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Authors: Pamela DuMond
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kiss me? But he didn’t. Instead he sniffed my breath. “Are you drunk?”
“Are you high?” I pushed him away from me. He stumbled for a second and stared at me like I was a wacko. “Of course I’m not drunk. I had one beer.”
“Some people can’t even drink one beer—”
“That’s not it.” I threw my hands up in the air and paced back and forth on the sidewalk.
How much truth should I tell him? How much should I keep secret?
“You showed up at the Grill tonight. I understand the Lucina thing might have looked confusing. I hope I cleared that up,” he said. “Now’s the time for you to tell me what you really want. Because if you don’t want anything from me? Now’s also the time I need to move on.”
I took the deepest breath I’d taken since I’d landed in L.A. “Look, Alejandro. I’m sorry if there have been misunderstandings. I don’t know how you all handle things here, on campus, in L.A. Whatever. But—”
“But what?”
“I want to hire you.”
“For what?” He cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow.
“For driving. People tell me you’re a great driver.”
“That’s because I am. Which doesn’t answer my question. Why do you want to hire me?”
“Because I can’t drive here. This place is too big, it’s too much. I get lost so easily. I don’t have a car. I took the bus yesterday to an important appointment. I mapped out the whole trip. I arrived on time. I thought I had it all figured out. But on the way back I got lost and it was kind of a mess and almost a disaster. I can’t do this on my own. I just can’t.”
I felt my face shoved up against the chain-link fence while Oscar restrained and ground up against me.
“You said I wasn’t completely honest with you.”
“You’re not,” he said.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m not just here for summer school. I’m here to…” My mind trailed off.
I’m here to participate in a hospital study where they knock me out, inject stem cells cells into my spinal cord and the very best outcome is? Cells don’t proliferate next to my spinal cord. Malignant tumors don’t grow into my brain. Nothing shitty happens to me.
Alejandro snapped his fingers. “Finish your thought.”
“I’m here to research and interview alternative healers for a book proposal. My grandmother encouraged me to turn it into a non-fiction book that we are creating together. I need pages done by the end of this summer. I need an outline, chapters and a great pitch that we can send to lit agents.”
I’m here to voluntarily be a guinea pig for any kind of healing. No matter how strange it is—I’m up for it—if that kind of healing could actually save a life.
“I’m asking you to drive me to places in L.A. where these people are,” I said. “Because, after today, I don’t think I can do this on my own.” I gazed into his hazel eyes flecked with gold. Got lost for a moment before realizing I was me and he was him and we were two persons, not one. That I needed to pull myself out of a delusional fantasy and attend to the real reasons I came here.
Alejandro reached out and cradled my face in his hands. Brushed his thumb over my cheek. “Half your face is healing. The other looks like some of your cuts broke open. What happened?”
“I can’t…”
“You can. Why won’t you tell me?”
Because I wanted him to be part of my healing—not part of my fear.
I shook my head and pushed back tears of frustration. “Can I count on you? Will you drive me?”
He took my hand and held it between both of his. His touch was warm. Strong. My pulsed raced, but I felt safe. Like I was coming home.
“Yes, Sophie Marie Priebe,” he said. “Yes, I will drive you.”
Chapter Seven
“U of W, Whitewater?” Alejandro asked. “Why not Madison?” He drove his black shiny Jeep down Pershing Drive lined with squatty apartment buildings, gas stations and tall palm trees with more dead fronds than live
“Are you high?” I pushed him away from me. He stumbled for a second and stared at me like I was a wacko. “Of course I’m not drunk. I had one beer.”
“Some people can’t even drink one beer—”
“That’s not it.” I threw my hands up in the air and paced back and forth on the sidewalk.
How much truth should I tell him? How much should I keep secret?
“You showed up at the Grill tonight. I understand the Lucina thing might have looked confusing. I hope I cleared that up,” he said. “Now’s the time for you to tell me what you really want. Because if you don’t want anything from me? Now’s also the time I need to move on.”
I took the deepest breath I’d taken since I’d landed in L.A. “Look, Alejandro. I’m sorry if there have been misunderstandings. I don’t know how you all handle things here, on campus, in L.A. Whatever. But—”
“But what?”
“I want to hire you.”
“For what?” He cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow.
“For driving. People tell me you’re a great driver.”
“That’s because I am. Which doesn’t answer my question. Why do you want to hire me?”
“Because I can’t drive here. This place is too big, it’s too much. I get lost so easily. I don’t have a car. I took the bus yesterday to an important appointment. I mapped out the whole trip. I arrived on time. I thought I had it all figured out. But on the way back I got lost and it was kind of a mess and almost a disaster. I can’t do this on my own. I just can’t.”
I felt my face shoved up against the chain-link fence while Oscar restrained and ground up against me.
“You said I wasn’t completely honest with you.”
“You’re not,” he said.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m not just here for summer school. I’m here to…” My mind trailed off.
I’m here to participate in a hospital study where they knock me out, inject stem cells cells into my spinal cord and the very best outcome is? Cells don’t proliferate next to my spinal cord. Malignant tumors don’t grow into my brain. Nothing shitty happens to me.
Alejandro snapped his fingers. “Finish your thought.”
“I’m here to research and interview alternative healers for a book proposal. My grandmother encouraged me to turn it into a non-fiction book that we are creating together. I need pages done by the end of this summer. I need an outline, chapters and a great pitch that we can send to lit agents.”
I’m here to voluntarily be a guinea pig for any kind of healing. No matter how strange it is—I’m up for it—if that kind of healing could actually save a life.
“I’m asking you to drive me to places in L.A. where these people are,” I said. “Because, after today, I don’t think I can do this on my own.” I gazed into his hazel eyes flecked with gold. Got lost for a moment before realizing I was me and he was him and we were two persons, not one. That I needed to pull myself out of a delusional fantasy and attend to the real reasons I came here.
Alejandro reached out and cradled my face in his hands. Brushed his thumb over my cheek. “Half your face is healing. The other looks like some of your cuts broke open. What happened?”
“I can’t…”
“You can. Why won’t you tell me?”
Because I wanted him to be part of my healing—not part of my fear.
I shook my head and pushed back tears of frustration. “Can I count on you? Will you drive me?”
He took my hand and held it between both of his. His touch was warm. Strong. My pulsed raced, but I felt safe. Like I was coming home.
“Yes, Sophie Marie Priebe,” he said. “Yes, I will drive you.”
Chapter Seven
“U of W, Whitewater?” Alejandro asked. “Why not Madison?” He drove his black shiny Jeep down Pershing Drive lined with squatty apartment buildings, gas stations and tall palm trees with more dead fronds than live
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