Page 3 of Road Trip to Forever
“Yeah. My mom taught me how to sew, so I make shirts and put them on my dolls.”
“You can sew? Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask, impressed. Sometimes I can’t even button my shirts right.
“I can’t ride my bike with my hands in the air.”
“I can do that. I’ll teach you. Can you teach me how to draw?”
“Of course. What are friends for?” Lola turns back to her new house. “I should help my parents unpack. They said I can paint my room bright pink tomorrow.”
“Pink is cool. Do you know which room is going to be yours?”
“Yeah.” She points to the set of windows on the left side of the house, upstairs on the second story. “That one.”
“My room is right across from yours. We can wave to each other.”
“Maybe we can make a pulley system and pass notes,” she says. “I saw that on a TV show once.”
“I can fold paper airplanes. If you leave your window open, I’ll throw one inside,” I say.
“I’d like that. See you later, Patrick. Thanks for being my friend.” Lola bounds over to her driveway and grabs a box from her mom.
I stand there for a few minutes and watch the way she moves so easily. It’s like she’s floating on air. Isaac nudges my shoulder, and I blink out of my trance.
“Who’s that?” he asks.
“Lola,” I say. “She’s our new neighbor.”
“Don’t you have any guy friends?”
“Not really, no. But who cares? She wants to hang out with me.”
“Weirdo.”
I grab the basketball from his hands and dribble toward the hoop. Lola grins at me from across the hedges, waves, then disappears inside.
I think I’m lucky she picked me to be her friend.
ONE
LOLA
Present day
I hoistmy heavy suitcases off the conveyor belt at baggage claim with an exhausted grumble.
Logan International Airport is loud and crowded for mid-May, visitors trickling into Boston to see all the city has to offer before summertime officially descends on the Northeast in a couple of weeks. A child wails from a stroller, kicking and screaming with an impressively loud screech for a human that doesn’t even know how to walk. His feet flail wildly, and he throws a toy across the tile floor.
I don’t blame him. If I don’t get some fresh air soon, I might start to wail too.
I brush a few loose pieces of hair out of my eyes and roll my bags toward the exit, recognizing the Border Patrol agent near the automatic double doors that lead out to the terminal. It’s the same guy I saw a month ago—and three months before that—checking passports and directing passengers to secondary screenings if necessary. I give him a nod. He nods back, a silent conversation passing between us.
Good to see you again,he’s probably thinking, his arms covered in colorful tattoos and a shiny, official-looking badge pinned to his shirt. With a gun holstered at his waist and a bored, indifferent expression on his face, he gestures me forward, approval to proceed to sweet, sweet freedom.
I might be the most sane person you see today,I answer, a chocolate stain on the front of my dress and mascara under my eyes.A little jet lagged, but not terrible, right?
Right,he’d say.I had someone try to smuggle in raw meat an hour ago.A whole ass turkey.I’ll take your unbrushed hair over E.coli any day.
I hold back a laugh.
