Road to Paradise

“Uh, not quite,” said Yeomans. “We need you to come with us. We’d like you to come with us.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Did you do anything to cause yourself to be under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“Do I have the right to remain silent?”

“You always have that right.”

I chose not to exercise it. “Is something wrong?”

They nodded.

I fought for words. “Is the car in Paradise?”

“No.”

That surprised me. I thought it might be.

“It’s here in Reno. Well,” Johnson amended. “Moran’s junk shop is here in Reno. Moran is now under federal indictment.”

“Has there been”—I couldn’t get the words out—“Has there been an … accident?”

“Not with the car. But … Look, put your shoes on and come with us.” Yeomans from Paradise looked me over. “Wear something warm. It’s cold out.”

I didn’t want to put on my shoes. I became not hungry, not thirsty. I barely moved, dragging my feet, bending low, pretending to look for them under the unmade bed, except there was no under the bed, and I knew it; the shoes were in the closet, but I didn’t want to go get them. I couldn’t find anything except the inappropriate clock-smashing heels. Three-inch stilettos with jeans and a sweatshirt. I moved like a sleeping bear through molasses.

I felt Yeomans staring at my back.

How I got the sandals on, I don’t know. Perhaps Johnson helped me. How I got into the patrol car, I don’t know. It wasn’t a Reno black-and-white. It was a Paradise black-and-white. So they’d come all the way from there. I felt like I was still on the floor, looking under the boarded-up bed, not for my sandals this time but for my lost life.

“Are we going to stop at Moran’s? Get my car?” I asked in my faux calm voice. We were driving down Virginia.

“Unfortunately he doesn’t have your car anymore,” said Johnson. “I’m sorry about that. And no, we’re not going there.”

I was waiting for the rain to let up. We drove slowly, pushing through the wave of oncoming morning rush-hour gambling traffic. She must have taken my car and sold it to Moran’s, the title and registration being conveniently in the glove compartment, and he, who was not allowed to buy cars without checking the identity of the seller, wanted it so bad—and who wouldn’t?—he took it from her anyway, and then, belatedly realizing he was in a deepload of trouble, dismembered my car for parts, while she pocketed the money and split.

Moran’s Auto Salvage, in the middle of an ocean of grass, nested on a sloping bank, just a rusted trailer listing limply, its side wheels missing. It was surrounded by junk cars. We didn’t even slow down as we passed.

“How much did he pay for the car?”

“He said a thousand.”

A thousand! Oh, the gall. The insult. Of him, of her. The pit inside my stomach was a gorge deep.

It was raining, raining. The window in the back was open and the rain was coming in sideways, onto my lap, my seat, the floor of the police vehicle. I didn’t care, they didn’t care. Eventually, they got cold and I rolled up the window.

“How in heaven’s name did you get yourself into this sordid mess?” said Johnson from Reno.

I pressed my face against the damp glass. It was an eternity through the mountain passes and the strawberry fields back to Paradise.

ONE (#ulink_ca1955ac-3d12-54b9-b580-6d0c05bc7067)

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Topless Imponderables (#ulink_50146cb1-29ed-5f10-b64f-4328443115af)

My former friend Gina came up to me when I was changing after track. I was sitting on the bench, still damp from the shower, bent over my knees, rummaging through my sportsbag for a clean bra. All I had on was underwear. Suddenly she was in front of me, pacing, fidgeting a little, obscuring. “Hey, Sloane.”

All my friends called me Sloane instead of Shelby. My friends.

“Whazzup.” I didn’t even look up. Though I was surprised, and wanted to.

“Can you believe we’re graduating?” she said, false-brightly. “I still think of myself as twelve, don’t you, and this summer’s going to be great, isn’t it? I’m thinking of getting a job at Dairy Barn again, I meet so many people, and Eddie, my boyfriend—remember him?—he dropped out. Did you know?”

“Uh—no.” I resumed rummaging.

“Well, he went back to California. His mom’s sick, so he went to be with her. He’ll graduate with an equivalency diploma; he says it’s just as good, and anyway he says he doesn’t need a piece of paper to be a success, he’s very smart, well, I don’t have to tell you, you know.” She paused. I said nothing.

“I watched you out there today, that was amazing, did you run the 440 in fifty-seven seconds?”

That made me look up. “You watched me? Why?”

“Why? You were incredible, that’s why. Remember when we first started to train, you couldn’t run the two-mile in seventeen minutes? What’s your time now?”

I stared calmly at her. “Time’s five to five and I’ve got to get home.”

“Oh, yes. Ha ha.”

Ha ha? She was small and busty, and slightly plump in the stomach. She had long, straight light-brown hair, and used to have a terrible nervous habit of plucking out her eyebrows and eyelashes. When she ran out of hair, she’d pluck the hairs from her scalp. She wore tight jeans and high heels. She wore no underwear. She used to be my best friend.

But that was a while ago.

“I don’t want to keep you,” she said, “but while you’re getting dressed, can I talk to you?”

“Go ahead.” I gave up on the stupid bra; the one I’d worn running was damp, and I suspected I hadn’t brought another. Damn.

My palms pressed against my breasts, I stood in front of her.

“Look how skinny you got, Sloane,” Gina said. “You must be training a lot.”

If I didn’t run I’d be prone to child-bearing hips, but I was always running. I said nothing.

“I heard you were going to California after graduation.”