Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (6 page)

“Sorry.” Instinctively I turn red, which is really annoying. “If you don’t like it, why do you have purple hair?”

“What did you say?”

“I’m not being mean,” I add hurriedly. “It’s just… you have to know people are going to stare.”

She doesn’t say a word, but her fingers gravitate to the cascade of hoops in her right ear. She fiddles with them as she shakes her head.

“I’m not judging you, Fran. I just want to understand.” I can’t even tell if she’s hearing me. “You used to like debate.”

“That’s what you think this is—
debate
?”

The sharpness of her voice makes me hesitate. “Sort of.”

“You can stop trying now, Luke. I’m sure it’d look good for you to save a few souls while you’re on tour, but you don’t need to feel responsible for me, okay? I’m just trying to get a ride home, that’s all.”

“What were you doing in L.A. anyway?”

She leans against a wall. “Visiting Alex. Believe it or not, my parents were happy to see me disappear for a couple weeks.”

I have no idea how to respond to that. Thankfully, I don’t have to; Matt jogs over and hands each of us a granola bar.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A snack. Or maybe dinner,” he says. “Depends
how much progress we make. Got to make hay while the sun shines and all that, you know?”

No, I don’t. But it ends my conversation with Fran, and I’m grateful for that. We only spoke for a minute, but I’m more exhausted now than I was at any time during this afternoon’s event.

When we start driving again, I make a pillow from a balled-up towel and close my eyes. As the car purrs through the unchanging landscape, my thoughts return to Fran: why she shut me out and won’t talk to me about anything that matters anymore. It’s so depressing that it’s a relief when, at last, I fall asleep.

Tailfin Motel, Route 66, Arizona

I wake up when the car stops. There’s a neon sign outside my window announcing that we’ve arrived at the Tailfin Motel. There are no other cars here. I’ve seen movies set in places like this, and they rarely end well for the main characters.

“Colin booked us rooms
here
?” I ask.

“What’s wrong with it?” replies Matt. “You want us to drive through the night instead?”

“No. I just want to make sure I got our plans right.” I wait for Fran and Alex to get out. “Speaking of which, is there anyone
else
you’re planning on picking up?”

He lowers his voice. “What do you want me to do? Ditch Fran in the middle of the desert?”

“That’d be a good start.”

As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back.

“You willing to share that thought with your fans at the next event? Or do you save the nasty stuff for family and former friends?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, you did. You just don’t want to admit it.”

He heads inside while I grab my backpack and stumble along behind him.

The foyer is small and cramped. Lightbulbs flicker uncertainly. Matt nods his head in the direction of the only corridor and stops at the first of two open doors, where Alex is waiting for him.

“It’s not exactly the Empress Pasadena,” she says.

Matt kisses her on the cheek. “Hey, it’s got a bed. That’s all we need.”

He punches my arm in what I assume is an undergraduate gesture of farewell, and disappears inside.

There’s a framed print just inside the door of the next room: a photo of the motel by day, dirt-brown mountains rising in the distance. It’s an alien landscape,
not so different from Ludlow and Amboy.

“Your bed’s there.” Fran’s voice drags me around. She’s here, in this room—as though she’s planning to stay.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m getting ready for bed.” She sounds bored. “You?”

“But… you can’t… I mean, not here. Not with me.”

“I’m not going to share your bed, Luke. There’s two, see? I have standards.”

I run out of the room and bang on Matt’s door. A long while later, it opens. Matt’s already shirtless, which reveals his unnecessarily muscular chest.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“I can’t use that room.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you think?” I whisper. “Because Fran is in there.”

“So? There are two beds.”

“Uh-uh. Can’t do it.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “You’re sharing a room with her, bro—not a bed. If it’s such a big deal, get another room.”

“What’ll I tell Colin? That the two of us need
three
rooms? I think he’ll work out we have company, don’t you?”

Matt sighs. “What do you want me to do? I mean,
you can use our spare bed, but if you keep Alex awake all night with your snoring, she’s gonna be really pissed. And I should probably warn you that Alex and me, uh… kiss a lot.”

