Smart Phone
A Mystery Adventure
Josh Eber
© Copyright 2024 Josh Eber
“It’s not where you go, it’s who you meet along the way.”
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
L. Frank Baum, 1899
“The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”
Aristotle, circa 340 BC
Introduction
In 2009, Barack Obama was president; Toys “R” Us was a thriving global giant; Alex Trebek ruled the dinnertime airwaves on Jeopardy!; seven-year-old Billie Eilish hadn’t published a song yet; Instagram and TikTok didn’t exist; and the iPhone 2G—considered by most the granddaddy of smartphones—was less than two years old.
It was also the year a young boy from Iowa saw the ocean for the first time. And a few more things.
- 1 -
August, 2009
Malibu, California
They sat on the bus bench slurping ice cream cones, three sets of eyes glued to the store across the street.
A seagull squawked from a nearby tree. A guy on a mountain bike pedaled past and smiled. Every few minutes a car cruised by, braking at the stop sign before continuing.
Just another lazy summer day in Malibu.
Everything perfectly normal.
If they just knew what they were looking for.
The store’s front door opened. A mother and daughter walked out and headed for the parking lot. The top of a stuffed toy animal stuck out from the little girl’s shopping bag. Diana thought it was a giraffe. Jeffrey guessed a snake. Margaret said nothing.
The mom and girl got in their car and drove off. A few stores down, the clock in the window of a mini-market displayed the time: 3:15 p.m.
Jeffrey and Margaret decided to take pictures, maybe they’d be useful later. Tossing what was left of their cones in a trash can, they walked down opposite sides of the street snapping phone shots—the toy store, the parking lot next door, the ice cream shop on the corner, street views up and down the block.
Diana, meanwhile, stayed on the bench sucking liquefied ice cream through the hole she’d made in the bottom of her cone. By the time her friends re-joined her, the market’s window clock read 3:28.
Then 3:38.
“Well, Zero Hour is long gone,” Margaret noted. “Now what?”
Jeffrey shrugged. “Let’s wait a little longer.”
So they did, passing the time with jokes and small talk.
When the bird in the tree let loose with three ear-splitting shrieks, Jeffrey flinched, prompting snickers from the girls. The boy from the boonies clearly wasn’t used to screaming seagulls.
Then more of nothing. An occasional passing car, a pair of bicyclists, a few customers in and out of the market.
Sudden motion to their left snapped all three heads in that direction—a small dog streaking full speed down the middle of the street directly toward them as a young girl chased after it frantically screaming its name.
The rest came in a wild blur.
A car turned left at the corner directly into the dog’s path. The terrified animal froze. The car slammed on its brakes, careened right, jumped the curb, and plowed through the fire hydrant they’d just been standing by, screeching to a stop inches from the toy store’s front door as a giant water plume from the broken hydrant exploded into the sky, drenching everything in sight.
And then it was over.
Before anyone could breathe.
Calm to chaos to cascading waterworks in the blink of an eye.
The mini-mart clock read 3:48.
Right time.
The toy store sign showed 2247 Pearl.
Right place.
Both straight from the text.
The one they got ninety minutes ago.
- 2 -
Part I
California Dreaming
“Every adventure requires a first step.”
The Cheshire Cat
Alice in Wonderland
Lewis Carroll, 1865
- 3 -
Chapter 1
Saturday Night, Two Days Earlier
Des Moines, Iowa
Jeffrey
Your Simple Guide to Using Your New Phone.
Ha! Whoever came up with that title had one twisted sense of humor.
I’d been sprawled on my bed for what seemed like days now, reading the owner’s manual for my new phone, trying to get my only three contacts—my mom’s, my dad’s, our landline—into my Contacts Manager.
Easy, right? Three lousy numbers.
Not.
Easier would be learning to fly with my hands duck-taped to my butt.
As you may have guessed, this was my first mobile device. An early birthday present from my mom for my trip. I know, sounds weird—almost thirteen, first phone, twenty-first century. Well, you’d probably understand if you knew me better. For now, though, I needed to get this add-to-contacts function working.
I re-read the page for the millionth time, then carefully tapped each phone number before clicking Save.
Please wait...
The little circle spun, and spun, then...
