Paper Towns — Chapter no 9

9.

We bought dish towels at a 7-Eleven on I-Drive and tried our best to wash

the slime and stink from the moat off our clothes and skin, and I filled the

gas tank to where it had been before we drove the circumference of

Orlando. The Chrysler’s seats were going to be a little bit wet when Mom

drove to work, but I held out hope that she wouldn’t notice, since she was

pretty oblivious. My parents generally believed that I was the most well-

adjusted and not-likely-to-break-into-SeaWorld person on the planet, since

my psychological well-being was proof of their professional talents.

I took my time going home, avoiding interstates in favor of back roads.

Margo and I were listening to the radio, trying to figure out what station had

been playing “Stars Fell on Alabama,” but then she turned it down and said,

“All in all, I think it was a success.”

“Absolutely,” I said, although by now I was already wondering what

tomorrow would be like. Would she show up by the band room before

school to hang out? Eat lunch with me and Ben? “I do wonder if it will be

different tomorrow,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.” She left it hanging in the air, and then said,

“Hey, speaking of tomorrow, as thanks for your hard work and dedication

on this remarkable evening, I would like to give you a small gift.” She dug

around beneath her feet and then produced the digital camera. “Take it,” she

said. “And use the Power of the Tiny Winky wisely.”

I laughed and put the camera in my pocket. “I’ll download the pic when

we get home and then give it back to you at school?” I asked. I still wanted

her to say, Yes, at school, where things will be different, where I will be your

friend in public, and also decidedly single, but she just said, “Yeah, or

whenever.”

It was 5:42 when I turned into Jefferson Park. We drove down Jefferson

Drive to Jefferson Court and then turned onto our road, Jefferson Way. I

killed the headlights one last time and idled up my driveway. I didn’t know

what to say, and Margo wasn’t saying anything. We filled a 7-Eleven bag

with trash, trying to make the Chrysler look and feel as if the past six hours

had not happened. In another bag, she gave me the remnants of the

Vaseline, the spray paint, and the last full Mountain Dew. My brain raced

with fatigue.

With a bag in each hand, I paused for a moment outside the van, staring

at her. “Well, it was a helluva night,” I said finally.

“Come here,” she said, and I took a step forward. She hugged me, and

the bags made it hard to hug her back, but if I dropped them I might wake

someone. I could feel her on her tiptoes and then her mouth was right up

against my ear and she said, very clearly, “I. Will. Miss. Hanging. Out.

With. You.”

“You don’t have to,” I answered aloud. I tried to hide my

disappointment. “If you don’t like them anymore,” I said, “just hang out

with me. My friends are actually, like, nice.”

Her lips were so close to me that I could feel her smile. “I’m afraid it’s

not possible,” she whispered. She let go then, but kept looking at me, taking

step after step backward. She raised her eyebrows finally, and smiled, and I

believed the smile. I watched her climb up a tree and then lift herself onto

the roof outside of her second-floor bedroom window. She jimmied her

window open and crawled inside.

I walked through my unlocked front door, tiptoed through the kitchen to

my bedroom, peeled off my jeans, threw them into a corner of the closet

back near the window screen, downloaded the picture of Jase, and got into

bed, my mind booming with the things I would say to her at school.