16 Things I Thought Were True (9 page)

“They'll ask a lot of questions,” Amy says. “Like how long will you be in the country? Why are you traveling to Canada? What's the name of the place you're staying at?”

“I wrote the address of the Stingray Hostel down. I'll grab it.” I reach for my backpack, dig inside, and pull out a notepad with the info.

Adam leans forward. “What are we saying our reason is for visiting? Let's get our story straight.”

“I'll say I'm going to see my dad,” I say, “since that's what I am doing.” I turn my head and narrow my eyes at him to show him his question sucks. “You have a guilty conscience too?” I ask.

“Maybe,” he says. “Let's hope they don't have anything against teenagers or think we're drug dealers or something.”

“We're driving her to see her dad—it's a dad-finding trip,” Amy says. “We have nothing to worry about. My dad said I'm far too chatty to be a threat to Canada,” she continues. “And I would never do drugs. Well, illegal ones.”

I pick my backpack up and pat the pocket where my passport is. “You're the last person I would ever suspect of doing drugs.” Reassured, I put the backpack back on my lap.

Amy glances at me and then back at the road. “You know, before? I wasn't asking if you were afraid of crossing the border. I was asking if you were scared about seeing your dad.” She keeps her eyes on the road, but the empathy shines from her profile.

“I'm terrified.” I glance behind me, but Adam is staring out the window, far away in his own thoughts.

I click the button on my window to filter in some fresh air.

“Ewwww,” I say and wrinkle up my nose.

“Skunk!” Amy calls. I quickly roll up the window, but the smell is strong and penetrates the glass. Sure enough, we whiz by a munched up little black and white creature on the side of the road.

“Awwww. Poor little guy,” Amy says.

“I think he got his revenge.” I plug my nose.

“Can you blame him?” Amy says. She's quiet for a minute. “I can't even imagine what it must be like not to know your own dad.”

“Yeah,” I tell her. “You're really lucky. Your dad is awesome.”

“I am,” she says somberly. I'm glad she appreciates what she has.

“What do you think is going to happen?” she asks.

I don't answer and frown as the CD progresses to a happy song about summer fun.

“I guess I've tried hard not to really think about it too much,” I finally say. “Like what if he slams the door in my face or calls me a liar?” I look out the window. “How do I handle that?”

Amy turns down the volume on the CD.

“Maybe you should call him,” Adam suggests from the back. “Instead of just showing up at his door?”

“Surprise is the only element I have control over. I don't want to give him a chance to prepare. I want to see him react. I want to watch him recognize me. I want to hear an unrehearsed explanation for breaking my mother's heart and missing every day of my life.”

Something flashes by the window and there's a sudden
pop
outside.

“OH EM GEE!” Amy shouts.

I glance over and her eyes are wide and she's gripping the steering wheel tight and sitting straight up in her seat.

“Amy?”

Her lips are pressed tightly together. I glance around, and there are no cars behind or ahead of us, but I hear a flapping sound

“Was that the tire?” Adam says from the backseat.

The car bumps a few times and then begins to slow. Amy steers the clunky car off to the side of the road. It's not a smooth transition to the shoulder as we gradually come to a stop. There's no one around, just open farmer's fields on both sides.

“It was the tire,” she says. We sit in shocked silence until she flips on the hazards and pops the hatch open.

“Holy crap.” I open my door and step outside.

5. Real girls don't change car tires.

#thingsithoughtweretrue

Adam scrambles out of the car. Amy shuts off the engine and joins us at the front bumper. We all stand there and stare at the passenger tire.

It's completely flat.

“Let me guess,” Amy says. “None of us knows how to fix this?”

“Boy fail,” Adam says.

“Thank God my parents insisted on AAA.” Amy looks around. “This is like a scene in one of those horror movies. Maybe we're going to get attacked by vampires or zombies.”

“For God's sake, call AAA,” Adam says. “You watch too many scary movies.”

“There's no Wi-Fi or satellite,” I tell them, holding my phone in the air. “No bars. We're out of range. My phone is useless. We're S-O-L.”

“Totally flip flop screwed,” Amy says. Her teeny voice sounds like Alvin from the Chipmunks. Adam and I glance at each other and burst into laughter.

“I'm glad you find this funny.” She walks around the car and opens the driver's side door. “Maybe my phone has bars. Adam, get yours out too. Maybe we can get service.” Suddenly she's the mature one in our little group. “We need to get this fixed before the border closes down. We'll miss the ferry to Vancouver Island.”

