Chasing Paris Read online

  Time slipped away, minute by minute, movie scene by scene, without Amy paying much attention.

  Hello, Mrs. Lambert, she imagined again. I was wondering if I could talk to you about my grandmother, Elizabeth Hathaway. I recently found out that…

  She didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

  I found your contact information in Elizabeth Hathaway’s will, and I was wondering if…

  Elizabeth Hathaway, she’s my grandmother, and I…

  “Amy? Where are you?”

  Miles was gently shaking her shoulder.

  “Are you daydreaming? The movie is over. I’m going to head home.”

  Amy looked around the family room. The last scene of Rebel without a Cause was fading away. April was asleep on the couch across the room. Miles was standing up. The clock on the cable box read 10:55. “Oh, okay. Yeah, good idea.” She stood up and followed Miles to the door.

  “That movie wasn’t as bad as I remembered it,” he said, stretching his arms over his head.

  “No, it’s not bad at all. It’s great, actually.” Her mind was elsewhere, but the words came without thought. “What a storyline. And what a time period.” Amy wasn’t even quite sure what she was saying, but she didn’t care. “If April were awake, she’d say, ‘That’s when men were real men.’”

  Miles reached for the doorknob, leaned toward Amy, and kissed her forehead. “And that’s why she doesn’t have a boyfriend now,” he said. “No one can make her happy.”

  The comment shook Amy’s mind off autopilot. What had she said to warrant that response? She couldn’t remember, so she smiled and let it go. “See you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

  Miles closed the door behind him, and Amy waited a moment, listening to the sound of his car disappearing down the street. She bent down toward her messenger bag still sitting by the front door and reached into its front pocket for the blue note. She pulled it out and read it again.

  “Is your boyfriend gone yet?” April called from the family room.

  “Yep.”

  “He’s right. That’s exactly why I don’t have a boyfriend right now. They don’t make men like they used to.”

  Amy nodded, still reading. “You’ve never been one to settle.”

  April appeared in the hallway. She pushed her rumpled hair behind her ears and looked at Amy for a moment. “You’re right. Goodnight.” She continued on toward her bedroom.

  Amy looked up from the note and then opened the front door. Stepping onto the porch, the night air pricked her skin and cooled the inside of her lungs. She sat down and looked up at the sky. The North Star glinted at her.

  Why was Billy Strath so mean? she wondered. Why did he send that note?

  Goosebumps formed on Amy’s arms, and she hugged her knees into her chest. Across the night sky, she looked for patterns in the stars. There had to be answers somewhere. In the stars, in the scraps of papers she had collected since Lizzie’s death, in someone’s memory—there had to be answers somewhere.

  There has to be someone who can help me. Somehow.

  She needed her notebook.

  SEVEN

  LOS ANGELES

  T

  he night was hot. Restless. Dark, warm wind rustled through the trees outside Will’s window, and he wished that he were ten years old again, sleeping in a perfect treehouse where the air felt cooler and there was no need for thought provoking insights about Paradise Lost. He paced back and forth, casting a sideways glance now and then at his computer desk. He hated taking an entire class on John Milton. He hated writing a paper on Milton. Sure, the guy was a genius, but he was also a jerk. And both those traits came through loud and clear in Paradise Lost. Writing an interesting paper on a text that had already been discussed to death for centuries was hard enough. Knowing that Milton died expecting generations to worship him made the paper-writing process even more painful.

  Will threw his pen in the air and let it fall to the ground. Two papers and two finals were all that stood between him and summer vacation. He just needed to get through them.

  He took off his San Francisco Giants hat and fell backward on his bed. He reached for Chris’ Renaissance Poetry textbook, which had been sitting on his nightstand for the last couple nights. He opened it to a random page and looked at the blue handwriting in the margin.

  Have my words already been said? I heard them before in my inspiration’s voice. “Go cast your spells,” he said, “And put together words with letters and love.” Am I repeating him? Feigning magic? An impostor? Plagiarizer?

  He flipped the page.

  And the back row gossip

  Continues.

  His eyes moved to the other side of the page.

  I used to say that there was a thick layer of L.A. coating you. I used to say that as I dove into that thick layer, trying to get under it, trying to get to you. I can still feel the stickiness on my skin, the sweet-sour scent in my nose. And when I thought I cut all the way through that layer of sticky, sweet-sour L.A., my eyes were blurry so I still couldn’t see you.

  And then you didn’t call. It was a sign.

  Will dropped the book on his bed. A familiar mixture of guilt and intrigue swirled through him as he stared at the ceiling and took a deep breath. Maybe Kim was right. Maybe he should look for the book’s owner. He remembered when he found a journal in his ex-girlfriend’s desk while looking for some paper. He hadn’t even opened it before she turned red and snatched it away. How would this girl feel about others reading her private thoughts?

  And then before he could stop it, another memory of his ex-girlfriend took hold of his mind. You can talk to me, Jocelyn had said on the phone the day his grandfather died. You don’t have to hold it inside—it’s okay to be sad. Let me drive home with you for the funeral. He had mumbled back that he’d think about it, and then he left for home without her. He had never been able to let her in.

