Page 13 of The Getaway List
“No, let’s go. We’ll out-miracle the miracle,” says Tom. “Cross three things off the list in one day.”
“Two,” I say, wondering when and how I suddenly got better at math than him.
“Three.” He shows me his phone screen. “That is, if you’re up for it.”
It’s a bright turquoise notification from what can only be the backend of the “Dear, Love” Dispatch app where the deliveries are assigned. The text reads, “A dispatch has been accepted!” with details indicating that the anonymous sender would like to gift the recipient with a mix of different chocolate bars. Just under it the text reads, “Accept this mission?” with options to offer the delivery to another dispatcher or accept.
I grab the phone from him, so excited I nearly barrel into a blond girl taking out the deli’s trash. “I can finally be a dispatcher?”
Tom laughs at my eagerness, which, fair. Not many people would thrill at the idea of dodging taxis and people attempting to film TikToks on an eighty-five-degree day in New York. But the “Dear, Love” Dispatch has always had a special place in my heart because it reminded me of the old “sneaky elf game” Tom and I played for years.
It started in the same dweeby way most of our traditions do: one of the characters in Tides of Time used to leave little trinkets in pockets of space and time for the others to find if they needed a pick-me-up or a tool, prompting the main villain to call him a “sneaky elf.” (I imagine he would have had a more choice insult if it weren’t a kids’ series.) At some point I got it in my head that Tom and I should do a version of that, too. So when our friends were feeling down about something, we would sneak little things into their lockers anonymously—like when Dai didn’t make the track team and we snuck in a guitar pick we’d hot-glued a picture of his dog onto, or when one of the Avas couldn’t make it to homecoming so we got her friends to choose songs for a playlist we printed out a Spotify QR code for.
I don’t think anyone figured out it was us, but everyone was always so happy to be visited by the school elf that I felt determined to keep it up even after Tom left. It’s why I never felt totally disconnected from my classmates even when I was scheduled to the max, and it’s why I loved the idea of the “Dear, Love” Dispatch so much from the moment Tom said he’d gotten a bike-messenger job with them. It seemed like the real-world version of our little game, one that could spread not just over the school but a whole city. Spreading little tokens of love without expecting anything in return. Making sure people felt seen even when they didn’t think they were.
Tom was that person for me once. Getting to be the school “elf” and the helping with the “Dear, Love” Dispatch felt like opportunities to be that person for someone else, too. And now after all this time I’m finally getting my chance.
“I’ll let you do the honors,” says Tom, nodding at the phone screen.
I tap the ACCEPT button, and it gives us the cross streets of where to meet the recipient along with a time an hour from now.
Tom beams as I hand him back the phone. “Welcome to the team.”
For a moment I’m so happy that I have to look away from him because I’m brimming with it, like it’s filling me up so fast it’s going to spill out as tears. “Literally fuck all other days,” I say, “because this is the best one of my life.”
Chapter Four
We have some time to kill, so after we split two different flavors of grilled cheese so delicious that I practically see the multiverse when I bite into them, Tom and I head to a bodega to pick out enough candy bars to fill the ten-dollar budget the anonymous sender gave us. I opt for simple Hershey’s and Crunch bars, while Tom, who notoriously loves desserts that have as much stuffed into them as possible, goes for the Snickers and Take 5 bars. We arrange them neatly in a little white paper bag and then head to the West Village to meet the recipient, who shared their public location with the app when they accepted the delivery.
“Wait,” says Tom, pulling open his backpack. “So they know who you are.”
He retrieves a turquoise cap with a white embroidered DEAR, LOVE on the front. He settles the cap on the top of my head and then steps back to assess me, satisfied.
“Perfect,” he says, his eyes warm and fixed on mine.
I’m really going to have to reassess my biological responses, because for some reason that causes another weird ripple just under my ribs, one that I have no success in squashing even as I cross the street. Tom’s letting me do this one on my own so I get the full experience of dispatching. Still, I glance back at Tom and stick out my tongue, and he gives me a thumbs-up like a pageant parent whose kid is about to walk onstage.
“Oh shit. Tell me it’s not chocolate bars again.”
Two feet in front of me is a strikingly beautiful human—bright-eyed, full-cheeked, with curls so dark and shining they’re practically reflecting every color of the sun hitting us.
“If I did it’d make me a liar,” I tell her.
She looks me up and down like she’s trying to place me. She comes up short, but her smile is still genuine when she says, “You like chocolate?”
I blink, because Tom gave me some loose scripts for how these transactions usually go—namely that I’d hand over the gift, they’d swipe the ACCEPTED button on their app, and we’d all go on our merry way—and not one of them covered this. Also because on top of her striking beauty she’s somehow mastered the perfect cat’s-eye and matte red lipstick, two things I’ve only ever dared to do if my mom or one of our friends at school did it for me, and is rocking a patchwork crop top with wildly mismatched patterns that make all the other outfits on the block look like a yawn.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Perfect.” She plucks the bag out of my hand, and then abruptly pushes it back toward me. “A gift from me to you.”
“I don’t think that’s how this works,” I manage.
She shrugs. “Whoever sent it clearly doesn’t know me well enough to know I have a mild peanut allergy, so really, it’s your civic responsibility to eat these so they don’t go to waste.”
I take the bag from her. “Well, if you put it like that,” I say, as if I am not currently full of grilled cheese and a massive hybrid cookie-brownie thing I shared with Tom just an hour ago. I turn to look for him for some kind of guidance, only he’s not across the street anymore, but right next to me.
“Hey, Mariella,” he says.
