Drive Me Crazy (3 page)

Chapter Four
Cassie

W
e’re not even an hour down the road when Nono pulls off the highway. Apparently, a you-pick-them strawberry farm has caught her eye. I haven’t been paying attention to much of anything since Lana got Nono and Howie going on their little storytelling contest, but here we are, leaving the exit ramp with Howie pointing the way. Like Nono hasn’t navigated all over the world perfectly fine without him all these years.

As we get out, Lana is all smiles, but there’s no way I’m getting enthusiastic about some family playdate in a berry patch. The sun is beating down from the cloudless sky, and already I’m hot. These also aren’t the right shoes for wandering around in the dirt. I’m stuck in them, though,
since I got forced to leave half my wardrobe back home, and there was only room for four pairs.

As Nono and Howie talk to the cheery-faced woman who greets us outside the barn, I text Kendra Mack:

Not even one hour & already it’s torture.

Ha poor thing
, she types back right away.

Yeah I didn’t bring my farmhand outfit for this berry-picking business.

Wear your swimsuit instead!

As if
, I type back, following Lana, who’s already armed with our two baskets. Howie and Nono have taken off down one of the rows, holding hands and laughing.

I’m typing
Milking goats is probably next
when another text from Kendra Mack comes in:
K! About to see a movie with Izzy Gathing and Gates Morrill, so good luck seeya bye.

Ugh. Her afternoon sounds so much better than having to watch my favorite grandmother get all smoochy with her new hick husband in the middle of a field. I kick at one of the little plants nearby in frustration, but it only makes a bunch of dirt go up the toe of my sandal.

Lana is half the row ahead of me already, but I can tell she’s waiting for me to catch up. I guess I might as well talk to her, since we’re stranded out here.

“Is everything okay?” she asks when I get to her.

I squat down, not even sure how to approach a strawberry plant.

“No, everything is not okay. We’re baking in the sun, doing manual labor instead of relaxing and having fun, which is what summer’s supposed to be
for
, and on top of that my sandals are getting ruined.”

“Oh,” she says. “I meant, with the texting.”

I hand her two berries. “Just a convo with my best friend, Kendra Mack, is all.”

Lana adds my strawberries to her basket without looking at them.

“She has two first names?”

So annoying. “No. Mack is her last name.”

We pick awhile, not talking, which is nice, until she says, “So, why does she go by both?”

“Because . . .” I scootch down a few more plants. I haven’t had to answer this question before. “Because it’s cooler. It shows people who you
are
.”

I think this is what Kendra Mack would say. At first, when I started hanging with Kendra Mack, it was hard remembering to say “Cheyenne Taylor” or “Izzy Gathing” instead of what I’d been calling them all through sixth grade, but nobody had to
explain
it to me. It’s just how it’s done.

“So . . .” Lana moves a couple of feet ahead of me. “Is
it like that for everyone at your school? Sounds like it’d be hard to memorize all those first and last names.”

“Ugh, no. It’s just the people in our group. People who are worth it.”

Lana tosses three plump berries into her basket and shifts down the row again. She’s taking all the good ones, so I move over to the row next to hers. It will look bad if her basket is brimming and mine isn’t even a dozen berries deep.

“Does that mean now I should call you Cassie Parker and you call me Lana Thorton-Howe?”

This is beyond dumb. “Of course not. You’re Lana and I’m Cassie and that’s it.”

“But when I come visit, and we’re with your friends, do I say—”

Come visit. As if.

“You know, Lana, you need to learn by observation instead of asking questions all the time. It’s classier. And way less annoying. In fact, we’re going to need some ground rules if we’re going to get through the rest of this trip. Rule Number One is definitely No Annoying Questions, okay?”

“But how do I know they’re annoying if I don’t ask them?”

I glare at her.

She looks away and moves down another few plants.
“Observation. I get it.”

“Rule Number Two is Don’t Talk to Me While I Have My Phone. If my phone is in my hand, I’m having a conversation with someone else, not you.”

She mutters something, but since she’s another ten feet away I don’t hear.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Good.”

I go back to the plants, checking under leaves and plucking berries even if they’re still a little green on top, just so my basket looks fuller. It’s not like we’re going to be able to eat all these. Probably Nono will take us on another crazy goose chase, looking for a shelter where we can donate them. Ugh. My legs are getting cramped, squatting like this, and I already need a shower. I stand up, stretch, and look across the field where Nono is leaning into Howie as he rubs a bright-red strawberry against her lips before she bites it and kisses him. Gross. I don’t even have my sunglasses, and though I brought my phone, I left the earbuds in the car. To make matters worse, Lana’s still down there in the dirt, and she’s giggling.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh,” she gasps, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t know if you’ll think it is.”

“Oh yeah?”

She looks at me a minute without saying anything, but the edge of her mouth twitches with a smile she’s trying to fight.

