Page 69 of The Ghostwriter

I’d appealed to Margot next. “Let’s hitchhike into Ventura,” I’d said. We were sitting on her bed, the smell of her mother’s famous chocolate chip cookies drifting under the closed door. “We can get to the rally on our own.”

Margot looked unsure. “Is that safe?”

“Fear is a tool of the patriarchy,” I’d told her. “It’s how our parents control where we go and what we do. The majority of people in this world are good.”

This is going to be the new Poppy, who isn’t afraid to do big, scary things. I imagine an interview I’ll give, years from now, where I’m asked about what it was like to be a female correspondent, filming important events and conflicts around the world. “I grew up with two older brothers who wanted to kill each other. War zones don’t scare me.”

***

A car passes by me now, a whoosh of heat from the asphalt swirling around my ankles and up my bare legs. I hold out my thumb, hoping I look confident. I have five dimes in my sock, in case I get stuck there and need to call home, and my Super 8 in my backpack.

I hadn’t planned to do this alone, but Margot canceled this morning.

“My mom is making me go with her to visit my aunt Gert in Bakersfield,” she’d said. “I’m really sorry. I know you wanted to go.”

I feel a reckless sort of excitement—no one would expect me to do this alone, and yet this is exactly what I need. I’m sick of people pushing me around, telling me what to do all the time. I need a break from worrying about Vince and Lydia. About Vince and Danny. I wish I could be an only child like Margot. How simple and quiet it would be. I’d have the space to think about the things that matter. That will affect me as an adult.

Another car passes and I wonder whether I’ll spend all day out here, sweating on the hot pavement, waiting for someone to pick me up. I’m young and not unattractive. It shouldn’t be this hard.

But that car slows down and rolls to a stop. I jog to catch up to it and see a mother behind the wheel, a toddler bouncing on the back seat. She rolls the passenger window down. “You shouldn’t be out here on your own,” she says. “It isn’t safe for a girl.”

“I really appreciate the ride,” I say, sliding into the front seat. When the door is closed and she’s pulled back onto the highway, I turn to her and say, “Don’t you get tired of constantly having to live a lesser life than our male counterparts?” I’d read that line in an article about Gloria Steinem. It wasn’t something she’d said herself, but I remember feeling a zap of recognition, of realizing I’d been feeling that way without being able to say it aloud.

The woman rolls her eyes and says, “That’s the world we live in.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” I insist. “Women have more power than we think we do.”

The woman shakes her head. “You have a lot to learn.”

“I’m going to be a part of the solution,” I tell her, looking forward, to the empty road in front of us, curving out of sight.

***

The ride back is different. My legs are sore from standing all day. The woman—her name had been Muriel—dropped me three miles from the rally site and I had to walk there.

But it was incredible. To be in a crowd of women, all of us chanting—no,demanding—equal pay and equal rights was intoxicating. The speakers made me feel as if anything were possible, as if we were standing at the edge of a new era. One that would raise women and girls to equal standing. I was moved to tears at one point, thinking how lucky I was to be living in this moment.

But now, as I stand next to the on-ramp of the freeway heading east, all I feel is exhausted. And a little scared. One person already stopped for me—a man in a black pickup truck, his shaggy beard streaked with gray. I waved him on, and he shrugged, his tires throwing gravel back at me as he sped up and disappeared. I reminded myself that I had five dimes in my sock and could call home. Maybe I’d get lucky, and Danny would answer. He could borrow Mark’s car and come and save me.

I’ve just decided to give it twenty more minutes when a station wagon slows to a stop. A middle-aged man with glasses and a pocket protector leans over and rolls down the window. “Where are you headed?”

He’s balding in that embarrassing way where men think they can hide it by combing their hair in a different direction. I was hoping for someone like Muriel to stop again. Maybe another rally goer. But I’ve been standing out here for almost an hour, and my mother will go ballistic if I don’t get home in time for dinner.

He looks about my father’s age, as if he could be someone’s dad. “Ojai, if you’re going that far.”

He nods and says, “I can make that work.”

***

His name is Craig, and he doesn’t get creepy until the end. “Where should I drop you, Poppy?”

His gaze lingers a little too long, and I can practically feel it crawl over me—my legs, stomach, chest. I look out the window at the empty road, no houses visible in any direction, and realize how alone I am. I think fast. “My dad is picking me up at school.”

To my relief, he follows my directions through town, passing my street, and I catch a glimpse of our car in the driveway. We pull into the high school lot where trucks are parked, unloading things for the carnival set to open on Friday.

“You want me to wait with you?” Craig asks. His voice feels slimy and gross. “Some of these carnies aren’t safe.”

“I’m good,” I say, popping open my door.

---