Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (12 page)

“Okay,” he says finally. “So no nookie for you. But what about the beckoning of the boss below? I know I’d suffer if I suppressed the mojo man for more than a day or two.”

“Are you really talking about what I think you’re talking about?”

“Oh, come on. Surely you choke the bishop every now and then?”

“Which bishop?”

“Um, yours, Luke. Unless you choke someone else’s. Which is totally cool, by the way. Uncle Orkle’s an open-minded dude.”

I wish I knew how to end this interview. “I-I haven’t choked anyone.”

“Riiiiiiight,” says Orkle, and for the first time, he seems lost for words. “I gotta tell you, Luke, I’ve heard that Midwesterners are a mellow breed, but
the fact that you’ve survived high school so far is a testament to that.” Another sound effect: someone being punched in the gut, I think. “And with that, I’ll let you go. Good luck, Luke, with the tour and in life. You’re gonna need it.”

The line goes dead. I return to the car in a daze. I can replay the interview at will, but can’t begin to explain why Orkle would be so fascinated by my views on sex. Or why every comment had to be accompanied by a sound effect. Unless…

Fran is leaning against the Hummer. She looks as anxious as I feel.

“Did you hear that?” I ask.

“Some of it. Once I found the
real
station ID, instead of the one they gave you.”

My heart is pounding. “You don’t suppose that wasn’t actually the Christian Radio Network, do you?”

Fran busies herself wiping dust off the wing mirror. “Well, something wasn’t right, that’s for sure.”

“I
knew
it! Those questions were so weird.”

“Then why didn’t you hang up?”

“I couldn’t. It was an interview.”

“So?”

I guess she has a point. “Pastor Mike says it’s our Christian duty—”

“To spread God’s word and engage with everyone. Yeah, I know. But that doesn’t mean making yourself
an easy target for paparazzi and pranksters, right?”

“I didn’t know he was a prankster. I just try to be nice to everyone, that’s all—no matter how much I disagree with them.”

Fran winces, but recovers with a deep breath. “You’re not going to be able to make everyone like you, Luke.”

“It’s not about being liked.”

“Isn’t it?” She stops cleaning the wing mirror. “I’m just saying, it’s okay to let people down once in a while. Sometimes it’s what you have to do if you want to stay you.”

She turns away, and the conversation is over. That’s when I realize she wasn’t talking about me at all.

Continental Divide, New Mexico

Before we set off, Matt checks his cell phone for messages. He turns the screen away from us all like he’s afraid we’re copying his answers on a quiz. I hear his sharp intake of breath clearly above the roar of the a/c.

“Eight?” he mutters. “What the—” He jams the
phone against his ear. Barely five seconds later he looks over his shoulder, eyes trained on me. “It’s a voicemail from Colin. He wants to know why you’re not doing the interview?”

“What?”

“Hold on.” He returns his attention to the phone, and promptly turns white. “Luke, exactly who did you just speak to?”

“Whom.”

“What?”

“It’s
whom,
not
who
.”

Matt groans.

“He said his name was Orkle.”

“Orkle. Right.” Matt bites his lip. “And just who the heck is Orkle?”

“The interviewer.”

“Wake up, Luke! How many interviewers on the Christian Radio Network have names like Orkle? What did you talk about?”

“Sex,” says Fran. “Orkle asked him if he chokes the bishop.”

Matt snorts. “Luke, my sources”—he waves his cell phone in the air—“suggest there’s an above-average possibility that your interview with the Christian Radio Network just got—what’s the word I’m looking for?—
hijacked
.”

I try to act surprised, but fail. Meanwhile, Matt listens to another message. Apparently, this one brings everything into focus for him.

“Yup, your interview got hijacked,” he says, like everything is okay now that the mystery has been solved. “Orkle’s a student at the University of New Mexico; broadcasts out of a frat house. He’s quite notorious: hijacks interviews, then reproduces them as podcasts on his website. Makes his money from donations. Bummer for you, but you’ve got to admire his ingenuity.”

“How did he get our number?”

