“If it’s a lost pet, you should know I don’t allow animals in my vehicle.”
“It’s a person, not a—”
“Except my ex, Zack.” Her eyes narrowed in the rearview mirror. “He was an animal—in bed, in the car, restrooms, alleyways, boats, forests, beaches . . .”
“Lucky you,” I said, more out of jealousy than prudishness. My fingers flew over the screen texting Chloe words of assurance and a status update of where we were.
“。 . . fields, department stores, concert halls, classrooms, bars . . . and once we went into this confessional at a church and—”
“My friend is locked in a museum in the Gold Coast,” I blurted out. “Someone tried to set her up to take the fall for a theft. I need to get there as fast as possible.”
Emma turned on the engine and floored the accelerator, sending me thudding back in my seat.
“I need to be alive when we get there.” I clung to the door handle when Emma made a sharp left onto East Jackson Drive.
“Chill.” She looked over her shoulder instead of keeping her eyes on the road. “I’ve never been in an accident, and I’ve driven boats, planes, tractors, combines, transport trucks, RVs, and motorcycles. I’ve also got a friend with a limo service, and I help him out when he’s overbooked. I’ve got all the licenses. There isn’t a vehicle I can’t drive.” She sped down the road, weaving back and forth between the two lanes until we hit Lake Shore Drive. I thought the busy eight-lane multilevel expressway that runs alongside the shoreline of Lake Michigan would slow her down, but the challenge of navigating all that traffic just made her drive faster.
“So your ex . . .” I was desperate to get to Chloe but not at the cost of my life. Talking seemed to be a good distraction. “What went wrong?”
“He changed after he got famous and insured his hands,” Emma said. “He was afraid to do anything in case he injured them—and I mean anything. What’s the point of being a virtuoso violinist if you can’t put those strumming techniques to good use? ‘Redefining what it is to be a classical musician in the twenty-first century,’ my ass. I’ll tell you what he needed to redefine—his relationship expectations if he thought I was going to put out for a man who has sex with his hands in the air like he’s getting robbed. I had to do all the work. He used to be a Dvo?ák’s Violin Concerto in A Minor—playful and commanding—but then he turned into a boring Bach’s Sonata for Violin Solo No. 3 in C Major. Talk about a snoozefest.”
“I get it,” I said, even though I didn’t. Classical music wasn’t my thing. I’d made it to level four in piano, and after three months of violin, my father had taken it away to save his sanity. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“What’s the rope for?” Emma asked, checking out the back seat through the rearview mirror as if she hadn’t just shared her heartbreak along with the most intimate details of her life.
“My friend is trapped on the second floor of a building, and I need to help her escape. She’s not much of a climber and she’s afraid of heights.”
“You gotta get the rope up there before she can climb down,” Emma pointed out.
“I was going to try and throw it.”
“You don’t look like you’ve got much of an arm.”
“I have three sports-mad brothers. I know how to throw.”
“I like the sporty types,” Emma said. “My dad was a professional race car driver so he was always training. He used to take me along to the gym so we could spend time together before he went on tour. I took out a ton of student loans to get a degree in exercise training so I could be part of that world, but it’s hard to break in as a woman. The only jobs I could get were holding the coach’s clipboard or running out for protein shakes. I didn’t spend $90,000 for a stupid degree to run around ordering kale acai green tea chia almond milk smoothies with a triple protein boost hold the shredded coconut. Like strawberry and banana is going to kill you? I had to take this gig just to pay the bills.”
It was Chloe’s story and my story. It was Cristian’s story and the story of countless other millennials we knew. We were living a life where our dreams and passions were always out of reach.
We raced past the Chicago Children’s Museum—a primary school field trip favorite—and then past Ohio Street Beach. “Do you get the ticket if the police stop us?” I asked. “Or is it my fault because I told you I was in a hurry?”
“Never had a speeding ticket,” Emma said. “I go too fast for the police to catch me. Also, I know this city so well, I can easily give them the slip.”
We made it to the museum in a fraction of the time it would have taken on the bus or L train, but instead of letting her pull up in front, I asked her to keep going. “Park on the next block. I don’t want anyone to identify your car or see me without my disguise.” I threw on a suit jacket I’d taken from the shop and topped it off with a black fedora. Dad said they were coming back in style.
“That’s not much of a disguise.” Emma snorted a laugh. “You look like you should be tap dancing in the rain.”
“It’s not a fashion show,” I said. “I’m potentially doing something illegal, and I don’t want to be caught.”
“I’m all over that illegal shit,” Emma said. “You need some help? Or do you want me to wait and drive the getaway car?”
“I don’t want you to get involved.”
Emma handed me her card. “That’s my personal cell phone number. I’ll stick around the area just in case. And if you ever need an exercise trainer, just give me a call.”
“Thanks again.” I grabbed the bag from the back of her car and hoisted it over my shoulder.
“This area is mostly one-way streets,” Emma called out. “If the police are on your tail and you need me for a getaway, make sure you’re running in the right direction.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
?Anyone who has gone to school in Chicago is familiar with its numerous yellow bus destinations—everything from ice cream shops to aquariums and from jousting matches to skydiving in a giant wind tunnel. Our teachers were spoiled for choice when it came to field trip venues, especially museums. After fourteen years of school with multiple field trips every year, it was a shock to discover there was actually a museum I hadn’t seen.
Tucked away on a quiet tree-lined street in the Gold Coast neighborhood, the Victoria Museum is three stories high with an elegant but restrained Italian-style limestone exterior. Although I was tempted to just push open the ornate inlaid front door, I pulled my fedora low and snuck around to the side gate leading to the back garden.
It didn’t occur to me at the time to wonder why the gate was unlocked or who had left the fresh footprints in the mud. Nor did I bother searching the dense foliage at the back of the yard. I was focused on rescuing my bestie, and there she was, leaning out the second-story window, her face a blur in the drizzle of rain.
“Simi?” Her thin voice carried over the loud crunch of my footsteps on the gravel path below the window.