One Week - By Nikki Van De Car Page 0,55
the dingy office, “you're happy here in Tiffin.”
Jeremiah gives Jess a hard look, and then nods. “Fine,” he says to me. “But I don't have five hundred. You can have three-fifty.”
“Done,” I say. That ought to be plenty to get us to Chicago. And I'm not letting that cash out of my sight this time. “One thing, though: the article says that I am traveling alone. There will be no mention of anybody else. Is that clear?”
Jeremiah looks back and forth between Jess and me, trying to read what our relationship might be exactly, considering that we're traveling together but barely speaking to each other. But he doesn't say anything. Instead he nods once, and then turns and picks up a camera off of the top of a filing cabinet. He hands me a copy of this morning's paper. “Let's get a picture of you in the town square,” he says. “It'll give Tiffinites a thrill.”
We follow Jeremiah out the door, which he doesn't even bother to lock behind us—guess there's not much crime in Tiffin, or nobody wants to steal a paper that costs only two dollars. He's a tall guy, and although I'm not particularly short and neither is Jess, we're both half-jogging to keep up with him. We walk four or five blocks down Washington Street, and Jeremiah stops in front of a radio station window. He positions me so that the name of the station, WTTF, is visible over my shoulder.
“Why do I have the newspaper?” I ask, confused.
“It's to prove when you were here,” Jeremiah explains. “Also it guarantees the Advertiser-Tribune mention in any article that runs the photograph.”
I hold up the newspaper in front of my chest, feeling like somebody who has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom. I remind myself that I'm the one getting the money here. Although it occurs to me as Jeremiah backs up the snap the picture that perhaps I should have asked for the cash first. Jess stands awkwardly over on the side, hands shoved in his pockets.
Jeremiah finishes up, and waves for us to follow him again. We cross the street and go into the Walgreen's, where Jeremiah withdraws $350 from the ATM. He folds it up and hands it to me.
“I'm not all that comfortable doing this,” he warns. “I've got half a mind to call your father. What are you doing in Tiffin, Iowa? Do you even know where you're going?”
“I know what I'm doing,” I assure him.
Jeremiah shakes his head. “I doubt it.” He sighs and extends a hand for me to shake. I do, feeling a little uncomfortable. When I planned this out in the trailer this morning, it felt cheap, but I didn't think the newspaper would have any scruples about it.
Jess shakes Jeremiah's hand, and asks for directions to the bus station. Jeremiah points us in the right direction, then turns and walks back to his office without another word. Jess takes my arm and says, “Come on.” I shake him off, and he scowls at me and walks ahead.
After our experiences with Mr. Mackey and riding in the back of Joey and Sean's truck, the bus feels like warm, cozy heaven. There is an awkward moment as Jess takes a seat and then scoots over so that I can sit next to him, and I just stand there. I had planned on handing him half of the money and going our separate ways, but unfortunately our ways are still exactly the same. We walked to the bus station together, we got some sorely needed breakfast together, and we waited for the bus together, all in virtual silence. I could go sit somewhere else, but I'd feel like a pouting child.
“Just sit down, Bee,” Jess says wearily. “I promise not to try to talk to you or anything.”
In the end, I sit. And we spend the four-hour ride not talking at all.
I hate this. I keep half-turning to Jess, to laugh with him about the crazy woman sitting four rows ahead, or to comment on the fact that we have now been through seven states together, or just to talk to him. And sometimes I think about last night and my heart starts beating faster and I feel sure that he knows what I'm thinking about, that the entire bus must know. I wish so badly that we could just go back to that moment, because…I was so happy. I feel like I ought to want it to never