A Sequel To PAPER TOWNS

SEQUEL TO PAPER TOWNS:







Wanting

“Six weeks since we left her in New York…he’s bound to crack like a scrawny egg any day now.” Ben snickered; obviously enjoying his window of opportunity to humor Radar.  I coughed out a miniscule laugh before Radar brought his laugh-hard-so-Ben-can-feel-good laugh.  Fake, but disguised enough that Ben took a bow admiring his own comedy genius remark.  But he was right, I am missing her everyday.  Margo Roth Spiegelman.  I love the way her name rolls of the end of my tongue when I say it, thinking about it makes my heart skip a beat.  I miss her a lot; her jet black hair, her cerulean blue eyes that played off her unnaturally pale Floridian skin, the way she looked at me with utmost lust (at least I hoped that was the true meaning), and most of all, the way that she kissed me that last night in New York.  The way that she said “I love you Quincy Jacobsen”, and the way that she seemed to feel like this was all part of a story, her story that she had wrote when she was six.  “But I was only six back then.” She had told me, “Remember, I was debating whether to kill you or not in the story.  But you know, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad just to see if we really do belong together.”

It gets harder and harder every time I think about her saying that.  It ultimately fades though, after awhile; her clothes, her expressions and her tone, almost all gone. 

“You know we are going back.” I shot back, just a tad ticked off at his last comment.

“Hmmm?  I thought that was a one-time deal thing, driving up to New York City to see a girl that you like.  And now going again, she might not even be there Q!  You know Margo!” Radar answered.

“She said that I could go visit her, and I want to.  And I am whether you guys come or not.”  I spat.  I really shouldn’t have done that.

“Well then…meeting!”  Ben put wrists on radars shoulders and Radar’s on his, and ducked their heads into the basket they formed with their elbows.  They were whispering nonsense as usual…

“BREAK!”  Ben shouted, loud enough that all of the student body in the hallway turned to look at us with bug eyes and vigilant ears to figure out what had just happened.  I looked away towards the array of blandly colored lockers adjacent to the worn red and black paint on the walls.  Oh God help me, Oh God help me.  I chanted the mantra like it was second nature to me.  The last thing I need is everyone staring at us like we’re some radio-active grasshopper or something!  People began to slow move back into their normal route to class and I began to regain color in my face.

“What the heck Q?” 

I’m sure that was a question from both of them.

“What?” I dragged out.

“I thought that stuff didn’t bother you, you know, like getting stared at like we just were or stuff?  You usually don’t even give it a thought!”  It was Ben this time.

“I don’t know, all this stuff about Margo and stuff it just wears me down I guess.”

“Oh, now he’s sensitive.  Poor Q, he can’t be happy without his buddy Margo.”  The girly, sarcastic tone in his voice for that last part really sat on me.

“Shut up…Bloody Ben.”

“Oh, no you didn’t!” Radar sounded shocked, and amused.  Bloody Ben, the legend of the halls, the name never to be mentioned by his friends; this about ruined him.  His face gained back twice the color mine did, and his eyebrows creased, making the center of his face known. 

“You better shut you mouth right now!  What the heck were you thinking jack?!”  Crap.

“I was just, shoot, sorry Ben.”  I apologized lightly. 

“Whatever.”  He sounded cooler this time.  We kept walking on the alternate tiles to get out of the band room, and to my house.  Red, white, black, white, black, red.  Over and over again.  We stepped across the opaque pavement to Ben’s dingy truck.  I opened the door, sat down, and shut the door which was for-the-record barely hanging on the hinges.  I wrestled my bag with my legs to get it to stay on the floorboard; I finally resolved by making it a footrest.  It was cramped as usual, but we make-do. 

“Hey, sorry again about the whole Bloody Ben thing.” I said about 8 minutes into the ride.  I hope this is it.  I don’t need him irate now.

“Ya, its fine.  It’s just, all the new honneybunnies this year don’t know about the Bloody Ben thing and I don’t want them to hear it.”

“Yet.” Radar finished.  Ben reached his hand off the wheel and gave Radar a teasing slap on the side of the head.  I got a good laugh out of that.



Aspen



We walked into my house about 15 minutes after the lone conversation in the car.  I slid my bag off of my shoulder and onto the chair nearest the window.  It was forest green, velvet, and was most importantly old.  It didn’t go with the beach theme like the rest of the room did, and it stood out very easily, like me and Margo.

“Q, can you look up some cars that were made in this decade for my lost friend Ben over here?”