The laughter in my throat vaporizes. Amy takes out her phone and Adam grabs his brand-new replacement phone, but none of us has service. We sit on the car and stare at the highway. The sun is shining. Two cars approach from the opposite way, and we all jump up and wave our arms around. Neither slows even though it's kind of obvious we're having car trouble.

I think about all the times I've seen people pulled over and considered stopping but kept going. I vow to stop next time. And then I think about my healthy fear of serial killers on the side of the highways.
Maybe
not.

“Come on,” I say. “We might find a spot where we can pick up service. There has to be a farm or something around here somewhere. There has to be Wi-Fi. We need to find a pocket.”

We walk along the shoulder of the highway, holding our phones in the air, watching for bars. Then we cross the highway to the field where cows are grazing nearby. Amy slips through the barbed fence. I shrug and follow her, trying hard not to get scratched by the barbed wire. Adam stays on the other side of the fence, staring at us.

“What?” Amy says. “Come on.”

“There are cows in that field,” he says, pointing out the obvious.

“So?”

“So what if they charge us or something?”

Amy stands on her toes and looks around. “I don't see any calves. If we walk quietly and respect them, they're not going to bother us.”

“How do you know?” Adam doesn't move. “I've read about people being charged by cows.”

“Are you kidding me?” Amy asks. “You're afraid of being charged by cows? This is not very bosslike.”

“It's happened.” Adam pushes his glasses up his nose and lifts his chin. “Maybe one of us should wait by the car, in case someone stops to help. And by ‘one of us,' I mean me. I hate cows.”

“So you'd rather have two girls get charged than you?” Amy asks him.

“No.” He looks toward the car. “Like you said, you'll be fine. But cows freak me out. I don't even like eating hamburgers.”

We both stare at him.

“Fine. Wait by the car.” Amy throws her keys at his head. He manages to catch them. “Give Morgan your phone in case it gets bars first.”

I'm surprised that he doesn't argue and just hands me the phone and jogs back across the highway to the car, the keys jangling in his fingers.

“What a mousetrap,” Amy says, shaking her head in his direction.

I ignore her strange comment. “Do cows really charge?” I ask. I don't have cow facts readily available in my head.

“Rarely,” she says. “Move calmly, don't make any sudden noises. Once they see we're no threat, they won't even care we're around.”

I have no desire to make cows suspicious of my behavior. “How do you know these things?”

She shrugs. “I read a lot when I was a kid. I remember things easily.”

She starts wandering the field, her phone held high in the air. I sigh and follow. We walk slowly, checking our phones. I keep one eye on the herd of cows as we get closer. The smell is obnoxious and there are piles of dung everywhere. When we're almost in the middle of the field and way closer to the cows than I want to be, Amy screams.

“I have two bars!” she shouts. “Hey! I got a text from Jake!”

I glance down and see my phone still doesn't have service. Neither does Adam's. I know her phone carrier is a different one than mine and make a mental note to switch. “Forget Jake. Call a tow truck!”

Amy calls 411 and gets a tow truck number in Lynden. When she reaches the tow company, she gives them her AAA number and our approximate location on the highway. She hangs up and turns, walking back toward the highway. “He said at least an hour, hopefully not more.”

I glance at the time on my phone. If they're more than an hour, we might not make the ferry. It'll be cutting it close. Too close. I stomp behind Amy across the field and then slip through the wire and cross the highway to the car. My insides flutter with nerves, but I know what I have to do. I take a deep breath. Adam opens the door and steps out.

“Moo,” Amy shouts at him and pretends she's going to attack.

“That's funny, said no one ever,” he yells.

I ignore them, trying to psyche myself up.

“It's not illegal to be afraid of cows,” Adam says.

“Not illegal. But kind of hilarious.”

My stomach flips. I don't want to miss the ferry. I don't want wrinkles in our carefully scheduled travel plans. I pace up and down beside the car, arguing with myself.

“Are you freaking out because you can't use the Internet?” Amy calls out.

“No. I mean yes—but no.” The truth is, Josh taught me how to change a tire, but I never intended to ever actually do it myself. And I'm scared I'll mess it up.

Adam jumps off the trunk and they both watch me pacing, kicking up gravel under my feet.

“What's wrong?” Adam asks.

“I know how to change a tire, okay?” I say. “But I've only done it with Josh helping me. I'm kind of chicken.”

