Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (8 page)

“No, it’s not. Alex said it’s possible.”

“But look at it.” Fran removes her shorts; it’s hard for me to concentrate. “The falls are…”

“Are what?”

“Are…” I can see her underwear. “Are…” Her underwear is green. “Are…
dangerous,
” I say so loudly that her eyes flick up.

“Not if you don’t come with me, they aren’t. And I don’t expect you to.”

“It’s irresponsible to swim alone.”

“You’re not responsible for me, Luke. Anyway, if I don’t make it back, just think of the extra room you’ll have on the backseat. This could be a win-win for you.”

I hate that she said that. It’s cruel. So is undressing in front of me. I don’t know where to look anymore. I was so relaxed, and now she’s messed everything up.

“What happened to you, Fran?” I ask.

She folds her slender arms into her body, hiding the black marks on her forearms. “Things changed. That’s what happened.”

“But you used to believe. Now you talk about drowning like it’s a joke. It’s like your faith got tested and you just gave up.”

“At least I’ve faced that test. If I challenge you, you ignore me.”

“You’re not challenging me, Fran. You’re just arguing for the sake of it.”

“Let me get this straight: If you disagree with me, we’re debating. If I disagree with you, I’m playing devil’s advocate. How is that fair?”

“If you like debate so much, why did you leave the team?”

She slaps the water. “I didn’t leave. I was kicked off.”

“You left. You had a choice of sticking to the dress code or leaving. You made your choice.”

“There wasn’t a dress code until I showed up!”

She’s raising her voice, so I lower mine. “They have standards.”

“Yes, they do,” she says, mimicking my tone. “Their standards of debate are inversely proportional to their dress code. How’d it go without me this year?”

The words may be quiet, but her message is fierce
and self-righteous. It makes me want to scream. “If you thought they were wrong, why didn’t you fight them?”

“Why should I have to?”

“Oh, right, I get it. It’s not your fault. Nothing’s your fault.”

“Don’t be so naive,” she snaps.

“Personal attack.”

“Screw you!”

“Vulgarity. Automatic disqualification.”

She snorts. “If you’d seen what I’ve seen this year, you’d have a crisis of faith too. I kept waiting for something to change… or some
one
. I just needed a sign, that’s all. Is that really too much to ask?”

I shrug. “Blessed are those who have not seen, yet still believe.”

“Like you used to believe in me?” she asks quietly.

Fran is half-naked, and it’s a challenge for me not to look away in shame. If this is her sport, I’m unprepared to play. “Yes,” I say finally. “Just like that.”

“But not anymore, huh?”

I don’t want to lie, so I say nothing at all.

Fran takes off her vest and steps to the water’s edge. I can see her bra.

Then she turns around.

Instinctively I look away. But as the seconds tick by in silence, my eyes gravitate back to her. Frances
Embree stands before me, a figure from my dreams with a body to give me nightmares. Her purple hair touches her shoulders, metal earrings catching the sun, too many to count. But more horrifying than any of that, I see the same black lines that are etched into her forearms are scarring her stomach too.

We’re alone in our very own Eden, and all I want to do is cry. In the face of all this perfection, Fran has turned against herself, hell-bent on destruction. It’s a path I can’t follow.

I turn and leave. Behind me I hear the gentlest of splashes as she slides into the crystal-clear water, uninhibited, unashamed.

I wonder if I really ever knew her at all.

Havasupai Lodge, Supai, Arizona

The water trickles down my body, rust-colored rivulets that puddle at my feet. I’m halfway through washing my hair when I hear someone coughing next to me. I practically tear down the shower curtain in surprise, and the shampoo runs across my face. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” says Matt. “What other guys join you in the bathroom?”

“But I’m showering.”

“No kidding.”

I try to rinse the shampoo from my hair and face, but it spills into my mouth and nostrils and my eyes. I start whimpering.

“Man up, bro. It’s only soap.”

I swipe at my face, slapping at anything that feels soapy or filmy. It doesn’t help at all.

Matt doesn’t speak until the whole embarrassing performance is over and I’m collapsed on the floor. “Luke, the Bible gives us several examples of true suffering. Not to sound judgmental or anything, but I’d have say that on a scale of one to biblical, soap in the eyes barely even counts.”