Sorry, invalid command. Please try again.
Arrgh!
I tossed the stupid manual over by my suitcase. I’d take it with me on my trip. Maybe by some miracle it’d make more sense later. I fell back on my bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering what was more pathetic: spending half the night trying to add three contacts to my phone, or only having three to add.
But more about my phone later...
I was all packed and ready for my big end-of-summer trip. With school starting in nine days, this was my last chance for some real action in the otherwise boring life of Jeffrey James. And this time I had high hopes because my lifelong dream was finally coming true. I was going to California!
Me, who’d never been west of the Iowa state line.
Me, who’d never seen the ocean before (I kid you not).
Though considering where I lived—Des Moines, Iowa, practically the bullseye of America—never seeing the ocean shouldn’t be all that surprising. The nearest one was a thousand miles east, and the next nearest almost twice that far west.
Even the nearest “non-ocean” with anything close to a beach, Lake Michigan, was five hours away. And I’d been there once, to Lake Michigan, and, yes, it was pretty big, for a lake. But even if you couldn’t see all the way across it, you still knew Michigan was on the other side. Not exactly my fantasy destination—no offense, Michigan.
Soon though, I’d be splashing around in the biggest of them all: The Glorious Pacific! Thousands of miles wide, with all kinds of exotic places on the other side.
Jeopardy! Alert: The Pacific Ocean is the largest body of water in the world, covering nearly one-third of the Earth’s surface and holding more than half its total water supply.
Sorry about that. The Jeopardy!-Jedi strikes again. Sometimes it’s hard to control.
Anyway, I was on my way to visit my cousin in LA. Yep, Los Angeles, California. The City of Angels. Home to all the calendar photos hanging in my room. Surfers surfing, bodies baking, sunsets blazing. For the past two months that’s all I could think about. White sand, pounding waves, palm trees galore.
Well, except for last night when I dreamed I was sitting in the front row of Jeopardy!, filmed (of course) in Los Angeles, California.
In case you missed it, I’m Jeffrey James. Yeah, the boy with two first names—as if I hadn’t been teased about that since forever, even though that’s totally my parents’ fault.
Also as mentioned, I’m almost thirteen—three weeks shy of entering the Wonderful World of Teendom.
So why was this Jeopardy!-crazed, phone-challenged kid from Middle America so pumped about turning the big One-Three, visiting a cousin he’d never met, and traveling to a far-off state to dip his toes in saltwater?
Well, let’s just say these first twelve-point-nine years of pre-teen life hadn’t exactly been a fun-fest. True, there was that trip to Lake Michigan. Also, the day my dad taught me to ride a bike and we rode around for hours. But other than that, fun for me has basically come from books.
Pathetic, I know. But true.
Oh, and while on the subject of reading, I read somewhere that the Pacific Ocean was so big you could fit two-thousand-eight-hundred Lake Michigans inside it. You heard right. Twenty-eight hundred giant lakes, each about the size of West Virginia (I checked), into one humongous ocean.
Now that’s big. And a perfect example of the things you learn from reading.
Also, a great way to prep for the “Lakes and Oceans” category on Jeopardy!
Hey Alex, let’s make it a true Daily Double!
Boy, I really needed this vacation.
- 4 -
Chapter 2
Burbank, California
Margaret watched the lighted numbers on her nightstand clock click to 10:31 p.m.—the earliest she’d been to bed all summer.
Usually, when school was out she never hit the pillow before midnight. But tomorrow she and her mom were picking up her cousin at the airport, and though they were close in age (she was six months older), they’d never actually met, just exchanged a few birthday greetings by phone. Which meant it was going to be weird, and Margaret figured the best way to prep for weird was at least getting a decent night’s sleep.
Jeffrey’s parents—Uncle Eddie and Aunt Karen (her mom’s sister)—were getting divorced and shipping him out for this last week of summer vacation. They were calling it his early birthday present but Margaret knew better. Nothing says “birthday present” like getting shoved off for a week in Burbank with distant relatives so you’ll forget your parents are splitting up and throwing you to the wolves.
Making matters worse, Margaret wasn’t what you’d call a people person. More of a no-people person. Something she totally blamed on her first name which she’d hated since birth. Because when you start life hating what everyone calls you, it’s only a matter of time before you start hating everyone who calls you that.