“Woo-hoo,” Amy yells and jumps up and down, pumping her fists in the air. “Why didn't you say so, Chaps?”

I narrow my eyes. “Didn't you hear the chicken part?”

“Forget that. We're here. Tell us what to do. We'll help. Just do it.”

“What are you, a frigging Nike commercial?”

She crosses her arms and glares at me. “You can do this, Morgan.”

“Totally,” Adam says. “And it only makes me hate you a little bit. I am made of lame.”

I frown and fidget, kicking the gravel with my toe.

“Come on,” Amy yells. In the distance, one of the cows moos loudly.

An excited feeling punches me in the stomach. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, picture Josh as he taught me. I'd been sure I'd never attempt it. I'm not sure I can do it.

“Step one…pull up the parking break. Adam, go find a big rock or something to put in front of the tires so the car doesn't roll,” I say out loud.

I stand taller. While they run off to find rocks, I go to the trunk, take out the luggage, and lift the board up to find the spare tire, right where it's supposed to be. I reach for the jack. I close my eyes, think about missing the ferry. I can do this. I get to work.

6. Everyone is embarrassed by the same things.

#thingsithoughtweretrue

My hands are filthy. There's grease all over my shirt. The tow truck is canceled and there's a fiery orange explosion in my chest. I'm prouder than Michael Phelps's mom at the Olympics. The little donut spare is on, and I catch my reflection in the window and see the girl looking back at me glowing with pride.

When Amy pulls into the last gas station right before the border crossing, we pile out for a bathroom break and clean up. I check my follower status. 4444. All fours. I take that as a good sign.

Soon, we pull up to the border. There are only a few cars in front of us to cross, but each one seems to take forever to get cleared through. The car clock seems stalled; the minutes crawl by. When it's finally our turn, the officer stares down each of us while he checks over our passports. Amy starts to babble, but I poke her in the side and she stops.

“What's your purpose in Canada?” he asks me.

“I'm going to see my dad,” I tell him.

“She's never met him,” Amy adds. “He left her mom before she was born.”

The officer leans in closer and studies me. “That true?”

I nod. He glances in the backseat at Adam. “We're here for moral support,” Adam says and smiles bigger than necessary.

The officer writes something on his clipboard and then looks back at me. His expression softens. “I have a daughter your age. I don't get to see her much.” He hands Amy our passports. “You kids drive safe.” He steps back from the car and waves us through. We're quiet until we're a few minutes away from the crossing, and then I scream and woo-hoo at the top of my lungs. Amy and Adam join in.

After a car dance mini celebration, I check the GPS. “We're on 264th Street and it'll take us to highway 1. Then we head west to Vancouver,” I tell Amy. “We're going to be tight for time.”

“I don't want to get a speeding ticket,” she says. “It's the one thing my dad would freak about.” Amy drives for about five minutes and then sighs. “This scenery is exactly like Washington.”

“You want more Cheezies? Another Mountain Dew?” I ask.

Amy shakes her head. “We could play table topics.”

I reach for the popcorn twists and shovel a handful in my mouth. “Table topics?”

She glances over, as if I'm an alien or have grown a third eye. “Only the best game on the planet. It's a card game, like a conversation starter.”

I shrug and glance back at Adam. He shrugs too.

“You seriously don't know? There are, like, thirty editions or something. We have more than half of them.”

I shrug again. “Sorry.”

“You wanna play? Adam?”

“Why not?” Adam says.

Amy bounces up and down on her seat. “Yay! Look in the glove compartment, Morgan. There's a set in there.” I open the glove box and see a red, cubed stack of cards and take it out.

“How do you play?” I ask.

“It's easy. You just pick a card, read it, and then everyone has to share.”

“How do you win?” Adam asks.

“You don't win. You talk.”

“No one wins?” Adam says.

“Your family puts a lot of value on talking,” I mumble.

She narrows her eyes into slits. “Yes. Unlike yours, we don't sweep everything under the rug and pretend it doesn't exist.”

“How did you nail us so well?” I grin.

“Um, your mom never told you who your father was until you were eighteen.”

“Point taken,” I say.

“Sounds like a useless game,” Adam mumbles. “No one even wins.”

Amy gestures at the cube. “Just take one,” she says to me.

I open up the box, take out the top card, and flip it over. I read it and frown, biting my lip. I reach in my pocket for ChapStick and apply it.

