Paper Towns — Chapter no 2

2.

I swiveled around when I heard the window open, and Margo’s blue eyes

were staring back at me. Her eyes were all I could see at first, but as my

vision adjusted, I realized she was wearing black face paint and a black

hoodie. “Are you having cybersex?” she asked.

“I’m IM’ing with Ben Starling.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, perv.”

I laughed awkwardly, then walked over and knelt by the window, my

face inches from hers. I couldn’t imagine why she was here, in my window,

like this. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked. Margo and I were still

friendly, I guess, but we weren’t meet-in-the-dead-of-night-wearing-black-

face-paint friendly. She had friends for that, I’m sure. I just wasn’t among

them.

“I need your car,” she explained.

“I don’t have a car,” I said, which was something of a sore point for me.

“Well, I need your mom’s car.”

“You have your own car,” I pointed out.

Margo puffed out her cheeks and sighed. “Right, but the thing is that my

parents have taken the keys to my car and locked them inside a safe, which

they put under their bed, and Myrna Mount-weazel”— who was her dog

—“is sleeping inside their room. And Myrna Mountweazel has a freaking

aneurysm whenever she catches sight of me. I mean, I could totally sneak in

there and steal the safe and crack it and get my keys out and drive away, but

the thing is that it’s not even worth trying because Myrna Mountweazel is

just going to bark like crazy if I so much as crack open the door. So like I

said, I need a car. Also, I need you to drive it, because I have to do eleven

things tonight, and at least five of them involve a getaway man.”

When I let my sight unfocus, she became nothing but eyes, floating in

the ether. And then I locked back on her, and I could see the outline of her

face, the paint still wet against her skin. Her cheekbones triangulating into

her chin, her pitch-black lips barely turned to a smile. “Any felonies?” I

asked.

“Hmm,” said Margo. “Remind me if breaking and entering is a felony.”

“No,” I answered firmly.

“No it’s not a felony or no you won’t help?”

“No I won’t help. Can’t you enlist some of your underlings to drive you

around?” Lacey and/or Becca were always doing her bidding.

“They’re part of the problem, actually,” Margo said.

“What’s the problem?” I asked.

“There are eleven problems,” she said somewhat impatiently.

“No felonies,” I said.

“I swear to God that you will not be asked to commit a felony.”

And right then, the floodlights came on all around Margo’s house. In

one swift motion, she somersaulted through my window, into my room, and

then rolled beneath my bed. Within seconds, her dad was standing on the

patio outside. “Margo!” he shouted. “I saw you!”

From beneath my bed, I heard a muffled, “Oh, Christ.” Margo scooted

out from under the bed, stood up, walked to the window, and said, “Come

on, Dad. I’m just trying to have a chat with Quentin. You’re always telling

me what a fantastic influence he could be on me and everything.”

“Just chatting with Quentin?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you wearing black face paint?”

Margo faltered for only the briefest moment. “Dad, to answer that

question would take hours of backstory, and I know that you’re probably

very tired, so just go back t—”

“In the house,” he thundered. “This minute!”

Margo grabbed hold of my shirt, whispered, “Back in a minute,” in my

ear, and then climbed out the window.

As soon as she left, I grabbed my car keys from my desk. The keys are

mine; the car, tragically, is not. On my sixteenth birthday, my parents gave

me a very small gift, and I knew the moment they handed it to me that it

was a car key, and I about peed myself, because they’d said over and over

again that they couldn’t afford to give me a car. But when they handed me

the tiny wrapped box, I knew they’d been tricking me, that I was getting a

car after all. I tore off the wrapping paper and popped open the little box.

Indeed, it contained a key.

Upon close inspection, it contained a Chrysler key. A key for a Chrysler

minivan. The one and the same Chrysler minivan owned by my mother.

“My present is a key to your car?” I asked my mom.

“Tom,” she said to my dad, “I told you he would get his hopes up.”

“Oh, don’t blame me,” my dad said. “You’re just sublimating your own

frustration with my income.”

