Page 116 of Like a Power Play
I don’t want the watered-down version of Peyton.
I want her in concentrate.
So we spend the last twenty minutes of the bus ride listening to the playlist, making up scene after scene of our imaginary movie.
Gertie, the main character, is sent to live with her emotionally stunted grandparents after her mom dies (Back to the Old House, The Smiths). Her dad’s off somewhere in Europe pitching wildly impractical inventions to anyone who’ll listen. On the train ride to her grandparents’ house, the train is raided by land pirates (Stand and Deliver, Adam & The Ants) who kidnap her—not just because of the ransom money, but also because she’s justsobeautiful, with her doll-like face and aggressively choppy bangs.
Only, her dad never actually sells any of his inventions. So the ransom never comes.
Instead, she starts working with the pirates. Naturally. And soon enough, she robs her way to the top. Meanwhile, there’s a slow-burn fling going on between her and the group’s original leader that’s slightly toxic but really sexy (Promiscuous, Nelly Furtado feat. Timbaland).
Eventually, the guy gets jealous that she’s in charge now. So, like any fragile man, he hatches a plan to kill her.
Obviously, she figures it out—because she’s the main character and anyone namedGertiecan most definitely solve a puzzle. Mid-heist, she pushes him off a moving train whileget him back!by Olivia Rodrigo blasts in the background.
He dies. (Rip.Ish.)
She rides off into the sunset with the hot blonde female Russian train conductor who was secretly helping her all along. They end up co-running a glamorous and mafia-like crime ring across the Western rail lines (Femininomenon, Chappell Roan).
“So what happens to her dad?” Peyton asks, wrapping the wired earbuds around her phone as we step off the bus. “Does he ever sell his inventions? Does he ever get to see his daughter again?”
I glance down at her screen;Boulevard of Broken Dreamsby Green Day lights it up.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
Peyton frowns.
“But,” I add, “he does end up healing from his wife’s tragic death by running off with some exchange student who’s just old enough to make the audience go along with it. He realizes that his true calling wasn’t invention. It was finding love again.”
She smiles at that.
“Come on.” I wave her forward. “This way.”
We walk along the sidewalk, disappearing into the early-morning fog. I think of Gertie for a while, and how this would be where the story starts—her lugging her suitcase stuffed with linens and books down the muggy street. I wonder if she ever goes to visit her mom’s grave and decide that she does each year on the anniversary of her kidnapping. Streetlights cast halos on the dark, glistening concrete, and I try to tug my jacket zipper the rest of the way up to my chin to fight off the breeze.
Only, my fingers cramp.
I slip the tiny piece of metal between my thumb and forefinger again, squeezing them together, but a sharp pain slices through. I wince, pulling back. Peyton notices, but she doesn’t say anything. She just leans over and zips it up for me without a word. Then she scoots closer, her arm brushing mine, probably trying to share body heat.
I can’t help but remember the last time Peyton and I shared body heat.
“I’m starting to think this has nothing to do with hockey,” she says, eyes flitting as we pass into a slightly hazy park.
A grin tugs at my lips. “Oh, but my young, overly ambitious Icarus—” I say, flicking her hair in mock affection that feels a lot less mocking than I had intended. “It haseverythingto do with hockey.”
Through the fog, a massive white dome takes shape—the Oregon State Capitol, according to the map on my phone. We veer off the main sidewalk, onto a little paved path, which leads us to a tall, bronze statue. The metallic man stares out, gripping a cane in one hand, and a hat in the other. Behind him, his cloak flows in the imaginary wind that’s blowing the opposite direction of the real wind.
We just stand there and stare.
After a moment, Peyton turns to me.
”I don’t get it,” she says.
I grin, a cocky, Peyton kind of grin, and point at the base of the statue with my toe. “Still need me to teach you how to read?”
She rolls her eyes. “Funny,” she says, but leans down anyway, squinting at the engraving. Then she straightens up, still confused. “… Okay?”
I keep staring. Waiting.