“What does it say?” Amy yells.

I clear my throat. “What is the most embarrassing thing that's happened to you and what did it teach you?” I read.

The silence seems infinite and obnoxiously loud.

“Well, I guess that's obvious,” Amy finally says. “Everyone in Tadita saw you dancing around in men's underwear. To that song.” She hums “Sexy and I Know It.”

“Okay,” I say. “We got it.”

Amy nods. “But what did it teach you?”

My face burns. “Never to run out of clean underwear? God. I needed clean underwear and my mom hadn't done the wash, so she gave me an unopened pack of boys' underwear. She said it didn't matter since they were brand new.” I close my eyes, feeling humiliation heat up my blood. Tighty whities. People posted that they probably belonged to a boy I'd had sex with, that I collected the underwear from boys I slept with, like trophies.

“But why were you dancing for a camera? You should never put stuff like that on video.”

My ears burn. “Lexi and I were fooling around. She thought it was hilarious that I was wearing boys' underwear. And while I was shaking my butt around, she picked up my phone and taped it. It wasn't supposed to be seen by everyone in the world.” I glare at her. “Especially you,” I snap. And then I glance at her face and see hurt in her eyes. She doesn't mean harm; she says out loud what everyone else is thinking. Without the malice.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.” I reach over, touch her shoulder, and steal a Cheezie from her bag.

“I know,” she says quietly. “You didn't even know my name until a couple of weeks ago, even though we worked side by side all summer.” She raises her eyebrows but doesn't look at me. Adam is watching me though. I can see him from the corner of my eye.

“Well, I learned it sucks—to have something go viral online,” I say. The car is quiet and the crunching of the whole Cheezie I shoved in my mouth is overly loud in my head.

“Well,” Amy says after a minute, “at least you're not a terrible dancer. And it was kind of funny.”

I close my eyes to black out images of me thrusting my pelvis at the camera in boys' underwear. With fake junk. I'm such a freak. Man. I glance out my side window. Canadian cows are clustered in a herd by the fence that runs parallel to the highway. I'd like to go out and stand in the middle of them. Disappear. I think of a great tweet and reach for my phone.

Removing something from online is like trying to take pee out of a pool.

“At first I thought you must be an attention freak,” Amy is saying. “But since we've become friends…” She glances over and then back to the road, as if she's waiting for me to say something. Which I should. But I don't. Her words burrow into my skin like a tick crawling in to suck at my blood, steal from my life source.

“Well, that's not who you seem to be at all.” She stares at the road. “Or are you one of those closet exhibitionists?”

“That thing ruined my life!” The shame in me flares and I fight to extinguish it.

“Ruined your life?” She clucks her tongue. “I'll give you humiliating, but ruining your life? No way. There are worse things.”

I'm kind of shocked she can act like it's not one of the worst things ever.

“Do you have any idea how many people saw that video?” I demand.

“Over three million, I think,” Amy says as she takes out a Cheezie and bites the end off it. “Last time I looked. Completely viral. But it slowed down, right? Those things don't last.”

“Like you're the expert on humiliation?”

“Well, you shouldn't have posted it,” she says and nibbles on her Cheezie.

“She didn't,” Adam says. I glance at him and then down at my hands.

“It was my friend,” I say and turn my head to stare out the window. “Lexi. She slept over that night.”

“Your friend?” Amy says. She smacks the steering wheel with her hand. “That's mean. Really, really mean.”

“She posted it online. And for whatever reason, it caught on. It went out of control.” I bite my lip, lower my eyes, forget the other part. “She doesn't even talk to me anymore. Lexi.”

“She won't talk to
you
?” Amy yells, straightening her back and sitting up high on her cushion. “That sounds like a good thing,” she says. “That's a horrible thing to do to your friend. To anyone.”

“See?” I say. “I told you it was horrible.”

“Embarrassing. Horrible is men who walk into schools and shoot innocent children and the teachers trying to protect them,” Amy says.

“Horrible is the number of homeless people on the streets and mental illness as something we turn away from instead of trying to treat,” Adam adds.

“Cancer is horrible,” Amy says.

“Okay. Fine. I get it. My embarrassment wasn't life threatening. But it was…embarrassing.”

“I'll give you that,” Amy says.

“Thank you,” I respond with as much sarcasm as possible and ignore a niggle that these two deserve the total truth.

A semitruck races up on Amy's side and passes us.