In fact, until she was six she couldn’t even say her own name, at least not so you’d recognize it. It always came out more like Naagit, which actually sounded a whole lot better than Margaret anyway.
And the “standard” nicknames weren’t any better. Margie? Maggie? Margo? Seriously? Picking one of those was like having to pick which eye to poke out.
Then right before school ended, some idiot in her algebra class started calling her Maggots. Great. Another one to flush down the toilet. Her best hope was that, with high school starting soon, the name-calling might stop. Though probably not. As a lifelong Margaret, she knew firsthand classmates rarely stopped being mean because they got older. They just got sneakier—less in your face, more behind your back.
All of which summed up why Margaret was a loner, always had been, always would be, and proud of it. Ever since her dad died when she was four it had been just her and her mom. Which was fine, mostly, though sometimes a tad boring, adding yet another reason she hoped Jeffrey wasn’t too weird.
Quirky, she could handle.
Freakishly creepy, not so much.
Unfortunately, he already had three strikes against him—a tweener, she’d never met, from Iowa—so she wasn’t holding her breath.
Though at least she’d have company for a while.
Sometimes even loners needed that.
- 5 -
Chapter 3
Sunday
Jeffrey
The girl sitting next to me was hot.
Not sweaty hot. Wow hot. If anyone was sweating, it was me—because of the Dream Girl sitting next to me.
She was already on the plane when I boarded, and I could tell she was from California. Probably on her way home from somewhere. Nothing specific, she just had that breezy California look. Reminded me a little of that actress who played Storm in the X-Men movies—Halle something. A younger, softer version. Caramel skin, perfect cheekbones, electric eyes, killer smile. You get the picture.
I had the window seat, so when she leaned in to watch us taxi down the runway, she was so close I could feel her breath on my left ear. Of course I pretended not to notice, kept staring out my window. Not that I minded, staring out my window, since this was my first plane ride and there was plenty to see (though the best view was sitting right next to me).
I figured she was slightly older than me, not by much, and definitely not a big deal. I was also pretty sure she was alone because when the older guy in the aisle seat next to her tried to make conversation, she shushed him and he shut right up. I didn’t think a friend or relative would take attitude like that without saying something.
When we stopped taxiing, I leaned back against my seat to cleverly watch her out of the corner of my eye. She was playing with her phone.
“You’ll have to turn that off now, young lady,” the flight attendant warned, hovering over our row. I decided that was a good thing. If she couldn’t use her phone maybe she’d give me a shot. Could happen.
Once we were airborne, I grabbed the travel magazine from the front seat pouch and began flipping through it—too fast to look real but I couldn’t help it. I also leaned back again, hoping to repeat my little corner-of-the-eye trick. Only this time it didn’t work because she was leaning back too.
So I kept page-flipping.
It happened on page fifty-four, a colorful double-page ad for Hawaii.
“Speed-reader, uh?”
Omigod. She was talking to me.
Naturally I froze, afraid to look up, eyes riveted to the happy luau scene in my magazine. Until I heard a vaguely familiar voice mutter, “Not really.”
Very slick, Jeffrey.
I closed my magazine, tucking it slowly back in the pouch to buy myself time to think of something more clever to say. Luckily, she came to the rescue before I bombed out again.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude. You just seemed a little… tense.” She nodded to the magazine in the pouch. “You were really workin’ those pages, and I couldn’t help wondering if it was the take-off… or me?”
Whoa. Did not see that coming.
“Truthfully?” I asked, again buying time.
“No lie to me,” she grinned. “What, you think I missed that corner-of-the-eye thing?”
So much for clever.
I shrugged. “Then I guess maybe a little of both.”
I’d read somewhere that honesty was a good way to connect with girls—that and puppies—so this was me doing my best honesty.
“A little of both?” she repeated.
“Well, this is my first plane ride.”
Her eyebrows shot up, which was fun to watch.
“Wow,” she whispered. She chewed on her lower lip. “So what about the ‘both’ part?”
Uh oh. Too Much Honesty.
“Okay, well yeah, probably a little bit you, too... but in a good way.” I felt my face flush. “Sorry. I’m not exactly Mr. Smooth, in case you couldn’t tell.”