  And then I didn’t call, he thought to himself. It was a sign.

  He picked up the book again.

  I’ve finally got all of me back together—I’ve picked up all the pieces, and I think they’re all back in the right places. And now, I don’t regret that I cared about you the way I did. I only regret that my feelings for you came out of such a deeply-rooted vulnerability. Because, when you left, that vulnerability took an ugly turn—and it’s that ugly turn that I regret. I’m embarrassed by my painfully obvious hurt. I should have kept it to myself better, dealt with it better, not involved you with so much of it. For that, I’m truly sorry, and with the remnants of that vulnerability, all I can do is ask you to forgive me.

  Jocelyn filled his thoughts again. She had ended the relationship with him—she had been the one who left—but only because he had broken her. And he left her to pick up all the pieces herself.

  Who was this person describing exactly what Jocelyn must have gone through when they broke up?

  He turned the page. Wedged into the book’s seam was the yellow carbon copy of a receipt, probably from a hole-in-the-wall place that never bothered to update its credit card machine. Will pulled it out and examined its faint print. He didn’t recognize the restaurant’s name at the top, but below the smudged total, he clearly could read the restaurant patron’s signature.

  He held the receipt against a page of the book. The signature matched the handwriting in the margins.

  “Will, get out here,” Chris said from the doorway of their bedroom. Brian and Ralph appeared behind him. “We’ve got the water balloons ready for Midnight Yell.”

  Will dropped the book and pushed himself off the bed. “How long till we start?”

  “About two minutes,” Brian said. “Looks like the apartment across the street made a slingshot to launch its water balloons.”

  “We should have thought of that,” Ralph said.

  As the others agreed, they made their way to the balcony and each grabbed an armful of water balloons from the five-gallon buckets they had borrowed from a neighbor.

  “All r
ight guys,” Chris said. “Here we are. The night before finals begin.” He caught a water balloon trying to escape his hold. “The first of the week. Ready?”

  As if on cue, Brian’s cell phone alarm sang out, officially marking the stroke of midnight and the beginning of UCLA’s long-standing late-night tradition during finals week. The roars of students frustrated by studying rose from apartment buildings across Westwood.

  “Go!” Will yelled. He chucked a water balloon across the street and grabbed a second balloon. In his peripheral vision, he could see his roommates launching a rainbow of balloons in the same direction.

  A balloon exploded at his feet, and another whizzed right past his shoulder, splattering against their patio door.

  “Look out!” Will bellowed as the water balloon slingshot appeared on the apartment balcony across the street. His words were drowned out by hundreds of students wailing and banging pots and pans outside their homes. Will ducked just as a slingshotted water balloon grazed his hair at double speed. He grabbed another armful of balloons and hurled them across the street.

  One minute later, the choruses of ers faded, and many participants of the university tradition returned to their apartments. Will and his roommates hadn’t exhausted their supply of water balloons—and neither had the apartment of guys across the street—so the fight continued. A group of girls from the apartment below stayed outside to watch the trash-talking and balloon-throwing, only retreating when the balloon sling-shot was aimed at them.

  “Get ‘em, boys!” The group of girls called to Will and his roommates as they ran for cover in the apartment’s lobby.

  “Knock it off!” a voice yelled from a different apartment down the street. Will couldn’t tell exactly which apartment the voice came from, but within moments, the two apartments throwing balloons at each other shifted their aim and joined forces in pummeling the building from which the voice came.

  “I’ll call the police!” the same voice thundered.

  Will threw his last balloon and held up his palms. “I’m out!” He looked at the five-gallon buckets at his feet and saw that his roommates had also exhausted their supply.

  “We’re out, too,” one of the guys across the street yelled.

  “No need to call the police, sir,” Chris called out. “We’re done.”

  “If you’d like to join us tomorrow night,” Brian added, “We’ll bring you some water balloons.”

  The guys on both balconies waited for an answer, but none came.

  “Well played,” a voice across the street yelled.

  “Nice touch with the slingshot,” Chris called back. “And, hey, Wesley—I’ll meet you downstairs at 8:30 so we can head up to Anthro together.”

  “Sounds good,” the guy called back.

  And with that, Will and his roommates filed into their apartment, dripping and covered in bits of colorful water balloon shrapnel.

  “I don’t feel like studying now,” Brian said.

  “I never do after our first Midnight Yell water balloon fight,” Will said.

  The four roommates headed to their respective rooms to change clothes and grab whatever books they needed to prepare for upcoming finals. After pulling a dry shirt over his head, Will stood in front of his computer, staring at the screen with his hands on his hips.

  “What are you doing?” Chris asked. He picked up the wet shirt Will had left on the floor and threw it onto Will’s bed.

  “I’m thinking about how much I don’t want to write this paper.”

  “Then don’t work on it now. Don’t you have a history final before that paper is due anyway?”

  “Yeah, but I’m ready for that final. I think. This paper is what’s really killing me.”

  Chris picked up his Microeconomics book. “Well, good luck. The rest of us will be in the living room studying if you decide you’d rather join us than write.”