He pulls a face like the thought of kissing grosses him out, and I take a step back. By the time I’ve gathered my wits he has closed the door and locked it.

In the other room, Fran is sitting on the far bed with her back against the headboard. There’s a tiny bottle of a clear liquid in her right hand. Every few seconds, she sips from it robotically.

“What’s that?”

“It’s um…” She squints at the label. “Huh! It’s vodka. Who knew?”

“You’re sixteen. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that since I started drinking this little bottle, I no longer feel like sticking my fist through the window. You should be pleased.”

I’m cemented to the spot, unable to take a step toward the Girl Formerly Known As Fran. She responds with a roll of her black-rimmed eyes and another long swig from the bottle.

“Are you trying to get drunk?”

“Trying, no. Succeeding, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because drunks feel less.”

“Feel less
what
? What happened to you?” My brain
is wired, but my voice is barely a whisper. “What went wrong?”

“Rhetorical question. Love–fifteen,” she says, reprising a game we used to play when we practiced debating.

“Please, Fran. We used to talk all the time, remember? In Andy’s office—plans for events, and fund raisers, and Bible study programs, and retreats, and Sunday school excursions. We prayed together. We made a difference together. How could you throw that away?”

“Presumption of guilt. Love–thirty.”

So this is how it’s going to be. It breaks my heart, but at least I’ve had a year to get over the shock.

“I’m not going to fight you, Fran. No matter how rude you are.”

“That’s a personal attack. Love–forty.”

“But you
were
rude this afternoon. What you said to me and Teresa, that was unfair.”

“Why? I was only telling you what you wanted to hear.” She forces the corners of her mouth into a smile, but doesn’t look at me. “Such a shame you blew it. She was completely your type—couldn’t have been more perfect for you if she’d tried.”

“She’s no different than you used to be. Are you trying to tell me this is an improvement?”

“This?”
Fran’s eyes lock on mine. “Is that how you
think of me now? Not even a
person
anymore.” Her voice is raw, and I know I’ve finally elicited a genuine response. On some awful level it feels like progress.

“Don’t forget—I
know
you, Fran. I’m willing to help if you’ll let me. I
want
to help. But not when you’re drunk.”

Fran downs the rest of the bottle. When she’s done she claps her hands together in mocking applause. “The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

“I’m not the prosecution.”

“Course you’re not.”

“You know what, forget it. I’m not staying when you’re like this. I’ll sleep in the hallway.”

Fran jumps up and hurries past me. “
Mais non!
You’re the famous author. The celebrity. You can’t be roughing it on the floor. You deserve feather pillows and fresh sheets and flights of angels singing freakin’ lullabies.” She barrels out of the room.

I hate hearing the venom in her words. I hate feeling defensive. But most of all, I hate how relieved I am to see her leave. “You’re wasting a break point,” I remind her.

She stops dead and turns to face me, lank hair draped across her eyes. “You know, it’s possible to lose even when you win. Anyway, I can tell when I’m not wanted. I’ve had a lot of practice this year.”

Fran shuffles down the corridor and turns the corner,
out of sight. I don’t know where—or even if—she’s planning to sleep. I’m worried about her, and in the silence of the room I wonder if I could have handled things differently. The author of
Hallelujah
ought to do better than that.

I guess I should follow her; but what would I say? She doesn’t want me around—I’ve had a year to work that out—and so maybe it’s best if I give her space, let her cool off.

I brush my teeth and head to bed. But all I can think about is Fran as she used to be: the carefree smile, the entrancing eyes, the breezy movements of a dancer. And I don’t sleep at all. Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to.

Sleep would mean letting go of that vision.

