by Jessi Kirby
Inside, it was still and dark. I twisted open the blinds and stood by the window a moment, feeling almost like I was doing something wrong. Like it should all be left exactly as it was even though I’d been in there a handful of times in the nine months since he’d shipped out. He’d always kept it simple and neat. It didn’t make much of a statement about him. He saved the Impala for that. From the chrome on the wheels to the slick black paint that cost him a fortune, he poured himself into that car. That was where I’d gone to feel close to him when he left. Driving around in it had been a comfort, so maybe it was right that I was about to take it on a mission that made sense only to me.
What didn’t make sense was that I’d made up my mind, somewhere between the car and Finn’s room, that Rusty could go with me. And that he’d need some clothes, because he reeked of a night spent drinking and mourning. I’d been so angry with him outside, I hadn’t let myself think of how he must be feeling. Finn would have been destroyed if it’d been the other way around.
I went to his dresser and pulled out a few shirts and a pair of jeans. Outside of his uniform or practice clothes, Rusty’d always worn boots and long pants, even in the Texas summer heat. But since we were headed to California, I went ahead and grabbed a pair of Finn’s shorts and a pair of flip-flops for him, just in case. He could figure out for himself what to do about underwear.
Clothes in hand, I took one last look around the too-still room. Then I headed out to my brother’s car, where the open road, Kyra Kelley, and his drunk ex–best friend were waiting.
4
There was one thing I had to do first.
When I pulled into the lot of Reagan County Park, I was relieved to find it empty. Certain allowances usually seem to be made for grieving people, but this probably wouldn’t be one of them. I turned the car off and glanced over at Rusty, who was passed out, head back, mouth open, in the front seat. He didn’t flinch when I got out and slammed my door or when I went around to each of the back doors and rolled the windows all the way down so he didn’t stink up the car. After another look around to make sure no one was watching, I walked across the dewy grass to where the town emblem, the Santa Rita No. 1, stood proudly, cordoned off by thick, twisted ropes stiff with dirt and age.
The story of the blessed oil derrick was Finn’s favorite to listen to as a kid and our dad’s favorite to tell. Dad had a knack for weaving words together that made it seem just as exciting every time he told it. According to him, the Santa Rita No. 1 was Big Lake’s very own miracle. It was one of the first oil derricks built here, and after twenty-one long months of construction and several more of dry, hopeless prospecting, it didn’t look very promising.
But one spring day, a partner in the local oil venture climbed to the top of it with a single dried rose in his hand. His name was Frank Pickrell, and he’d received the rose from a group of Catholic women investors all the way in New York. With every oil-less day that passed, they’d gotten more and more nervous about their investment, so they decided to take matters into their own hands. They had a priest bless the rose in the name of Saint Rita, the patron saint of the impossible, and they’d instructed Pickrell to scatter its dried petals over the top of the oil derrick as a sort of christening. Pickrell was willing to try anything by then, so he did just what they said. He climbed to the top of the rig and let the crushed red petals swirl in the wind and flutter down over the greased iron and cracked ground. The very next day, the rig spouted her first gusher, spraying the countryside with shiny black hope and securing the town’s future in oil.
We didn’t grow up religious, and there weren’t many things Finn wasn’t confident about, but when he was up against one of them, he always came and grabbed a pinch of the Santa Rita’s dirt for good luck. If it was a game he needed it for, he’d smear it on the inside of his helmet. If there was a girl he wasn’t sure would say yes, he’d rub a few specks between his hands before he asked her out. And it never let him down. He believed in the patron saint of the impossible.
It was kind of a joke between the two of us, but this morning I figured if there ever was a time I needed her, it was now. I pulled Finn’s letter out of my purse and held the envelope open with one hand while I bent for a pinch of the blessed dirt with the other. Slowly, I rubbed my fingers together above the open envelope until the last tiny specks fell over the pages that contained his words and wishes.
Now I could go.
