Don't Stop Now (8 page)

“We are looking into connections with Gavin, but we think her communication with you is the key. We'd like to hear the voicemail she left you…”

“Yeeeeahhh, sorry. I deleted it. It was just late-night mumbling anyway, you know?”

“Well, we'll see if we can somehow retrieve it. Every clue helps.”

“I'm sure it does,” I say, with undetectable sarcasm.

“We'll be in touch.” And Lobel hangs up.

“Turds ahoy. Can they check my erased voicemails?” I quickly call my voicemail and delete the Penny message.

“Not that I'm the authority on FBI technology, but I'm guessing yes. But don't worry about it, Lil. She didn't tell you anything really anyway, right?”

“True.” I have convinced myself of this. “She didn't.”

The Elvis tape autoflips from side 1 to side 2 to side 1 again, and it fits the mood of our drive so nicely that we don't bother to switch tapes. I particularly love the song that starts all slick and slow: “She looks like an angel. Walks like an angel. Talks like an angel. But I got wise…” Pause pause. “You're the devil in disguise!” And it goes all jangly and out of control. I dub it my Penny song. devil in disguise indeed. So what does that make me? A minion of some sort? I'm not crazy. I know I've been lying to myself. To everyone, really. Even as little as I listened to Penny that night before graduation, I heard her. And I remember. We were sitting at a booth at Copper Brothers Pancake House, one of those booths that's so big you can fit ten people in it but only two people can get out without crawling through the sticky mess underneath the table. I was trapped dead center, sandwiched in between Penny and Josh. Josh was in some heated discussion about the best brand of guitar strings with Nissa Bolger (or something along those same boring lines—lines I have heard one too many times that cause my eyes to glaze and my mind to wander), and whoever was on Penny's left, well, they made it clear that they were too enchanted with the other table half's conversation to turn their body toward Penny. So it was just us, alone at a giant tableful of people. Penny was talking ad nauseum about Gavin, her mom, her nonexistent fat issues…. I'd heard it all before, so I didn't try to hear it again. For a while I counted the number of distinct stained-glass lamps overhead, but I tired of that. So I interrupted her to ask about Ethan. I had been curious about him ever since she had come back a shade darker and a ginormous leap happier from her family's spring break trip to Disney World. Who was this guy who could do that to her? And why couldn't she remember that person instead of obsessing over Gavin, who made her face turn gray the instant he entered a room or called her on the phone? I asked her what Ethan was up to. Does she talk to him? Do they email? Is she going to see him again? And like I said before, she
shushed
me. All I could do after that was play with my fork and pray my apple pancakes arrived sooner rather than endless awkward minutes later. That's when she whispered, too quietly for a silent room, let alone a packed pancake restaurant table. The words I picked up—
Don't tell. Ethan. Portland
.
Leave.
I asked her to repeat. “You're going to visit Ethan in Portland and you don't want me to tell anyone?” I whispered it, I know, as quiet as a mouse, but there was the
shush
again. The suspiciously guilty glances around the room. Then, in her quiet manner, sheeeked out, “I'm going to pretend I was kidnapped.” And then the food came. The rush of the increased table volume. The shift of the conversations as the table shared food, summer plans. It all washed away her sentence. It's not as though she hasn't said weird things before. How many times has she threatened to run away or kill herself in some desperate grasp for attention? I was used to it. How was this different?

But it was.

Because she did it.

And as much as I want to pretend that I don't know where she is or how she got there, my subliminal pancake-loving mind didn't forget. Somehow the FBI knows I know. Which sucks. But why do they have to rely on me? Why don't her parents and her jagoff of a boyfriend know her well enough to know where she's going? Or that she even has to go anywhere? And then there's the whole road trip with Josh piece.

Penny was the perfect excuse to get Josh alone. Really alone, away from friends and parents and reality. Penny and her mindless mind made it possible for Josh and me to go on this trip. Not that we couldn't have without her as a destination, but neither of us have ever been motivated enough to plan something as huge as a cross-country road trip, no matter how unplanned it needed to be.

That's not exactly true.

I have plenty of motivation, hence going away to college in a few months. Hence working summer jobs. Hence having real, attainable goals. But Josh…his biggest motivation in life seems to be avoiding the unavoidable. Which he's really good at.

So a road trip together, before I become a new, improved college version of me, is my last chance. To figure out if we really are as perfect for each other as other people seem to think we are. As I have thought. Or hoped. I have Penny to thank for that. And all the guilt that's hiding inside of me—knowing how worried my mom would be if I ever pulled a stunt as mentally crap as Penny has pulled—is going to stay hidden until I get my perfect answer.

As if my mom reads my guilty mind, my phone buzzes, signaling a text. I flip it open. “How sit gong?” My mom's texting abilities are weak, but her message is crystal clear. I feel lucky she's thinking about me. I text her back with a smiley.

