Once Upon a Road Trip (39 page)

~Ang

Grady left mid-morning on Sunday. With Vince showing no signs of consciousness and his mother nowhere to be found, Angie kept herself occupied by rounding up food. Finding nothing in the refrigerator aside from milk, cheese, and copious amounts of beer, she dipped into the boxed-food supply from her car and made a pot of Fettuccini Alfredo.

Gathering her courage, she made up an extra plate and went to wake Vince. Still feeling responsible for causing her friend’s emotional upheaval, she hoped sleep might have improved his outlook. But she couldn’t be sure what condition he would be in.

Balancing two dishes along one arm, she eased open the door to his room. To her surprise she found Vince already awake and sitting at his computer, looking none the worse for wear. In spite of the odd sleeping conditions, whatever lacquer-like product he’d used on his hair had ensured that the spiky composition remained intact. What surprised her most was his demeanor.

“Afternoon,” Vince greeted, with an easy smile. His expression was as collected as ever, but warmer and more transparent than she’d ever seen it. “Need a hand?”

“I’m good,” Angie said, crossing the room before setting one of the plates on the desk in front of him. “Here, I made lunch.” She moved to sit on the edge of the futon and placed the remaining dish in her lap, gauging Vince’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. Budweiser whined with interest, creeping along the futon to lay at her hip. She ignored the dog’s imploring gaze. 

Vince pulled the Alfredo toward himself, coppery brows raised. “So that’s what you were up to? I thought you were packing up to leave.”

“Why?” Angie cut him a bemused look, watching as he forked a bite of noodles into his mouth. “I’ve got two more days left.”

“Yeah, but after last night I wouldn’t have blamed you if you wanted to get out of here sooner.” His tone lowered, eyes trained on his plate.

Angie smiled to herself as she started in on her food. “Yeah, about that—” she began, catching a flash of worry in his eyes. She wanted to tell him the experience somehow had the opposite effect on her, but instead said, “Thanks for trusting me enough to be honest. I never meant for you to relive all of that.”

Vince released a long breath. “I guess I had to deal with it eventually.” He lifted one corner of his mouth in a wary half-smile before diverting his attention to eating.

“You don’t have to deal with it alone,” Angie said. “Everybody’s damaged. It’s just a question of how badly, and whether you’re healing or still bleeding.”

Vince gave her a skeptical look. “Is this where you tell me that God can snap His fingers and make it all better? Because it’s not like I haven’t asked. I don’t know what else He wants from me.”

Angie was relieved to sense simple frustration from him, rather than the overflow of anguish from the night before. “Have you ever tried thinking of God as a person instead of an all-powerful vending machine that never gives you the right amount of change? He has feelings too, you know.” She put the proposal to him as more of a challenge than she’d intended. When he didn’t respond right away, she tried to cover her frankness by voicing another question — one that had been nagging at her. “Vince…how did you end up so different from your parents?”

He gave a short laugh. “I get that one a lot. I used to think I had to be adopted—” He took another bite for a round of thoughtful chewing. “When I was a kid I tried to make them happy, but nothing worked. And obviously, nothing they were doing was working for them, either. So when I got older I decided if I handled most things the opposite of how they did, I’d be doing okay.”

Angie was impressed, and she made no effort to conceal it. “That’s not the conclusion most people would come to.” She had been braced for the likelihood of offending him with one or both of her questions, but he didn’t show any hint of enmity.

He seemed to study her for a long moment. “Look, I don’t want you thinking that my parents are awful people. It’s not like that,” he said, leaning forward to stress his sincerity. “They mean well, and they love me. They’ve made a lot of sacrifices—”

“—and mistakes.” Angie broke in, maintaining a careful tone. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. I don’t think they’re awful,” she reassured. “I probably don’t have a lot of right to complain, but it’s not like I had it perfect when I was growing up, either. My dad screwed up a lot when I was younger.” Though she read doubt in Vince’s face at her claim, she hesitated at going into detail. The last thing she wanted was to sound like she was competing for the title of Most Traumatic Childhood.’

“What, did your dad smack you around or something?” Vince joked.