“I was just thinking, if your friend had a cat or something, would she call it Fluffy Mack? Would your dog be Bow-Wow Parker?”

“I don’t have a dog,” I tell her, though I can’t help giggling. “But our friend Cheyenne Taylor does, and her name is Gypsy.”

Lana whistles. “Here, Gypsy Taylor!” she calls in a high voice. “Come on, girl!”

“And Gates Morrill has an iguana he calls Chester.”

Lana laughs. “Let me introduce you to my iguana, Chester Morrill.”

“And my cockatoo, Bingo McIntosh,” I throw in.

“My goldfish, Glub-Glub Peterson.”

We’re both laughing now.

“My pet rock, Adelaide Beeson.”

“Pet rock,” she says. “That’s a good one.”

We make up even more ridiculous names for pets (“Oh, here’s my ostrich, Stephanie DiLorio”) as we move down our rows together. A breeze kicks up, cooling us even though the sun is warm on our backs. I start to get the hang of squatting and picking. I still don’t like being dirty
and sweaty, and Lana is still faster than me, but she also has to pause a lot, catching her breath after each giggle breakdown. During one of these, I lean back on my heels to bite into one of my strawberries. There are enough now that it won’t hurt eating a few, and I have to admit, the sun-warmed fruit is just the right amount of tart and sweet.

Chapter Five
Lana

A
fter strawberry picking, the twisty drive along Highway 101 down to Paso Robles is one of the most majestic things I’ve ever seen, and we spend the next couple of hours gasping with astonishment and delight at the view. There aren’t very many places to stop the car and absorb everything, but Grandma Tess takes the climbing turns slow, so we can all enjoy as much of the cliffs and crashing ocean as possible.

By the time we make it into town, we’re all breathless and awed from the natural beauty, but the hotel is almost just as grand. Grandpa Howe and I picked the fanciest place we could for our first night’s stay, but even after the photos we saw online, I’m still surprised by how beautiful it is
when we pull into the drive. Even Cassie looks impressed as we walk into the lobby, decorated with glossy leather couches and barrel-sized metal vases dripping plants with deep green leaves and tiny magenta flowers all over.

“We thought, for our first night, we ought to do it up right,” Grandma Tess says, standing with one hand on Cassie’s shoulder and the other on mine.

I know already that Grandma Tess had very rich parents—her trust fund is why she’s been able to do whatever she wants since she left home at eighteen, even though she gave a lot of it to charities. But the way she and Grandpa Howe live, you mostly can’t tell. Grandpa Howe’s been using the same dishware he and Nana Lilia bought together right after they got married, and he probably has some jeans that are about as old. Grandma Tess gives exotic gifts, and has all her travels, but her little cottage with the art studio in the back doesn’t look like it came from
Architectural Digest
or anything. So being in a place that is obviously expensive makes me feel a little self-conscious. And grateful.

Grandpa Howe finishes checking us all in, and a valet helps load our bags on a big brass cart to take to our rooms. When he opens the door for me and Cassie, he says, “Misses,” and holds out his hand like a prince. We giggle but still go in slowly, both of us checking out the fluffy queen-size beds, the glossy marble in the bathroom,
the giant TV, and the vase of bright flowers on the table between the beds.

“We’re right across the hall,” Grandpa Howe says. It surprises me, but in a good way. If it were Dad and Mom on this trip, we would’ve had to have the kind of rooms linked by a door. A door you can usually hear everything happening on the other side through, especially a late-night pillow fight.

Grandpa Howe tells us to be ready to head down to the pool in fifteen, and then shuts the door behind him. This room is so beautiful, picking berries with Cassie was so fun, and the drive was so incredible, I feel more relaxed than I have since Mom’s headaches started. I flop down on the nearest bed, stretching myself out and making what would be a snow angel in the poufy down comforter.

“Isn’t this great?” I say to Cassie, smiling at the ceiling.

“Ugh,” she says. “I’m not touching that bed before a shower. I’m filthy.”

With that she grabs about three different toiletry bags from her suitcase, plus a handful of bathing suits, before disappearing into the bathroom without asking me whether I need to use it or not.

Suddenly aware of my own dried-sweat T-shirt and still slightly dusty shins and feet, I hop up, pounding the comforter with my palm to bang out any dirt I might’ve
left. Even looking super careful, though, the whole thing is still snowfield white, only a little more lumpy from all my efforts.

I decide it’s good that Cassie wanted to go straight into the shower anyway, since I need to call Mom to let her know we’re here. I want to see if her voice contains the same tiredness it did this morning. She keeps saying she’s just a little “under the weather,” and I let her think I believe her because I don’t want her to worry about me being worried. But I’m not in fifth grade anymore. That she’s trying to hide it means it’s really bad. So the more often I can check on her, the better.

She picks up on the second ring, bright and happy. Which makes me miss her in a way I wasn’t until just now, but I plunge in and tell her about berry picking, our game of naming pets, and the breathtaking drive above the ocean.

