forgiveness—or so I’d heard—so I rolled the dice anyway.
Two blocks down the road, I heard a car horn, then an engine slowing behind me. I waited until the second beep before arranging my face to look surprised, and turned around. Sure enough, there was Nate.
“Let me guess,” he said. He was leaning across the passenger seat, one hand on the wheel, looking up at me. “You don’t need a ride.”
“Nope,” I told him. “Thanks, though.”
“This is a major road,” he pointed out. “There’s not even a sidewalk.”
“Who are you, the safety monitor?”
He made a face at me. “So you’d prefer to just walk the six miles home.”
“It’s not six miles,” I said.
“You’re right. It’s six point two,” he replied as a red Ford beeped angrily behind him, then zoomed past. “I run it every Friday. So I know.”
“Why are you so hell-bent on driving me somewhere?” I asked.
“I’m chivalrous,” he said.
Yeah, right, I thought. That’s one word for it. “Chivalry’s dead.”
“And you will be, too, if you keep walking along here.” He sighed. “Get in.”
And it was just that easy.
Inside, Nate’s car was dark, the interior immaculate, and still smelled new. Even so, there was an air freshener hanging from the rearview. The logo on it said REST ASSURED EXECUTIVE SERVICES: WE WORRY SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO.
“It’s my dad’s company,” he explained when he saw me looking at it. “We work to make life simpler in these complicated times.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That sounds like something right off a brochure.”
“Because it is,” he said. “But I have to say it if anybody asks what we do.”
“And what if they want an actual answer?”