Джеймс Паттерсон - First Love

At lunchtime we finally stopped in the town of Mount Shasta, California. It was tucked into the lower slope of a mountain, a giant, snow-streaked peak that’s supposedly some kind of cosmic power center.

Yeah, you heard me right.

If you believe local legend, it’s home to an ancient race of superhumans called Lemurians, who live in underground tunnels but surface every once in a while, seven feet tall and decked out in white robes. In other words, Mount Shasta is totally unlike Klamath Falls, which is the world’s capital of monotony and is home to guys with names like Critter and Duke.

Also, UFOs have allegedly landed on Mount Shasta. And that’s just the tip of the bizarro iceberg.

Even the smiling attendant at the Shell station was wearing a giant amethyst crystal around his neck and had a chakra diagram on his T-shirt.

Robinson returned the attendant’s blissed-out grin, but his didn’t come from Mount Shasta’s cosmic power rays. It came from the Harley. He struck a pose, one hand on the gas tank, a thumb hooked in his belt loop, and offered me a goofy Hollywood sneer. “Am I James Dean or what? Rebel Without a Cause ?”

I squinted at him. Though I would never admit it, Robinson kind of looked like he could be a movie star. Sure, he was a little on the skinny side, but that face of his? It belonged on a poster tacked to a tween girl’s bedroom wall.

“James Dean died in a car crash. You know, because he was speeding ,” I said. My legs were trembling so much I could barely stand. The thundering rumble of the engine had burrowed into my bones.

“I only sped once,” Robinson countered. “I had to see what this bad boy could do.”

“Once was plenty,” I shot back, trying to sound stern. I’d loved it, sure. Because ohmygod it felt like flying. But I was pretty sure that—like paragliding or jumping out of an airplane—going 110 on the back of a stolen Harley was the sort of thing you only needed to do once.

Robinson walked into the station to pay for the gas and emerged with two Vitaminwaters and a Slim Jim, which, if you ask me, is like eating a pepperoni-flavored garden hose. But Robinson had loved horrible food for as long as I’d known him.

We took a little stroll into the town center. There was a guy wearing a sandwich board that read ARE YOU SAVED? But instead of a picture of Jesus or angels, there was a drawing of a green-skinned alien holding up two fingers in a peace sign. Robinson stopped to talk to him. Of course.

I ducked into a health food store that smelled like patchouli and nutritional yeast and got some vegetables for our dinner. When I came outside, Robinson was reading a flyer that the man had given him.

“We could go on a spirit quest,” he said. “Meet our Star Elders.”

“No way, Scalawag,” I said, snatching the pamphlet from him and tossing it into a recycling bin. “As fascinating as that sounds, I spent months planning this trip, and last I checked, communing with our so-called Star Elders was not on the to-do list.”

“Well, neither was stealing a motorcycle, and look how well that turned out.”

He looked pretty proud of himself for that comeback.

“Okay, fine,” I acknowledged. “It’s been great so far. But we can’t ride a hot bike across the country. For one thing, we’ll get caught. And for another, I don’t think my butt can take it.”

Robinson laughed. “You actually look kind of annoyed right now. Are you?”

“No,” I lied. “But next time, I pick the ride.”

“Oh, Axi—” he began.

“I don’t want this trip to be a huge mistake, okay?” I interrupted. “I’m not interested in jail time.”

Robinson leaned over and plucked a swirly glass orb from the sidewalk display in front of the Soul Connections gift shop. He waved it in front of my face. “By everything that is cosmic and weird and awesome, I banish all doubts from your mind.” He glanced at the price tag. “Only five ninety-five. A bargain!”

He dashed into the store and a moment later reappeared with the orb nestled in a purple velvet bag. He placed it in my hands. “This is magic,” he said. “It will keep you from ever being annoyed at me again.”

“Don’t count on it,” I said drily. But I couldn’t help smiling at him. “Thanks. It’s really pretty.”

“Axi,” Robinson said, his voice softer now, “if this trip is a mistake, it’s the best one we’ll ever make.”

And somehow, by the look he gave me then, I knew he was right.

7

BY THE TIME WE STOPPED AT A CAMPGROUND in Humboldt Redwoods State Park, we’d been driving for seven hours. Robinson had stuck to the back roads, and I wasn’t complaining. My fear of getting pulled over by cops looking for a black Harley with an Oregon plate hadn’t completely disappeared, but I was thinking about it less as we got farther and farther from home.

The sun was low above the horizon when we pulled into the park, and it vanished completely as we entered the green canopy of trees. Robinson let out a low whistle as the shadows enveloped us.

Old-growth redwoods. How can I even describe them? They towered above us darkly, and they felt alive . Not alive like regular trees, but alive like they had souls. Like they were wise, ancient creatures, watching with only the faintest hint of interest as two road-weary teenagers walked beneath them. The air was cool and slightly damp, and the silence was profound. I felt like we were in church.

“I totally understand the whole Druid thing now,” Robinson whispered.

“I think the Druids actually worshipped oak trees,” I noted. “They didn’t have redwoods in ancient Ireland.”

“Smarty-pants,” Robinson said, poking me.

I put my hand on a rough, cool trunk. “Majestic tranquillity,” I said softly, seeing how the words felt in my mouth. A little too pretentious: I wouldn’t be writing that down in my journal. But there were real writers who’d seen redwoods like these, and I could steal from them, couldn’t I? “ ‘They are not like any trees we know, they are ambassadors from another time,’ ” I said.

“Huh?” said Robinson.

“John Steinbeck wrote that in Travels with Charley .”

He sighed. “Another one of the books you gave me—”

“That you didn’t read.”

Robinson used to pretend he felt guilty about ignoring the stacks of books I passed to him, but eventually he stopped bothering. “I thought I was supposed to read East of Eden first,” he said.

“Let me know when you get to it,” I said. “I won’t hold my breath.”

“Well, you can let me know when you listen to that Will Oldham CD I got you.”

“I put it on my iPod but, as you know, it’s broken,” I pointed out. “Your eyeballs work just fine.”

We found our campsite then, a small clearing surrounded by a ring of redwoods, with a picnic bench, a fire pit, and a spigot for cold, clear water. I unhooked my tent from the backpack. It was an army-green miracle of engineering: big enough to contain two people and their sleeping bags, it weighed less than a pound and, folded up, fit into a bag the size of a loaf of Wonder Bread. Robinson eyed it, impressed.

“Watch how I set this up,” I directed. “Because tomorrow night it’s your job.”

“I thought it was the woman’s job to keep house and the man’s job to hunt for food,” he said, grinning slyly.

I snorted. “Are you planning to kill an elk with your screwdriver? Good luck.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a squirrel,” he said, but even that was ridiculous, because Robinson would never hurt anything. I mean, the guy had to grit his teeth to kill a mosquito.

I unpacked the veggies I’d bought, plus a hunk of aged Gouda and a bag of lavash, the thin flatbread I love and couldn’t get in Klamath Falls because apparently it was too exotic .