we drive through the night we might make it for that one.’
He nods.
And then a stillness settles between us. And I know it’s because talking about the bus has brought it home that, in a few hours, we’ll be saying goodbye.
He takes a paper napkin from the dispenser and folds it until it turns into a small, tight body with wings and a long, thin beak. He places it on the table and its head tilts upwards, like it’s about to take flight.
It’s amazing how he can make a cheap paper napkin from a gas station look this beautiful.
Sitting here, it’s like we’re in a bubble, our bodies pale from the fluorescent strip lights, no sound except the humming of the refrigeration units behind us.
I think about the craziness of the airport we’ve left behind and the investigation into what’s happened to the plane and the fact that I nearly crashed the car. And I think about all the wedding preparations taking place in Nashville and how Blake and I should be there. And then I look back at Christopher, folding another napkin, a second bird to accompany the first. It reminds me of the newspaper bird he made for the mother and the child back at the airport. I wonder where they are now. I wonder who they were waiting for.
Christopher’s hair falls over his glasses, and I feel like leaning forward and sweeping it away so that he can see more clearly but I don’t. Because that would be weird, right? Touching a boy I hardly know? Plus, it would make him totally freak. And I realise that right now, I need him. Like I need to go to Dad’s study sometimes. Because even though he’s not doing anything, he’s making me feel better about this shit storm of a situation.
So, instead of touching his hair, I keep watching him. It’s kind of soothing, how precise he is – and how focused. Like, while he’s folding, nothing else in the world exists.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’ I ask.
He stops folding and looks up at me.
‘Do what?’
‘Those models you make.’
‘Models?’
‘Out of paper.’
‘These?’ He looks down at the paper birds. ‘Oh, they’re nothing,’ he says.
‘They don’t look like nothing.’
He sighs, leans back in his chair and looks out through the store window. A truck is refuelling next to Blake’s car.
‘I used to get bored, waiting,’ Christopher says.
‘Waiting?’
‘For Dad.’ His eyes narrow in concentration and he makes another fold. ‘I hung around airports a lot.’
‘When you were travelling with your dad?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You taught yourself how to make things out of paper, then?’
‘I started by making paper planes,’ he says. ‘I guess like any kid.’
I think back to the paper plane Christopher was making when we were waiting for the Buick to come back – and how that reporter stared at it, like it implicated Christopher in some way. The plane was amazing. A perfect replica of one of those Boeings that cross the Atlantic. But it was more than that. Its wings were alive, like those of a bird.
‘I’d get scraps of paper,’ he explains. ‘And fold them into an arrow and shoot them around the place.’ He goes quiet for a bit. ‘It annoyed him.’
‘Your dad?’
He nods.
‘He got annoyed by the paper airplanes?’
‘Yeah.’ He goes quiet again. ‘It still annoys him.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The paper folding. He thinks it’s a waste of time. That I should be reading books or revising for my exams or planning my future. You have to lead a Big Life, Christopher, he’s always saying.’ He pauses. ‘Whatever that means.’
I feel a thud in my chest. And it comes back to me, the reason we’re here, in this service station that smells of oil and grease, drinking bitter coffee from a machine. And that it’s way more serious than anything I’m worried about. A plane’s crashed. And though he seems to be in denial about it, Christopher’s dad was on that plane.
‘Well I think it’s cool, the things you make,’ I say. ‘That you’re artistic.’
His eyes go wide. ‘Artistic?’
‘I can’t even draw a stick-man.’ I can’t even sing, I think. But that, more likely than not, is what I’m going to have to do – in just over twenty-four hours. To cover Blake’s ass. To make sure Jude’s wedding goes to plan. ‘So, I think that it’s amazing – that you can make all that stuff, just out of paper. More than that – it’s not even special paper like from an art shop or something. You use scraps, right? Stuff you find around the place.’
He nods.
‘Well, it’s awesome.’ I smile. ‘Eco-Art – that’s trendy, right?’
‘Trendy?’
‘Yeah.’
He laughs. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well, I think your models are amazing.’
The tops of his cheeks blush. ‘Thanks.’
A guy comes into the store. He grabs a coffee from the machine beside us and a burger from the oven. Then, he bashes into the back of my chair and my telescope falls to the floor.
‘Watch out!’ I say.
But the guy keeps walking, without even apologising.
Christopher leans over and picks it up.
‘What’s this?’
‘My telescope.’
‘For the eclipse?’
‘Yeah – for the eclipse. But for other stuff too.’
‘Other stuff?’
‘I like looking at the night sky. I want to do it – professionally.’
‘Professionally?’
‘Yeah. Sort of.’
My cheeks get hot like they do every time I have to explain my thing about the stars and the universe and what I want to do with my life. Besides Dad, most people I tell don’t get it. That what’s up there is like the most important thing a human being could do. That it’s the only way we’re ever going to understand how we got here and
