Ride with me, p.1
Ride With Me, page 1
Dedication
To my mother, Marty Keating, who makes us see the humor and magic in everything
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Lucy Keating
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
IF YOU WERE TO ASK ME ABOUT MY HOME, CHESTER Falls, Massachusetts—though I’m honestly not sure why you would, because that would mean you somehow knew it existed in the first place—I would direct you, first, to the town paper. The back page of the Chester Falls Gazette gives a rundown of every crime that has happened in our tiny town that week, and has included the following incidents:
On October 22, a geriatric sheepdog from a nearby farm wandered into a woman’s home and refused to leave. The police were unable to get the animal out, so it remained there on her love seat for the next three hours, watching daytime TV, until its owner came and lured it home with a piece of turkey bacon.
On February 19, a prized alpaca got loose from its pen and went slipping and sliding out in the middle of frozen George’s Pond, and had to be rescued by a four-person team.
On April 20, a frantic caller claimed that a dangerous person was breaking into her home with a weapon. Turned out it was her husband, who had misplaced his keys after one too many beers watching the Stanley Cup Finals with his club league and brought a hockey stick home with him.
And, my personal favorite, May 5, when a travel advisory went out via SMS warning of slick road conditions after a truck carrying three thousand pounds of buttermilk overturned on Route 2.
Riveting stuff. I know.
There is one reason you might know of Chester Falls, actually: it’s the original maker of the Maple Pudding Pie, which was created by Maddie Baker in 1892, and is now sold in supermarkets across the country. If you’ve never heard of a Maple Pudding Pie, then I should tell you two things. One, it is delicious beyond words, with a layer of molasses-cookie crust, maple custard, and whipped cream, and two, it is pretty crucial to our town’s economy. Every year, nearly one hundred thousand pies are shipped nationwide. And I would know, because for the past five years, my dad has been in charge of all of those packages being on schedule—when he’s not watching TV, reading spy novels in a cozy chair in our living room, and pretending that one of these days he’s going to get back to making the wood sculptures that once made him famous. I can’t say I really blame him, though, for sitting around. Chester Falls is great. But there isn’t a whole lot to do here.
“You are going to this party, Charlie,” Sydney says to me on Friday night as we take a left onto Route 102 and start driving north toward the lake. Sydney has been my best friend since kindergarten, since her dad became our town doctor and I was rushed into his office having just eaten an entire bottle of chewable Tylenol, only to barf all over the rug before anyone could pump my stomach. Instead of laughing at me, Sydney, who was playing in the office, came over and gave me her stuffed turtle. This, I like to think, explains why we’re still friends, even though we’re more different now than ever. I enjoy taking long walks in the woods, making trips to the modern art museum in New Winsor to sketch, overthinking my problems to the point of nausea, and listening to all the obscure music I can get my hands on. Sydney prefers to stay at home learning complicated nail design techniques, watching videos of people cooking miniature-sized food, and doing butt sculpting workouts on Instagram Live.
We don’t always see eye to eye, but I’d do basically anything for her.
“When did I say I wasn’t going?” I ask her now as I fiddle with the AC. It’s the first week of April, and it feels like summer. I prefer the fall, when the trees of our mountain town change to nearly all the colors of the rainbow. Before the cold sets in and stepping a foot outside is like a shock to the system, like you might as well be diving into a frozen lake in a bikini. Which people actually do in this town. They call it the Happy Penguins Club. “I’m literally driving us there right now,” I tell Sydney.
Sydney looks out the window. “You used to love going to parties,” she sighs, like we’re a married couple on the brink of divorce.
“I still do!”
“Really? Because the past few we’ve been to, you hardly say a word, then leave early to give someone a ride home.”
I open my mouth to reply, but don’t know what to say. The truth is, I have been feeling a little over it. Like I’m waiting for my web browser to load. Like I’ve just finished season one of a great TV show, and season two still hasn’t come out.
“May I chime in?” Reggie, my fourteen-year-old neighbor, says from the back seat. He’s so small, I forgot he was there.
Sydney turns around to look at Reggie. “No,” she says. “You may not chime in.”
“Why not?” Reggie wants to know.
“Because you’re a freshman, that’s why,” Sydney replies as if that explains it. And, honestly, it should explain it. Nevertheless, I have to step in.
“Sydney. Reggie is a paying customer, just like you. If he wants to participate in our conversation, he absolutely may.” I give her a look to communicate the following: Let’s just ignore whatever he has to say.
“I liked it better when the app first came out, and you could only take one rider at a time.” Sydney crosses her arms in front of her chest. The app she is referring to is Backseat, and it’s the only way that Sydney, one of the most popular girls in our junior class, and Reggie, would ever end up in the same car in the first place, let alone on their way to a party together.
Backseat was developed as a class project by a group of seniors two years ago. They said it was an effort to reduce emissions. A small, meaningful act. Maybe people around here, who drove mostly SUVs and pickup trucks, would use less gas if they had other modes of transport. But everyone knows what it’s really for. The year before, a group of seniors were in a bad accident on one of Chester Falls’ many mountain roads, and one of them almost died. With Backseat, people are always guaranteed a safe ride home.
