“Double-crossing medicine man and his cronies are gaining on us. Joy,” I say as we reach the turnoff for Spray. I take it and we begin heading southwest. Toward California. Toward home. I have to call my dad.
As if reading my mind, Juneau asks, “Aren’t your parents going to be worried about you?”
It’s the first time she’s asked anything about me besides the vague “tell me something about yourself.” It’s the first hint that she is the least bit interested in me. So why does that spark a tiny flame of hope inside me? Maybe because all I’ve been able to think about this morning are her golden-honey eyes, inches away from my own, and those warm, soft lips.
“My mom left Dad and me last year, so she’s not doing any worrying,” I find myself revealing.
“Miles, I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, and puts her hand on mine. Warmth spreads from where her fingers touch my skin. I try to ignore my body’s reaction to this girl, but it’s getting increasingly difficult.
Juneau looks at me inquisitively like she’s wondering whether I’m going to cry, but those rivers have dried, and it’s only the furrows they carved in my heart that are left. “What happened?” she asks when she sees I’m not going to break down.
“She’s sick. Severe depression. She tried to kill herself last year, and when she didn’t succeed, she said we would be better off without her. And then she left.”
Juneau sits there looking horrified and firms her grip on my hand. “Do you know where she is?” she asks.
“Yeah, Dad tracked her down. She’s living with her aunt outside New York City.”
“Oh, Miles. I don’t even know what to say.” She looks shaken up. Really upset.
“It’s okay,” I say, feeling like I’m comforting her instead of vice versa. “I mean, I miss her, but you get used to someone being gone after a while.” I’m a big fat liar. And it doesn’t look like Juneau’s buying it.
“I just can’t imagine it,” she says. “I’ve never known anyone to get sick.”
“Yeah, well, mental illness is just the same as any other illness. At least that’s what people keep telling me. It happens all the time.”
Juneau just looks at me funny, like she feels sorry for me. My gaze drops to her lips, causing my heartbeat to stutter, and I quickly turn my focus back to the road.
“What about your dad?” she asks.
“What about him?” I ask, and realize how defensive it sounds once it’s out of my mouth.
“Won’t he be worrying?”
“Well, he knows I was in Seattle,” I say carefully. “I really should check in with him so he doesn’t freak out.”
Juneau bites her lip.
“What?” I ask.
“Frankie was really clear about me not letting you use the phone while I was with you,” she says.
Well, Frankie stumbled upon a grain of truth, I think, and wonder what I’m going to tell my dad once I do talk to him. I mean, I can’t just hand Juneau over to him. Not now that I’m sure she’s not the person he thinks she is.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, pulling my hand away from hers so I can take some sharp bends in the road. A hawk takes off in flight from the ground near us, carrying its unlucky prey—looks like a mouse—in its claws.
“Sure,” she says.
“All that money you were flashing around in Walmart . . . where did you get it?”
A flash of suspicion crosses her features, but then she shrugs as if it can’t hurt to tell me. “I traded a gold nugget for cash.”
“So you’re not actually . . . working for anyone?” I ask, and it comes out all wrong. But she doesn’t seem to notice and shakes her head.
“The only job I’ve ever had is hunting for food. I’m one of the best shots in our clan. Oh, and apprentice clan Sage, of course. Which I have a feeling is over now that Whit is out to get me.”
She tries to say it flippantly, but besides the one smile I got at breakfast and just now when I talked about Mom, she’s been colder toward me today. Maybe it was the kiss, but I have a feeling it’s something else. She seems remote. Something has changed in her.
She picks up a battered old notebook and pen that I keep stashed in the passenger-side door. “Can I use this?” she asks, and begins scribbling something.
“What are you writing?” I ask.
“A note,” she says.
I thank my lucky stars for the kazillionth time that she’s not a big talker like most of the girls I know in L.A. and turn on the radio. We drive without talking for the next two hours, the bird napping in the backseat and Juneau looking out her window, glancing up occasionally to see how far we’ve gone.
When we’re a mile away from our destination, she sits up and pays attention until finally we arrive at the town limit. “Stop there,” Juneau says, pointing to a sign reading ENTERING SPRAY, POPULATION 160.
Tearing the page from her notebook, she folds it up, tears a hole in one end, and laces a piece of string through it. “Okay, Poe. This is the end of the line for you,” she says, getting out of the car and scooping the bird out of the backseat. It squawks belligerently, as if it understands what she was saying and prefers to stay in the warm car and be chauffeured across the Pacific Northwest.
She holds it to her as she ties the note around its foot. “Miles, could you tear two blank pages from the notebook and fold one over the front license plate and the other over the back?” I don’t even bother asking why and do what she says, hoping that none of the 160 townspeople decides to leave Spray just as I am doing something that looks extremely iffy, if not downright illegal.
Juneau waits until I am done and then carries the bird toward the sign. She makes sure he looks directly at it, and then bows her head and whispers something to it. Standing for a moment with her eyes closed and the raven squeezed close to her chest, she throws it up into the air. It dips for a second, and then flaps upward, circling overhead.
“Get back in the car,” Juneau says, “and start driving into town, slowly.”
“Can I take the paper off—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Just drive, Miles.”
“Your word is my command, O dark mistress of bird wrangling,” I mumble, and press the gas, rolling into town as slowly as possible. In the rearview mirror I see the bird finish its circling and head back in the direction we came from.