She giggled at that. But not a mean giggle. A cute little adorable giggle.
“Not Mr. Smooth, eh? Well, I’ll take that as a good thing.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Diana.”
I looked down like I wasn’t sure what it was.
“Don’t worry, I won’t bite.”
Ouch. I reached out and shook it, then immediately launched into my default babble mode.
“Nice-to-meet-you-I’m-Jeffrey-James-and-you’re-the-first-Diana-I’ve-ever-known-I-mean-met-in-person-are-you-from-California?”
All that blasted out in one garbled, cringy breath—while still pumping her hand, which I instantly stopped doing as soon as I realized I was still doing it, before adding, “I’m from Iowa.”
Yeah, I really said that.
But, again, she just smiled. Adorably.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you too, ‘Jeffrey James from Iowa.’ And, yes, I am from California, born and raised. By the way, I love your name. Cute and catchy, unlike mine.”
I gave her a look. “What’s wrong with Diana?”
She rolled her eyes. “Mom was a big Diana Ross fan. You know, The Supremes? Back in the Ice Age?” She chuckled. “She apparently got that from her mother. Anyway, who wants to be named after an ancient pop star? How’d you like walking around as Elvis?”
I shrugged. “No worse than two first names with the same first letter.”
She snickered. “That’s what makes it so cute.”
“Yeah, me and Billy Bob,” I mumbled, prompting another little giggle.
“Plus, Diana’s too boring.”
My eyes widened. “Boring? Are you kidding? What about Princess Di? Or that Roman Moon Goddess?” I paused. “Or Wonder Woman?”
She gawked at me like I’d popped a second head.
“Wonder Woman?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Guess what her real name was, or is? I’m not sure whether superheroes are past or present. Anyway, when she’s not Wonder Woman-ing?”
“I’m gonna take a wild stab and say Diana?”
“Bingo! Diana of Themyscira.”
She wrinkled her forehead so I repeated it in syllables.
“Thuh-MEZ-ki-ra—where Wonder Woman and her sister Amazons are from. Also called Paradise Island.”
She jerked back. “Whoa, moon goddesses and superheroes? You must read a lot.” She thought for a moment. “But wasn’t Wonder Woman white?”
“Hey, superheroes can be any color they want. Think Black Panther, Storm, Lion Man.”
“Lion Man?”
I nodded again. “Pretty sure he was around even before your prehistoric Supremes.” I paused to let my vast comic book knowledge sink in. “Surely you don’t think all caped crusaders come in one flavor?”
Which earned me an actual Laugh-Out-Loud. The Nerd from Iowa made Wonder Woman laugh.
The Love Gods were smiling down on me.
My fantasy flight ended way too soon. Still, by the time we landed I’d learned a lot about the new love of my life.
She was fourteen and returning to California from New York where her mom lived. Her parents were divorced (the one thing we almost had in common), and she and her dad lived in Brentwood (a ritzy town by Beverly Hills I’d read about during my pre-trip research). I think she also mentioned her father was a lawyer, but I’m not sure. Once those heart-stopping eyes lasered in on me, my concentration kinda crumbled.
When she told me all this stuff, she never seemed to be bragging. More like it was all silly and boring. But it was while we were taxiing to the terminal that things really got wacky, because that’s when she suggested we trade phone numbers.
I swear.
And while still recovering from that, I think she said something about calling if I needed a tour guide, though—between those laser eyes and the plane’s air pressure—I may have hallucinated that last part.
But I nodded anyway, like I got such offers all the time. Why not play along, right? Even though I knew she was either joking or being polite and that as soon as we got off the plane, that would be it. Bye, have a nice life.
I mean, come on. The Moon Goddess from Brentwood offering the Babbling Idiot from Nowhere a tour of LA? What could possibly be wrong with that picture?
We walked off the plane together. I’d never experienced anything like that, walking off the plane—walking anywhere—with someone like Diana by my side. Now I know how Thor feels when he blasts through enemy walls. Jeffrey James, Master of the Universe.