Josh and I do our best Elvis and sing along to the now overly familiar lyrics. I never realized how excellent Elvis's music is, too blinded by the sheer overexposure of his iconic self to realize there is an actual musician underneath to cause the hysteria. Maybe next road trip we can swing by Graceland. Will there be another road trip? Will there be another time of just me and Josh? What if he really does manage to gather a band and write good songs and go on tour? Or what if I get a summer job and don't have time for spontaneous travel? Or what if he gets a girlfriend? Or I actually find a guy I want to be with for more than a millisecond? So many what-ifs. This summer—this journey—is the only sure thing there is.

Wind whips through the car as we drive in the right lane, the slow lane, on Interstate 90. Josh claims, “I'm just drivin' and in no hurry to get nowhere.” I don't complain because the longer the trip takes, the farther away our destination of Penny is.

As soon as we enter South Dakota (insert New State Ritual here), we begin to see billboards for Wall Drug. Several read,
WHERE THE HECK IS WALL DRUG
? so I ask Josh, “
What
the heck is Wall Drug?”

“It's some sort of honkin' huge drugstore, I think. Loads of souvenir crap. My dad went there once on a ‘business trip.'” Josh says this in air quotes with a wink. I have no idea what he's talking about, but I let it go. I don't ever feel the need to hear about his dad's rich bachelor lifestyle. “Supposed to be pretty wacky. We'll have to follow the signs to Wall.”

I check the map and estimate, “We can make it there by tomorrow afternoon. Tonight we'll stay in Mitchell, home of the Mitchell Corn Palace.” I didn't know what that was either, but if it's anything like the Mars' Cheese Castle, we're in for a lot of corn. And I do mean
corn
. Funny how both cheese and corn mean, well, cheesy and corny. Ah, the poetry of the road.

The car is too loud to really talk, so we pass the time with car games, like Slug Bug, I Spy, and counting vanity license plates. I decide to keep a record of the Wall Drug billboards, too, because they're pretty funny. Maybe they'll make their way into a story or film of mine someday. Some of the best:

WALL DRUG: NEW BACKYARD
!

HAVE YOU DUG WALL DRUG
?

NEW T-REX: WALL DRUG
?

HOT COFFEE ONLY 5 CENTS
!

And about a million that declare,
FREE ICE WATER
.

“Can't you get free ice water pretty much anywhere?” Josh asks.

“Maybe there's something special about this water. Like, maybe it's not water at all but some brainwashing concoction that convinces you to buy tons of useless crap.”

“Or maybe,” Josh pontificates, “it's saliva from the new T. rex.”

“Possibly, possibly. Or maybe it's actually pee from a garden gnome,” I suggest.

“Pee from a garden gnome?”

“Yeah. From their new backyard.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“I'm just brilliant, I guess.” I fluff underneath my hair for emphasis.

“Beauty and brains.” Josh shakes his head.

Don't let it fool you, I tell myself. He says that kind of stuff to anyone. Waitresses. Traffic cops. Circus clowns.

 

The exit for Mitchell appears right around dinnertime, and we follow the signs to head right to the Corn Palace. The air is sizzling; waving heat blurs mock our lack of air-conditioning.

“I could use some of that free ice water,” Josh says as we find a parking space near the downtown.

I peel my thighs off the car seat fabric (grateful it's not leather) and step into Mitchell. The Eurosport is parked on a side street from the town's main street, free parking, and we head for the main thoroughfare (in a town like this, it's gotta be a thoroughfare) around a bunch of shops. Kitschy and creepy fabric humans—Native Americans and old men—sit on benches, ripe for photo ops. Josh poses with the stuffed people, kissing an old man's cheek, giving a Native American guy bunny ears, and I take a few pictures with my cell phone.

The instant we turn onto the main street, we can see the Corn Palace. This is no Mars' Cheese Castle. From a distance, it really does look like a palace, like the home of a sultan. As we get closer, we pass a street full of tourist shops, an ice cream parlor, and a doll museum shaped like a castle. So many tourist attractions, so many castles. “The Enchanted World Doll Museum!” I squeak. “We have to see it!”

“I don't know, man. Dolls. Kind of scary.”

“Wuss,” I say. “We're going after we visit the Corn Palace. Deal with it.” I love old dolls. My mom has a collection from when she was little, but instead of coveting and hiding it, she let me play with the dolls. The old ones are the best, the way their eyes open and shut, their arms separated and poseable. They just seem more alive. In a good way.

Josh looks skeptical, so I grab his hand to let him know I'll comfort him through the terror. We walk down the street like this, holding hands, checking out the sights of Mitchell. Your casual observer might even think we're a couple. I catch our reflection in a store window, two tall faux redheads, holding hands. Something overcomes me, maybe it's the corn in the air, and I quickly lean in and kiss Josh on the cheek. I have never kissed him before. Some people are into that, being all enlightened and Europe an or whatever, but I always thought that kisses were more sacred than that. Maybe that's why I didn't waste too much time with my crappy blips of exes.

“What was that for?” Josh asks, touching his cheek with his free hand.

