Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (17 page)

“You don’t get stuff like this on I-40,” says Matt quietly.

“That’s not the point,” I tell him. “Some of us have seen enough of Route 66 already.”

Matt shakes his head and turns on the radio. It’s just static.

Alex turns it off.

As Matt turns it back on, there’s a resounding
thunk,
followed immediately by an equally ominous
thud.

Alex screams. Fran makes a grab for my hand and misses. Even Matt flinches. I’m guessing it was a possum, although it could have been almost any small animal. It’s not like we’ll be stopping to identify the carcass.

“Oh. My. God.” Alex is hyperventilating. “You just killed a… a…
something
.”

Matt rubs his chin. “I’m not certain.”

“I saw it, Matt.”

“Really? I thought you were messing with the stereo.”

“It
bounced
.” She presses her palms against her eyes as though she’s trying to erase the image. “Oh God. I
saw its fur, and its legs. I think it was a skunk. It was looking at us. It was trying to tell us something.”

“To slow down, maybe?”

“This is not funny!”

Matt sits up a little straighter and resumes his normal speed. “Look, stuff like that’s going to happen. It’s the circle of life. Darwinism. Still, no harm, no foul, right?”

“What do you mean, no harm?”

“To the car. That’s the advantage of driving a Hummer.”

She spins around to face him, teeth clenched. “All hail, harbinger of road rage,” she cries, stretching her arms and bowing. “Glory to you, all-powerful Hummer driver.”

Matt bites his lip. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“God, Matt. You can be such a dick.”

Matt grips the steering wheel tightly. We veer to the left and cross the lines in the middle of the road. Forty miles per hour suddenly feels very fast indeed. “Why are you so angry?”

“Why do you think? You just killed an animal. And instead of feeling bad, you congratulate yourself for driving a military assault vehicle. Why didn’t you just go all out and get us a freakin’ Sherman tank? We can’t even go a hundred miles without stopping. You’re spending a hundred bucks a day on gas.”

“I wanted us to ride in comfort. Is that so bad? Geez, Alex, I thought you might actually like it.”

I’m bracing for Alex’s expletive-filled comeback, but she looks at Matt very steadily and asks, “Is that true?”

“Yes,” says Matt, perhaps sensing a breakdown in her resistance.

Alex leans back into her seat and runs her hands through her hair. “Why would you think that? After three years together, how could you believe I’d like a Hummer, of all things? Please, tell me you know me better than that. Just tell me you know me at all.”

Matt doesn’t answer, but a moment later he pulls to the side of the road and skids to a halt.

Alex responds with a bitter laugh. “Oh, so
now
you stop.”

“I don’t have much choice.”

“Why? Because I’m pissed as hell, or because you’ve grown a conscience?”

“Because the temperature gauge is rising and there’s steam coming from the hood.”

No offense to the roadkill we left a mile back, but this is by far the worst news of the day. Even when Matt turns the engine off the steam thickens. It looks like the car is on fire. The air-conditioning is off too, and the temperature rapidly heads toward intolerable.

“The engine will cool down in a minute, right?” I try not to sound desperate.

“Chill out,” says Matt. “There’s a reason I got us AAA.” He takes the cell phone from his pocket. “Oh, no,” he mutters.

“What?”

“No reception again. Bad timing, bro. Seriously bad timing.”

Somewhere strikingly hot, Oklahoma

“You don’t think Matt’s suicidal, do you?” asks Fran.

Fran, Alex, and I are crouching beside the Hummer. The sun is almost directly overhead, so there’s only about three square feet of shade. We have to crush up together to savor it, which kind of defeats the purpose.

“I’m just saying, it’s been ten minutes,” she continues. “Plus, Alex was pretty harsh.”

“Hello, I’m right here,” says Alex. “And I don’t think it’s unreasonable to be upset when your boyfriend of three years doesn’t know the first thing about you.”

Right on cue, Matt joins us. “AAA’s on the way,” he says.

“Thank God!” cries Fran. “How long?”

He rubs his foot across the ground, kicking up dust. “An hour or so.”

“An
hour
?” I glance at my watch. “How long is it going to take to get to Oklahoma City from here?”

Matt puffs out his cheeks. “That kind of depends on where
here
is.”

“Have you looked at the map?”

“Our map collection seems to have an unfortunate gap.”