“Wait a second.” Matt listens to the rest of the message. “Wow, that’s clever. His frat brothers apply for internships at media outlets, and send him the contact information of the interviewees. Seems like he has fans in the computer science department too, and they just do it the traditional way—hacking into the media outlet’s computer systems.” Matt furrows his brows. “You okay?”

I try to answer. Fail.

“Hey, it’s not so bad,” he says. “At least Colin hasn’t had a chance to hear—”

The phone interrupts us with “We Will Rock You.” I really hate that song.

Matt glances at the number. “Then again…”

“I need to speak to him, Matt. Explain what happened.”

“Oh, no, you don’t. Why don’t you let poor Colin cool off? No need to add insult to injury.”

“But he can’t be mad at me. I didn’t know!”

“I hear you, Luke. But I can also appreciate his predicament. Somehow, he has to explain to everyone why you didn’t hang up on a prank call.”

“I didn’t know.” It comes out sounding like a question.

“Oh, come on. Procrastinating procreators? Beckoning of the boss below?”

I just stare at my lap.

“I’m sorry,” says Matt, not sounding sorry at all. “On the bright side, you’re about to become a cult figure for frat boys everywhere, and that’s a wealthy demographic.”

A cult figure. Sure. I can already hear them laughing at me as they listen to the podcast on endless repeat.

Converted Bookstore, Albuquerque, New Mexico

My spiel is getting better. Slicker. I cover the bullet points in five minutes, so I can get to the signing part of the evening a little quicker. Unfortunately, there are questions first, and this audience is
prepared
. I don’t know if someone—a teacher, a pastor, a state senator—made
Hallelujah
required reading or something, but they know it inside-out. And while I’d always hoped that people would discuss
Hallelujah
—spreading God’s word is the duty of every Christian, after all—I guess I hadn’t imagined there’d be several hundred of them in a single room, talking about my book like it really matters. Why not talk about the Bible instead?

Before long, they start discussing amongst themselves, like a well-trained class of overachieving students. I sit back and wonder if I’ll actually be required to speak again, or if I can just coast to the finish line, sign a couple hundred books, and phone Colin with the good news.

Every now and then I glance at Fran. It’s weird to see her here—she definitely stands out—and even
weirder that she’s listening attentively. I wonder what she’s thinking—whether she’s impressed by the discussion, amazed by the turnout, or simply bored.

“I’m sorry to bring this up, Luke,” says a girl, interrupting my thoughts, “but I’ve heard parts of your interview from this afternoon and… well, I think what that student did was evil.”

Predictably, I turn bright red. Honestly, I change color quicker than a chameleon. “It wasn’t ideal,” I admit.

“No,” she says. “It was
evil
. Do you understand?”

This girl is younger than me, with a robotic voice and unreadable expression. As I nod in agreement, she doesn’t even blink.

“Good,” she says. “As you taught us in Lessons twelve, verse twenty: Evil is real. It is a living, breathing, destructive force. We must call it by its proper name.”

It’s true—I did write something like that—but hearing her say it, I wonder what the heck I was thinking. I’m clearly not the only one who’s freaked out either. Half the audience is gawking at the girl, and the other half seems to be checking for exit signs.

“Uh, I guess I’m pretty naive when it comes to this stuff,” I say. “Maybe a little too trusting as well. Still,” I add with fake enthusiasm, “I learned a valuable lesson today.”

“Do not blame yourself, Luke. Do not be ashamed of having pride, and faith, and values. If the man who interviewed you had any of these, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Conversation
seems a bit of a stretch. This girl is monologuing. I’m starting to think she’s older than she looks—maybe thirteen or fourteen—but the asymmetrical braids in her hair and young-girl clothes make it hard to be sure. In any case, she’s like a snake charmer, commanding silence so her whispered words carry across the room, forcing us to listen and obey.

Sure enough, the audience’s enthusiastic hum has died down to an awed quiet. When the girl unexpectedly stands and begins clapping, almost everyone else seems compelled to follow her lead, as though she’s holding them at gunpoint. She has a future as a military dictator, this one.

Fran has morphed from attentive to uncomfortable.

