Cross-Country

Chapter 2

I stood in front of the old brown townhouse, a hundred thoughts racing through my mind. It was probably stupid to be so fixated on this one thing, but I couldn't help it. I thought to myself that if I knocked on that door and no one answered - or even worse, if someone other than the person I was looking for answered, I would have to go back home - to my old, monotonous routine. It was stupid, but that journal symbolized a break from my usual dreary life.

I walked up to the front door and looked around while I steeled myself. It was a decent neighborhood - a little old and run-down, but that just added to its charm. The bricks were a dark brown and worn with the years, and ivy curled up in tangles along the bottom. It was one of those timeless neighborhoods where you could find a horse-drawn carriage and a Volvo driving side by side and it wouldn't feel out of place in the least.

I knew that if I let myself, I'd stand there for years drinking in my surroundings, so I quickly rapped my knuckles against the hard wood of the door. It was a while before I could hear anyone moving to open it. Those seconds seemed like an eternity, even as I reminded myself how foolish this all was.

When the door creaked open, I saw a woman standing there. She had a kind, if tired, face and light brown curls that framed her face in soft curls. A baby, probably no more than a few months old, was bouncing on her hip. I feel my smile slipping because, although "Sam" could be a girl's name, the content of the notebook had shown that he was very much male.

"Hello," the woman said, "can I help you?"

I paused. I had come all this way, after all, and I couldn't just leave without knowing. "Um, yeah. Sorry to bother you, but does a 'Sam Johnston' happen to live here, by any chance?"

"Ah, no." My heart sank, but the woman continued. "That's my brother - he moved to California about a year ago." Her eyes narrowed - not in suspicion, but more of a contemplative frown. "What business do you have with him?"

"Oh - it's kind of a long story."

She smiled, not unkindly. "Well, that's alright. I do adore a nice story. How about you come in and tell me what you need, and I'll do my best to help you with it?"

"That sounds great, if it's alright with you."

"Great. My name is Rebecca, by the way."

"I'm Claire, nice to meet you."

Rebecca moved to the side to make room for me, and waved me into her house.

~~~~~~~~~~~

July 16, 2010

I found a dime in the street today. It just happened to catch my eye, and when I picked it up it was all bright and shiny even though it'd probably been in the mud for who knows how long. That's probably symbolic or something, right?

Ugh, never mind. It was just a dime, and I don't know why it seemed so important to me. That's what I get for trying to be all poetic.

- Sam

~~~~~~~~~~~

Rebecca sat me down on the couch and immediately bustled away to fetch some tea and cookies, which she said she'd just baked that morning. I looked around, trying to imagine what sort of person would have spent their childhood in this house. The walls were covered with a strange combination of what I assumed were professional paintings and doodles done by children, some obviously from quite a long time ago. There was a wooden coffee table in front of me, covered in scraps of paper and chips or stains from where someone had been just a bit too careless. The room was cozy, with patterned quilts thrown over threadbare old sofas and brightly-colored children's toys scattered around the floor. It was worn, but clean and homey, and I found myself nostalgic for something I couldn't quite remember.

Rebecca returned soon enough, balancing a plate of cookies in one hand and carrying two steaming mugs in the other. The baby had evidently been put to bed. "So," she said, studying my face again.

"So," I echoed. Where to start?

She nodded at me warmly and I cleared my throat. "It started when I was walking home from work one day..." And then the words came spilling out, tripping over one another in my haste. I told her about how I'd come across that fateful brown journal, how I'd stayed up late soaking in every stained page, and the strange hope I had that I'd be able to find what I was looking for here. When I finished, Rebecca had a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.

"I don't think that I could possibly send you away empty-handed after you went through so much trouble," she told me. She fumbled around on the coffee table for a pen and a slip of paper and scribbled something on it before handing it to me. "I think you might find what you're looking for here."

I thanked her profusely and, after a few more minutes of impatient small-talk, she ushered me out the door with a bag of freshly baked triple chocolate cookies in my hand. I stared down at the address in my hand, written in neat, looping letters.

910 Palm Boulevard, San Francisco, California.

I chewed on my lip. San Francisco was a long way from Philadelphia, and the realization of how silly this all was struck me once again. But I shrugged it off. It seems I was breaking every rule for this stranger, so what was one more? I got in my car and felt something like excitement tugging at my chest as I drove away.

~~~~~~~~~~~

August 11, 2010

School is starting soon, and I haven't done any of the things I wanted to this summer. I haven't built anything, or studied, or travelled anywhere cool. I guess there's always next time, but I don't want to keep putting my life off, you know?

Anyway. Mom took me shopping today for back to school clothes, even though my wardrobe is fine. (Becca would beg to differ, but I told her to stuff it.) I should probably get a haircut soon, too, since I've let it grow out far too long over the summer.

At least I'll get to see my friends again. They've all been busy with so much this summer, and now I just feel boring in comparison.

Oh well.

- Sam