Fran pats my arm. “So how did you describe where we are?” she asks Matt.

“I said we’re stuck on Route 66 west of Oklahoma City. The woman sounded cool about it. She told me there’s a truck out on Route 66 anyway, so we should just flag it down.”

“And how did she know that would take an hour?” I ask.

Matt sighs. “I don’t know, Luke. For all I know, she may have been blowing smoke up my ass.”

“So what do I do now?”

Matt kicks at the ground. “I don’t know, okay?” He turns away from me. “I’m sorry, though. I’m really sorry.”

I believe him, but it doesn’t change anything. “Please, Matt. Tell me what to do.”

“The only thing I can think of is hitching a ride. I’ll wait here, get this thing towed to Oklahoma City, and join you all at the hotel. Just… don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay? If they know you’re hitchhiking, they’ll kill me.”

“No, they won’t,” says Alex quietly. “They’ll tell you they’re disappointed, and you’ll make up some BS about how it wasn’t your fault, and they’ll believe you. Because that’s how ridiculously nice they are.” She flares her nostrils. “Sometimes I wish we could switch parents. Just for a day. Just long enough for you to realize how easy you’ve always had it.”

She grabs her bags from the back of the Hummer and walks to an open stretch of road about twenty yards away. A few minutes later a car approaches: an ancient Cadillac with tinted glass. She raises her thumb, and the driver slows down and pulls to the side. Fran and I grab our bags and run to join her.

The passenger window opens. “You got a problem?” The driver is a woman, at least sixty. She has a freshly lit cigarette in her right hand.

“Yes, ma’am,” says Alex. “Car broke down and we need a ride to Oklahoma City.”

“Well, I can get you partway there. Who’s
we
?”

Alex steps back and allows the woman a clear view of Fran and me. As she studies Fran, the corners of
the woman’s mouth tilt down disapprovingly. “I’ll take him and you, but I ain’t taking her.”

“What?” cries Alex.

“You heard me. Far as I’m concerned, if kids has got the right to look however the hell they want, I’ve got the right to say they ain’t welcome in my car. You understand?”

Fran sighs. “I understand perfectly.”

“Please, ma’am,” I say, leaning forward. “My name is Luke Dorsey. I wrote
Hallelujah
. And this is my friend Fran.”

The woman does a double take. “I heard about you on the radio. Your book too. Which is why I’ll gladly give y’all a ride. But I ain’t taking the chance of getting home without my wallet ’cause this one”—she stabs her cigarette in Fran’s direction—“decided to filch it.”

“Fran’s not a thief,” I protest.

I look to Fran to argue her case, but she just laughs. “Well, there was the vodka,” she says.

“No, Matt paid for that,” says Alex, playing along.

The woman purses her lips. “I’ll take
you,
” she says to me. “But
only
you.”

She opens the passenger door and dribbles ash onto the seat. Maybe it’s the heat, but as I contemplate my next move I feel as though time has slowed down around me.

“Go ahead, Luke,” says Alex. “We’ll come along with Matt.”

I shake my head. “I’m staying.”

“No,” says Fran. She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Please. Missing your signing because of me won’t help either of us.”

I feel so hot, so tired as I grab hold of the doorframe. “Thanks for stopping, ma’am,” I say. “You have a safe journey now.”

Slamming that door is the most satisfying thing I’ve done all week.

Somewhere astoundingly hot, Oklahoma

None of us expect the eighteen-wheeler to stop. Alex barely bothers to raise her hand. But when it pulls up a hundred yards away, we don’t waste any time.

Alex opens the door, and the truck driver tugs the rim of his baseball cap in greeting. “Need a ride?” he asks.

“Could sure do with one,” says Alex.

“Okay, but three’ll be a squeeze.”

“That’s okay. It’ll just be these two.”

Fran and I turn at once. “What?”

“You go ahead. Matt and I need to talk.”

“I’ll stay with you,” says Fran.

“No.” Alex bites the inside of her mouth. “I’ve got a lot to say, and it’ll be easier without an audience.”

Fran and I climb in, me first, and Alex tosses our bags to us. As we pull away I can see her in the side mirror; she keeps waving until she disappears behind a cloud of dust.

“You kids in trouble, by any chance?” the driver asks.

Beside me, Fran tenses. I wish I could stop this from happening to her. I bet Teresa has never had to answer that question, even though she’s the definition of
trouble
.

