Free When the World was Flat (and we were in love) by Ingrid Jonach Page B

cell,” I told Deb, as I dropped the necklace on the table. I raced down the hallway and barreled past Jackson. “Hi.”
    â€œHi,” he responded, surprised by my speedy getaway. “I thought your mom would want to meet me, check my license and registration, and all that. Maybe call the cops to check my record, which is clean, by the way.”
    I laughed. “If you knew my mother you would know how silly that sounds.”
    â€œHmmm…” He made a show of racking his memory, putting a closed fist under his chin and squinting up at the sky. “Happy pants? Peace beads? Camper van?”
    I laughed again. “OK. You remember Deb.”
    â€œI remember she came to school in third grade to teach us how to tie-dye T-shirts.”
    I cringed. “Really?”
    â€œAnd she took you and Jo to one of those Rainbow Retreats at Elkhorn Crossing after fifth grade. You guys were gone for like half the summer,” he said as he opened the passenger door.
    â€œWow. What a memory,” I said, as I sank into the passenger seat. I wondered whether I should be worried and my mind went to my stalker, the man-slash-woman in the balaclava. A cold shiver ran down my spine and I closed my eyes, conjuring up the red light of my aura and doing aura aerobics until my body temperature rose a few degrees. I know. Just call me Deb.
    Jackson drove an old hatchback which was off-white with pockets of rust on the hood and side panels. The tan seat covers sagged like granny panties under my body weight.
    He was as tight-lipped about our destination as he had been at school.
    â€œYou realize I know these roads like the back of my hand,” I told him, as he turned onto a road that led to the railroad crossing. “This road goes to the vineyards.”
    He frowned. “I should have blindfolded you.”
    â€œWhat can I say? Sixteen years in Green Grove versus…?”
    â€œEleven.” He paused to check for trains, before driving across the tracks. The railroad crossing marked where the landscape went from sepia to color, as we went from the dustbowl that was Green Grove into a world without water restrictions.
    The Open Valley had been a well-known wine region before prohibition in 1920. They had reopened it in the Eighties, dividing the private estate into seven wineries again. The valley was as refreshing as a cool glass of water on a stinking hot day. Yes, the vineyards themselves – row after row of grapevines – could get old, but there were also the formal gardens that belonged to a few of the wineries and the old brickworks, on which I had used up a ton of film over the years.
    We passed a couple of vehicles as we drove down the narrow avenues, out-of-towners on a weekend getaway. Jackson hugged the side of the road as a red SUV flew by and a white sedan followed, throwing up pebbles. I flinched as they sprayed against the side of the hatchback like a hail of bullets.
    Jackson laughed. “Are you worried about the paintwork?”
    I smiled, but sudden sounds were not my friend at the moment. Last night Deb had dropped a spoon on the floor with a clatter and I almost had to breathe into a paper bag for half an hour afterwards, as if the man-or-woman in the balaclava was going to spoon me to death.
    I shifted my attention to the window and saw that Jackson had put ten miles or so between us and Green Grove. Here the road merged into one lane with ponderosa pines crowding us on either side. I wondered what would happen if we came across an SUV now. Not that we would. If Green Grove was the middle of nowhere, then this was the middle of the middle of nowhere. All we needed now was an abandoned farmhouse.
    My eyes moved to Jackson, who was humming off-key and nodding his head in time to the music that blared from the radio. The speakers crackled with the heavy bass as his fingers tapped the steering wheel. They were slender, like the hands of the man-slash-woman in the