All Our Pretty Songs

climb in. Rosaries dangle from the rearview mirror and there’s a plastic statue of Jesus glued to the dashboard. The Jesus has a head that bobs as you drive and a slight walleye. The car smells like incense and pot, Raoul smells. He’s wearing fingerless leather gloves with studs at the knuckles. “Nice,” I say, petting them. I sit in his passenger seat while the engine idles, backpack in my lap, heater blasting in my face, and hand Raoul the poster. He unfolds it and smoothes it against the steering wheel. “Aha. And your mother cannot give you a ride to the bus station because?”

“Because she doesn’t know.”

“I had a feeling.” He steeples his slender fingers and rests his forehead on them. “Will you tell her?”

“When I’m there.”

“You’re supposed to be in school?”

“Technically, yeah.”

“Do you want a ride?”

“To Los Angeles?”

“Isn’t that where you’re going?” I look at him, his jet fall of hair, his generous mouth, his brown eyes smiling, and think that there is probably no one else in the world who is as blessed as I am. He’s totally serious, unblinking. He would do it. He would do it, for me, because he’s my friend.

“Oh, Raoul. I think that’s technically, like, kidnapping. Transporting a minor across state lines. Like if we got pulled over you would be arrested.” He shrugs. “No,” I say. “I can take the bus. But thank you.”

“Where will you stay? How are you getting them back here?”

“I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

His sigh comes from somewhere in his toes. He rubs his forehead with the side of his thumb. “Okay,” he says. “You know what? Don’t tell me anything else.” I take the poster from him and put it back in my pocket.

I try to memorize the streets as they flash by, the broad expanse of the bay, the exact shade of Doug firs in the changing light of late fall, the salt tang of the air. Heavy clouds edged in gold where the sun’s creeping through. The far curtain of rain falling over the peninsula. Like if I can carry home with me it will keep me safe. We wind through the damp streets. Mia Zapata’s scratchy, gorgeous voice howls from the speakers but it’s too early for punk. I pop out the tape without asking, put in another one labeled “Nighttime” in sloppy Sharpied letters. It’s Jeff Buckley. Sending me straight back to that night at Jack’s when I read his tarot cards. The memory is so strong I push my hands through my hair, look out the window. Not now. “Who was at your apartment?” I ask, and Raoul smiles.

“Those fish-stall boys. Not as straight as you’d think.”

“Oh my god. Which one?”

But he draws two fingers across his mouth like a zipper and shakes his head. “A gentleman never tells.”

“I’ll put you on the rack. I’ll draw and quarter you. The tall one? The one who always wears that red knit hat?” He gives me a smug little smile and refuses to yield for the rest of the ride.

Raoul stops the car in front of the bus station downtown. He reaches over me and rustles around in the glove box, digs out a piece of paper and a pen and writes something down before folding it in half and handing it to me.

“What’s this?”

“My phone number.”

“Raoul. I call you sixteen times a week. I know your phone number.”

“Humor me?”

“Okay.” I tuck the paper in my pocket next to the poster. “I owe you,” I add, my hand on the door. “Again. Like, forever.”

“Wait,” he says. He takes off the wooden rosary he always wears, loops it over my head next to Cass’s amulet. “For luck.”

“Raoul. I can’t take this.”

“It’s a loan. Keep it safe and bring it back.”

He hugs me tight. I hug him back, so fierce I can feel the whoosh of air leaving his lungs, and he makes a surprised noise. I squeeze my eyes shut, hang on for dear life. “I mean it.” His voice is muffled. “Come back.”

“I promise.”

“No matter what.”

“Okay.”

He lets me go and I step out into the cold morning air. He leans across the seat. “No matter what. Call me if you need anything. I’ll come get you. Okay?”

“Who will take care of Oscar Wilde if you have to drive to California?”

“Oscar Wilde loves the car. I’ll buy him driving goggles. Be safe.” I nod and shut the car door, hitch my backpack straps on my shoulders, take a deep breath. Raoul doesn’t drive away until I’m inside.

At the counter I buy a ticket on the next bus to LA. When I reach into my coat pocket for my wallet there’s a crackle, and I take out a wad of bills. Raoul slipped me nearly fifty dollars when he was hugging me. Fifty dollars he doesn’t have to give away. I contemplate running after his car, but he’ll be long gone by now. “Are you all right?” asks the lady at the counter. “Miss?” I’m crying again.

“Something in my eye.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, bored now. She was hoping for histrionics or confessions. A jilting. I’m sorry I can’t humor her. “Your bus leaves in an hour and a half.”

I take out my sketchbook, but I’m too antsy to draw. I pace around the station, buy a cup of coffee, drink it, buy another one, smoke, pace some more. I think about how long I have until Cass figures out I’m gone, what she’ll do. It was shitty of me not to leave her a note, but the longer it takes her to realize what I’ve done, the more likely it is I’ll make it to LA. She’ll know where I went as soon as she figures out I’m gone, and all she would have to do is call the bus company to get me taken off at the next stop. I’ll call her when I’m there, tell her I’m okay. Tell her I’m coming home. As soon as I have them. I refuse to think about what will happen if I can’t find them. If Aurora isn’t with Jack. If either of them tells me to go home. I’m not this tough for nothing. I stare down at my booted feet, turn up the collar of my leather jacket. If I tell myself how tough I am enough times, surely it will be at least a little bit true.

At last I shuffle aboard the bus, consoling myself with the thought that I’m far and away the least desperate-looking person boarding. A guy in a dirty white T-shirt, bare-armed despite the cold, sits next to me and asks where I’m from. When he opens his mouth I can see he’s missing most of his teeth, and the remnants of a nasty bruise are fading from one cheek. Before I can answer, he tells me he’s just gotten out of jail and is on his way home to see his woman. I nod, get out my headphones, hold them where he can see them, but he keeps talking. “You like to get high?” he asks.

“No thanks.”

“I got good stuff. The best.”

“Really. No thanks.” I make a show of putting my headphones on, choosing music.

“You like to fuck?” I hear him say, and then I turn up the volume and look out the window. I can see his reflection in the glass. His lips are still moving.

The bus ride is like a fever dream. I can’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Sometimes the bus stops and we stumble out, smoke cigarettes by the side of the road in the cold air. Night falls. My seatmate gives up on me and moves on to some poor girl at the back of the bus, with more success. I can hear their soft grunts in the intervals between songs. I’m strung out on no sleep and nerves. I buy a cup of shitty gas-station coffee and a package of Pop-Tarts at the next stop. The sugar and caffeine don’t make me any calmer. Cass will have figured out I’m gone by now, and every time the bus stops I chew on my nails, sure it’s the cops. But it never is. When the bus rolls into Los Angeles, I can breathe again. It’s Halloween morning, and I am going to find them, and everything is going to be fine.

This far south, the ocean seems like a different creature altogether from the moody grey monster I know at home. Gem-colored waves roll across the white-sand beach. Even this late in the year it’s full of people sunbathing or playing volleyball. Ponytailed girls rollerblade past me on a boardwalk that stretches as far as I can see in either direction. Condominiums edge the beach, and I can see women basking on their balconies in neon bikinis. I can’t