Tilting my head back to the sky, I squint at the vehicle hovering above us. We all stop at once, our words tapering off and our expressions faltering.
“Shit,” Tyler yells, and then there’s a tremendous clang as he slams his palm against the metal of the “H.” He throws his hand back through his hair, shaking his head. “How the hell do they always get out here so fast?”
“Don’t trip!” Tiffani yells to us all. She reaches for Tyler’s hand and pulls him along with her, but instead of heading back for the fence they make a beeline down the mountain.
“Let’s get outta here,” Jake calls from beside me, and he steals a good look at the helicopter before he decides to start moving. “Gotta race to the bottom before the cruiser gets here.”
“Those two aren’t waiting around, are they?” Dean jokes, laughing and nodding toward Tyler and Tiffani’s shrinking figures as they dart quickly between the dirt and the rocks and the shrubs. “Poor guy can’t afford to get arrested again.”
“Again?” I echo, but they all ignore me and make their move, Rachael and Meghan beginning their descent while clinging onto each other as though any misjudged footwork would cause them to fall to their deaths. It probably would.
“Be careful,” Dean calls over his shoulder to me as he too follows the vague outline of a trail and widely sidesteps—or slides—his way down.
With the sound of the helicopter still vibrating loudly around us, a wave of adrenaline rushes through my veins and my pulse beats painfully beneath my skin. Here’s when running every morning comes in handy. Despite the steepness of the terrain, I rush into action and follow Dean’s path. The ground is uneven and borderline painful to walk on at points, and soon I’m struggling to maintain my balance, praying that I don’t get arrested and hoping that I don’t die.
“Hanging in there, Eden?” Jake throws over his shoulder from beside me, hopping down from one rock to another, laughing. I don’t understand how he can possibly find this amusing.
“Trying to!” I call back. Just as I finish, my foot slips on a steeper part of the slope we’re carefully edging our way down, and I gasp.
A firm hand latches onto my elbow. “Careful,” Jake says firmly as he steadies me. He places his hands on my shoulders. “You alright?”
“I don’t want to go to jail,” I blurt, and then glance up at the helicopter, panic written all over my face. When I look back down, I spot the rest of the group reaching solid ground again.
Jake laughs, but only as he slowly takes another step. “You’re not going to jail,” he says, and then drops his hand to mine and pulls me along behind him. “The worst we’ll all get is a citation.”
Despite the reassurance, my stomach remains in knots as my body is hauled almost numbly down the rest of Mount Lee. Jake doesn’t trip, doesn’t slow us down, and doesn’t get us caught. I’m entirely thankful when we finally near the bottom after passing some houses and crossing over a trail. I spy the sign for the Sunset Ranch, and it suddenly becomes my favorite sign in the entire world.
“No cruiser,” I murmur, and I can almost feel my whole body breathe a sigh of relief. Dad would quite literally cremate me in my sleep and flush away my ashes if I returned home with a trespassing citation.
“Yet,” Jake finishes. He lets go of my hand as he jumps down onto the road, and I follow suit, trailing after him around the corner. “We’re not clear yet.”
When we find our way back to the small parking area where we left the cars, I notice Tyler’s is already gone. Jake leads me over to his—a red Ford of some sort. “Meghan and Rach must have gone with Dean,” he says as he unlocks the car and slides inside. Tiffani must be with Tyler.
“Where do you think everyone else is going?” I ask as I settle into the passenger seat, and I can only hope that he’s a better driver than my stepbrother.
Jake shrugs as he starts up the engine and reverses out onto the road. “Who cares?” I do, I think. “What do you wanna do? You hungry?”
For a long moment, my eyes settle on his features as he drives and I can’t help but wonder how our escape from the Hollywood Sign has ended up turning into a date. The others are gone and I’ve been paired off with Jake. But despite my doubts, I am a little hungry. “Is there any good food around here?”
“There’s a Chick-fil-A ten minutes away on Sunset Boulevard,” he suggests. “We could grab something quick.”
“Sure,” I say. “We don’t have Chick-fil-A in Oregon.”
His face falls. “What?”
“We’re not allowed to pump our own gas either,” I add, and I find myself getting distracted by the idea of home, wondering what Amelia is doing right now and if my mom is lonely by herself in our small house. “Oregon sucks.”
“So you must think LA is great,” he concludes. “We have signs on mountains and Chick-fil-A and we can pump our own gas without being arrested. Mythical.” I laugh a little, as does he, and it’s nice to have some male company that isn’t my dad and isn’t Tyler. The two of them are far too obnoxious and grouchy.
I slump back into the passenger seat and rest my forehead against the window, glancing up to the sky to check on the position of the helicopter, but it seems to have disappeared. And so I can breathe freely again.