“Oh, I’m so glad you got to see that highway,” she says. “It’s one of the most beautiful drives I’ve been on in my life. Your father and I did it when we first got married, and I’ve always wanted to take you.”

A guilty swirl happens in my chest. Mom’s always wanted to take me, and now because I’ve already gone with my grandparents, and she’s obviously so sick—no matter what she’s pretending—maybe she’ll never get to.

I change the subject to chase the bad thought away.
“You should see our hotel, too. There are flowers everywhere. What’s that kind with the dark glossy leaves and the bright pink—”

“Bougainvillea. Your father loves that stuff. It’s very responsive.”

“Well, it’s everywhere here.”

Immediately I miss Dad too—picturing how he’d gaze around that big beautiful lobby with all its arches and terra-cotta tile. My whole chest fills with wanting them both to be here, with me, now. And for nothing bad to be happening. Or for them not to have sent me away while it is.

Getting homesick after not even a day seems babyish even to me, though, so I push all those feelings further down.

“And how’s Cassie?” Mom wants to know.

“She’s doing great. What about you?” I try to make it sound like I’m just asking because it’s what you ask, instead of because I’m worried that any moment she may collapse from exhaustion and stop breathing.

“Oh, it’s a busy day, but good,” Mom says. “I’ll miss you being there when I get home tonight. No freckle-arms to greet me with a hug.”

“Well, I’m sending you one right now, then.” I close my eyes and squeeze my mom as hard as I can in my mind.

Mom makes an “mmm” sound, and the missing feeling
crashes over me again. I worry my voice will fail when I say, “Miss you, Mom.”

“Miss you too. Dad’ll be sorry he wasn’t here to say hi.”

“I’ll send him a picture or two of those flowers.”

We say our good-byes, and when the call ends, I immediately want to text Dad, but Cassie will be out of that bathroom soon. As far as I know, she hasn’t communicated with her parents at all, and I still don’t want to look like a baby.

But she doesn’t come right out of the bathroom. I can hear her moving around, making little low growls to herself as she does whatever it is she’s doing in the mirror, but the door stays shut. Since Grandpa Howe and Grandma Tess will be fetching us any minute, I dig my swimsuit out of my suitcase and change quick, pulling my shorts back on over my suit just as there’s a knock at the door.

“Where’s Cassie?” Grandma Tess says when she sees me standing there, alone.

“She wanted to shower,” I say, hoping that explains it. “And I just called Mom.”

“How is she?” Grandma Tess asks.

“Busy,” I say, light. “I told her Dad would love all the bougainwhatsit around here.”

“It is one of his favorites.” Grandpa Howe nods.

“Well, you girls come on down when you’re ready,”
Grandma Tess says, putting her hand on Grandpa Howe’s tan arm. They both look like they should be on a commercial for a cruise.

“Fancy drinks with umbrellas in them as soon as you get down, okay?” Grandpa Howe adds.

I smile. “We’ll be right there.”

But we aren’t right there. Every time I think Cassie’s about to come out of the bathroom, she turns on the hair dryer, runs the water again, or shakes some bottle full of something. Part of me wants to head on down and leave a note that I’ll see her at the pool, but I don’t want to abandon her and make her come down by herself. Also, while I’m examining everything in the room, I find a card in our bouquet of flowers, which is actually a gift from Grandma Tess. I figure Cassie and I should thank her together.

This only makes me even more eager to get downstairs, though, especially so Grandpa Howe and Grandma Tess won’t be wondering where we are. Even though Cassie can’t be much longer—we’re only going to jump right into the pool, after all, so there’s no point in perfect hair—I decide to start a postcard to Tamika, to keep myself from checking the clock every ten seconds. I choose the best one from the batch I bought at the berry farm: a field full of the small leafy strawberry plants under a sunny blue sky.
Tamika would’ve probably spent more time trying to see how many rows she could leap over than picking, and I like to imagine her in this picture.

I’m about to write “getting along great,” because that seems mainly true, though it has been a rockier start than I wanted. Tamika doesn’t have a lot of patience for wishy-washiness in the emotional department, so “great” would do fine, but I end up not writing anything, because finally the bathroom door opens. Cassie’s there, looking like she’s about to go to a poolside
ball
instead of just hang out with me and our grandparents.

“I didn’t think you were still here,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed to have taken so long, or disappointed she has to make her appearance with me.

“I wanted some solo time too,” I say back.

“Are they down there already?”

“They’re waiting, yeah. Grandpa Howe said he’d get us fancy drinks.”

Cassie’s bending to put her dirty clothes from this morning into some kind of clear plastic zip-up bag, so it seems at first that maybe she’s miffed about the idea, but when she stands back up, she’s smiling.

“Well, let’s make sure they’re as fancy as this room is, then.”