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“Hey,” she said, drawing out the word long and slow, a look of confusion in her eyes as she approached him. There was a streak of blue pen near the collar of her white blouse, and he was momentarily distracted by it.
“Hey,” he said, forcing his eyes up to hers.
She shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” he said, then shook his head. “Well… something.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“So… it’s not just you.”
“What’s not?” she asked with a frown.
“I’m actually moving, too,” he said, and she hesitated a moment, then let out a short laugh. But when she saw that he wasn’t kidding, her mouth snapped back into a straight line.
“Seriously?” she asked, her eyes wide.
He nodded. “Seriously.”
They sat there for a long time as he explained everything—about Sam and the water pipes, about their house in Pe
After a while, Lucy reached for her backpack, which was slouched at her feet, then pulled out a pen and a scrap of notebook paper, holding them out for him.
“I don’t know where we’ll end up,” he said, but she shook her head.
“Just give me your e-mail address.”
“I don’t have a smartphone,” he said, digging in his pocket to show her. “I have a very, very dumb phone. In fact, it’s kind of an idiot.”
“Well, then there’s always your computer,” she said, handing him the pen and paper anyway. “Or, you know… postcards.”
He couldn’t tell if she was joking, but he smiled at this anyway. “Who doesn’t like getting a piece of cardboard in the mail?”
She laughed, then motioned at the mailroom behind her. “You know where to find me.”
“And if you go to London?”
“I’ll e-mail you my new address.”
“And hopefully I’ll get it.”
“Right,” she said. “Otherwise I’ll just keep sending e-mails into the void and hope maybe your dumb phone gets a little bit smarter.”
“Doubtful,” he said, as he scribbled his address onto the scrap of paper. He’d never been much for instant communication or social networking. It was true that he’d need his computer for college applications, and he’d probably have to get in touch with his old guidance counselor by e-mail at some point, but beyond that, he couldn’t imagine being particularly plugged in on this trip.
He’d never really had a reason to keep in touch with anyone before. Everyone he knew had always lived within shouting distance. But it was starting to become clear that this wasn’t a big strength of his, this whole communication thing. In the weeks since they left Pe
Even so, when he handed back the paper, his heart beat fast at the thought that he might hear from Lucy. She folded it carefully, then tucked it into the front pocket of her bag with a smile, the kind of perfectly ordinary smile he suspected would take a very long time to forget.
So far on the trip, none of the motels they’d stayed at had any sort of Internet access, except for one that was charging way too much for it, so he’d checked his e-mail for the first time only yesterday, in a sandwich shop in Indianapolis that doubled as an Internet café. While his dad stood in line to get a couple of subs, Owen sat hunched beside a guy looking up instructions for how to make guacamole. There was only one e-mail from Lucy, who had written to say that they would no longer be going to London. Apparently, her father had missed out on the job there but was offered a different position instead. So they were now moving to Edinburgh.
I’m looking forward to wearing a kilt and learning to play the bagpipes, she wrote. My very, very English mother is having a heart attack, but I think it’ll be a nice change of scenery. And I’m excited to finally be Somewhere. I hope your Somewhere is living up to expectations, too. Hope to hear from you soon. Otherwise, will send word when I have my new address. And in the meantime, I’ll be sure to give your regards to the Loch Ness Monster.
Now, in the cramped souvenir shop in Chicago, Owen grabbed a photo of Lake Michigan—sweeping out from the skyline in a brilliant and seemingly endless blue—and thought for a moment before scrawling a few words on the back: Wish Nessie were here.
When he looked up, he was surprised to find that Dad was right beside him. Owen, lost in his own head, hadn’t even heard him come in, and his first instinct was to cup a hand around the postcard. But it was too late.
“Who’s Nessie?” Dad asked, looking genuinely puzzled, and Owen swallowed back a laugh.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, slipping the postcard into his pocket. “You don’t know her.”
They walked over to the checkout together, where a girl with a pierced nose and a streak of pink in her hair was beaming at them for no particular reason.
“And how are you today?” she asked while punching a few things into a computer. “You must be traveling.”
“We are,” Dad said, smiling back.
“Where are you off to?”
Owen handed her a few crumpled bills. “Out west somewhere.”
“Awesome,” she said, bobbing her head. “I’m from California. Can’t get more west than that.”
“Not in this country, anyway,” Dad agreed. “Where in California?”
“Lake Tahoe,” she said. “So it barely counts. It’s just over the Nevada border. But it’s a great place. Mountains. Trees. The lake, obviously.” She held up Owen’s postcard before sliding it into a plastic bag. “This lake here might be a lot bigger, but the color doesn’t even compare. Tahoe is so blue it looks fake.”
Dad gave Owen a sideways glance. “It sounds pretty nice.”
“It is,” she said. “You should check it out.”
“Hey, do you have any postcard stamps?” Owen asked, realizing he’d used his last one in Indiana.
“I think so,” she said, opening the register and lifting the little tray of bills. She dug around with a frown, and then the too-bright smile returned to her face. “Got ’em,” she said, holding up a little packet. “How many do you need?”
“Just one,” Owen mumbled, but Dad clapped him on the back.
“Oh, let’s not kid ourselves, son,” he said cheerfully. “I think you’re going to need more than one.”
Owen felt his cheeks burn. “I’ll take ten,” he said, unable to look up.
“Great,” said the clerk. “U.S. or international?”
“U.S.,” he said, but as soon as he did, a little flash of recognition went through him. Soon, he realized, he would need international stamps. Soon, she’d be an ocean away.
When they finished paying, they started for the car in silence. Owen was grateful for this, his mind still busy with the idea that he’d soon need a special stamp just to send Lucy a postcard. It was a small thing, he knew. In fact, there were few things smaller. But something about it felt big all the same.
If you were to draw a map of the two of them, of where they started out and where they would both end up, the lines would be shooting away from each other like magnets spun around on their poles. And it occurred to Owen that there was something deeply flawed about this, that there should be circles or angles or turns, anything that might make it possible for the two lines to meet again. Instead, they were both headed in the exact opposite directions. The map was as good as a door swinging shut. And the geography of the thing—the geography of them—was completely and hopelessly wrong.