“Hey,” Adam calls out. “You didn't arm pump the trucker.”

I ignore him, staring out at the green hills that look like they stretch out for miles in front of us, wishing I could go back to that night and change it, knowing it will never go away.

“I hope you never talk to her again,” Amy says. Another truck whips past and throws some stones; they sprinkle up on the car.

“Oh my God,” I say. “They're going to hurt Honey Mustard.”

“Honey Mustard?”

“Your car. Obviously.” I don't admit that that deep down, I still miss Lexi. And don't blame her. Not entirely. I want to forgive her, be her best friend again. Go back to the way it was. “Okay. Enough of me. We examined that in enough excruciating detail.”

“Want to hear my embarrassing moment?” Adam pipes up.

“Please,” I say and turn around to face him.

He leans forward in the seat, his elbows resting on his knees. “So last year in biology class, we were studying the human body. We had a dummy with all the parts, all the body parts. Mr. Jackson, my teacher, was at the front of the class, pointing out things. And then, without warning, I sneezed and my gum shot out of my mouth and landed on the dummy's penis.”

I cover my mouth. Amy and I look at each other and then I clap my hands. “Okay. That is awesome. Awesome.”

“For weeks, everyone called me penis breath,” he adds.

I swallow my laughter, trying to think how it must have felt for him. “Okay. It was embarrassing,” I say. “But still, not viral…Okay, so what did you learn?”

“Not to chew gum in class?” he says.

“Maybe to aim your sneezes?” I turn to Amy. “Okay. Your turn.”

“Hmm. Embarrassing? I don't know. I don't get embarrassed that easily. How about that people make fun of me for being small?” she says. “But I actually think it's worse to be ignored.”

I study her profile, her cute, perky nose. “I don't know. I don't think being ignored would be so bad,” I tell her. “Actually, I'd kind of welcome it since the video went viral.”

“Not me. I hate when people act like I'm invisible,” she says.

I sit up taller. “Toward the end of the year in my homeroom, I would have given anything to be invisible.”

Amy frowns. “Why?”

“Right after the video went wild, my homeroom teacher was taking attendance, calling out names, and waiting for everyone to yell ‘here.' He went down the class list and everyone yelled back, but when he got to me, I couldn't make myself yell. I said, ‘here' quietly, but he kept calling my name louder and louder. Everyone in the whole class turned and stared at me. Finally a guy I've known since grade school says, ‘Why doesn't she just yell it?' Mr. Todd stopped for a second and then got this really pissed off look on his face and started walking toward my desk yelling, ‘Scream! I want to hear you scream.'”

I pause and swallow, and the horrible feeling returns to my stomach as I remember. “But I couldn't. I sat there staring at my desk, hating myself and everyone around me.”

There's silence. A big uncomfortable silence hangs in the car. I wonder if I've gone too far. Sweat forms on my upper lip. I might as well be sitting in my seat naked. Picking my nose. I try to think of a joke or something to say to lighten the moment.

“What a jerk,” Adam finally says, and anger drips from his voice.

“Totally,” Amy says. “A big fat jerkolia on a jerk stick.”

I laugh out loud and fall a little more in love with her.

“Me?” Amy says. “I can't remember one time in my life when I couldn't talk. I wish my brain didn't spit out everything, but sometimes it's like I have no control over my mouth. And I'm like blah, blah, blah.” She reaches for a Cheezie and points it at me. “But remember, if the world didn't suck, we'd all fall off it.”

Adam starts to laugh. The knot in my stomach loosens and I laugh too. Amy grins, and some of the shame I've been holding in for so long fades along with her stupid joke. It's a relief to share it. It takes away a little of its power.

“I have to pee,” Amy announces, and without warning, she signals and pulls over to the side of the road. She leaves the car running, opens her door, runs to the passenger side, and squats right on the road's shoulder. I glance back at Adam, but he's laughing so hard he's holding his stomach.

When she hops back in the car, Adam says, “Apparently you don't get embarrassed.”

“Maybe I have a clear conscience.” She shrugs as she pulls on her seat belt, puts the car back into drive, checks over her shoulder, and pulls back out.

“Maybe you're missing the embarrassment gene,” Adam says.

“New topic,” Amy calls. “Adam. Your turn.”

I pass the cube back to him and he picks a card. “Describe a situation where you did something you're sorry for,” he reads.

“Is this game supposed to make us feel like losers?” I ask Amy.