As if reading my mind, Juneau asks, “Aren’t your parents going to be worried about you?”
It’s the first time she’s asked anything about me besides the vague “tell me something about yourself.” It’s the first hint that she is the least bit interested in me. So why does that spark a tiny flame of hope inside me? Maybe because all I’ve been able to think about this morning are her golden-honey eyes, inches away from my own, and those warm, soft lips.
“My mom left Dad and me last year, so she’s not doing any worrying,” I find myself revealing.
“Miles, I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, and puts her hand on mine. Warmth spreads from where her fingers touch my skin. I try to ignore my body’s reaction to this girl, but it’s getting increasingly difficult.
Juneau looks at me inquisitively like she’s wondering whether I’m going to cry, but those rivers have dried, and it’s only the furrows they carved in my heart that are left. “What happened?” she asks when she sees I’m not going to break down.
“She’s sick. Severe depression. She tried to kill herself last year, and when she didn’t succeed, she said we would be better off without her. And then she left.”
Juneau sits there looking horrified and firms her grip on my hand. “Do you know where she is?” she asks.
“Yeah, Dad tracked her down. She’s living with her aunt outside New York City.”
“Oh, Miles. I don’t even know what to say.” She looks shaken up. Really upset.
“It’s okay,” I say, feeling like I’m comforting her instead of vice versa. “I mean, I miss her, but you get used to someone being gone after a while.” I’m a big fat liar. And it doesn’t look like Juneau’s buying it.
“I just can’t imagine it,” she says. “I’ve never known anyone to get sick.”
“Yeah, well, mental illness is just the same as any other illness. At least that’s what people keep telling me. It happens all the time.”
Juneau just looks at me funny, like she feels sorry for me. My gaze drops to her lips, causing my heartbeat to stutter, and I quickly turn my focus back to the road.
“What about your dad?” she asks.
“What about him?” I ask, and realize how defensive it sounds once it’s out of my mouth.
“Won’t he be worrying?”
“Well, he knows I was in Seattle,” I say carefully. “I really should check in with him so he doesn’t freak out.”
Juneau bites her lip.
“What?” I ask.
“Frankie was really clear about me not letting you use the phone while I was with you,” she says.
Well, Frankie stumbled upon a grain of truth, I think, and wonder what I’m going to tell my dad once I do talk to him. I mean, I can’t just hand Juneau over to him. Not now that I’m sure she’s not the person he thinks she is.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, pulling my hand away from hers so I can take some sharp bends in the road. A hawk takes off in flight from the ground near us, carrying its unlucky prey—looks like a mouse—in its claws.
“Sure,” she says.
“All that money you were flashing around in Walmart . . . where did you get it?”
A flash of suspicion crosses her features, but then she shrugs as if it can’t hurt to tell me. “I traded a gold nugget for cash.”
“So you’re not actually . . . working for anyone?” I ask, and it comes out all wrong. But she doesn’t seem to notice and shakes her head.
“The only job I’ve ever had is hunting for food. I’m one of the best shots in our clan. Oh, and apprentice clan Sage, of course. Which I have a feeling is over now that Whit is out to get me.”
She tries to say it flippantly, but besides the one smile I got at breakfast and just now when I talked about Mom, she’s been colder toward me today. Maybe it was the kiss, but I have a feeling it’s something else. She seems remote. Something has changed in her.
She picks up a battered old notebook and pen that I keep stashed in the passenger-side door. “Can I use this?” she asks, and begins scribbling something.
“What are you writing?” I ask.
“A note,” she says.
I thank my lucky stars for the kazillionth time that she’s not a big talker like most of the girls I know in L.A. and turn on the radio. We drive without talking for the next two hours, the bird napping in the backseat and Juneau looking out her window, glancing up occasionally to see how far we’ve gone.
When we’re a mile away from our destination, she sits up and pays attention until finally we arrive at the town limit. “Stop there,” Juneau says, pointing to a sign reading ENTERING SPRAY, POPULATION 160.
Tearing the page from her notebook, she folds it up, tears a hole in one end, and laces a piece of string through it. “Okay, Poe. This is the end of the line for you,” she says, getting out of the car and scooping the bird out of the backseat. It squawks belligerently, as if it understands what she was saying and prefers to stay in the warm car and be chauffeured across the Pacific Northwest.
She holds it to her as she ties the note around its foot. “Miles, could you tear two blank pages from the notebook and fold one over the front license plate and the other over the back?” I don’t even bother asking why and do what she says, hoping that none of the 160 townspeople decides to leave Spray just as I am doing something that looks extremely iffy, if not downright illegal.
Juneau waits until I am done and then carries the bird toward the sign. She makes sure he looks directly at it, and then bows her head and whispers something to it. Standing for a moment with her eyes closed and the raven squeezed close to her chest, she throws it up into the air. It dips for a second, and then flaps upward, circling overhead.
“Get back in the car,” Juneau says, “and start driving into town, slowly.”
“Can I take the paper off—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Just drive, Miles.”
“Your word is my command, O dark mistress of bird wrangling,” I mumble, and press the gas, rolling into town as slowly as possible. In the rearview mirror I see the bird finish its circling and head back in the direction we came from.