“So do you like the city then?” Jake asks a short while later. He increases the air conditioning but lowers the music.
“Yeah,” I say. Admittedly, I haven’t seen much of it yet, but so far everything is pretty amazing. “More interesting than Portland, that’s for sure.”
“I’ve never been to Portland.”
“You don’t want to.” After I say this, I reconsider. “Actually, Portland isn’t that bad. We have a great indie scene, but it rains from fall until the end of spring, so that sucks, and there are a lot of strip clubs. The people are great though.” I smile only slightly as my eyes fall to my lap. “Well, most of them.”
The thing about Portland is that I associate it with so many things I hate. Portland is where my parents fell out of love. Portland is where it seems to rain endlessly. Portland is where my so-called “friends” are. Portland, for the most part, is okay as a city. But my life in that city just isn’t that exciting, or even that happy. Santa Monica is a breath of fresh air in comparison.
“Strip clubs?” Jake widens his eyes as he grins. “I really need to visit this terrible city.”
I roll my eyes. Guys are all the same. “What’s Los Angeles really like, besides the obvious tourist things?”
Jake thinks for a moment as he taps the steering wheel with his thumb. “Well, the gap between rich and poor is drastic. You’ve got all these big shots living in these huge houses and driving Lambos and then you’ve got people sleeping on the streets whose only goal in life is to survive the night. It kinda sucks. But in general, the people here are great.”
“I never thought about it like that,” I say.
We head back down North Beachwood Drive, heading straight until we pull onto Sunset Boulevard. It’s an extensive street with cinemas and restaurants and a high school and a whole lot of traffic. I study everything in awe.
When we arrive at the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, Jake pulls up to the speakers and glances sideways at me. “What d’ya need?”
Because Chick-fil-A is non-existent in Oregon I have no idea what food they serve, so I flash my eyes over the menu and choose the first healthy option I see. “The side salad.” Jake nods but keeps staring at me expectantly. “That’s all,” I say.
“Just that?” He raises his eyebrows but quickly sighs. “What is it with girls and salads?” I offer a small smile and he turns to order. “Can I get the spicy chicken sandwich with Coke and the side salad with . . .”
“Water,” I say. Again, another stare of disapproval.
“With water,” he finishes for the employee nonetheless. “Thanks.” We roll forward to the window, and he reaches into his pocket for his wallet, says, “I’ve got it,” and then proceeds to pay for both our food. I say thanks.
We edge forward to the next window, and while we’re waiting behind the car currently being served, he stares at me with a sort of perplexed expression.
“I hate junk food, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I say, which is partially false. It’s not the food I hate: it’s the effects.
He rolls his eyes as we pull up to the final window to collect our bag of food and our drinks, and he passes them over to me to hold while he merges back out onto the boulevard. “You’re telling me you hate that spicy chicken sandwich in there with French fries that are quite literally the best things you will ever taste in your entire life?”
“Yes,” I answer shortly. “Yes, I hate that terrible spicy chicken sandwich with those awful fries.”
“You haven’t even tried them before.” He shakes his head in dismay as he chuckles, and then he reaches into the bag and fumbles around for a few long seconds to grab his fries while trying to keep his eyes on the road at the same time. When he finds them, he sets them down in the center console and tosses one into his mouth. “Want one? They’re good.”
“Nope, I need to try out this Chick-fil-A salad and see if it beats Portland’s corner shop salads,” I muse casually, smirking at him as I pull out the small tray and tear off the plastic. “Definitely looks alright.”
Jake stuffs some more fries into his mouth. “You’re missing out.”
“On heart disease?” I ask. “Good.”
He stops chewing to glance at me with a defeated smile on his lips. He nods in surrender.
We head back to Santa Monica—it’s getting late—and I devour my salad on the way while Jake finishes up his sandwich, somehow managing not to crash in the process. We take the freeway as the sun sets around us, and the traffic, despite how much I hate it, looks really beautiful at dusk. The music is loud but not too loud, easy for us to talk over and simple to ignore when his mainstream music taste grows unbearable to listen to. The journey is much smoother than it was three hours ago with Tyler.
“You’re staying at his place, right?” Jake asks once we’re back in the city.
I snap out of the trance I’ve found myself in. “Whose place?”
“Tyler’s,” he says. “That’s where I’m taking you to, right?”
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah. I don’t know why he got all up in your face earlier.”
“Because he’s an ass—” He cuts himself short, clearing his throat. “I probably shouldn’t put him on blast in front of his sister.”
“Actually,” I say, “I agree with what you were just about to say.”
He studies me for a long moment, as though he can’t figure out if I’m being sarcastic or not, and he eventually decides that I’m being totally serious. “I didn’t expect that.”
I shrug. “Me either. I didn’t expect to hate my stepbrother.”
