Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (15 page)

“I know what it means, thanks.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Enough!” shouts Fran. “Grow up, the pair of you. Either of you could’ve checked the publisher’s website to make sure.”

“And how would we do that?” asks Alex. “We haven’t had Wi-Fi in days. We haven’t even had cell phone connection for ninety percent of this trip. And even if we had, it wouldn’t have mattered, because Matt never answers his phone.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Yes, Matt,” says Alex. “Why not?”

Matt doesn’t answer.

“She’s kidding, right, Matt? You have been checking your messages, really. Haven’t you?”

Matt still doesn’t answer. He just puts the car in gear and gets us back on Route 66. Two minutes later we’re on I-40 heading east, and I know I won’t be able to get him to talk again for the rest of the journey.

I lean back in my seat as we move to the far left lane and accelerate.

And accelerate.

It’s 5:58, and I’m feeling carsick. I’m about to be late for yet another signing, and I didn’t even get any pie. And because that’s not enough, my brother is behaving strangely. It’s all too much.

But then Fran reaches across the seat and takes my hand. I don’t know if it’s because she’s scared or wants to reassure me, but I hope it’s the latter.

In any case, I don’t pull away.

The Goodly Shepherd Bookstore, Amarillo, Texas

Matt pulls up to the bookstore and dares to point out that we’re two minutes early. Somehow I manage not to smack him with Alex’s guidebook.

Fran and I jump out together. “You okay?” she asks, elbows resting on the roof.

I nod, although we both know it’s a lie. I haven’t showered. Haven’t
peed
. Haven’t changed clothes, except to throw on a creased white shirt over my filthy yellow T-shirt.

“Hey, good luck,” she says. “Knock ’em dead.… But not literally.”

“Better keep Matt away then,” I say, and Fran laughs. Her white teeth glisten in the streetlight, and yet again it feels like we’ve turned the clock back a year. I guess she knows that’s what I’m thinking too, because she closes her mouth, lips pulled tight in a thin line. “I’d better go,” I say. This time she just nods.

A woman with Clark Kent glasses and a businesslike ponytail is waiting for me inside. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here.” She pumps my hand once and guides me through the store like an excited sheepdog. “I’ve heard you like dramatic last-minute arrivals, but I couldn’t help wondering if you’d forgotten us altogether! I swear, I wasn’t looking forward to telling all these people you’d bailed on us. It’s the biggest crowd we’ve ever had.”

“Really? How many?”

“Three hundred or so, last time I looked. Could be four hundred by now.”

“Whoa.”

“Yes, whoa. Anyway, sorry if you get an earful from your publicist, but when you weren’t here at six fifty-five, I felt I had to call him.”

Oh, great. So Colin knows I’m late.
Again.

“And here we are,” she says.

It’s the largest room I’ve seen so far. You could hold a rock concert in here.

A few people recognize me, and there’s a kind of staggered standing ovation as I wind my way toward the podium. The walk feels longer than usual, the eyes more weighted with expectation. I’m not in the right frame of mind to be doing this.

There’s a bottle of water by the podium and I drink the whole thing. By the time I’m done, the applause has stopped. As one by one they sit down, I stare at this ocean of people and wonder what on earth I’m doing here.

I give my spiel and everyone laughs, though the words feel dull and empty. I talk about the tour, but it’s so heavily edited I wonder if I’m just making it all up. If it weren’t for the breathless anticipation that awaits my every word, I honestly think I’d bring things to a close right now.

Clark Kent lady seems delighted with my paltry effort, and opens the floor to questions. The first comes from a guy near the door—like me, a late arrival.

“I saw you arrive in a Hummer,” he says. “Do you really think that goes hand in hand with your message of self-sacrifice, modesty, and charity?”

He’s got me there. The debate champion in me is scouring for a rebuttal, but the real me just doesn’t
have the energy. So I do something unusual: I tell the truth.

“Well, I can’t drive yet, so my brother is driving me around. He also chose the car. I didn’t have any say in it, but if he’d asked me, I’d have begged him not to get a Hummer. You’re absolutely right, it feels inappropriate and… wrong.”