He tosses me a towel. I wrap it around my waist and join him in front of the mirror. Side by side, we’re like before-and-after photos for a bodybuilding program, with me on the wrong side of the illustration. My eyes are red and puffy too.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you be making out with Alex or something?”

“Actually, yes. But I promised Mom you’d have clean clothes for all your events, so I’m hand-washing your shirts from the weekend.”

I look at the sink—sure enough, he’s cleaning my
white shirts. I can’t believe it. It makes me especially glad I decided to bring my whole backpack. “Thanks, Matt. That’s really… wow. Can I have a word with Mom and Dad too?”

“Uh-uh. Phone’s recharging. But they send their love. Told me to make sure you’re not late again.”

“Oh. What about Colin? Has he called?”

“No. Were you expecting a call?”

“I guess not.”

Matt rinses the first shirt and wrings it out. “Look, I know you probably don’t want to talk about this, but I really need you to try harder with Fran.”

All the goodwill between us evaporates immediately. “But she shouldn’t be here!”

“But she
is
here. And I’ve read enough of
Hallelujah
to know that the boy in that book—the boy I saw on
The Pastor Mike Show
—would do everything possible to make her experience positive. Right?”

To be honest, I don’t remember much of the Pastor Mike interview. I recall hanging out in the greenroom, but as soon as I walked onto the set, everything was overwhelming. My voice found some kind of zone where words came out, but my mind was flitting around like a moth distracted by the countless studio lights. But I see what Matt’s getting at: The boy in
Hallelujah
wouldn’t stop trying to make a difference, no matter how exhausting that might be.

“Please, Luke,” he says, filling the silence. “Underneath it all, she’s still Fran.”

“Okay,” I say, because really—what other answer can I give? “In return, can you promise me there’ll be no more detours like this?”

Matt rinses and wrings out my other shirt, and hangs both of them up to dry. “Sure. I can absolutely promise you there won’t be any more detours like
this,
” he says, putting so much emphasis on the last word that I almost wish I hadn’t asked. “Hey, this is going to be a trip to remember. You might want to consider enjoying it.”

As Matt ambles off, I wonder if maybe he’s right for once. Maybe the worst is behind me. Maybe all I need is a good night’s sleep.

At least that’s something I can control.

Havasupai Lodge, Supai, Arizona

I’m fast asleep when the banging starts. I stumble out of bed, open the door, and guard my eyes from the flashlight aimed directly at my face.

“She with you, man?”

I can’t see the guy who’s speaking, but I can smell him just fine. I can also make out Fran’s stooped figure beside him, and nod before I think better of it.

“Better keep an eye on her then,” he says. “She’s wasted, man. Totally wasted.”

He’s clearly telling the truth. Fran will hit the ground the moment he lets go of her.

“Is she going to be sick?” I ask.

“Not sure. Depends, you know? She blew chunks all over the cactus over there, so she might be running on empty.” He lifts her arm off his shoulder and lets it fall over mine. “Another thing: I’d try to get away early tomorrow, if I were you. People around here are pissed, man. Dudes love that cactus like a brother.”

The guy shakes his head and walks away, and it’s just me and Fran and the stench of barf-breath hanging between us.

“Bathroom,” mutters Fran.

I drag her inside, shut the door, and direct her to the toilet. As I turn the light on, she wraps her arms around the bowl and liberates some more of her half-digested dinner. She wipes her mouth with a piece of toilet paper and leans back as she flushes it away.

“Sorry,” she says. “I drank too much.”

I don’t know what to say. It’s a confession, not a question.

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Don’t know. I didn’t mean to get drunk. We were just having fun, you know?”

“This is fun?”

She shakes her head, and a few purple strands of hair slip over the seat and into the toilet bowl. She doesn’t even notice.

“Remember Thanksgiving dinner?” she asks suddenly, words slurred. “When you picked up those metal tongs… pretended to defibrillate the turkey?” Her eyes are closed, but she’s smiling.

I remember it, all right. Fran and me standing side by side, serving dinner at the downtown homeless shelter. She snorted so loud when I did it—made me do it again too, until everyone in line cried tears of laughter. How could I forget the way she looked at me in that moment?