“I guess that’s a yes, then,” he says, when neither of us replies.

Fran sighs. “This kid knocked me up.”

I just about have a heart attack.

“Dear Lord,” he says.

“Actually, I’m kidding. But if you really want to hear my troubles, well, let’s see: I’m not speaking to my parents, my left ear’s infected ’cause I stuck a needle through it when I got drunk, and worst of all, I’m clean out of booze.” She huffs. “Speaking of which, you got any spare? I’m not picky.”

The guy takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I-I wasn’t prying or nothing.” He lifts his cap and pulls it down again, fingers shaking. “I just thought… well, maybe you needed some help. Only seemed right to offer.”

Fran turns bright red. “Oh, no,
I’m
sorry,” she says. “I don’t know why I said that. And it’s kind of you to ask. But we’re fine. Really.”

I can see how much she wants to take the words back. It makes me wonder why she said them in the first place. Maybe she thinks that’s what people expect her to say, but so what?

Fran is Teresa’s opposite in many ways, but it occurs to me they have one thing in common: Their appearances mask who they really are. Teresa’s good-girl persona had me fooled; but so did Fran’s bad-girl, don’t-mess-with-me act, and she’s been hiding behind it all year. How did it take me until now to realize it?

The silence lingers as the guy adjusts his cap yet again. Then he clears his throat. “I haven’t seen my daughter in two months. She’s eighteen. Pregnant. Ran away from rehab without telling her mom and me. Now no one knows where she is.”

I can feel Fran melting into the seat in shame. But only for a moment, and then she reaches across me and places her hand on the man’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I hope she contacts you soon.”

He blinks back tears. “Yeah, well… we’ll see, you know? Not much I can do now ’cept keep looking for her.” He turns his attention to me. “What about you? Everything right in your world?”

I look at my lap, and Fran’s outstretched arm. She’s still holding on to the guy, reminding him that he’s not alone, her thoughtless words already a distant memory. And the tattoos and purple nail polish can’t disguise the fact that
this
is the Fran I remember—the one who
cared,
and wasn’t afraid to show it. It ought to be me doing that, I realize. Everyone thinks
I’m
that person. But what do I have to say to this man? How can I possibly understand what he’s going through?

Still Fran holds on tight, turning back the clock until she’s the girl I adored, with a heart big enough for everyone.

“Yes,” I say finally. “Everything in my world is perfect.”

The Divine Depot, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

This is the youngest crowd yet—maybe because it’s a Friday night, or because my interview with Orkle is gaining notoriety. Either way, they seem to have a lot more energy than me. By the time I’ve completed my introduction I’m pretty much pooped.

“Are you okay?” asks a boy my age when I tug at my shirt collar for the twentieth time.

“Yes, fine.”

But I’m not fine. I spent twenty minutes showering, and when I emerged I turned the white hotel towel brown with Route 66 dust. I can still feel it in my pores, under the freshly ironed shirt and black pants. I wonder if I’ll ever feel clean again.

“What’s it like being on tour?” asks the girl beside him.

“Exhausting.” I can tell from her face that this is not the uplifting reply she’s looking for. “And… enlightening.” Now she seems happier. “Just this afternoon, I got a ride in a truck. And the driver is looking for his
pregnant teen daughter who just ran away from rehab.”

Now there’s silence. The girl seems flustered. “Oh,” she says, her voice about an octave higher than before. “And, uh… were you able to comfort him?”

I imagine I’m back in the truck cab, but I can’t picture the guy at all. All I can see is Fran’s hand resting on his arm, her face a picture of empathy.

“I guess that when I got out, he was more optimistic than before. But it had nothing to do with me.”

“You’re just being modest,” she says. “What were you doing in a truck, anyway?”

“We broke down on Route 66. So we left my brother with the car and hitched a ride.”

There’s an unusually long silence before a woman raises her hand. “Who’s
we
?” she asks.

Oh, crap. “Uh… my brother and me.”

“But you said he stayed with the car.”

“Yes, I did.” I try to think of a reasonable—and non-incriminating—response, but instead my brain returns to the cab again. Fran was touching the driver, not
me,
but her arm rested against my leg for almost a minute. Perhaps it means nothing; or perhaps it means she’s comfortable around me. I so want her to feel comfortable around me.