He raises his voice so that I can hear him through the glass door. “Get some rest, Loopy. Sweet dreams.”
“Sweet,” I echo. “Dream.”
Chapter two
Ohmygod what the hell did I do last night?????????
Chapter three
“And the whole thing is a blur! And I don’t remember anything I said, or anything he said, and he must have walked me home because he knew I was so high that I’d get run over by a taxi.”
Kurt Donald Cobain Bacon keeps his eyes fixed upon my ceiling. “So Josh paid for your food.”
It takes a moment for this statement to register. My best friend and I are lying beside each other on top of my bed. One of my hands slowly reaches out of its own accord and twists the front of his shirt into a tight knot.
“Don’t do that.” His tone is brusque – as it often is – though not impolite.
I remove my hand, which travels straight to my swollen, throbbing, worse-than-yesterday gums. And then I emit a rather frightening moan.
“You said he woke you up, and then you left the café,” Kurt says. “That means he paid your bill.”
“I know. I know.” But I’m scrambling out of bed anyway. I grab my bag, dump it upside down, and shake it frantically.
“You won’t find it,” he says.
A well-loved paperback about hiking disasters on Mount Everest thunks against my rug. Pens and lipsticks and quarters shower out and roll away. My wallet. An empty pack of tissues, a pair of sunglasses, a crumpled flyer for a new bagel store. Nothing. I shake it harder. Still nothing. I check my wallet even though I already know what I won’t find: a receipt from the café.
“Told you,” he says.
“I have to apologize for being such a lunatic. I have to pay him back.”
“Pay who back?” Hattie asks.
My head whips around to find my younger sister appraising me from the doorway. She’s leaning against the frame with crossed arms, but she still looks way too tall. Which she is. Not only did she surpass me in height last year, but she far exceeded me.
“I know what you did last night,” she says. “I know you snuck out.”
“I didn’t sneak out. I just left for a few hours.”
“But Maman and Dad don’t know.”
I don’t reply, and Hattie smiles. She’s as smug as a house cat. She won’t tell. With information this valuable, she’ll hold on to it until it’s useful. Hattie swipes my wallet from the floor and – staring me down, lording over me with her stupid growth spurt – drops it back into my bag. And then she’s gone.
I throw the bag at her vacated space and crawl into bed. I wrap both of my arms around one of Kurt’s. “You have to go with me,” I say. “To the café. Tonight.”
His eyebrows furrow into their familiar V shape. “You think Josh is a regular?”
“Maybe.” I have no reason to think this. I just want him to be a regular. “Please, I have to explain myself.”
His shoulders shrug against me. “Then I’ll find the Right Way.”
Kurt likes routine, and he always likes to know where he’s going ahead of time. He’s obsessed with mapping out the best route to get anywhere…even a café that’s only a few minutes away. He calls these routes the Right Way. The Right Way never involves mass transit, crowded intersections, or streets containing Abercrombie & Fitch-type stores that blast noxious music and/or cologne.
Cartography has fascinated him since he was six, when he discovered The Times Atlas of the World weighing down one of my older sister’s gluey craft projects. The book became an obsession, and Kurt pored over its pages for years, memorizing names and shapes and distances. When we were young, we’d lie on my floor and draw our own maps. Kurt would make these tidy, detailed, to-scale maps of our neighbourhood while I’d create England-shaped islands with Old English-sounding names. They’d have dense woods and spidery rivers and snowcapped peaks, and I’d surround them with shark triangles and sea-monster arches. It drove Kurt crazy that I wouldn’t draw anything real.
I’ve known him for ever. Our mothers are also best friends – and they’re both Frenchwomen living in New York – so he’s just…always been around. We went to the same schools in Manhattan, and now we attend the same high school in Paris. He’s thirteen months younger than me, so there was only one year when we were apart – when he was in eighth grade, and I was a freshman. Neither of us likes to think about that year.
I blow a lock of his scruffy blond hair from my face. “You don’t think…”