“Is it the coffee?” Josh says. “Did I mess up? Too much sugar?”
“No, it’s fine. It’s great, actually.”
Charlie pretends to take a long, satisfied swig. As she does, a thought hits her.
Maybe Josh’s driver’s license is fake. There’s nothing suspicious about that. After all, Charlie herself has a fake ID, procured freshman year through the friend of a friend of a guy Maddy knew from one of her theater classes. It’s the one the police didn’t care about.
But unlike her, Josh doesn’t need a fake ID. He’s clearly over twenty-one, which makes Charlie wonder why he has it. Sentimental reasons, maybe. Yet that still doesn’t make sense. Even if she understood the idea of keeping a fake ID from your youth, which she doesn’t, it doesn’t explain why Josh carries it in the spot in his wallet reserved for his real driver’s license. Then there’s the date Charlie saw. It’s current. There’s no way a fake ID from five, maybe even ten years ago would sport that date. Also, Josh looked the same age in the license photo as he does now. Unless he’s a vampire, something else is going on here.
“Mind if I play some music?” Josh says.
“Yes.”
“So that’s a no on the music?”
“No. On the no, I mean.” Charlie hears the anxiety in her voice. She’s flustered. Knowing Movie Charlie never got that way, she takes a breath and says, “What I mean is yes, play some music. Whatever you want.”
“You’re my guest,” Josh says. “What do you like? And please don’t say Paula Abdul. Or, worse, Amy Grant.”
Charlie, who saves all her strong opinions for films, doesn’t know what music she likes. She always listened to whatever Maddy was playing, which meant moody alternative pop. The Cure, of course, but also New Order, Depeche Mode, a little R.E.M. Charlie stole one of Maddy’s mixtapes just before her stepfather arrived to collect her things from the dorm. She occasionally listened to it and pretended Maddy was in the room with her.
“I have no preference,” she says. “Truly.”
“Driver’s choice, then.”
Josh flips open the console separating them. When the lid bumps Charlie’s arm, she recoils, startled.
“Wow, you’re jumpy,” Josh says.
Yes. Yes, she is. And it’s showing, which needs to stop immediately. Charlie gives him a tight-lipped smile and says, “I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. My bad.”
“No worries.”
He pulls a plastic cassette case from the console. The cover sleeve shows a naked baby submerged in water, swimming toward a dollar bill on a fishhook. Charlie’s seen the image before. One of the RAs in her dorm has a poster of it on her wall.
Josh pops the cassette into the car’s tape deck and presses play. An aggressive guitar riff fills the car, followed by a blitz of drums and, hot on its heels, an explosion of sound. Then everything settles into a drumbeat as quick and steady as a runner’s post-sprint heart rate.
Charlie knows the song. “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” She’d heard it several times thumping through the wall of the dorm room next door. But now, unmuffled, it feels like a primal roar, urging her to scream along.
“I love these guys,” Josh says. “They’re awesome.”
While Charlie wouldn’t go that far, she appreciates how the music fills the car, eliminating the need to talk. Now she can just sit here and continue to think about Josh/Jake/Whoever and his driver’s license.
Sure enough, another theory presents itself: Josh isn’t a legal resident and needs a fake license to drive. That would explain the date. And the picture. And maybe even why it’s a Pennsylvania license and not from New Jersey or Ohio.
Charlie thinks back to an hour ago, when Josh picked her up. She didn’t look at the Grand Am’s license plate. It never occurred to her to do so. She was too focused on checking the rest of the car for signs she should turn around and leave. If she had and seen Pennsylvania plates, then she’d know for certain Josh is lying about his name.
But she didn’t look. Not then and not when he was inside the 7-Eleven. Until they stop again—which could be hours—the only way to find out where the car is registered is to check his insurance and registration cards.
Which, Charlie realizes, could be anywhere. Her parents kept theirs in the glove compartment. Nana Norma keeps hers in her purse. And Maddy, who drove an ugly orange Volkswagen Beetle she’d dubbed Pumpkin, stashed hers behind the driver’s-side visor.
Charlie eyes the closed door of the glove compartment, mere inches from her knees. She can’t open it. Not right now. Not without making Josh wonder why she felt compelled to start rifling through it. The same goes for his wallet, which now sits stubbornly on the dashboard, not moving a millimeter.
Right now, she has no other option but to sit quietly as Josh taps the steering wheel in time to the music. Watching him makes Charlie think back to the driving lessons with her father and how he’d toss out questions as she tried to parallel park or enact a three-point turn. What’s the speed limit in a school zone when students are arriving? When driving in fog, should your headlights be at high beam or low beam? Always come to a complete stop at a yield sign: true or false?
Charlie knew the answers. She’d all but memorized her driver’s ed manual. But with most of her brain concentrating on driving, the correct responses eluded her. She messed up. Or got flustered. Or tossed out an answer she knew was wrong just because she felt compelled to say something.
She knows Josh is lying to her. At least, she assumes he is. All she needs is proof. And while she might not be able to root around in his wallet and glove compartment, she can ask questions while he’s distracted and hope the truth emerges.
That sounds like something else Movie Charlie would do. Toss out a few innocent-sounding questions. Ones that won’t make Josh suspect her motives. They might lead to nothing. But they can’t hurt. It’s certainly better than just sitting here.
“I just realized something,” she says, talking over the music. “I don’t know your last name.”
“Really? I never told you?”
“Nope.”
Josh takes a sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving the road. Charlie wonders if not glancing her way is a sign of disinterest or a sign he knows what she’s thinking and doesn’t want to add fuel to her suspicion.
“I don’t think you ever told me yours,” he says.
“It’s Jordan,” Charlie says.
“Mine’s Baxter.”
Josh Baxter.
Charlie takes in the name, stoic, even as a small bubble of disappointment pops in her chest. She truly hoped he’d say Collins, which would then make her think that Josh was some sort of nickname. Maybe a middle name he preferred over his first one, like the girl in her dorm whose unfortunate first name was Bunny but demanded everyone use her middle name, Megan. It wouldn’t have explained everything, but at least it would have calmed her some. Now she’s the opposite of calm, simmering with dread that she’s really on to something.