Page 28

“No problem.” Caralora takes Lincoln to Western to Lawrence. The sun is out, and I wish I had my sunglasses. As we pass Magnolia Avenue, I crane to spot the Nash. I’m pretty sure about where I parked it, but as we get closer, the space appears to be empty. Then I see it: The windows are shattered, the tires have melted, the chassis is a charred gray-and-white hulk of bare metal and ash.

They’ve torched it.

Caralora doesn’t slow down. She turns right onto Broadway, left on Leland, and then parks under the El. Neither of us says anything for a while. I’m not angry, not yet. I feel empty, as though my soul has departed but I am somehow not dead.

In my peripheral vision I see Caralora’s hands. They are long and slender, and her nails are painted with clear polish, with white crescent shapes, like little moons. Caralora’s hands rest in her lap, one hand cradling the other. I feel the image stamp itself on me: a meaningless detail that will come back to me every time I remember this day.

“Zach? Do you want to go back, or did you see enough?”

I don’t know. I don’t want to move from this spot. “There are some things in the trunk. I don’t own much. Maybe we could see if anything survived . . . ?” The things in the trunk had no value to anyone but me. A quilt my grandmother made for me when I was twelve. My books. Photo albums that my mom had thrown in the trash. I turn to Caralora. Her face says no, it isn’t a good idea. I get that. I get that. That car was home; now I really am homeless. I start to shake. I can’t stop. I feel Caralora’s hand on my shoulder. I choke down tears and lower my head, feeling nauseous. I motion for Caralora to open the window. Cold air hits my face; I start to calm down. “Sorry,” I tell her.

“I’ll take you home,” Caralora says. She turns the ignition.

“I don’t have a home,” I reply. “The Nash was all that was left of home.”

“Well,” she says, “I guess you’d better get busy and make a new one.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on it. Take me to the nearest IKEA.” She laughs, I smile. “Never mind. Let’s go to the Gomolinskis’.” As we head around the block and then north on Broadway, I remember last night, in the abandoned theater lobby: Alba’s older self and Caralora, sitting together on the stairs, talking. Did she tell Caralora about today? Is that why Caralora insisted on driving us to Alba’s house? I regret leaving the Nash to its fate. And I was a fool to park it in front of the Lamonts’ house on the night of the party (though it seemed like rock star parking at the time, in a neighborhood known for ridiculously scarce spaces). Anyway. It’s gone. Onward and upward.

We’re sitting in gapers’ block traffic at Ridge and Hollywood when I remember a question that occurred to me last night. Caralora edges around the minor fender bender that would be unworthy of such a backup except that the drivers have emerged from their cars, unmasked, and are screaming in each other’s faces. “Tsk,” Caralora says, driving on.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

She looks annoyed. “You can, but I may not be inclined to answer it.”

“Why did you and Alba break up?”

Caralora looks relieved. “It wasn’t for the reason you may have assumed.”

“If I had a preconceived notion, I wouldn’t have asked,” I say.

“True,” she says. “I broke up with her, not the other way around.”

“Oh?”

“I broke up with Alba because I got tired. She is unreliable in the extreme, and I got tired of being her support system. I mean, you can’t get mad at someone for standing you up when you know they are stuck in some other time without clothes or food. But if anyone is going to get to be flakey and undependable, it should be me.”

“But here you are, coming to the rescue . . .”

“Yeah, but I’m just John the Baptist to your Jesus. My job right now is to make sure you don’t get killed. And your job is to make sure Alba’s okay. I think you are better suited for her, to be honest. You seem like you’re very eager to settle down and keep the home fires burning.”

“So to speak.”

“Mmm, yeah, sorry.” Caralora lights a cigarette for herself and offers me one. I hesitate, then accept eagerly. “I mean, Alba’s great, you know, don’t get me wrong, none of her chaos is deliberate. But she’ll mess with your head no matter what, just by being what she is. You should talk to her mother sometime. Clare has some thoughts. Alba’s dad must have been a piece of work.”

“You never met him?”

“No. Nick and I met Alba and Nadia and the Gomolinskis at the beginning of our freshman year in high school. Alba and I started dating when we were juniors. Alba’s dad died when she was five.”

“So he wasn’t—around?” I try to sound casual but only manage to sound disapproving.

“He was very much around in the usual dead person way, as a beloved ghost, but not in the way you’re imagining. Alba always said that he never time traveled to the future much. She usually went backward and met him.”

“I feel very underequipped to deal with Alba’s family,” I say. “This all sounds like a lot of drama. I was kind of hoping to find a very low-key, plucky orphan, sort of a Jane Eyre type.”

Caralora laughs. “I suppose you could describe Alba as plucky. I think of her as catlike: She’s affectionate but she goes her own way, by necessity. Anyway, I think you’ll like Alba’s mother. Clare always tried to help me, and I’m sure she’ll help you, because you’re in it now, and she knows what that’s like.”

“Am I in it? Can you make irrevocable decisions after knowing someone for one week?”