As we entered the main terminal, she started waving to a man obviously waiting for her. About my mom’s age and very California-Cool. Dark wavy hair, movie-star tan, faded jeans, untucked cream-colored shirt, loafers with no socks—and the whitest teeth ever. Piano-keys white.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Ty. My driver. Actually, kinda my substitute dad, since my real one—bless his little heart—travels on business a lot.” Waving to Mr. Cool, she added, “He lives on the property.”
Her driver. Substitute dad. Lives on the property.
Welcome to California.
As she walked toward him, she glanced back and gave me one of those California half-smiles. So I fired one back, my best Midwestern hey-I-do-this-all-the-time-and-you’re-not-breaking-my-heart smirk, though I don’t think it worked.
Scanning the terminal for my own driver, I spotted a girl about my age standing next to, I was pretty sure, my Aunt Susan. At least they were both looking at me and the woman was waving and smiling. Not so much the girl who looked like she might’ve eaten something bad and was trying not to puke.
Offering a small wave back, I took one last look at my Dream Girl as she and her Crest-whitened substitute dad faded into the sunset (actually, down the escalator), then walked over to my new substitute family.
And the strangest/best week of my life.
- 6 -
Chapter 4
The first hint that something was up with Jeffrey’s new phone happened in the airport parking lot.
As they neared Aunt Susan’s car, Jeffrey’s pocket buzzed. Pulling out his new device, he saw the missed-text icon. Hoping it was Diana telling him how much she already missed him, he tapped it. But instead of a text, the screen displayed a single character: ∅
After climbing into the back seat, he showed it to his cousin. “Any idea what this means?”
Margaret looked, then shook her head. “Just re-boot it.”
When he did, the symbol was gone, so he put his phone away, buckled up, and let the moment pass.
To a kid from Iowa, the drive from the airport to Aunt Susan’s was like a fifty-minute carnival ride. The LA freeway system was a non-stop maze of twists, turns, skylines, graffiti, endless billboards, and more cars than he’d ever seen at one time—making polite conversation with his hosts nearly impossible.
Once they finally got off the freeway, Aunt Susan drove into a cozy neighborhood of single-family homes. Pulling into their driveway, Jeffrey noticed potted plants on the porch and a large tree in the front yard. He commented the tree looked perfect for climbing.
“It’s a California Pepper Tree,” Margaret advised. “Got another one out back.” She almost smiled. “And this street is Pepper Street.”
Jeffrey shook his head. “Only in LA.”
“Burbank, actually.”
“What’s the difference?”
Which brought up the whole LA Thing—Margaret explaining how what outsiders called “LA” was really a giant patchwork of eighty-eight separate cities, with two hundred more “semi-cities” (places with their own names, acting like cities), all lumped together as “Los Angeles.”
“Some of them—like Burbank and Beverly Hills—aren’t even part of LA,” she told him. “At least not the actual city; they’ve got their own mayors and fire departments and such. While others—like Hollywood and Westwood—are part of LA, but pretend they’re not by using local names instead.”
It was all way too confusing for a boy who grew up in one town with one name. Des Moines, period. Not a pretend city, or a city in a city, or a city with a name it really wasn’t.
Still, this was great Jeopardy! data. Eighty-eight cities, two hundred fake cities. Hollywood was LA, Burbank wasn’t.
“How do you know all those details?” Jeffrey asked.
“Did a report last year in my Social Studies class. My one big A of the year.”
She got out. Jeffrey grabbed his backpack and suitcase and followed her up to the porch. Aunt Susan unlocked the front door and went inside, but Margaret told him to leave his things there and led him around a side gate to the backyard.
It was bigger than he expected. A concrete patch about the size of a volleyball court took up the center, surrounded by plants and shrubbery, with a basketball hoop and backboard at the far end. But what really caught his eye was the little house off to the side shaded by their other pepper tree. A real house, not a playhouse or dollhouse. With shingled roof, glass windows, even a welcome mat.
Margaret led him to its front door, pulled out a key, unlocked it, and stepped inside. Motioning around the room, she announced, “Welcome to Margaretville.”
Jeffrey walked through the doorway into a fully furnished bedroom/living room combo—complete with couch, carpets, bed, armchair, coffee table, desk, dresser, mini-fridge in the corner, and cute little bathroom.
“You live here?” he asked.