He doesn’t reply, mostly because I think he doesn’t know how to, and so we spend the five-minute ride to Deidre Avenue in silence, except for his crappy music. All of the lights in the house are on when we pull up outside.
“Thanks for getting me off that mountain and taking me home,” I say once he turns down the music and shuts off the engine. “And thanks for the food.”
“No problem, but now can I get your number so I can take you out?” He gives me a playful yet determined smile, his eyes sparkling. “And I promise it won’t involve French fries from Chick-fil-A next time.”
“Well, you did buy me that salad,” I murmur, having a mock debate with myself, teasing him a little as I drag out his wait for an answer. “So I suppose I can give you my number.”
His face lights up as he clenches his hand and fist bumps the steering wheel. “Yessssss. What are those digits, girl?” With his other hand, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to me, and I enter my number.
By now my cheeks are a flaming red. “Don’t worry, I didn’t give you a fake number or anything.”
“Hmm,” he says, and he looks me up and down as I open the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow to make sure.”
“Smooth again,” I say, rolling my eyes and stepping out onto the sidewalk. It’s dark now. “Thanks.”
I gently slam the door shut and he salutes me goodbye through the window before he drives off. I listen to the sound of the engine, the noise of the tires until they fade away. After standing on the sidewalk in the dark for a few minutes, blushing to myself like an absolute creep, I finally turn around and head for the house. It’s only then that I notice Tyler’s car is parked at the end of the driveway. I thought he would have stayed out longer.
It also occurs to me when I reach the front door that Dad has no idea where I went. I conveniently disappeared right before dinner at the exact time Tyler did, and surely it’s not that hard to connect the dots.
Barely breathing, I slowly push open the door and step inside the hall, softly closing it again behind me with an inaudible click. I can hear the TV in the living room, and so I dart past so silently that I can’t even hear my own feet as I tiptoe up the stairs. I’m not worried about the fact that I went out. I didn’t do anything wrong—besides touching the Hollywood Sign, which just so happens to be illegal—and Dad can’t stop me from going out, anyway. I just don’t have the energy to talk to him.
“Eden?” a voice whisper-calls from the top of the stairs as I rush up them, and I pause to glance up. Tyler’s staring down at me, his eyes narrowed. “Where the hell did you go?”
“Where the hell did you go?” I shoot back. I stand up straight, climb the remaining few steps, and then stare back at him evenly once I’m level with him. “You just ditched the rest of us. Nice teamwork.”
He looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in days, or perhaps he’s high. Either way, he groans. “I don’t work well with cops, alright? I can’t get caught again.”
“Again,” I repeat for the second time today. I’m still wondering what other criminal activity he gets up to besides throwing himself into restricted areas and snorting cocaine. “When did you get home?”
“Twenty minutes ago,” he says. “Mom finally stopped grilling me about the whole beach thing earlier.”
“Cool,” I say bluntly, and then make my way into my room. He follows me. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” he says, and I watch as he quickly averts his eyes. I figure this is the perfect opportunity to question him about his little escapade earlier, because it was totally uncalled for.
“What was your problem with Jake?” I fold my arms across my chest, furrowing my eyebrows as he immediately turns around and leaves. And just like he followed me, I do the same in return. I end up in his room for the first time and I’m surprised he doesn’t automatically demand that I get out. “I asked you a question.”
“I’m not answering it,” he mutters. “Wait, I will.” He swivels around, his chest puffed out and his jaw clenched tight. “That guy is the second-biggest asshole I’ve ever met. Don’t waste your time. He’ll screw you over.”
“Who’s the first?” I ask. “Yourself?”
He stares back at me for a long moment. “Close enough.”
“Okay, well, Jake’s actually really nice,” I say, taking a step back as I inconspicuously study the room. “Unlike some people around here. And you don’t really get a say in whether I want to hang out with him or not.”
“You’re kidding, right?” His eyes widen and he gives a short, harsh laugh. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Why do you even care?” I press, aggravated at the way he’s getting pissed off. Maybe if he was nicer to me I’d take into consideration the fact that he hates Jake. But he’s not nice, so I don’t have to.
“I don’t,” he snaps.
“You clearly do,” I retort, but it feels pointless arguing. He’s never going to admit the truth.
Wandering to the opposite side of the room, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and comes to a halt by a collection of haphazardly stacked DVDs. “What’s your, um, favorite movie?”
I’m blinking at him now. What’s my favorite movie? Really? I know he’s trying to avoid my persistent questioning, but he could have at least come up with something better. “Lady and the Tramp,” I finally admit, mostly because I’ve given up on finding out why he cares if I hang out with Jake.
“The Disney movie?” There’s a laugh threatening to escape his lips, but when I nod and he realizes I’m completely serious, he clears his throat to get rid of it. “Why?”