The guy nods. “So your brother’s driving. What about the girl you were talking to?”

My heartbeat quickens, and debate champion Luke receives a sudden influx of adrenaline. “What girl?”

“The one with the purple hair. Weird markings on her arms. She was waving to you as you walked into the store. Kept waving even after you were inside.”

“She did?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh. Well, she’s, uh… a cousin. Her parents wanted her to come along on the tour.”

“I get it,” he says, nodding sagely. “And has it worked?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know… has she changed? Gotten better?”

“Uh… I think the trip has had a positive effect on her, yeah.”

Everyone seems to accept my answer, though I already know I shouldn’t have said that Fran is my cousin. It just slipped out. Although, come to think of
it, I didn’t say that she was
my
cousin—just
a
cousin; which I’m pretty sure she is. And nothing else I said is wrong—conveniently vague, maybe, but not
wrong
.

A tall, frail lady stands and crosses herself. “God bless you, Luke Dorsey,” she says. “Anyone would think you have enough going on already, what with all your death-defying experiences. But you also find time to help lost souls.”

These book signings haven’t always gone smoothly, but with the exception of the past hour on I-40, I’d hardly call them “death-defying.” I’d ask her what she means, but I’m stuck on the fact that she just called Fran a
lost soul
. Two days ago, I might have agreed; now it makes me uncomfortable.

“Well,” she continues, “as the good Lord says, ‘Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come to me.’”

I can guess how Fran would react to being called a
little child
. “Matthew, chapter nineteen, verse fourteen,” I reply, reverting to autopilot.

She nods, and the old man beside her stands too. He clears his throat and recites: “‘Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’”

So now Fran has been demoted to
the least of these my brethren
. “Matthew, chapter twenty-five, verse forty,” I reply.

Another satisfied customer takes his seat. I haven’t even expressed an opinion yet, but I can feel that the audience is behind me—more than at any event so far. It would be almost perfect if I deserved this support, but I don’t. I feel tired and cranky. I feel like a fraud.

“Okay, uh… look, there’s something I need to say.” I pick up the bottle of water, but it’s empty. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m really happy if
Hallelujah
speaks to you, but all I did was write it. That’s all. It doesn’t mean I’m special.”

“You don’t think being Luke Dorsey—doing all these amazing things—makes you special?” asks Clark Kent lady, standing not ten feet away.

“No, I don’t.” I turn to face the audience, large enough to burst the seams of the room. “Look, when I started writing it, everything in my life seemed perfect, and I was psyched about sharing that feeling with the kids at Sunday school. But then everything changed, and I started having doubts. I still have doubts—lots of them. The book’s published now, so I can’t do anything about it; but whenever I read it, I don’t think I should be promising those kids anything at all.”

Some people are hanging on every word, but others have taken on a vaguely freaked-out look, like spectators forced to watch someone spontaneously combust.

The old guy raises his hand again. “You know,” he
says, “being modest and self-critical doesn’t make you any less inspiring. On the contrary, I think I speak for all of us when I say that’s why we’re here tonight. To see someone—just a kid—who’s already done so much and is still trying to make a difference; who is human enough to admit he has doubts, but committed to exploring what faith and understanding and steadfastness mean and writing about them in a new way. A way that resonates with the young folk. Don’t underestimate the power of your words and actions, Luke.”

Soliloquy complete, he bows his head. Murmurs of agreement hum like an electrical current. And the smiling faces of everyone here are proof of their unwavering support. I’m practically witnessing a ticker tape parade in my honor. I should be elated.

But I’m not. I figured my only problem was that I had doubts about what I’d written, but it’s clear I’ve got another issue too: What these people see isn’t the boy who wrote
Hallelujah,
but the boy
in
the book; the one who never puts a foot wrong, spiritually speaking, because an army of editors have made sure he doesn’t. I tried to tell them who I was, but it’s clear they don’t believe me. So what do I do now?