The app quickly became a local necessity in our town, which may have once been said to have “the quaintest main street in America,” but where the big grocery store is almost forty minutes away. Teens love Backseat because they can get wherever they want, whenever they want, without depending on their parents, or their own car, or even having to wait until they can get a license. Parents love it because they can finally have some semblance of a life again, without schlepping their kids all over town, to school, practice, and sleepovers. And, most importantly, they trust their kids will find a safe way home after a night out.
I love it because, as one of the top drivers for Backseat in our town, it’s paying my way toward the summer of a lifetime.
“But single riders made the rides twice as expensive,” I tell Sydney. “This way, everyone can use it.”
“Yeah, but now I’m showing up to the hottest spring party with a minion,” Sydney mutters.
“I resent that,” Reggie says from the back seat, peering up at her through his thick prescription glasses.
“Well, I’ve got a near perfect rating, and I’d like to keep it that way,” I say to Sydney. “Speaking of. Reggie, can I offer you a mint?”
“You may.” Reggie leans a skinny arm into the front seat and takes one. Then, unfortunately, he keeps talking: “Hoping to smooch someone tonight.”
Sydney and I grimace at each other.
“You drive a lot, Charlie?” Reggie continues.
I nod. “I try and turn the app on whenever I get in my car. Easy money.”
Reggie pops the mint in his mouth. “What do you need so much money for?”
Normally I’d tell Reggie he asks a lot of questions. But I need to keep my rating high. Backseat provides a bonus to the top drivers in town at the end of every quarter, and I could really use it. Besides, last month I had an unexpected thing happen behind the wheel, something that wasn’t even my fault. It should’ve just been a bad rating, but instead I got a full-on safety violation. You only get two, and you get suspended.
I study Reggie in the rearview mirror. He’s itty-bitty, and wide-eyed, and totally comfortable in his skin. I’m not even sure how he got an invite to this party. He hasn’t been messed up by high school yet. Maybe next year. Next year he will certainly be questioning his own existence.
“Allow me.” Sydney smirks. She turns back to Reggie. “Charlie is saving up for the Big Trip. The journey to the great beyond, if you will.”
In the rearview mirror, I se
I snort.
“No!” Sydney exclaims. “Jesus. She’s going on an actual trip. A road trip.”
“Cool!” Reggie says, talking around the mint in his mouth. “Where?”
I lean over the steering wheel, like I’m trying to follow the signs, even though I could probably drive around Chester Falls blindfolded.
“Yeah, Charlie.” Sydney tears her eyes off her phone to look at me with mock intrigue. “Where?”
I clear my throat. “I don’t actually know where. All I know is, I want to travel for a bit. Experience life beyond Chester Falls.”
Sydney sighs. “Charlie is just looking to find out who she is. And she thinks going somewhere else will help her figure that out.”
“That’s not true!” I shake my head. “I love Chester Falls! I just want to see how other people live. What other cities are like. From New Orleans to Seattle.”
“Charlie wants to be an architect,” Sydney explains. “So, she wants to see every building on earth.”
“Not all of them. Just the most interesting and important,” I tell her. “You can always come with me, you know.”
“No thanks, I’m good here.” Sydney lowers the passenger mirror and checks her lip gloss.
“Can I come?” Reggie finally asks, after a long pause.
“No,” Sydney and I both say at the same time. Then we look at each other and burst into laughter.
Chapter 2
“YESSSS!” TUCKER EXCLAIMS, ARMS RAISED ABOVE HIS head, when we walk in the door of his party, which is already filled shoulder to shoulder with people. Tucker’s mom and dad own an antique business that takes them all over the country distributing ancient milk cans and century-old doors, which means Tucker throws a lot of parties. Like, every weekend. He’d never admit it, but I think he’s afraid of being here alone, all the way out in the woods.
Now, he gives me a double high five, then adjusts his beanie. “Thank god you’re here. Thought you were off painting a giant mural or knitting another weird sweater or something.”
I give him a light shove. “You didn’t think that beanie was weird when I made it for you,” I say, pointing to his hat. “In fact, I’m pretty sure you wear it every day.”
“He definitely does,” Sydney says, running her hand over a giant wooden bird sculpture.
“Don’t touch that,” Tucker warns. “It’s from 1952. It’s worth, like, seven thousand dollars.”
Sydney looks like she could throw up. “This?”
Tucker shrugs, turning back to me. “I love my hat,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “You’re so creative, it makes my head spin. Is that what you want to hear?”
I nod. “Yes, actually.”
Tucker chuckles. “But more importantly, we have a situation.”
He points to the corner of the party, where Tessa and Marcus are having another one of their fights by the pool. Tessa’s mascara is smudged like some kind of Bachelor contestant, whereas Marcus just looks exhausted.
I heave a heavy sigh. “Oh boy.”
