Chapter One
More than a thousand graduation caps flew into the air behind me, but I was already walking down the aisle between the concrete bleachers. My sneakers scraped the macadam as I unzipped my graduation gown and slid it off my arms. I fisted it into a ball.
Landry’s lighter steps echoed off the bleachers behind me. He didn’t call to me, or ask me to wait for my mom. He knew better.
When I reached the entry gate, I stopped and turned, holding my gown between my hands. Then I went through my windup and pitched the gown—curveball grip—into the trash can.
I wanted to spit on it. Then scrub my skin raw to wash off the stink of four years of undergraduate work in a major I detested while my mother’s stiletto heel threatened to crush my windpipe.
Landry stopped next to me and peered into the bin. My crumpled navy-blue gown lay among ketchup-covered French fries, dirty napkins, and a broken noisemaker. My right index finger twitched and I longed for the comforting grip of my camera. I’d take a picture of my gown in the trash can and label it “Justin’s Feelings About His Undergraduate Degree.”
“Well, I was going to ask if you were sure you wanted to throw it out, but now I don’t care, because I’m not digging in that trash can just so you have a souvenir.” Lan grimaced and then gave himself a little shake in disgust. If he were stranded on a deserted island with only ketchup to eat, he’d starve. He hadn’t touched it since he came down with a stomach flu in sixth grade while we were at the town fair. He’d thrown up a lot of hot dogs and a lot of ketchup. Sometimes the red stuff even made me queasy now.
“Gown’s right where I want it.”
“Jus—”
“Let’s just go, please?”
I waited, because Lan had a habit of arguing every little point until I wanted to strangle him, but once I saw him nod, lips pursed, I knew I’d won this one. I should mark it on a calendar.
The stadium was turning into chaos as relatives and students were finding each other. Laughing. Taking pictures. Congratulations hung in the air around me and I wanted to swat the words away.
A couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated to grab Landry’s arm and pull him after me. Because we’d been best friends then. I guess we still were, sort of, but my hesitation showed the strain our relationship had taken toward the end of college. So instead, with a longing in my gut, I jerked my chin in the direction of the parking lot. He followed, his long strides matching mine as we cut through the swelling crowd and burst out into the parking lot.
And that’s when the freedom bubbled inside me, rumbling and growling and boiling, until I had to release the steam. So I did, right there in the middle of the stadium parking lot at Brackett University in California. I fisted my hands at my sides, arms straight, and screamed at the Saturday afternoon sun. I’m sure I looked like a lunatic. I felt like a lunatic. And I didn’t care. Because I was a free lunatic.
At least for the summer. I didn’t want to think about the fall yet.
Lan was smiling at me, the smile I liked, the big one that showed his crooked bottom-right incisor. The smile that brought out the deep creases around his mouth and wrinkled his forehead and made his dark-blue eyes glint.
The smile I hadn’t seen turned in my direction in way too long.
The smile that socked me in the gut and brought me to my knees because he didn’t know how badly I wanted that kiss I’d never taken.
And probably never would.
I smiled back just so he knew I wasn’t possessed, and with that, he turned with a laugh and continued walking.
His steps were sure and strong. I faced the ground but looked up through my lashes, fascinated by the confidence of his stride, his unzipped graduation gown billowing behind him. It’d been a long time since it was just the two of us. Our last years at school, I’d felt him slipping through my fingers. He’d inked his skin and pierced his ears. His clear eyes, which used to fill with humor, had darkened with cynicism.
I wanted him back. I wanted our friendship back. This trip was the beginning of that, and I already started to see some of the old Landry.
He stopped abruptly, and since I wasn’t paying attention, I nearly smacked into him. He rolled his eyes and then pointed to something front of us.
The camper sat in the corner of the back lot, which we reached after about a half-mile trek through several parking lots teeming with visiting cars.
It was a 1972 Winnebago Brave. A red stylized W by the driver’s-side window stretched into a stripe down the side, ending with the word BRAVE. That and a blue cracked rail along the bottom were the only colors on the stained, once-white paneling.
The eighteen-foot camper was the possession with the most monetary value awarded to me in my father’s will. But the nondescript silver canister inside held the most worth to me.