  Will nodded, continuing to stare at his computer screen. After Chris left the room, he turned around and saw the Renaissance poetry book peeking out from beneath the wet shirt Chris had thrown on it. He picked it up and thumbed through the last couple pages until he found Appendix 5: Index of Authors. According to the list, the anthology showcased a couple poems by John Milton. He vaguely remembered working through one of Milton’s poems when taking English 151 with Professor Hollings. What had Hollings said at the time? No need to spend too much time on Milton in this class. Or something like that. If you haven’t already, you’ll get to focus on his work throughout English 143.

  Will located a poem with a familiar title and turned to page 659. The last line of the poem was underlined in blue ink, and Will read it slowly. I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night. Then he read the handwritten words next to it. Great line. Beautiful. But Milton was still a jerk.

  Will smiled. Finally, someone agreed with him about Milton.

  He snapped the book shut, tossed it on his bed, and sat down at his desk to write the dreaded paper.

  ***

  During finals week, Bruin Walk looked the same: big signs advertising different clubs and organizations still lined the walk. The Taco Bell window was open for business and selling food to kids needing a study break. People filled the student union seeking coffee and a place to get out of the sun. But now, the soft hum of nervous energy filled the air, and soon that energy would melt into the silence of summer break as students went home to their families and summer jobs.

  Will left Bunche Hall where he had just finished taking a final exam on the Gilded Age of America. He headed toward the center of campus, looking at his feet and thinking about his answer to the last exam question. Had he covered all the necessary points about the Robber Barons to make his argument? It seemed like he had them all. He hoped so. There was no going back now.

  When Royce Quad came into sight, thoughts of Robber Barons dissolved. He climbed the steps to the Humanities building and hoped that no one was waiting in line to see Professor Hollings during office hours.

  And he was in luck. As Will neared the office door, he heard no voices exchanging ideas about Renaissance literature. He peeked into the office and saw the professor sitting in his chair, reading, his feet up on the coffee table.

  Will knocked on the open door. “Hi, Professor Hollings,” he said.

  Hollings looked up from his book and smiled. “Oh, hello, Will. It’s good to see you. How are you?” He dropped his feet to the floor and put his book on the coffee table.

  Will walked into the office and extended his hand as he neared the seating area. Hollings leaned forward in his chair and shook his former student’s hand.

  “I’m doing well, Professor, thanks. How is your quarter wrapping up?”

  “Very nicely. I have two more finals to give, and then it will be on to grading. But that isn’t very interesting to talk about.” He chuckled. “To what do I owe this special visit?”

  Will sat down in the chair designated for students and noticed that the coffee table separating him and Hollings displayed an Italian art and architecture book. The last time he came to office hours the book hadn’t been there. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and looked up at the professor, reminding himself that Hollings’ office decorations weren’t the reason for his visit.

  “I have two questions for you today. One is pretty simple, and the other is pretty complicated.”

  The professor leaned back in his chair. Behind him, two desks lined opposite walls. When he wasn’t talking to students he turned around in his rolling chair and bounced back and forth between the typewriter’s desk and the computer’s desk. When students were visiting, though, the desks barely seemed to exist—all attention focused on conversations about the poetry of centuries past.

  “Let’s start with the simple one,” Hollings said, folding his hands across his stomach. “Perhaps we can ease into the difficult one.”

  Not likely, Will thought. “I saw in next fall’s Schedule of Classes that you’re teaching a senior seminar on Special Studies in
Renaissance Literature. Have you determined the focus?”

  Hollings’ eyebrows rose. “I was thinking of going with a class incorporating Shakespeare and the greats of the Italian Renaissance. Perhaps Michelangelo or DaVinci. Are you interested?”

  “I am. Anything having to do with Shakespeare or Italy—that sounds great,” Will said.

  Hollings chuckled. “Well, good. I look forward to seeing you in class then. I’ve always enjoyed your unique readings of the world’s best literature. Now, I imagine that takes care of the easy question you had. Let’s tackle the complicated one.”

  Will leaned forward and unzipped the backpack at his feet. “Okay, well, here we go. I think I need your help.” He drew the book of Renaissance poetry into the air and presented it to Hollings. “My roommate is taking a general education English class with you this quarter, and he’s reading this book, right? The same book we used in English 151 last year?”

  Hollings leaned forward, looking at the book’s cover. “Yes, Renaissance poetry. An excellent text for any level of analysis.”

  Will grinned. “Certainly.” His smile faded as he thought about the words to come. “My roommate bought that book used.” He looked at the professor with wide eyes as he talked slowly, less sure about the words as they came. “When I was helping him with his last paper, I noticed that the previous owner had used the margins sort of like a journal. All of it was sort of poetic, and I think it was mostly about her life—but it came in bits and pieces, so it was hard to tell. None of it resembled the kind of notes people normally write in the margins of textbooks.”

  Hollings’ eyebrows rose in agreement.

  Will flipped through the book and pulled out the yellow receipt. “I also found this in there.” He reached over the coffee table and handed it to Hollings.

  Hollings pushed his eyeglasses higher on the bridge of his nose as he leaned forward and took the paper from Will. “By golly,” he breathed, looking at the receipt. “Amy Winthrow.”