That was our last Thanksgiving dinner together.

“Never mind,” she says. “It was a long time ago.”

“Yes, Fran, I remember! What’s your point?”

“You used to laugh a lot. But not anymore.”

“Am I supposed to be laughing now?”

Fran shakes her head; it causes a fresh round of vomiting, although there’s nothing but bile left. She shudders.

I put a washcloth under the tap and wring it out.
When I place it against her forehead she sighs, a sound I recognize from a former life when we were friends, and sharing the same air with her was enough to complete me. Of course I used to laugh. Of course I seemed happier back then. How could I not?

Fran places her hand over mine and guides the washcloth back and forth across her forehead. Her black fingernail polish has chipped, and when she pulls the cloth away and looks up at me she can’t even focus. Will she remember this in the morning?

“I should get back to bed,” I say.

She reaches for my hand. Misses. “I’m sorry, Luke.”

I turn to leave.

“I said I’m
sorry
.”

I stop in the doorway, but I don’t turn around. “No, you’re not. Nobody’s making you do this, Fran. Nobody wants to see you mess up your life. Especially not me.”

Her breath catches. “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you. I just don’t know who you are anymore.”

I glance at the mirror above the sink and see her reflection. She’s on her knees, eyes closed. Tears stream down her cheeks.

“Do you need anything before I go to bed?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

I want to scream at her—
If you’re so sorry, why are you doing this? Why don’t you come to church anymore? Why did you give up debate? Why do you ignore me? What have you done with Fran?
—but instead I take a deep breath and swallow my questions. I mustn’t judge her, no matter who she used to be. No one is perfect, certainly not me. Even though people seem to think I am.

I climb into bed and pull the covers tight around me. I want to go back to sleep, but I can still hear her—the rush of water and the clatter of objects falling to the floor.

Then she gasps.

I jump out of bed and run to the bathroom. Fran is leaning over a sink full of water, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she drives a needle through her left earlobe. Dripping blood forms pink clouds in the water. She’s choking on her tears.

“Oh, my—” I struggle to catch my breath. “What have you done?”

“Go away.”

“I’ll get help.”

I turn to leave, but she grabs my sleeve. There’s blood on her fingers.

“This isn’t happening,” I say.

She releases my arm and extracts the needle from
her ear, wincing in pain. Blood falls freely, and she’s having trouble staunching the flow with the cloth. The water in the sink is uniformly pink. Eventually she gives up on the washcloth and reaches for a hoop she has placed beside her. She lifts it to her ear, but she’s nowhere near sober enough to find the hole.

She’s not the only one crying now. “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

She prods around her ear, but she can’t find the hole because of all the earrings around it. It’s brutal, sickening. “Because I can. Because it’s
my
body, and I can do whatever the hell I like with it.”

“You need help.”

“Then help me.”

“Not my help. Professional help. A doctor or something.”

She almost smiles at that, but the pain is too much. “Go away, Luke.”

She tries to find the hole again, and the blood keeps flowing. The water has shifted from pink to red. I don’t know how much blood it’s safe to lose; I’m afraid we’re going to find out.

I pick up her toiletries bag and rummage around. There’s a tube of antiseptic ointment in there, a pack of Q-tips, even a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I unscrew the lid and pour some over a Q-tip. My hands are
shaking so hard that most of the liquid ends up in the sink.

“You need this.” I hold out the Q-tip, but Fran shakes her head. “It’ll get infected,” I say.

“So?”

“Don’t you want it to heal?”

“No, I don’t!”

She grits her teeth and this time she finds the hole. She drives in the hoop and screws it in place with a tiny metal ball. Her ear looks mangled.

I’m still holding the Q-tip. “Please, Fran. Please use this.”

“Stop pretending you care.”

“I do care.”

She stares at my reflection in the mirror. “No, you don’t,” she says, but softly. Maybe seeing me cry is making her unsure. Finally she takes the Q-tip and attempts to clean her ear with it. Then she takes a cotton ball from her bag and douses that in rubbing alcohol. Repeats the process with shaking hands. Finally she looks at what she has done, and bursts into sobs that rack every part of her body.