Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (13 page)

Teresa shares a shrug with the other people in line. “I think you must be mistaking me for someone else.”

“I’m not signing your book, Teresa.” I lower my voice. “That thing last night—the whole seduction routine—you probably thought it was really clever.”

She gasps. “Did you just say…
seduction
?” Her voice is loud. There are tears too, summoned so quickly that I wonder if she practices.

The conversations around us stop. Teresa has drawn them into our personal soap opera; belatedly, it occurs to me that she’s probably more experienced at this game than I am.

“I’m a sophomore in high school,” she cries. “I’ve never even met you before. And…”—her voice rises until she’s almost screaming—“and you accuse me of
seducing
you?”

There’s complete silence now, nothing but my breathing and the imaginary sound of crickets.

“Is there a problem here?” the owner asks.

Teresa grips the table for support. “He accused me of…” She shakes her head. “I can’t say it. It’s too horrible.”

“I don’t understand,” says the owner, staring at me wide-eyed, waiting for some sort of explanation.

“She’s a reporter.” The words dribble out of my mouth.

The owner stares at me like I must be crazy.

“I-I’m
sixteen,
” blubs Teresa, both hands wrapped around her cross.

I consider pleading my case, but the last thing I want to do is tell a couple hundred of my closest acquaintances that Fran—exiled villain of tonight’s event—has shocking photos of Teresa and me on the verge of making out. Since I have no other line of defense, I settle for turning bright red instead. I may as well hang a
guilty
sign around my neck.

“I’ve never been so humiliated,” says Teresa, filling the silence. She chokes on her tears. “If my daddy was here, he’d…”

On that note she flees for the door, the sounds of her wailing drifting through the store long after she should have exited. I figure she’s probably standing just outside the room. She’s a pro, I’ll give her that.

Unfortunately, she’s not the only one who leaves, much to the chagrin of the checked-shirted guy selling copies of
Hallelujah
. He implores them not to forget to buy a copy, but they’re not forgetting anything—they have no interest in reading my book anymore.

To be honest, I don’t blame them.

Hotel Lobo, Albuquerque, New Mexico

Fran is on her bed, typing on Alex’s laptop while listening to a complicated piece of classical music. She turns it down as I enter, but she doesn’t look up.

“You’re back early,” she says.

It’s true, but I haven’t felt so tired since the tour began. “Don’t ask.”

“Okay. I won’t.” She turns the music back up.

I didn’t mean it to come out like that, so I walk over and turn the volume down again. Our hands are practically touching on the laptop keyboard. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay.”

“No. I mean, I’m sorry for what happened at the event.”

She takes a swig from her bottle. This one’s brown. The sight and smell of it makes me pull back. I sit on the other bed, facing her.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she says.

“Still, I’m sorry. I should’ve…” Should’ve
what?
Offended two hundred people by supporting a girl
whose favorite evening activity is getting wasted? Yes. Yes, I should have. “I’m just… sorry.”

Fran doesn’t take her eyes off the laptop. There are several photos onscreen, but none of them involve paparazzi, thank goodness.

“Teresa showed up again,” I tell her.

“Wow. She’s persistent. So, you two make out this time?”

That hurts, but not as much as being thrown out of a bookstore, I guess. “What did you do with the memory card?”

She huffs. “I stuck it underwater and stomped on it.”

“Thanks.”

Another grid of photos appears onscreen: Fran and Alex kayaking together, swimming together, running together.

“You must’ve missed her this year,” I say.

She closes the computer, but her eyes remain locked on the same spot, as though she can still see every photo. “Yeah. I always thought I was running interference for Al—especially when she started applying to colleges as far away from St. Louis as possible. But last summer I realized we’d kind of been protecting each other really. And when she was gone…” Fran closes her eyes. When she opens them again, she turns to me. “This has got to stop. Right now. You’ve got five minutes, okay?”

“For what?”

“To ask me all the stuff that’s on your mind.” She finishes the bottle. “I promise to answer truthfully. I just can’t have this…
thing
between us anymore.”