“Yup,” Tucker mutters. “Can you handle it? It’s really harshing the vibe.”
I look at Sydney, who rolls her eyes, like, what choice do we have? After all, she’s our best friend.
“Could he be more into you?” Sydney says under her breath as we walk away.
“That was forever ago,” I say dismissively as we speed toward Tessa and her sobs. Tucker and I kissed once at a party, which is the longest relationship I’ve ever had. He’s cute, and has a heart of gold, but he’ll always just be the guy who takes a giant bite of my hamburger before I have any for myself. The guy who lights his farts on fire for a laugh.
“Not for him,” Sydney says. “Not everyone can have Charlie Owens’s cold, cold heart.” She raises an eyebrow at me, but our attention is drawn back to the pool at the sound of Marcus’s annoyed tone.
“I. Wasn’t. Doing. Anything,” he is saying through gritted teeth.
“Yes. You. Were. Marcus! Do you think I’m an idiot? Like I haven’t seen all her likes on your pics? Like I haven’t seen your comments on her finsta? That’s right, I found it.” Tessa takes a step forward and pushes him.
Marcus closes his eyes, a prolonged blink. Then he turns our way, just as we reach them. “Can you do something about this?
“This?” Tessa says. “Oh, because I’m the problem now? The thing that needs to be dealt with. Have you ever considered the fact that I wouldn’t be such a bitch if you just treated me nicely in the first place?”
And have either of you ever considered the fact that you should’ve broken up years ago? I think silently to myself. Why do people constantly push their relationships past their expiration date?
“Whatever,” Marcus says, shaking his head. Then he walks away. But he doesn’t get far before Tessa takes a long step forward and pushes him directly into the pool.
Amid a roar of cheers, and Marcus’s indignant exclamations, Tessa turns back to us, her face softening.
“Hi,” she says. “Marcus is definitely cheating on me.”
“Hi,” we say, circling around her in a big hug as she bursts into tears.
“Don’t say it,” Tessa laments half an hour later, still sniffing as we rest, our legs entangled, on a red velvet couch in Tucker’s parents’ library. Tessa is the daughter of two farmers. She likes fresh-cut flowers, and vintage jeans, and every baby animal on earth. Tessa and I have been friends since we were practically born, since our moms met while floating their pregnant bellies in the local community pool.
Whereas Sydney is quieter and more calculating, Tessa wears her emotions on her sleeves. She is all fire. And she’s particularly fiery about her boyfriend, who she’s been with since the seventh grade. And it seems like Tessa and Marcus are the only ones who can’t see that they’ve grown apart.
Directly next to where Tessa is propped up on the couch is a large taxidermy ostrich, which someone has put a baseball cap on. Beneath our bare feet is a shag rug. Tucker said it would be okay if I took over his Spotify for a bit, and this band I’ve been listening to from Northampton is floating out of all the speakers in the house. In this moment, in this tiny room with my two best friends, away from the keg stands and the football on TV and the loud talking of my classmates, everything feels perfect.
“Don’t say what?” I shrug, playing dumb.
“You’re going to tell me to break up with him. Again.”
I shake my head. “I can’t tell you how to live your life, Tess. It just doesn’t really seem like he’s making you happy anymore. It doesn’t seem like he’s made you happy for a long time.”
Tessa buries her head in her arms. “I don’t even know who I am without Marcus.”
“None of us know who we are yet.” I roll my eyes. “If we did, that would be weird. But we have to keep looking, right?”
Just as Tessa lets out a sigh, the face of a boy appears next to the polished wooden doorframe. I recognize Andre Minasian, a senior and star midfielder on the lacrosse team. He’s also a serious skier, like a lot of the kids in our mountain town, so he only comes to about half the parties each year, because he’s always traveling to meets. But when he does show up, he parties. Hard. Rumors about Andre Minasian abound, like the time he got drunk at a party, climbed into someone’s little brother’s tree house, raised the ladder so nobody could get in, and nearly froze to death. Or the time he set up an elaborate obstacle course for four-wheelers in the woods, got concussed, didn’t tell anyone, and fainted during a lacrosse game. I’ve never been able to decide if he’s purely an adrenaline junkie, or if he’s just an idiot, but I doubt I’ll be finding out. I’m pretty sure we have nothing in common.
“What band is this?” Andre asks, scrunching up his face to hear better.
“The Moors,” I call out, surprised but also kind of pleased, glad someone around here likes my music.
Andre looks at me, nodding as he listens, and I’m just about to tell him that if he likes it, I can recommend some others, when he says, in a tone like he’s given it serious thought and is just reaching his conclusion: “. . . it kind of sucks.”
Sydney and Tessa try to hold back their snickers as Andre heads back out of the room, saying something about changing the music, because “We can do better than this,” and I feel my cheeks flush. I want to chase after him and tell him that, in fact, he sucks, that he wouldn’t know what good taste was if it bit him on his ultra-firm skier’s butt, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t care. Andre is one of those people whose good mood seems impenetrable. And that might be what annoys me the most.