“Because,” I say, defensively, “it’s the greatest love story of all time. Romeo and Juliet have got nothing on Lady and Tramp. They were so different yet they made it work. Lady was totally normal and Tramp was totally reckless, yet they fell in love.” I pause to breathe, replaying the movie in my head. I find myself smiling. “And plus, the spaghetti scene is totally iconic.”
“Totally,” Tyler mocks. Now he is laughing, and it only reinforces my earlier realization that he does absolutely nothing besides give me migraines. I don’t get it at all. How can he go from being so angry and nasty one second to relaxed and playful the next? “And I’m pretty sure Lady wasn’t normal. She was boring and didn’t know how to have fun. Tramp’s my kinda guy.”
“What, because he roams the streets the same way you do when you’re stumbling home drunk at the weekends?” I smile sweetly at him, secretly hoping to annoy him the same way he irritates me. But he takes my remark as a joke, so I roll my eyes and look away from him.
I study his room. It’s mostly navy, his bed unmade, mounds of clothes lying in the far corner and a can or two of beer decorating his bedside table. I wouldn’t expect anything less of him. The closet is open and on the top shelf I spot the sleeve of a varsity jacket hanging over the edge, like it’s been thrown in there carelessly. “You play football?” I ask.
“Huh?” Tyler says, and he follows my eyes to check what I’m staring at. “No. That’s Dean’s. I’m not really the football type.”
“Dean plays football?” I’m surprised Tyler doesn’t. He fits the total alpha male footballer position perfectly, like those stereotypical quarterbacks they have in every single high school movie. “And you don’t?”
“Yeah,” he says as he walks over to closet. “So does Jake. I used to play when I was younger, but I stopped back in middle school.”
“Why?” I’m staring curiously after him, and I try to remind myself that this person infuriates me and that I shouldn’t care, but it’s no use. There are so many things I don’t know about him and, honestly, it’s intriguing. I can’t help myself.
“According to some people, football is a waste of a time,” he tells me, but his voice suddenly adopts a much harder tone. He lingers by his closet for a little while. “‘Why waste your time on sport? Throwing footballs around isn’t going to get you into Ivy League. Stay inside and study instead so that you can actually be successful,’” he quotes, but he’s not laughing or cracking a smile. He’s just staring at the ground.
“Who told you that?” Now I’m even more curious. For starters, Tyler doesn’t strike me as the type of person who’d apply for an Ivy League school. In fact, I doubt he even likes school. People like him never do.
“Just someone,” he murmurs with a small shrug. “So that’s why I wasn’t allowed to play.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, but he still has his back to me. “Allowed?”
Immediately, he shifts uncomfortably and stretches up to tuck the sleeve of Dean’s varsity jacket back onto the shelf. “I mean, that’s why I stopped,” he says quickly, correcting himself. He might think I won’t pay close attention to him, but I do. I notice and absorb every single thing he says, and I have done since the moment he first stormed into the barbecue.
But he’s clearly unsettled, so I decide it’s best not to question his use of the word “allowed.” It suggests that whoever told him that football was a waste of time was someone with authority over him. And I get the sense that he greatly dislikes this person. Probably a teacher.
I focus on Tyler again, and with his back still turned to me, he pulls out a clean shirt from the closet and slips off the one he’s wearing. Just as quickly, he swipes on the new one. But in those few seconds, I spot a small tattoo on the back of his shoulder, written in calligraphy. “I really have to give Dean his jacket back. He’s been bugging me about it for ages.”
He’s adjusting his T-shirt, and I’m just staring at him, almost without realising at first. I notice how bulky his arms are, how tanned his skin, how defined his jaw. I shouldn’t be noticing these things, but I am. I swallow.
“What does your tattoo mean?” I ask, my voice slightly croaky. I keep my eyes trained on him as he spins back around, surprised by my question. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you clearly got it illegally.”
He plays dumb. “My tattoo?” When I raise my eyebrows and purse my lips, he gives me a proper answer. “Uh, it says Guerrero. It’s Spanish for ‘fighter.’” He looks almost nervous that I’ve asked him about it, and he silently scratches at the back of his head for a few moments.
Now I’m interested. “Why Spanish?”
“I’m fluent,” he tells me. “Both my parents are. My dad taught me when I was a kid.”
The mere mention of his dad reminds me of what Rachael told me earlier. His dad’s in jail, so I do the respectable thing and don’t ask any more questions. “I don’t know any Spanish,” I admit, biting my lip. “I speak French. Like the Canadians. Bonjour.”
“Me frustras,” he says in reply, and I have no idea what it means. “Buenas noches.” He smirks when he notices my puzzled expression. “That means ‘Goodnight.’”
“Oh.” I turn for the door to make my exit, but not before offering him the smallest of smiles. “Bonsoir.”