“Needed to be done.” I shrug.

“Mitchell
is
kind of romantic. What with a museum full of dolls ready to attack me and a palace made of corn.”

Ha-ha. Always a kidder. I let go of Josh's hand and keep moving toward the Corn Palace. Of course he doesn't notice my missing hand. The one that used to be holding his. Not that my hand suddenly went missing.

Up close, the Palace is rather unbelievable, the entire facade elaborately decorated with dried cobs of corn in an array of autumn browns, yellows, and purples. The corn spells out
MITCHELL CORN PALACE
and the year, and the walls are covered in mosaics of tractors and animals made entirely of corn. “This is what the Mars' Cheese Castle should aspire to be,” I say in wonder.

“Yeah, but think of the stench.” Josh stands next to me and reaches his hand toward the corn. I smack it away out of respect.

“I guess cheese wouldn't work as well as corn. But, they could try a little harder to be spectacular.” I'm disappointed in my cheese castle.

“Eh.” Josh shrugs as though he's fine with the way things are. “Eh” is what Josh is all about right now. About his future, about us…I stomp my way through the doors.

Inside the Corn Palace are photos dating back to the early twentieth century from each year the Corn Palace was decorated. New designs are created yearly, painstakingly glued by hand to the building, truly putting the Mars' Cheese Castle to shame. I decide to buy some caramel corn from a stand inside the Palace, and as expected, it's the tastiest caramel corn I've ever had.

“The Mitchell Corn Palace delivers,” I say through a mouthful of crispy, sweet, melty goodness. We buy a couple Corn Palace T-shirts from a small gift stand, take one last look at the history of corn display, and step outside to find a less corny dinner.

Across the street from the Corn Palace is a burger restaurant with an order window and benches outside for people-watching. We order a couple of cheeseburgers and fries, and park ourselves on a bench right on the main street. The town's not too busy, but there are enough people trying to take pictures that incorporate their family members and the entire Corn Palace that we are entertained for the duration of our meal.

When I can't stand the heat any longer, I declare, “It's time for the Enchanted World Doll Museum!”

“Nooooo!” Josh fake cries.

“Don't worry. I'll protect you.” I stand up from the bench, and this time he takes my hand. We're so hot and sticky, I wonder if we'll ever be able to separate our hands again.

The doll museum is freakishly quiet inside, which would be awkward if we weren't the only people there. The lady at the entry desk (which is also the cash register for the gift shop) gives us a look that says don't touch anything, and directs us toward the turnstile that leads into the museum. Once we're through the museum door, Josh stands close behind me and wraps his arms around my stomach, digging his chin into my neck. I don't say anything, but it feels so good to be enveloped by him like this. I can smell his sweat, or maybe it's mine, but it's not ripe or unappealing. Maybe it's those pheromones we learned about in health class. Women are attracted to the manliness of sweat and all that.

We walk slowly, combined, and marvel at the doll scenes. Unlike other doll museums I've visited where you just see a doll in its pristine form, displayed as
a doll
, these dolls are intermingled with dolls of different ages and sizes and conditions, creating stories and scenes and, dare I say, interacting. In one case, a group of dolls anticipate the breaking of a piñata. Another lovingly offers us a glimpse at a doll wedding. In one, titled “Sunday Morning Service,” corroding dolls dressed up in religious gear patiently await a sermon from a tiny pastor.

“This is the greatest place on earth,” I muse. Huge dolls gallivant with miniscule ones, something my dolls would never do. Dolls with big glass eyes hang out with dolls whose eyes were merely applied with paint. Some dolls wear shoes, others go barefoot. It's a revolutionary dolly revelation! I'm sad when we get to the end of the displays and are released, once again, into the gift shop. I purchase a stack of postcards containing images of numerous doll dioramas, my favorite called “Saturday Night at the Rooming House,” where various dolls of mismatched sizes wait patiently outside of a bathroom door while a fat, naked porcelain doll preens himself inside. Genius.

 

Outside of the doll museum, the setting sun glints off the Corn Palace flagpoles. “What do you want to do now?” I ask Josh dreamily in this almost surreal setting. It's only around eight o'clock, so if we checked into a hotel now, we'd have to think of ways to pass the time. But the town of Mitchell is closing up shop. I'm starting to envision me and Josh in a hotel room, when Josh says, “Let's keep driving? If I go to sleep anytime soon, I'm going to have doll nightmares.” Were the dolls worth spoiling my hotel fantasy? I weigh the question as we load ourselves into the stuffy car. The warm air, the setting sun, and Elvis quickly lull my brain into submission.

So we drive toward the sunset, windows down; Elvis reruns fill the air. We drive as the stars bloom on the vast fabric of navy sky, passing miles of nothing, as bugs can't help but throw themselves at our windshield. We drive until my eyes close, until the tape flips again, until we finally come to a stop, in a town Josh tells me in a dreamy whisper is called Wall, and I float behind him as he holds my hand and leads me to a bed that's not mine and I fall asleep.