“Isn’t that snap analysis a tad passive-aggressive?” my mother asked.

“Aren’t rhetorical accusations of passive aggression inherently passive-

aggressive?” my dad responded, and they went on like that for a while.

The long and short of it was this: I had access to the vehicular

awesomeness that is a late-model Chrysler minivan, except for when my

mom was driving it. And since she drove to work every morning, I could

only use the car on weekends. Well, weekends and the middle of the

goddamned night.

It took Margo more than the promised minute to return to my window,

but not much more. But in the time she was gone, I’d started to waffle

again. “I’ve got school tomorrow,” I told her.

“Yeah, I know,” Margo answered. “There’s school tomorrow and the

day after that, and thinking about that too long could make a girl bonkers.

So, yeah. It’s a school night. That’s why we’ve got to get going, because

we’ve got to be back by morning.”

“I don’t know.”

“Q,” she said. “Q. Darling. How long have we been dear friends?”

“We’re not friends. We’re neighbors.”

“Oh, Christ, Q. Am I not nice to you? Do I not order my various and

sundry minions to be kind to you at school?”

“Uh-huh,” I answered dubiously, although in point of fact I’d always

figured it was Margo who had stopped Chuck Parson and his ilk from

screwing with us.

She blinked. She’d even painted her eyelids. “Q,” she said, “we have to

go.”

And so I went. I slid out the window, and we ran along the side of my

house, heads down, until we opened the doors of the minivan. Margo

whispered not to close the doors—too much noise—so with the doors open,

I put it in neutral, pushed off the cement with my foot, and then let the

minivan roll down the driveway. We rolled slowly past a couple houses

before I turned on the engine and the headlights. We closed the doors, and

then I drove through the serpentine streets of Jefferson Park’s endlessness,

the houses all still new-looking and plastic, like a toy village housing tens

of thousands of real people.

Margo started talking. “The thing is they don’t even really care; they

just feel like my exploits make them look bad. Just now, do you know what

he said? He said, ‘I don’t care if you screw up your life, but don’t embarrass

us in front of the Jacobsens—they’re our friends.’ Ridiculous. And you

have no idea how hard they’ve made it to get out of that goddamned house.

You know how in prison-escape movies they put bundled-up clothes under

the blankets to make it look like there’s a person in there?” I nodded. “Yeah,

well, Mom put a goddamned baby monitor in my room so she could hear

my sleep-breathing all night. So I just had to pay Ruthie five bucks to sleep

in my room, and then I put bundled-up clothes in her room.” Ruthie is

Margo’s little sister. “It’s Mission: Impossible shit now. Used to be I could

just sneak out like a regular goddamned American—just climb out the

window and jump off the roof. But God, these days, it’s like living in a

fascist dictatorship.”

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Well, first we’re going to Publix. Because for reasons I’ll explain later,

I need you to go grocery shopping for me. And then to Wal-Mart.”

“What, we’re just gonna go on a grand tour of every commercial

establishment in Central Florida?” I asked.

“Tonight, darling, we are going to right a lot of wrongs. And we are

going to wrong some rights. The first shall be last; the last shall be first; the

meek shall do some earth-inheriting. But before we can radically reshape

the world, we need to shop.” I pulled into the Publix then, the parking lot

almost entirely empty, and parked.

“Listen,” she said, “how much money do you have on you right now?”

“Zero dollars and zero cents,” I answered. I turned off the ignition and

looked over at her. She wriggled a hand into a pocket of her tight, dark

jeans and pulled out several hundred-dollar bills. “Fortunately, the good

Lord has provided,” she said.

“What the hell?” I asked.

“Bat mitzvah money, bitch. I’m not allowed to access the account, but I

know my parents’ password because they use ‘myrnamountw3az3l’ for

everything. So I made a withdrawal.” I tried to blink away the awe, but she

saw the way I was looking at her and smirked at me. “Basically,” she said,

“this is going to be the best night of your life.”