My mind isn’t ready for this, but the look in her eyes tells me this is the moment that has been brewing for a year. I have to dive in.

“Four minutes, forty seconds,” she says.

“Okay. Why do you drink?”

“I don’t drink. I’m drink
ing
.”

“Semantics. Fifteen–love.”

“Wrong. I haven’t touched alcohol all year. Just on this trip. Replay the point.”

“Why are you drinking now?”

“Because I can. Because whether I do or don’t, Alex will still love me, and apparently you’ll still hate me. What have I got to lose?”

I don’t agree with her logic, but then, I’m not convinced she does either. She just unscrews the cap on yet another bottle and takes a big gulp.

“Where did you get it from anyway?”

“There was a minibar in our first hotel room.”

“There was? I didn’t see it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, duh! You wouldn’t, would you.”

I guess she means that someone as straight and narrow as me wouldn’t even look for such temptations.
I can’t tell whether she means it to be insulting or complimentary. Doesn’t really matter—I’m okay with being that person.

“Why are you rude?” I ask.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You didn’t used to be.”

She flares her nostrils. “So?”

“What about blasphemy?”

“I wasn’t aware blasphemy is the same as being rude. Love–fifteen.”

She’s right: They’re not the same thing. I don’t even know where I was going with that one. I only asked it because I haven’t gotten up the nerve to ask her what I really want to know. And I still can’t.

“You always seem angry now,” I say. “Is it because you don’t believe in God?”

She looks confused. “I
do
believe in God. It’s everyone else I lost faith in.”

“But you don’t go to church.”

“Love–thirty for thinking those are the same thing.”

“Okay. But why don’t you go anymore?”

Fran looks away. “I have my reasons.”

“You promised to answer my questions truthfully.”

She fingers her hair, takes refuge in another long gulp from her bottle. “My parents prefer not to be seen with me.”

“Oh.” Somehow this has never occurred to me before. “I didn’t know.”

“You do now.”

“But your parents aren’t to blame for everything else.”

“
Naaaa
. That’s an opinion, not a question. Love–forty. Break point. And you still have two minutes, fifty seconds left to ask
questions
.”

“Okay, okay.” I try not to smile as I spot a loophole in her rules. “
Why
did you give up on everything else as well?”

She shakes her head and exhales loudly. “Whatever. Just forget it.”

She stands as if she’s going to leave. Instinctively I reach out and take her hand. It’s warm. For years I dreamed of holding her hand; and here I am, doing it. I let go suddenly as my face turns red.

“I’m not contagious,” she says.

“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about you giving up. Please don’t go.”

She hesitates a moment before sitting back down. Our knees are so close they almost touch. “You’ve got two minutes, twenty-five seconds,” she says, holding up her scratched plastic watch so I can see she’s playing fair.

“Why did you stop joining in with church events?”

“Because I wasn’t welcome.”

“But they were important to us. To me,” I add.

“And they’re still important.”

“So come help out again. Do the Thanksgiving dinner this year.”

“And ruin all the photos?” She bats her eyelids.

“Can you stop playing the victim for a moment?”

Fran stiffens. “Who said I’m a victim? Not me. I’m just aware that for one day every year the shelter belongs to your congregation, so I stay away. I do Sundays instead. Turns out, homeless people like to eat then as well.”

“Every Sunday?”

“Almost, yeah. At least since my dad made it clear he wouldn’t be seen with me at church.”

“But why?”

Fran stares at her forearms. “Why do you think? Please don’t pretend to be shocked. Even you’re secretly grateful I haven’t been there this past year, right?”

I can’t answer that question, but my silence shames me.

“Whatever,” she continues. “It’s why I help at the shelter. It’s funny how easily people with no money, no home, no food can overlook stuff like that.”

I can’t think of the right thing to say, so I just shrug.
“Okay, well… I guess that counts as breaking serve. How does it feel?” I’m trying to be light.

Fran doesn’t play along; she just taps her watch. “You’ve got thirty seconds left. Why don’t you just ask me?”

“Ask you what?”