Unprepared for the question, however flippant, Angie stared back at him numbly. Before she could decide how or if she should answer, she saw his expression slacken and then shift in revelation.

“Whoa…wait. He -did- hit you?!” Vince’s voice dropped, exuding both disbelief and anger.

Angie centered herself with a few slow breaths. “If you mean out of anger instead of discipline—then, yes. Sometimes.” Seeing Vince’s expression darken, she held up a hand in a staying motion. “It wasn’t like we were regularly beaten. He just had a really bad temper,” she explained. “Honestly, the screaming and belittling was probably worse on me than getting backhanded for no reason. My mom always said his father was so much worse, so he never had an example of how to be a decent dad...”

Angie mustered what she hoped was a calming smile, surprised by how upset Vince still looked. He hadn’t said anything yet, but she could see his mind churning behind his gaze. “He’s not like that anymore—not even close,” she went on. “I forgave him a long time ago. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It still affects me…and some of the things I don’t like about myself. But I’m a lot better now than I used to be.”

“You swear he doesn’t hurt you anymore?” Vince eased forward in his chair, penetrating green eyes regarding her with a quality she was tempted to perceive as protective.

Angie nodded, forcing an uncomfortable laugh. “Don’t worry about that. Even if he hadn’t changed, I’m bigger than him now.” As she watched, Vince’s brows knit together into a perplexed expression. “What?” she wondered aloud. His gaze was so intent, she half expected he was trying to tell her she had food on her face.

“Your eyes—” he said, pausing, as though he couldn’t decide how to deliver his thought. “Are you wearing contacts? They were brown before, and now they’re hazel.”

The question caught Angie off guard, and she blinked several times. “Oh. No, they just change sometimes when I’m thinking or upset.” As it was an anomaly no one outside of her family had ever noticed, she readied a vague medical explanation.

Vince leaned forward for a closer look, showing no signs of the skepticism she expected. “Like a mood ring?”

“A little like that, but not so dramatic.”

“I’m sorry.” Vince formed a pained look of regret. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t.” Angie smiled to reassure him. “You’d know. If I’m really upset, they turn green—almost your color.”

“You should smile more,” Vince said, contemplative in tone. “Maybe then they’d stay brown.” Seeming to gain the sudden awareness of how close their faces were, he drew his back.

“I’ll work on that,” Angie said. Groping for a diversion, she leaned aside to examine a small stack of papers on the nearest corner of his desk. “What’s UACT?” she asked, reading the first thing she saw.

“The University of Advancing Computer Technology,” Vince replied. “That was my first choice of colleges to attend. I got accepted no problem, but even with loans I couldn’t manage the tuition,” he added, resignation in his voice. “The other problem was it’s in Arizona, and my parents didn’t like the idea of me being that far away.”

“So, the Tech College in Birmingham was your second choice?”

Vince gave a somewhat aggravated sigh. “No. My second choice was an Art and Design college in Georgia. I thought my parents might be okay with me going there, since it’s at least within driving distance. But they didn’t think I could make it on my own.”

“Maybe they just weren’t ready to let go of you.” Angie frowned. “You’re smart and responsible. You would’ve made it.”

“I like to think I would have.” He smirked. “Being an only child isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Are you at least getting the degree you wanted?”

“Close. I’m just not sure I can do what I want with it.” Vince angled his computer monitor, allowing her to see the vibrant, three-dimensional image of a winged beast surrounded in flames. “That’s the project I have due tomorrow.”

Angie gaped, leaning forward again to take in the fantastical creature. Its guarded posture and curving wings reminded her of a gargoyle. The skin tone he’d chosen for it was a deep shade of plum, causing the lower half to make a seamless transition into shadows.

“Wow. That’s -really- good,” she said. His level of skill had taken her by surprise. “I bet you could do movie effects or something once you graduate.”

“I wish.” Vince laughed. Having finished his food, he pushed the plate away and reclined back in his chair. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to design video games.” He winced after the admission and lamented, “It still sounds like a stupid little kid’s dream when I say it out loud.”

“No it doesn’t.” Angie shook her head. “Everybody needs to have a dream. It’s not like mine sounds any more practical as a career.”

