Free Perfect Escape by Jennifer Brown Page A

lips were moving. He was counting, probably backward, to make up for doing it.
    I stood in the field and looked up at the sky. It was totally clear, and in the dark, the stars stood out like Christmas lights. Had it not been cold and my eyes not been blurred from tears, it would have been beautiful. I could imagine Grayson and Zoe and me, lying on our backs in a circle, the tops of our heads touching, trying to identify the constellations. Grayson would know them all. Zoe and I would purposely mess up the names, just to frustrate him. But it would make him laugh.
    “What’s that one again?” Zoe would ask, pointing straight up. “Ursula Major?”
    “No, dummy,” I’d say, laughing. “That’s Ursula Minority.”
    Grayson would growl exasperatedly. “It’s called Ursa Major, and no, that’s not it. You’re pointing at Betelgeuse, and it’s in Orion.”
    “Yeah, Zo,” I’d say, tapping her foot with mine. “You’re thinking of the Big Dipstick.” And we’d both laugh while Grayson pretended to angrily pound his head backward into the grass, groaning, “Big Dipper, you guys, Big Dipper!”
    I would’ve given anything to have Zoe with me tonight. Grayson sure wasn’t pretending to be mad this time.
    “Well, Zo,” I said aloud, peering into the sky. “I wasn’t expecting that. What do I do now, huh? You know him as well as I do. Help a girl out a little. I need my best friend.”
    And just like that, I knew where we were going.

CHAPTER
TWELVE
    I was right—Grayson was counting backward when I got into the car. He was only on number ninety-seven, so the goal number must have been pretty low. I had a frightening second where I wondered how high Grayson could count, and if I would find out on this trip. I was pretty sure if I had to listen to it for hours on end, we’d both end up mumbling numbers to ourselves and opening and shutting our car doors 100 times each to ward off bad omens and cruel accidents.
    I couldn’t think that way. I had to have hope.
    I turned onto my knees and leaned over to the backseat. I pulled my purse off the floorboard, where it had fallen during our little trip into the field. I unzipped it and pulled out my wallet. I thumbed past my student ID, my driver’s license, and two used-up gift cards and worked my way into the pocket section of the wallet. There, tucked away byitself, was a little rectangle of paper. Zoe’s eighth-grade photo. The one she’d pressed into my palm on the day she left. The day we promised not to forget each other. I studied the photo, my finger tracing the heart-shaped jawline of my best friend. Did her hair still flow to the middle of her back, or had she gotten it cut? Had she lost baby fat or had her teeth whitened? Would I even recognize her if I saw her in a crowded mall? I turned the photo over. Scrawled on the back were these words:
Zoe
    555 Clark Street
    Citrus Heights, CA 95611
    “BFFs 4Ev!”
    I ran my finger over the letters, feeling the raised bump of the ink, then stuffed the photo back into its hiding place and zipped the purse shut, dropping it onto the floorboard behind me.
    I buckled my seat belt, put the car in drive, and thumped over the grass and onto the highway. A whine was coming from the tire on Grayson’s side, but otherwise Hunka seemed to have taken the rough ride like a champ. I stuck my hand through the hole of the steering wheel and patted the dash appreciatively.
    After several minutes, Grayson turned to me, back at zero, and said, “Just drive over the median.”
    “No.”
    “The next exit’s probably ten miles away. Nobody’ll know.”
    I was silent for a beat, sizing up my words. Grayson was thumping his thumb against his knee rhythmically. I fought the urge to mess up his rhythm, but knew that would be a bad idea. It would only serve to make the counting start up again.
    “I’m not turning around,” I finally said. My voice was steady, even, sounding much more confident than I felt. Honestly, after that