I nod a goodbye that nobody sees, every ounce of Jake’s attention now on his latest infatuation. I wish I’d brought my dad’s notebook again today. It’s been a good distraction—aka excuse to be anti-social. I still don’t understand most of the notes written in it, though the fact I’m buying my first part today with the money Grandpa Hank gave me speaks volumes about the progress I’ve made.
Not everything in that notebook is about the Bronco, though, and I suspect that’s the real reason they gave it to me. Turns out, Randy Wydner had a secret passion for poetry, or maybe song lyrics. I have yet to figure it out, but I found several scribbled-out, half-finished attempts tucked inside those pages, sometimes on the back side of diagrams he’d drawn to perfect scale. It’s as though he is two different personalities sharing the same page.
I won’t be finding any of those gems today, though. No, today I won’t have much of a choice but to let Jake drag me along with his crew—and Gemma, probably—for lunch. At least it’s Friday, which means half-price milkshakes at Tommy’s. I’ll just drown my lack of conversation skills in a large strawberry with a stubborn straw.
One of the biggest reasons I avoid going out for lunch with Jake is because it is literally the cool thing to do at Oak Forest High. I can count on one hand the number of times my friend has taken his lunch in our school cafeteria since getting his license at the end of our sophomore year. Lucky bastard has a May birthday.
The minute he got access to keys and a credit line from his mom, he declared he would never again eat food off a tray. I hate to break it to him, but every place he jets off to for our forty-minute lunch break serves their meals in bags . . . placed atop trays.
Lunch with Jake is such a popular ticket that his car is typically overcrowded, like beyond the recommended number of passengers. Normally, I end up sandwiched in the back, my knees hiked up to my ears because of the hump seat while two couples make lap seats on either side of me. It’s so uncomfortable that usually people don’t make out at the stoplights—usually.
I got to Jake’s car early today, so I rejoiced internally when I scored shotgun. And then Jake coaxed Gemma onto my lap, insisting we share a seat belt for the drive to Tommy’s. Most guys would probably thank him for being put in this position. Gemma’s hot. Her mom was a model in Ghana, and Gemma is the spitting image of her, all the way down to her long, toned legs.
I remember all the girls were fascinated when her mom came to talk to us for career day in junior high. She brought the replica of her Miss Ghana crown. I was more fascinated with her story of being one of the first women from Sub-Saharan Africa to become the face of several designers in the high-fashion industry.
I’m probably the only seventeen-year-old guy to think about these topics in this situation, and I’m probably nuts for doing so because, back to point A: Gemma is hot. And she’s into Jake. Of course, my other thoughts during our drive are about her trajectory if my best friend has to hit the brakes. My grandfather’s voice plays through my mind for most of the trip.
Jonah, you’re better off walking.
Something about an awkward car ride like that brings people closer, I guess, because ever since we got to Tommy’s, Gemma has been talking to me non-stop. Prior to our commute, I think she thought my name was Jason. It’s funny because I could literally write her short biography. It’s like that for a lot of the people in Jake’s circle, though, and to be fair, I’ve never taken the time to give them my story. I always think mine would be so boring in comparison.
“I hear Elle’s parents are basically at each other’s throats blaming each other. It’s so bad that Morgan had to step in and pretty much be the parent. I heard she’s skipping next semester so she can stay and help at the house, make sure Elle graduates and all that. Morgan and Elle don’t get along, though, and it’s like, this totally wretched vibe. I just . . . I feel so bad, ya know?” Gemma dips one of her fries in ranch then pops it in her mouth, which means I have about eight seconds of silence while she chews. Everyone at the table nods as if she just shared something profound, not a bunch of gossipy-sounding surface-level stuff.
She gets to call her Elle, too. This one doesn’t feel fair.
“The media’s gone,” I add, feeling as though I should.
Everyone nods again, but less interested by my contribution.
“I wonder if her family is going to be on Dateline?” This question, from one of Gemma’s friends, spirals into an entirely new loop.
I take advantage of my distracted company and pull out the notes app on my phone to read through some of the things I copied over from my dad’s notes. Read together, the lines read like a beatnik poem, random phrases linked by nothing more than the fact they’re words. But there’s something about each little line that is somehow really beautiful.
“Whatcha got there, Romeo?” Jake snatches my phone and his eyes rake over the words, his mouth puckering with the need to burst out in laughter at my expense.
“Asshole!” I growl. I’m not very assertive, so this out-of-character move gives Jake enough pause to tone down his volume, but he still keeps my phone, eventually reading one of the lines back to me.
“Face like Milky Way, all lit up with potential.” He spits out a puff of a laugh and I grab my phone back while he’s too busy being a dick.
I push my phone in my back