When everyone is seated again, I wait for the next question, but all I get is blank expressions. No one knows what to say. Or perhaps no one dares to speak at all. None of the audience wants their sincerity doubted by this girl. To be found
spiritually lacking
.

Except Fran. She raises her bare arm, the only person brave enough to break the silence. I admire her for that, and nod encouragingly.

She produces a goofy grin, large eyes twinkling behind curtains of untamed purple hair. “So what exactly
is
choking the bishop, anyway?” she asks.

I can’t believe she said that. Even more amazing, I don’t much mind. Because I
recognize
this girl: She’s the old Fran, the one with a wicked sense of humor. She wants to defuse the atmosphere. And to be honest, so do I.

“Well,” I begin, daring to play along, “it’s like this—”

“Don’t answer that,” interrupts alpha girl. Not content with her cameo role, she’s staking her claim for top billing in tonight’s entertainment.

“Luke’s a big boy,” says Fran. “He can decide for himself whether he wants to answer.” Her voice is still teasing, but her expression has shifted: She’s sporting her
I’m-about-to-win-the-debate
look.

“You seem to assume these
good
people want to hear your question answered,” the girl replies.

“Is that how I should decide what to ask?”

“I think any Christian would take into account the sensibilities of those around her, yes. You disagree?”

Somehow Fran is still smiling. “Is that what you were doing when you decided to dominate the discussion?”

The girl’s eyebrows twitch, but otherwise she remains perfectly still. I wonder if she has a pulse. “I
sense that you are angry with me, and I want you to know I mean you no ill will. If I have offended anyone here with
my
comments, I beg forgiveness.”

She looks around as if she’s waiting for someone to confirm her worst fear. There are two hundred people who’d probably like to do just that; but no one will, and she knows it.

“Well,” says Fran. “Your comments have offended
me
.”

The girl looks Fran up and down. “And you are in a minority of one. Yet you seem to believe you have the right to ignore everyone else. Perhaps you’d prefer that we all left.”

The bookstore owner steps forward with much hand-wringing. “Please don’t make a scene,” he begs Fran.

Fran laughs, but it’s anxious now. “I’m not making a scene.”

“Please don’t,” he tries again, as though she has pulled a knife.

“I’m not.
She
is.”

The girl shakes her head slowly—a gesture adults reserve for petulant toddlers.

“Well, you are!” Fran insists. “Everyone was into this until you made a big deal about that radio interview. Now everyone’s too scared to talk.”

She’s right, of course, but she’s just accused two hundred people of being cowardly, and it’s clear they don’t appreciate it. What’s more, they’ve decided now is the time to prove her wrong.

“Haven’t you said enough?” asks the man sitting beside Fran.

“Exactly,” echoes another.

Fran looks around for support, but finds none. She’s made them all choose sides—small, idealistic girl or outspoken, tattooed, purple-haired teen—and is only now realizing she’s an island. Aside from Fran, I might be the only person in the room who believes they all chose wrong.

“Any other questions?” I ask, my voice unsteady. “Anything?”

“Why do some people feel the need to sabotage your good work?” demands android girl, overriding the ten people whose hands are raised. “To insult you, hurt you…”

For the first time, she pauses—hardly an emotional gesture, but after her earlier weirdness, it’s the equivalent of anyone else breaking down in racking sobs. And the audience waits for her, supports her.

She takes a deep breath. “First the radio interviewer, now…
this
.” She raises an eyebrow in Fran’s direction.

But Fran’s not there. She’s being escorted away by a pathetic-looking guy in round glasses and a checked shirt.

When Fran reaches the door she looks over her shoulder and smiles bravely, but I’m not fooled. I can see her tears from across the room.

Converted Bookstore, Albuquerque, New Mexico

Every signing line seems longer than the last. I’d never considered that even the most basic motor skills—smiling, nodding—take a toll after several days. I hear people’s names and I write them down, but the words mean nothing to me, and from my glazed expression I think they know it too.

A book slides in front of me, with a note asking me to inscribe it to “Teresa.” When I look up, she’s standing there, the gigantic cross bouncing off her chest.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

She looks surprised. “I’m sorry?”

“You have some nerve, you know that?”