time, like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. What good was a 3.0 GPA if I ended up homeless? I needed to focus on getting money while I still could. The taping was in ten days, two thousand miles away in Hollywood. The two hundred dollars we had left wouldn’t even get us to St. Louis. And if we did somehow make it to LA, we’d need our props—the truck and the tank.
I opened a spreadsheet and did some rough calculations: all in, the trip and the props would cost us at least five thousand dollars. And even if we won the lottery, how would I persuade Dad to do the show?
The answer came back: You won’t.
You can’t.
The weight of hopelessness bore down on me, that lead X-ray vest heavy on my chest. For a moment I couldn’t catch my breath.
Why had I said yes to Flynn? What had I been thinking?
I pictured how Dad would look when I told him. His eyes going dark. His face tightening like a fist.
I stood up and paced the aisle. In only a few more days, the effects of my medication would wear off completely. I had to set things in motion now, while I still had the capacity. I couldn’t let the whirlpool pull me under. Not yet.
Desperate for distraction, I turned toward the pantry. I opened the bungeed door wide enough to grab the jar of fancy peanut butter, took a knife from the drawer, and sat down at the table again. I unscrewed the lid and began to stir, my mind spiraling like the peanut butter in the jar.
The song was back, signaling my further descent into the gray. Ella, ella . . .
I’d been an idiot to waste six dollars on fancy peanut butter. I should have gone for the cheap stuff. Ella, Ella . . . The cheap stuff. Peanut butter. Eh, eh, eh . . . The thoughts echoed in my mind, on a loop like the song lyrics. I looked down at the jar in my hand—and an idea struck me. A name.
A bubble of hope bloomed in my chest. The name. It was a long shot—he was a long shot—and Dad would absolutely lose his shit when he found out. But still, there was a chance. Maybe the only chance we had.
I texted Ripley and quickly filled him in on the last eight hours. His reaction was about what I expected.
Ripley: FLYNN AND FUCKING KELLAR?!
Me: I know. It’s huge. 10 million viewers.
Ripley: WHAT?!? He’s going to do it, right?
Me: I haven’t told him yet.
Ripley: YOU HAVEN’T TOLD HIM?
Me: It’s complicated.
Ripley: Where are they shooting?
I started to reply, then hesitated. Ripley lived only an hour away from LA, in a conservative town he had nicknamed Dark Hills. At the moment, we lived two time zones apart, so it was easy to justify never meeting in person. But if I told him I was going to be practically in his backyard, he might want to break our pact.
And the truth was, I didn’t want him to see me in person. Especially not when I was sliding toward a total meltdown. But what could I do, lie? All he’d have to do was Google the show. I had no choice. I typed out my reply.
Me: LA
The three dots bounced for a long time, and I chewed my lip vigorously. I guessed he was writing and then deleting responses. Finally:
Ripley: When?
Me: 10 days.
Ripley: COWBOY JESUS RIDING A DINOSAUR BITMOJI!
My prehistoric phone couldn’t get Bitmoji, so Ripley had to describe them to me. It was pitiful.
Me: I know.
Ripley: Is any part of you excited? I mean, this is everything!
I closed my eyes and squeezed the phone in both hands. I couldn’t think about that right now.
Me: I need to focus on getting us there.
Ripley: Right. Sorry.
Me: I need a favor.
Ripley: I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that.
Me: Please be serious with me right now. Can you find someone for me? On the internet?
Ripley: Of course I can. Who?
I took a shower, hoping the warm water would ease my unquiet mind. But the water was cold, and as I stood there under the weak spray, I felt more pathetic than ever. I stepped out, dried off, and moved to the sink.
The warped steel plate that served as a mirror distorted my reflection, so I looked down instead and ran the faucet till the basin