“There is nothing wrong with my car…don’t reply to that.” He said smugly.

“Well then.”  I sat down at my computer, and logged in…very slowly.  Radar made him self at home with now request by sprawling across my bed in every which-way.  Ben stayed hunched over my shoulder with intent to snoop.  I spun the track ball on my mouse with my index finger a dozen times while it configured my settings.  I positioned the mouse on the pad to a normal position and scrolled to the ‘Outlook’ icon, and double clicked.  It opened with a single new message in the ‘Inbox’.  Margo.  Don’t start this; don’t get your hopes up.  I shouldn’t really or I am crack like a scrawny egg.  Too late.

“Guys, it might be Margo.”

“You’re really obsessed with her lately.  I think you might need a shrink…” Radar smirked as Ben finished.

“Don’t start it.” I warned.  I clicked on the e-mail, and it opened. 



From:  Aspen  [e-mail]

Subject: M. R. S.

CC.



                Quincy Jacobsen,

I know that you have an acquaintance with Margo Roth Spiegelman.

Am I not correct?

As you are most likely aware of she has been in an unpopulated city near NYC.

To your lack of knowledge she has been recently ‘relocated’.

She is in a facility.

Not that she would tell you, but that she wouldn’t tell anyone; not by choice of course.

She is very tough Quincy, tough.

She does not break as easily as expected, though we do have ways.

She has requested (her last) to have someone give this to you.

I feel only utter guilt if this was not to happen.

She says you will find her and whisk her away, take her away from us.

Not likely. 

So to my amusement as well, here is the message:



An Altered look about the Hills

By Emily Dickinson



An altered look about the hills—

A Tyrian light the village fills—

A wider sunrise in the morn—

A deeper twilight on the lawn—

A print of a vermillion foot—

A purple finger on the slope—

A flippant fly upon the plane—

A spider at his trade again—

An added strut in Chanticleer—

A flower expected everywhere—

An axe shrill singing in the woods—

Fern odors on untravelled roads—

All this and more I cannot tell—

A furtive look you know as well—

And Nicodemus’ Mystery—

Receives its annual reply--





P.S. don’t bother responding to this email, it will only give her hope that you are coming.



“Come here NOW!”  Margo.  Needs.  Help.  Disbelief rang in my voice.  That, and a mix of confusion, sadness, and pure devastation. 

“Q.”

“I know.”

“Your girl needs help.”

And that was it; I cracked.  I broke down like a nervous wreck.  No sound came from me, or anyone else for that matter.  Just tears.  Streaming down my face and then dropping onto my faded blue jeans.  That’s when I noticed I was shaking madly. 

“Are you o.k.?” Ben asked with pure concern.

“Mmmhmmm.” I pushed it through my lips.  It stung, not because I was so tense but because it was such an acronym to the truth.  It was absolutely silent and still.  No one moved, just stunned.

“Wait.” Radar had his I-can’t-believe-I-didn’t-figure-this-out-before smile on, in tone with his voice.

“This is a clue.  You know Margo, leaving clues for people to come find her.  She sent them to us because she knows that we can figure it out, and judging by the way she wrote the letter, it sounds like she wants us to come soon.”  He sounded like a scholar.  It makes sense though really.  After minutes of thought I gave some response that I was not having a seizure: I raised my wobbly hand to my cheeks to wipe of the dried salted tears on my face. 

“Radar, that’s an awesome theory, which might actually be the real reason behind this, but as of right now there is a clear-cut ransom.”  My new-found hope gave way at the sound of Ben’s voice deepen and fade at the end of that announcement.  Would Margo really do this, create hype for us to come…unless there really is an urgent need behind it, just not the one declared.

“Maybe there is a reason” I added shakily, “that the need is urgent, it’s just not for the reason stated.”

“O.k. lets lay it out.  Tell me right now if you think this is a real ransom.”  No one moved.

“O.k. I know you don’t want to believe it is a ransom, but if you really think it is one say it now.” Again, no response.

“Tell me if you think it is Margo, who wants us to come and find her, and she left a clue as her last request?”  That time three “I’s” wavered into the air.

“So as of right now we will act as if this is a clue and not a ransom, got that?” Ben asked sternly, yet understanding. 

Yep, it’s just Margo.  She finally decided to talk to me after six weeks!  My face developed into a sagging smile rather than an implanted frown at the thought of that.

“So, where do we start with her clue?” Ben asked with a clear notation of who this question was directed too: Radar.

“My answer for everything, Omnictionary.com.” Radar said with a sudden burst of enlightenment.