“Wow.” Mark laughs. “We’re really going for this. Okay, let me think.”
We stand up and make our way past the dark touristy restaurants and the souvenir kiosks, their metal roller doors pulled down for the night.
“Ryan really likes art,” Mark says. And even though he should be pissed off, he sounds so earnest, like he’s just telling me about this boy he loves instead of planning a lie that will make him jealous. “I mean, The Arts. So if this party were to include, like, artists and writers and people like that, he’d probably feel like he missed out.”
“Perfect. So we went to a Pride party in a mansion owned by a couple of superrich, artistic guys. And they had a foyer full of sculptures that were so obscure they were almost impossible to look at. But then the sculptor himself was a guest at the party and he explained them all to us and now we understand everything there is to understand about art.”
In all the minutes we’ve been here, there hasn’t been a trace of any other person. I’m beginning to wonder if Violet even made it here. Maybe she got sidetracked by a better plan, or went to see the sea lions at a different pier even though this is the one famous for them.
And then Mark says, “Oh, fuck.”
“What?”
He’s stopped walking, is looking at something on a bench where the pier ends and the sidewalk begins.
It looks like a flower.
Slowly, we approach it, side by side.
A rose.
Of course.
Bright red. Like the circus tent in the photograph, like the lipstick I was told to reapply for her. I reach carefully and pick it up between two fingers. She removed all the thorns. I could hold it tight in my fist if I wanted to.
“What does it mean?” I whisper. “That she would leave it here? Was she throwing it away?”
“She might have been,” Mark whispers back. “But maybe not. Maybe it was an act of hope, like when you make a wish, send it out into the world.”
“You hope it finds its way back to you,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“If she wanted to throw it away, she would have put it in the trash or dropped it on the ground, not set it here where it wouldn’t get stepped on.”
I say it with a certainty that I wish I could feel, but as I speak the words, they make sense. So I hold the rose’s thornless stem tightly. We climb into the Jeep and I set it on my lap because I am a cautious driver who keeps both hands on the wheel, but I want to keep this flower close to me. To part with it feels like bad luck.
And now we are on the on-ramp and officially leaving the city. Unlike our drive here, nothing about being on the bridge fills me with awe. There is nothing beautiful about it. We’re on the lower deck, surrounded by no one because it is only midnight and no respectable party would be even remotely close to over. I keep thinking, How could we have missed her?
“But how did we end up at this party?” Mark asks, bringing me back to our plan. “Maybe some painting connection of yours? Like, have you ever had any cool art teachers or something?”
I shake my head. It’s true—how would Mark and I ever end up at a party like that? This was a bad idea. No one will believe us, and the more we plan, the more distance we cover, the farther we get from the city, from Ryan, from Violet, from all my friends who might not even be my friends anymore, from the electric current of the night and the possibility that my life might change.
“Actually,” Mark says. “I totally know how we could have ended up at a party like that.”
And then he pulls a business card out of his wallet and tells me about this world-famous photographer who just happened to ask him if he modeled and also took his picture and gave him his card.
“How on earth was this not the first thing you told me tonight?”
“Everything was such a blur,” he says. “And, you know, I’ve been kind of preoccupied. But I should text this guy and find out if he really is at a party, because it would suck if we used him as an excuse and it turned out Ryan saw him somewhere else.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Good call.”
Mark sends him the world’s longest text, reintroducing himself, providing some distinguishing characteristics to remind the guy in case he’s taken pictures of quite a few could-be models tonight, saying that the night has stalled out, and asking if there’s anything cool going on.
“If he writes back I’ll just say that we’ll try to make it. And then I can tell him that it didn’t work out.”
“Good plan,” I say, but as I say it I glide over two lanes and slow to take the narrow, curving exit onto Treasure Island.
“Where are we going?” Mark asks me, and the truth is that I don’t know. But it isn’t home. Not yet. As I pull onto the side of the road, the awe is officially back. The city glows so close in front of us. I can almost hear the voices of hundreds of thousands of celebrating people.
“Hand me the phone,” I say.
He doesn’t ask me why; he just does it.
I find his recent calls and tap Home.
“What’s your mom’s name?”
“Becca,” he says. “But, to be honest, I don’t think—”
“Becca!” I say to the voice that answers. “This is Kate Cleary. I’m a senior in Mark’s Calc class, and I also happen to be his chaperone this evening. I’m calling to touch base with you about our plans.”
“Are you the person who is supposed to be driving him home right now?” Becca asks me. Her voice is so familiar even though I’ve never heard it. It’s the stern but kind voice of a TV mom. I don’t yet know her, but I know her. And so I carry on.