I shook my head over her terrible pun and turned on the radio, trying not to think about Cassidy and Toby keeping each other company late at night in hotel rooms, probably in their pajamas. The Shins drifted through the speakers, and I waited for Cassidy to say something as we sat at that endless light, but she didn’t. Instead, she picked up a straw wrapper I’d stuffed into the cup holder and began to fold it into a little origami star.
“Make a wish,” she said, cupping the little star in the palm of her hand.
The glow of the streetlight washed over her, and it struck me almost as an afterthought that she was beautiful. I don’t know how I’d missed it those first few days, but I knew it then. Her hair was thrown back into a ponytail, with these copper-colored pieces framing her face. Her eyes shone with amusement, and her sweater slipped off one shoulder, revealing a purple bra strap. She was achingly effortless, and she would never, in a million years, choose me. But, for the next few minutes, I contented myself with the magnificent possibility that she might.
The gate guard outside Cassidy’s subdivision gave me the third degree, which, incidentally, is the sort of burn that can kill. When he was finally satisfied that we weren’t about to wreak havoc on the unsuspecting suburban streets, he opened the gate, and I drove through into Terrace Bluffs.
It wasn’t that different from my subdivision; the houses were all set back from the street, with circular driveways and balconies that weren’t really supposed to be used. There were only four models, like a computer animation that kept repeating. Some little kids had been drawing in the street with chalk, and I felt terrible as I drove over it, as though I was wrecking a second grader’s sand castle.
“How do I get to your house?” I asked.
“Do you ever just not want to go home?” Her face was pale in the lamplight, and I could see it in her eyes that she was serious.
“Yeah, absolutely,” I admitted, even though it was pretty personal. I thought about my mom sitting in the family room, watching the news and worrying over everything. About my father in his home office, a mug of tea going cold at his elbow as he typed out another brief. About my bedroom, which felt as though it wasn’t mine anymore after I’d spent three months sleeping in the downstairs guest room.
“I have an idea,” Cassidy said. “How about we go somewhere, right now?”
“It’s Eastwood,” I said. “There’s nowhere to go.”
“Let’s go to the park,” Cassidy pleaded. “You can point out your bedroom window, and I can point out mine.”
“All right,” I said, reversing over the chalk drawings.
The gate guard gave me a dirty look when I pulled through, and Cassidy laughed and flipped him the bird when we were too far away for him to see.
“I freaking hate that guy,” she said. “Do you read Foucault? What am I talking about? Of course you don’t read Foucault.”
“Mostly, I just don’t read,” I deadpanned, making Cassidy laugh.
“Well, Mr. Illiterate Jock, let me enlighten you. There was this philosopher-slash-historian called Foucault, who wrote about how society is like this legendary prison called the panopticon. In the panopticon, you might be under constant observation, except you can never be sure whether someone is watching or not, so you wind up following the rules anyway.”
“But how do you know who’s a watcher and who’s a prisoner?” I asked, pulling into the empty parking lot.
“That’s the point. Even the watchers are prisoners. Come on, let’s go on the swings.” She was already out of the car before I could even put on the handbrake.
“Wait,” I called.
Cassidy turned around, her dress rippling in the warm Santa Ana winds. I locked the car and stood there, awash in embarrassment.
“I don’t think I can go on the swings,” I admitted.
“Then you can push me.”
She took off toward the small playground and the bright plastic play set as though we were running a race. I stepped cautiously into the sandbox, feeling my cane sink into the sand like a beach umbrella. Cassidy kicked off her sandals and tied her sweater around her waist. Sitting there on the swing set, in her bare feet and blue dress, her hair slipping out of its ponytail, she was so gorgeous that it hurt.
“Go on,” she said, twisting on the swing so that the chains made an X. “Push.”
I laid my palms against her back, touching bare skin. I gulped and gave her a push, nearly losing my balance before I figured out how to manage it.
“Keep going!” she called.
I kept going. She rose higher and higher on the swing, and to be honest, I was rising a bit myself.
After a while, she didn’t need me anymore. She was just up there, impossibly high, the chains slapping against the top bar.
She tilted her head back, grinning at me. “We’ll escape the panopticon together,” she promised.
And then she jumped.
The swing buckled as she flew forward, laughing and shouting. She landed unsteadily on her feet, at the edge of the sandbox.
“Did we escape?” I called.
“Not even close.”
I sat down on the swing, hoping that would disguise my problem. Cassidy took the other swing, making a complicated design in the sand with her toes.
“Do you see that house just to the right of the tallest tree?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“With the two chimneys?”
“Yeah.”