“The biggest question of all.”

“What are you talking about?” I croak.

She sighs. “Fine. Have it your—”

“Why do you look like that?” I ask, the words tumbling out.

She has a smile prepared, but still her eyes betray the hurt. Or is it surprise? Was she expecting me to ask something else? “Because I want to remind people how bitter disappointment feels,” she says.

Her words hang in the air for several seconds. I replay them over and over, trying to make sense of them. And then, finally, I think I understand. “Including me?” I whisper. “Do you want me to know that too?”

She looks away and breaks the connection. Her eyes drift across the room, as though she’s trying to find something steady to latch on to. Eventually she gives up and looks at her watch again.

“Sorry,” she says, almost too softly for me to hear. “Time’s up.”

THURSDAY, JUNE 19

Lessons 25: 13–15

13. And though the boy was lonely and confused, yet he knew that patience was good. And so he knelt down and prayed, even as the children around him played. 14. The next day his faith remained strong, and he cast out all evil thoughts and prayed again that he might yet understand. Even as the children around him played. 15. The next day, still lonely and confused, the boy gnashed his teeth and cried out, “Why am I forsaken? Why am I alone? Why is my world undone?” And only the sight of children playing reassured him there was any joy left in the world.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Matt starts today’s journey by announcing a detour to Santa Fe. He says it matter-of-factly, as though no one will mind. I can’t tell whether it’s a calculated move, or if he’s simply clueless. I’m guessing the former.

Before I can complain, Alex rubs her hands together and opens the guidebook: “Santa Fe, Spanish for ‘Holy faith,’ is the state capital of New Mexico.” She continues with a list of invasions and occupations that blend into one massive bloody mess covering several centuries. Despite the catastrophic loss of life that stains Santa Fe’s history, Alex’s narration never once loses steam.

“That’s all?” Matt says, when she’s finally done. “What about it being the Healing Stone capital of America?” he teases. “What about artist studios for rent at Manhattan prices?”

Alex doesn’t reply.

“Doesn’t your book even mention the phrase ‘upmarket kitsch’?” he continues.

Alex closes the guidebook with a loud snap.

“I’m just joking, Al.”

No reply.

The sign over the highway announces the turn for Santa Fe. If we skip the detour, we’ll be in Texas by lunchtime, and I’ll have time for a nap at the hotel, and a shower. I’ll be able to get my head straight, and after last night, that’s my top priority.

“Can we just keep going, Matt?” I ask.

No response.

“Please? I could really do with an easy day.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. It’s weird, but he sounds like he means it too. “We need to…”

Need to what?
I want to ask. But Matt glides toward the turn and we’re on our way to Santa Fe. A sign shows we have sixty miles to go.

“I didn’t mean that stuff, Al,” he says. “I was just being silly.”

“I know,” says Alex. “I think I’d prefer to look around by myself, though.”

Now it’s Matt’s turn to be silent. Alex responds by leaning over and pecking him on the cheek. He doesn’t react at all.

“Good idea,” agrees Fran. “It’s bound to be a long ride this afternoon. We could all use some alone time.”

It suits me, suits Alex, suits Fran. But Matt sinks deep into his leather seat, his shoulders slumped.
Turns out, the person responsible for the detour is the least happy that it’s happening.

Calculated? Clueless?

Definitely the latter.

Santa Fe, New Mexico

There aren’t enough synonyms for
sand-colored
to describe Santa Fe. Old and new buildings creep up the hills like a haphazard stack of LEGO bricks. And though we’re at 7,000 feet and the air feels paper thin, mountains dominate the horizon, peaks still capped with snow.

I’m aware of the beauty of this place, and the energy generated by the bustling crowds. But it’s the first time I’ve been by myself since the trip began, and although I ought to enjoy the solitude, instead I just feel lost and lonely.

I’m tired too, so I start looking for a coffee shop—somewhere to sit and rest. I stop a passerby, but before I can ask for directions I’m distracted by something in the window of the store across the street: a life-sized
cardboard cutout of someone I recognize very well.

Me.