Vince gave her a keen look of interest and drummed his fingers against the arm rests. “You’ve got one that’s as much of a long-shot as mine?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”

Vince maintained a doubtful look. “A lot of people make a living off of that.”

“Yeah, but I want to write novels,” she clarified. “Post-apocalyptic science fiction.”

Vince broke into a humored smile. “Well that’s…different.”

“That’s the problem.” Angie shrugged, looking down as she finished her Alfredo.

“I could see you doing it, though.” Vince spoke in earnest after an extended moment of thought. “You always wrote great stories online.”

“I’d probably need to consult your expertise when it comes to evil villains,” she deflected, unsure of how to take the compliment. “Don’t you write at all? Outside of the online stuff, I mean.”

“I used to, when I had time.” Vince gave a hesitant nod. “I’m better with poems and essays, but I did write a short radio play a few months ago.”

“Can I hear it?” Angie asked, straightening up.

Vince’s eyes widened. “I’d…rather you didn’t.” He seemed to reconsider. “It’s based on this really creepy dream I had about a clown, and it’s got a lot better effect after dark.”

“I can wait until dark.” Angie crossed her arms, her curiosity heightened. “Do you have anything I could read right now?”

Vince cast an uncertain glance around his immediate workspace. “I think I’ve still got a poem from my English final project.” He grabbed a three-ring binder from the shelf beside him and handed it to her. “If you want, you can bring it along for reading material. I thought we could drive into Birmingham and visit the art museum.”

Angie resisted peeking into the binder, tucking it under her arm as she stood. “Sure,” she said, relieved by the suggested change of scenery.

Vince headed for the door ahead of her, calling his dog to him with a soft whistle. “And since you made lunch, I’ll buy dinner.” He told Angie over his shoulder.

This time, she didn’t feel inclined to argue with his sense of hospitality.

The hour long drive into Birmingham gave Angie ample time to look over Vince’s work. At the front of the binder she located a five page poem titled ‘The Quest,’ and it didn’t take her long to realize it was an epic.

Silence is the tool with which fear begins to rule,

A foreboding sense of restlessness, rippling like a pool.

It creeps along an empty place, in search of its next feast,

Inside the man whose twisted mind makes him like The Beast

The poem wove on in four-line stanzas, depicting the medieval tale of three heroic friends in pursuit of an infamous creature. As the telling progressed in this rhythmic prose, the supposed glory of their mission became mired in trickery, deceit, and betrayal. The ending revealed a vicious cycle of tragedy, but Angie found it fitting rather than dismal. Behind that first poem she found a free verse piece brimming with the lament of a tortured artist.

“Don’t read that one.” Vince broke into her thoughts, casting her a disquieted glance from the driver’s seat. “There’s way too much teenage angst in there. I was feeling sorry for myself when I wrote it.”

“It’s good, though,” Angie said, intrigued by his self-consciousness. As she looked out her window for the first time, she didn’t recognize anything about the route they were taking. The recent rain had dissipated, leaving hazy shafts of sunlight piercing through the clouds to illuminate the two-lane road ahead. They were winding through dense forests, with the occasional farm breaking up the scenery. Hand-painted signs cropped up here and there advertising home-grown peaches and blueberries.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“I took the back roads,” Vince said, hazarding only a glance her way. The irregularities of the road seemed to demand the bulk of his concentration. “I figured you might like the scenic route. It’s a little faster.”

“It’s so pretty out here, ” Angie said, catching a glimpse of a doe wading through the deeper shade along a roadside creek. The trees laced together and arched overhead, giving her the sense of traveling through a broad tunnel of vegetation. They passed a tiny country chapel that seemed to be a replica of others she’d noticed — down to the chastising platitude on the black-lettered sign and the promise of a Friday night revival service.

“So, what’s with all of these little backwoods churches holding revival meetings?” she asked, looking aside to monitor Vince’s response.

“Beats the heck out of me.” He chuckled, genuine amusement reaching his eyes. “As far as I know, the only reason you’d revive anything would be if it were dead. And as often as they do it, I think they’d be better off pulling the plug.”