When I stood again, I felt a little glimmer of something in me. Hope, or confidence maybe, that I was doing the right thing. That I wasn’t completely crazy. That Finn would be proud and the impossible would become possible. I nodded a grateful thank-you to the Santa Rita and headed back to the car.
The engine rumbled when I laid my foot into the gas, and dry August air whipped through the open windows, blowing my hair into tangles all around me. Rusty slumped against the passenger door, snoring and down for the count, and I prayed he’d stay that way for a while. I needed to be alone with the road in front of me. And with Kyra Kelley, who was singing about wishing she’d never had to grow up. I understood, more so now than I had when I bought the album.
My whole life, I’d set my course by Finn, depending on him to guide me, like old sailors did with the stars. He’d been the one with the big ideas and the force of will to see them through, but now it was supposed to be me. Without him. The thought was foreign and hard to swallow. Even so, I told myself that the miles of desert and nothing towns stretched out in front of me were full with the possibility to do it. It didn’t matter that I only half believed it.
Rusty shifted in the seat and took in the deep, heavy breath of someone who was worlds away from consciousness. With him like that, I could almost pretend like it wasn’t a terrible idea to bring him along. He did, at one time, have his good points. Ever since I could remember, he’d been Finn’s most loyal and devoted friend. They were inseparable, despite that they were so different, and Rusty spent more time at our house growing up than his. Which I understood.
At his house, it was just him and his dad, who drank too much and blamed Rusty for the way his life had turned out. In his sober moments, which were few, he obsessed over Rusty’s football playing and was the proudest dad ever, convinced his boy was going to the pros. Inevitably, though, when game nights rolled around, he’d show up to the stands already primed up, and I’d hope the boys played well, especially Rusty, so his dad wouldn’t make a scene. Sometimes it was the other team or the coach or the refs that were the target, but most often it was Rusty—something he didn’t do well enough or fast enough or hard enough.
So he came to our house, where Gina would make us big dinners, fawn over the boys, and do her best to smooth it all over. They went out a lot too, especially by their senior year. After the game, they’d leave the house all showered up and smelling like Old Spice and mint gum, and roll off into the night in the Impala, leaving me behind wondering what went on out at the Pit or the field or whatever party spot they were headed to. I never got to go with them no matter how much I begged, but the following Monday at school, I’d always hear stories about the parties they’d been at. They were the party. Finn because of his friendly, contagious personality that could make you like him in five seconds flat, and Rusty because of his football bravado and ability to shotgun a beer faster than anyone around.
They were a team, on and off the field, so it wasn’t surprising when Northern Arizona University recruited both of them with full rides and they accepted. The only surprise came right before graduation, when—out of nowhere—Finn turned his scholarship down and enlisted, and Rusty turned on the both of us so fast, it was like they’d never been friends to begin with. With Rusty passing us by without so much as a glance and Finn getting ready for boot camp instead of college, nothing could have been more surprising or more wrong. Until now.
I pushed the thought away and set my eyes on the horizon. Between the heat of the day and the heat seeping through the floorboards from the engine, my feet w
ere burning inside the boots I’d pulled on without thinking, so I took a gulp of water that had now turned warm and worked on slipping them off while driving. The left one wasn’t so hard. I just had to dig the heel into the floor and slide my foot out. The relief was immediate, but so was the smell of leather and foot sweat. I glanced over at Rusty and inched the window down the last bit. My gas-pedal foot was trickier. I moved it off to the side and put my bare toes on the pedal so both feet were on it, then I gingerly lifted my booted foot and used one hand to yank it off.
The car swerved, and I overcorrected, tossing Rusty into the door. “What the hell?” He sat up rubbing his head and looked around, trying to get his bearings. “What happened?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, but sniffed. “Ugh. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to wear socks?”
I looked at him out the corner of my eye, being careful to keep the car steady, and turned the music down. He leaned his head toward the open window. “You got any aspirin?”