MONDAY, JUNE 16

Realizations 6: 5–9

5. And then he found a quiet place, where there was very little noise; almost silent, with no noise at all. 6. Except for the idling buses just outside the wide-open windows. And the screaming students released from school for the day. And the jackhammer from the construction site across the street. And the airplane circling overhead, preparing to land. 7. Thus did he realize that it wasn’t actually silent. Not technically, anyway. But yet did it seem so to him. 8. And in that moment he realized the silence was not around him, but inside him. 9. And he thought, “Whoa. That’s actually pretty cool.”

Tailfin Motel, Route 66, Arizona

Matt doesn’t settle for knocking on my door; he hammers it repeatedly until I stagger out of bed and unlock it for him. Outside, the sun is just beginning to rise.

“Dude, you look like crap,” he says.

“I only just went to sleep.”

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You and Fran made up then, huh?”

“What? Oh, my—
no
!” I try to wash the thought away. “She’s not even here. She left last night.”

“And you
let
her
?”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Stop her!” He grips the doorframe. “She’s sixteen, and we’re in the middle of freakin’ nowhere. What if something’s happened to her?”

He’s got me worried now. I pull on yesterday’s clothes, and together we sprint along the corridor, but there’s no sign of her. The foyer is empty too. We run outside and scan the parking lot; still no sign of her. We approach the Hummer and peer through the windows.

Fran is fast asleep, sprawled across the massive backseat.

“Guess I forgot to lock the car,” Matt says.

I’m about to bang on the window when he stops me.

“Let her sleep, bro. Whatever’s going on with you two, tiredness isn’t going to help.”

“So why did you wake
me
up? It’s dawn.”

Matt thinks about this. “Arizona’s a beautiful state. I’d hate to miss out on seeing it. Besides, there’s this great detour—”

“
Detour?
What do you mean, detour?”

Matt raises his hands. “It’s sixty miles, I swear. It’s so worth it.”

I’m suspicious of the word
detour,
but as there’s no signing today, I decide to let it slide. All the same, as I head back inside to grab my stuff, I can’t help wondering how a sixty-mile detour could ever require a 5:30 a.m. start.

Peach Springs, Arizona

After breakfast in Peach Springs we hit the road again. The yawning emptiness of Route 66 stretches before us. I’m ready to get to Flagstaff, check into the hotel, and finally get some sleep.

Instead we take a left turn.

“This isn’t Route 66,” I say.

“No,” says Matt, “it isn’t. This is the detour I told you about.”

“I thought Route 66
was
the detour.”

“Nope. This is Highway 18. Beautiful, huh?”

Beautiful
isn’t the word I’d use.
Remote,
perhaps. Or
scary
. If this stretch of road had one of those Route 66 neon signs, it would probably say
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here
.

Alex interrupts my thoughts by cracking open her guidebook. “This sixty-mile stretch used to be a two-day journey in the nineteenth century,” she reads aloud. “Microclimates mean that you can pass from warm sunshine to snow in the space of only a few miles.” She pauses so we can share her excitement.

Okay, maybe
scary
isn’t strong enough. This is the kind of road where you can break down and the search-and-rescue crews won’t find your decomposed body for months.

It doesn’t take me long to lose my bearings. The road hugs cedar-covered hills, and is engulfed by giant pines as it rises to higher elevations. Every now and then there’s a break in the trees and I can see clear through to the mountains beyond.

We push on through the wilderness, slowing down occasionally to gawk at a few ruined buildings dotting the roadside. Just as the sameness is lulling me to sleep, the trees end, the road descends, and we’re on a plain. It’s like a first grader drew a map where the woods stop dead at the line where the plains start.

“That’s incredible,” says Fran, speaking for the first time all day. “It’s like someone drew a line and said ‘trees here, plains there.’”

It’s as though she read my mind. But then, we used to think alike all the time; it was uncanny.

Fran turns to me. “It
is
amazing… isn’t it?”

I don’t know if she really means for me to answer that; she sure didn’t care much for my opinion yesterday. When I shrug, she purses her lips and mimes opening a cell phone. “Hey, it’s God,” she says, holding out the imaginary phone. “He says if you can’t appreciate this, then what’s the point?”

“The point of
what
?”