Margaret nodded.
He stared at her. “By yourself?”
She nodded again. “We call it the guesthouse, but I’m its only guest.”
Jeffrey was speechless. His thirteen-year-old cousin lived in her own house!
After locking up, Margaret led him through the back door of the main house and down a hallway to his bedroom for the week. About the same size as his room back home, there was a bed and nightstand on one side, a desk and dresser on the other, and a window facing the backyard.
He walked to the open window and looked out. In the distance, huge blue-gray mountains encircled the neighborhood. It was why they called this part of LA—okay, Burbank—“the Valley.” Gazing off at the massive hills, he thought of all the awesome places just beyond: Hollywood, the entertainment capital of the world; Beverly Hills, home to the rich and famous; and his new favorite, Brentwood, the land of Diana.
But mostly he imagined the one thing that truly made California California, mere miles from where he now stood: The Mighty Pacific.
He could hardly wait.
His day had begun a world away. In a flat, landlocked place best known as the Hog Capital of America. Fast-forward a few hours, and here he now stood looking out over the City of Angels, where shining beaches, magic mountains, and perfect weather made dreams come true.
He sucked in a breath of warm California air and sighed.
From pigs to paradise faster than that trip to Lake Michigan.
- 7 -
Chapter 5
Margaret was pleasantly surprised. Her cousin wasn’t freakishly creepy. Actually, he was much easier to talk to than she expected. Usually, she had trouble with kids her age. Okay, with kids any age. But once she and Jeffrey got talking, she realized how much they had in common.
He grew up an only child, now lived with only his mom, and admitted being a little uncomfortable around most people (though after seeing him with that babe at the airport, that last one could be changing).
All of which perfectly described Margaret: no siblings, just she and her mom, and when it came to making nice with others, well, that’s why loners were called loners.
After dinner, Margaret kept Jeffrey company in his new bedroom while he unpacked. As he transferred a pile of T-shirts from his suitcase to the dresser, she walked to the desk where he’d stacked four books he’d brought. Picking up the top one, she began thumbing through it.
“You gonna read all these?”
He shut the top drawer and looked over.
“Probably not. Just habit, I guess. In case I got bored.” He nodded toward the open window. “Which I’m pretty sure ain’t gonna happen.” Then he noticed the book she was holding—The Wizard of Oz. “Well, except for that one. That's my all-time fave, probably read it a dozen times.”
“Then why bring it?”
“It’s my block-buster.”
“Huh?”
“Writer’s block. When I’m stuck and need a push.”
She still looked confused.
“You know, when you’re staring at a blank page, trying to write something, but your head’s totally empty?”
“Sounds like me in Algebra.”
He grinned. “I brought it in case I do some writing, maybe a travel journal or something.” He grabbed a load of socks and the phone handbook he’d brought and dropped them into the second drawer. “Whenever I need a little writing push, I whip it out, skim a few pages, and, poof, my mind starts chuggin’ again. I think Baum was a genius.”
She gave him another blank look.
“L. Frank Baum—the guy who wrote it. The Wizard of Oz. Well, actually, its real title was The Wonderful Wizard of Oz but they shortened it for the movie. Anyway, it always reminds me of why I love writing. I mean, flying monkeys? melting witches? magic slippers? Written more than a century ago? Before movies and cars and Xboxes?” He shook his head. “Still blows my mind.”
Margaret flipped through the pages, stopping at a color drawing of the four main characters—Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and Lion—strolling down the Yellow Brick Road. She thought back to the first time she saw the movie. Sweet memories. Christmas Eve, she was three or four, snuggled safely between her mom and dad on the couch. Everything perfect. A long, happy time ago.
Snapping back to the present, she noticed a blue bookmark a few pages past the Yellow Brick Road picture and pulled it out. Jeffrey’s name and the year were printed across the top. She held it up. “What’s this?”
Glancing up briefly, he returned to unpacking. “Nothing,” he mumbled.
“Well, ‘nothing’s’ got your name on it,” she teased.
“It’s for reading... books.”
“Really? How many?”
He shrugged. “Thirty-one.”
Her eyes darted from the bookmark to him. “In one year? Thirty-one actual books? Are you kidding me? I doubt I’ve read that many my whole life. What are you, some kinda speed-reader?”