“Nope,” I said. And I was glad.
“Water?”
I glanced down at the almost-empty bottle in the cup holder next to me and motioned at it. “That’s it, right there.” He grabbed it without waiting for my permission and swallowed the last sip.
“I didn’t say you could drink it. That was supposed to last me until the next stop.”
He rolled his eyes, then rubbed his forehead. “I’ll buy you a new one when we get there.”
I sighed and popped in a piece of gum, then threw one at him. “Here. Your breath stinks.”
He unwrapped it, bent it into his mouth, then leaned his head toward the window again, eyes closed, chewing slowly. “Your feet stink.”
“You’re smelling yourself.” He didn’t say anything. “What were you drinking, anyway? You’re sweatin’ it.” I tucked my free foot beneath the seat. He grimaced and slung one arm over his face, dismissing the question.
Yep. Bringing him had been a horrible idea. I reached for the tape deck and turned the volume up full, determined to drown out anything else he had to say, and it was perfect that Kyra was singing a song about a no-good, small-town guy who was just plain mean. I couldn’t have cued it up better myself.
Rusty lifted his arm off his face and gave me exactly the kind of look I’d expected. I was satisfied for less than a second before he leaned forward and hit the eject button and yanked out the cassette adapter. He held it up, my iPod dangling like it was some sacrilegious thing, and I grabbed for it.
“Hey—”
He shook it. “An iPod? This is a 1967 Chevy Impala. Are you f’in kiddin’ me?”
I flinched as he wrapped the cord around it and stashed it in the glove box, shaking his head at my disregard for the old rules. I knew what he was gonna say before he said it. Somewhere along the line, he and Finn had decided that the only music that could be played in the car was classic rock. The kind they turned up and sang along to and that I associated with people my aunt’s age but was probably even older than that. Secretly, I liked a few of the songs, but I never would have admitted it.
“Never do that again.” Rusty leaned forward and found their old radio station immediately, which I was surprised at, since we were almost to the New Mexico state line. He turned it up louder than I’d had it, and I recognized the song. I could feel him looking over at me, grinning like he’d just put me in my place. I rolled my eyes, but for just a second it felt like a flash of old times.
After an uninterrupted triple play of REO Speedwagon, we pulled in to a gas station that looked like something out of one of those movies where some old creep with missing teeth is behind the counter waiting for an unsuspecting customer to walk in. I yanked my boots on and ran around the side, to where I’d seen a bathroom sign. When I got back, Rusty was standing next to the gas pump, gulping down water from a gallon container. He set it down on the trunk with a thud, then popped open a bottle of aspirin and threw a few in his mouth, not bothering with any water to swallow them. I came around to the pump.
“Did you pay for the gas?”
“Yeah.” He still looked like hell, but I could tell from his eyes he was sobering up.
“Thanks,” I said, then stood there awkwardly for a second when he didn’t answer. “I’m gonna get some candy or something. You want anything else?”
He shook his head as he pulled the nozzle out of the tank and shut it. “Nope. I need to sleep this shit off.” Without another word, he screwed the gas cap back on, walked around to his side of the car, and got in. Charming.
A set of bells jangled on the door when I pushed it open, and a loud fan blew a cloud of cigarette smoke and perfume right at me. “Hi there,” a girl’s voice said from behind the counter. She was a few years older than me, and pretty—honey-colored hair, blue eyes, thick black eyeliner. The kind of girl Rusty’d probably hit on as soon as he walked in. Nowhere near the toothless old guy I’d been picturing. “Your fella out there’s in a bad way.” She laughed. “Still pretty cute, though.” I didn’t know quite how to respond, and it must have shown. She smiled. “Sorry. I get bored is all. You two are the most interesting thing that’s happened all day.”
