Lone Star by Paullina Simons

car and I won’t have to.”
    â€œWhere’s she going to get a car from?” Blake said. “If she has any money saved up, it’ll be spent on empanadas in the Ramblas.”
    So he was reading up on Barcelona, too. That made Chloe smile, until she recalled Moody coming for dinner and, oh God, going to the cemetery. Chloe tightened her spine, squeezed shut her lips, and revealed to Blake nothing about her turmoil: their lack of funds, her lack of permission, passport, passion, the lack, the lack, the lack.
    When she praised him for his impressive navigation skills, he replied by asking why she was dressed so nicely. She pretended she wasn’t dressed especially nicely; how to explain that the old people enjoyed looking at her? But the thing that was great about Blake was that no question lingered in his hyperactive brain for long, and often, when the answer was a few seconds in coming, he would make up his own reply, which was what he did now.
    â€œThe young girl,” he said in a dramatic voice, “who got all dolled up to feed the elderly vanished one Saturday afternoon. Where did she go? Perhaps her ironed jeans were found in the pond nearby?”
    â€œBlake! Why would I lose my jeans in the pond?”
    â€œThat’s what I’m trying to get to the bottom of, Haiku,” he said, and guffawed.
    He was so silly.
    â€œWhat does my denim have to do with your story?”
    â€œI don’t know yet,” he replied. “I’m merely collecting information.”
    â€œSo I’m not even the end of your story, just a random detail?”
    â€œNicely punned. I said I don’t know. Look in my notebook—no, not that section, the one in the back that says ‘descriptions.’ See if there’s anything you like.”
    He had written out fifty pages of notes on lakes, junk he hadfound, birds building nests during spring—and the garden by her house! He was incredibly prolific. Every minute observation was in his spiral.
    â€œWhy is my garden here?” In his random musings, he had written about her wine-red tulips, the coral knockabout roses, the orange nasturtium, and the hot pink azaleas blooming outside her windows.
    â€œNever know what I might need.”
    â€œBefore I vanish,” Chloe said, closing his notebook, “you might want to have me do something amazing or idiotic.”
    â€œLosing your pants is both, don’t you think?” He poked her in the arm as he drove. “Why are you all freaked out about Moody? She’s your grandmother, not Freddy Krueger.”
    â€œThat’s what you think.” Chloe sighed. Everyone in the large Devine family lived in fear of Moody. She could not be argued with, or negotiated with. She could not be reasoned with. She believed what she believed, said what she said, commanded what she commanded. I’ve seen too much to bother arguing with the likes of you, was Moody’s standard reply to anyone in her family who dared raise a squawk in opposition. Only Chloe’s father had spoken out against her, and as a result, mother and son had been on the outs for the last seven years, since Uncle Kenny died.
    The old people became notably enthusiastic when they saw that a tidied-up Chloe did not come alone. “Who is the young man?” Mrs. Van Mirren said with a meaningful smile.
    This is Blake, Hannah’s boyfriend, Chloe would say to Mrs. Van Mirren, Ms. Rivers, Mr. Mann, and Mr. Warner. They asked where Hannah was. They asked about Mason. They asked when the prom was, and when Europe was. They gave her money. Five dollars, two dollars, seventy-five cents. They would not take no for an answer. This is for your trip, they said. Take pictures. Write things down. Don’t forget. Life is long. You won’t remember if you don’t write things down or take pictures. Are you excitedabout college? We’ll miss you when you go. We love you. Blake, we love this girl. Take