He smiled. “Second time I’ve heard that today.”
She shook her head, slid the bookmark back, and returned the book to the stack. “Heck, the only things I’ve ever won are those fake tattoos my dentist gives out after cleaning my teeth.”
Jeffrey snickered, dumping the few remaining items he’d packed onto the bed and zipping up his suitcase. “Well, you can read any of those you want. I could even leave them and you could mail them back later. Well, except for Oz.”
He walked to the window and peered out. “Truth is, when you live in Iowa, have no friends, and hate video games, you either die of boredom or read a lot.”
“Well, join the crowd,” Margaret said, “at least the no-friends part. Well, people ones anyway.”
He turned. “What’s that mean?”
“I volunteer at an animal shelter. So my buds are the four-legged kind, which I actually prefer. They don’t call you names and are always glad to see you. Well, the dogs anyway. Not so much the cats. Well, some of them even.”
“Hey, I like that. Working at an animal shelter. But why no friends? I mean, you live in California. How could you not have friends?”
She gave him a look. “Seriously?” She pointed to herself with both index fingers. “Just lookee here.”
Jeffrey raised his eyebrows.
She raised hers back. “What, you think I’m joking? Hey, guess what the super-cool chicks around here do for fun? You know, ones like—I hate to say it—but like that hottie you were drooling over at the airport?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. “They trash girls like me. Then add a lame name like Margaret and, voila, welcome to my world—The No-Friends Club, Burbank Chapter.”
She blew out a breath. “You really think because I live in California I can’t be miserable like you in Corn Country?”
Jeffrey chuckled. “Corn Country?” He wagged his head. “Well, I don’t think your name’s lame, and I never said I’m miserable. Bored? Okay. But not miserable. And you shouldn’t be either.” He squinted at her, head to foot. “You seem relatively normal to me.” He broke into a grin. “But, hey, what’s a drooling dweeb from Corn Country know?”
Turning to hide her smile, Margaret started down the hallway for the kitchen. Jeffrey followed, talking the whole way.
“And I’m sure Diana wouldn’t make fun of you either. I mean, she was okay with Corn Man, right? So why not his poor pathetic cousin?”
Margaret’s hidden smile widened.
The boy did grow on you.
In the kitchen, Margaret boiled water for two hot chocolates while Jeffrey sat at the table and called his mom. Tried to anyway. His first attempt was a wrong number. Getting through on his second try, Karen sounded exhausted. Besides the two-hour time difference, she reminded him about their neighbor’s birthday party she’d hosted that night. So he kept the conversation short: nice flight, safe at Margaret’s, ate dinner, great weather.
After he hung up, Margaret brought two steaming mugs to the table. While waiting for them to cool, she surprised him by suggesting they organize their next day’s schedule. Of course, once he mentioned never seeing the ocean, it was a no-brainer.
“Santa Monica here we come!” Margaret chanted. She said it was her go-to beach, on a bus route she used regularly, then got him really fired up by providing juicy details of their trip:
In the morning, they’d catch the bus around the corner and take it out of the Valley into Hollywood (she told him “the Valley” meant the San Fernando Valley, but Jeffrey already knew that). In Hollywood, they’d get off at Hollywood and Vine—one block past the Capital Records Building (that place shaped like a stack of old vinyl records seen in practically every Hollywood photo)—and walk down the boulevard to the Kodak Theatre.
“The Kodak Theatre,” Jeffrey whispered. Even dorks from Des Moines knew of that place—all the big-time events televised from there. Movie awards, concerts, American Idol.
From there, a second bus would take them all the way down Santa Monica Boulevard, along the last mile of historic Route 66, to Ocean Avenue.
“And that’s it! Walking distance from there to the big blue ocean!”
She rose from the table and collected their empty mugs. “It may not be the fastest route, but it’s definitely more fun than the freeway or train.” She finally grinned. “And those Midwestern toes will touch beach sand by noon.”
Sweet.
****
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About The Author
Josh Eber is the pen name for a San Diego writer, lawyer, and businessman who prefers keeping his fictional world separate from his real one (though the former grounds the latter). He’s authored multiple books across genres under various names.
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