I could let them all down and reveal the truth: how the darkest passages were written at the church retreat, when I felt alone and confused; how my editor
alternated the funny and serious passages; how I begged him to remove all traces of humor and fantasy, once I realized it was all just crap; how I haven’t looked forward to church in a year, but I’m too afraid of what that means to stop going.

But I won’t say any of these things. Because these people have given up an evening to show me that at my very best—my most idealistic—I have something to say. So I’ll try be my very best again, even though my best has very little to do with me.

Panhandle Hotel, Amarillo, Texas

Fran is sitting on the toilet seat, painting her toenails purple so they match her hair.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Good.” She narrows her eyes as the tiny brush glides across her nail.

“No, that’s not true.” I lean against the sink. “Actually, it was strange.”

The brush stops moving and Fran peers up. Her eyes are rimmed with black eyeliner. It’s the first time
since Sunday that she has worn makeup. “Strange how?” she asks.

She’s looking at me intently, searchingly. I recognize that look; it used to make me clam up, and it’s having the same effect now. “It’s nothing,” I say.

She won’t look away. “Strange how, Luke?” The way she says my name sounds odd: gentle, caring. She really wants to know what’s eating me.

“Are you going out?” I ask instead.

She knows I’m blowing her off, but to her credit she doesn’t get angry. “Why would you think that?”

“You’re all dressed up.”

“You like, huh?” She laughs quickly, before I can respond. “I wasn’t planning on it, but it’s a good idea. A little fresh air would be nice.” She returns her attention to the remaining toenail, but the brush doesn’t move. “You want to come?”

“Yeah. I guess I could do with some fresh air too.”

She exhales, and the brush begins moving again.

My bag has been placed on one of the beds, so I rummage through and find a polo shirt. It’s not exactly clean, but at least it doesn’t smell. I’m setting the bar low tonight.

Fran appears in the doorway, hair loose around her shoulders. “All right, then,” she says.

“All right, then.”

Outside the air-conditioned hotel, the night is
sticky. The air is thick with bugs. Fran and I walk side by side, but I’m not sure which of us is supposed to speak first. We pass the first two blocks in silence.

At the curb, we wait for the lights to turn. I wish they’d hurry up so we can start walking again and our footsteps will cover the sound of my breathing—too fast, too loud.

“So the nail polish is dry, then?” I ask.

Fran begins to laugh. “Good. Now you’ve broken the silence, we can actually talk again.”

I smile at that. It’s so
Fran
.

“I’m ready to talk,” she says. “About what happened last year.” Her voice sounds brittle. “Lights have changed.”

“Huh? Oh.”

We cross the street and keep going straight. We’re not heading anywhere, I realize. We’re walking because it’s a distraction, and that’s what Fran needs if she’s ever going to open up.

“Remember the day we won the debate championship?” she asks.

“Are you kidding? Best day of my life.”

“Yeah, mine too. Just the intensity of the whole thing, and then finding out we’d won. I was on such a high. Everyone wanted to shake my hand, and then my dad came up and said he’d never been prouder. It was like… I don’t know… the stars aligning, or
something.” She breathes in the memory. “I remember my mom taking photos, and telling us to get closer. I wrapped my arm around your waist, but it took you forever to put your arm around mine. And I was laughing, but when I looked at you, you looked kind of scared. I didn’t understand at first, but then I got it… that maybe you liked me. I swear it was the first time I knew how you felt. It was also the moment I realized I really liked you too. So I kissed you.”

Actually, it more like a peck on the cheek, but it was still the most amazing moment of my life.

“I remember thinking that the church retreat was in ten days, and that maybe you and me…” She trails off, and her footsteps slow down. “Never mind.”

“No, keep going,” I say, needing to hear her say these things. Needing to remember the time when Frances Embree—the
real
Fran—had shared my feelings for her.

“Well, then that reporter came along, and Dad muscled in on the picture, as usual. He stars in his own commercials, you know, so it’s not like he was going to miss out on a chance to get his face in the paper. Anyway, I was feeling kind of strange, and elated, and I just needed to let it out.”

“You mean the rabbit fingers behind his head?”