Part 24 (1/2)

She snorts indelicately and pulls out a notebook. There are two pages filled with inconspicuous academic stuff. Notes on some science theory or whatever. She flips right past those, opening the book to another section. I see a listing of train departure times and directions to an unfamiliar address in San Diego.

”Yeah, what's up with that? Everyone else said it was San Francisco.”

”Yeah, well, the p-post office called it an address forwarding error.” Maggie makes little air quotes around address forwarding error like she doesn't believe that for a second.

”Wait a minute, are you saying they didn't even admit to the right city?”

Realizing my volume, I glance over at Mrs. Campbell, who's dozing off, her pen slack in her hand. I drop my voice to a whisper anyway. ”Why would they lie about that?”

”Technically, they d-didn't,” she says. ”The Millers were really vague about the whole thing, remember?”

I give her a pointed look, and Mags waves, looking contrite. ”Right. Sorry. They said they were moving t-to California for some great business opportunity and didn't have a permanent address, but everyone knew it was about Julien. She'd b-been a mess all summer. They never let her out of their sight.”

I feel my eyes growing wide. ”So other people are suspicious too.”

”h.e.l.l, no. Ridgeview's t-too small-town. They just thought the p-perfect little Miller girl had cracked.” She shrugs. ”It happens. It was still freaky though.”

”Yeah?”

Maggie puts up her hands. ”It's the Millers. Moving across the entire d.a.m.n country!”

”Thank you!” I say, glad someone has seen the pertinence of this fact. I chew the inside of my lip, still trying to work it out. ”And it's even weirder that they don't let Julien keep in touch. It's like they cut her off completely. Do you think her parents did something illegal?”

Mags gives me a disbelieving look. ”Mrs. Miller was a choir director. Literally.”

”Okay, fine, but what about her dad? My parents never could stand the guy. I've heard my dad talking about him.”

”Well, if they up and left for no reason, maybe, b-but they had a reason. A bat-s.h.i.+t crazy d-daughter they wanted to hide.”

I swallow hard, shocked at the idea of it, but a little afraid to ask whether or not she's joking. Because if all of this happened to Julien, it might still happen to me.

The flight attendant arrives offering drinks, saving me from my total lack of response. I sip my ginger ale and pretend to be mesmerized by the scenery outside my window.

Mom and Dad took me to New York once, and I remember flying over the city with my nose pressed to the gla.s.s. My eyes had to be the size of dinner plates. I couldn't even conceive of a city so immense, of so many buildings cl.u.s.tered around the brilliant green rectangle of Central Park.

Landing in Los Angeles is totally not like that. It's kind of like landing in Cleveland. Except I spot the Hollywood sign just before I hear the landing gear grinding down.

Maggie's mom must be even better in the kitchen than I think because we're whisked to the hotel by a chauffeured car. Granted, it's not a limo, but still. A sleek black town car with leather seats and television screens in the backs of the seats is a far cry from my decrepit Toyota.

Everything is green and alive in California, as if November doesn't even exist here. After spending every winter of my life in northern Ohio, I feel like I'm on another planet.

”Wow,” I say, gazing out at the seemingly endless stream of palm trees and slick cars. ”It really is kind of like the movies.”

Mags grins at me. ”First, we check out the beach.”

”First, we check in to the hotel,” Mrs. Campbell corrects us, slinging one arm around each of us as our driver unloads our luggage.

If this was my mother, we'd spend the next two hours inspecting the room and discussing safety precautions. But Mrs. Campbell's way more relaxed, so I know we'll see the ocean before we hit the sack.

Two hours later, the three of us make our way to Venice Beach. We try fish tacos and ice cream and laugh the whole way there. Maggie's mom heads into a coffee shop and we wander off to a bench for the best people watching.

I always kind of figured the wildness was exaggerated, but I was dead wrong. The boardwalk is like a giant, scrolling circus sideshow. An enormous guy with the smallest dog I've ever seen rides past on a bright green bicycle, almost b.u.mping a girl who's juggling at least five oranges. A couple of long-haired kids veer around them, speaking to each other in full-on Shakespearian.

Maggie and I shake our heads and trade our cones to try the other's flavor. It's maybe the most perfect day I've had. Unless you count the one I had with Adam, and I can't count that. I can't even think about that unless I want to cry.

I see Maggie out of the corner of my eye, her red-gold hair s.h.i.+ning like a penny in the setting sun.

”Maggie?” I say, staring out to sea.

”Mm?”

”Are you ever going to tell me what happened between us?”

Her nose wrinkles, and I wish at once I hadn't said it.

”I'm n-not sure,” she says.

I watch the long waves curling in, wis.h.i.+ng my memory would come back like the tide. But in the end, maybe I don't want to remember. Maybe it's best to let it stay hidden in dark places.

”Whatever it is, I'm sorry for it,” I tell her.

”Yeah. I know that now.”

The train speeds forward, cutting down the California coast. I wring my hands and try not to think about where we're going. Or what we're going to see when we get there.

”This is why we're here, Chlo,” Maggie says, reading my mind.

”How much longer am I going to be stuck in this train freaking out?”

”Not long now. But I'm sure you'll spaz in the cab too.”

The train pulls into the station, and Maggie navigates us to a taxi without any fuss. Maybe it isn't such a big deal for her, but I'm freaking out a little about seeing Julien. If she's gone crazy now, am I next?

Still, the suns.h.i.+ne is positively balmy here. I peel off the sweater I'd worn over my tank top and let the warm breeze improve my mood. I could get used to a town like this. The sky is so blue I feel like I could pour it into a swimming pool.

Our cab driver plays reggae music and drives approximately nine thousand miles an hour. Sometimes I catch glimpses of the bay, a stretch of cobalt water dotted with the white triangles of sailboats. Then I'm back to holding on for dear life, watching Maggie grow greener by the second.

”Twenty-eight dollars,” the cabbie says when he finally stops. I peel off a couple of twenties and hand it over. I don't bother asking for change. I'm too interested in being on solid ground again.

The house is nothing like I expected. It is a sleek, ultramodern tower, full of floor-to-ceiling windows and metal beams. It's a smaller version of the kind of house you'd imagine a rock star living in.

I blink up at the windows. I can't see anyone looking, but I still feel the chill of invisible eyes. Maybe I'm imagining it, but I turn away all the same, looking at Maggie instead.

”You okay?” I ask her. She's ghostly pale and breathing deep, thanks to the cab ride I'm sure.