I glanced around the tiny store, hoping for a candy rack. “I’ll bet.” She popped her gum and went back to her magazine, and I found what I wanted. I went ahead and grabbed a couple of bags of Sour Skittles, a pack of gum, and a box of Red Vines, because that’s what Finn always bought at pit stops. On the way up to the counter, I stopped in front of a display of little tree-shaped air fresheners. I preferred vanilla, but Finn loved the irony of driving around in the Impala with new car scent hanging from the dash, so I added the familiar blue tree to my haul and smiled. When I took it all up to the counter, the girl at the register set her magazine down, open to a full-page collage of pictures, all of Kyra Kelley.
“Oh, wow, can I see this?” She nodded, and I spun the magazine around so it was facing me.
She nodded as she punched the keys and popped her gum. “Just got it in the mail today. Her first interview in a long time, all about how she’s giving everything up. Walkin’ away, just like that. Crazy, you know?”
I looked at the shots, mostly candid, by paparazzi. Her walking out of a Starbucks, Frappuccino in hand, her going into a sushi restaurant, her in workout clothes and huge sunglasses, carrying a bottle of water. Her in the backyard of her newly purchased home, somewhere “away from the generic luxury of the Hollywood Hills” and closer to family—her words.
“Yeah,” I said absently. “I do.” I looked around for the magazine rack. “Got any more copies of this?” There were no magazines in the store.
“Nah, it’s mine. But I’ve read it five times already. Take it.” She grabbed it and slid it into the brown bag with my candy.
“Really? Thank you . . . I . . . thanks!”
She smiled. “No problem. Thank you for dropping by with your hot, hungover boyfriend. You two have a nice trip.”
The bells jangled again as I pushed through the door, flipping to a full-page photo of Kyra Kelley on stage, wearing a smile that was all hope and light. It didn’t matter that Rusty was leaned back against the seat, passed out again, when I opened the door. I was ecstatic. I had something to go on.
“Rusty! Wake up. The girl inside just gave me this magazine, and it shows Kyra’s new house and talks about her last show and everything.” He mumbled something unintelligible, and I got in. “You don’t understand what this means.” He didn’t answer, but I didn’t care.
It felt like some sort of sign that what I was doing was right and not crazy. I slid the magazine into my purse next to Finn’s letter, tied the little blue tree to one of the AC vents, and revved the engine, ready to drive for three days straight if that’s what it took to get to Kyra Kelley’s last show.
5
Somewhere past the New Mexico state line, after two bags of Sour Skittles and endless miles of static and dusty interstate, I lost momentum. With no working clock, I had no idea what time it was, and my purse with
my phone in it was too far away to reach. Rusty was snoring away, just as he had been for the last few hours and was of no use to me. I shifted my weight in the seat, stretched out my left leg, and leaned forward on the steering wheel, then pinched my damp sundress away from my back. It had to be near five, but it was still at least ninety-five degrees out. And it was becoming painfully clear how much I hadn’t thought through—driving through the desert in August with no AC, no real plan, and Rusty as a companion. Not to mention only four days to get from Texas to California and back to Austin—all before my first class. I was pushing it.
I strained to see down the road, hoping for a billboard or another mileage sign to the next town. Anything. I hadn’t been paying close attention to where we were because according to the map I’d looked at, we’d be on the 40 forever. The landscape had changed gradually since we’d crossed the border. Flat farmland had given way to barren, rocky desert that was pretty in its own sort of way, with the cloudless blue sky and surprisingly fresh smell of heat and dirt. Still, I had no idea where we were or how close we might be to somewhere decent to stop. Or where we would sleep. If Rusty could get it together, we could take shifts driving through the night and not have to worry about that at all.
I nudged him, gently at first. “Hey. Wake up. I need you to look at the map for me.” He licked his lips and furrowed his brow, but his eyes stayed closed. I tried again, this time with a well-aimed fist in his shoulder. “Rusty. Wake up.”
It worked. He sat up and yawned loudly, rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, then squinted over at me, one eye still half-closed. “What time is it?” His voice was gravelly from sleep, and he went straight for the water at his feet.
