How to Be Bad

by Lauren Myracle

  “We can stop now,” I say. “It’s no big deal.” I feel expansive, and I like it. I also like saying “It’s no big deal” to Vicks ’cause Vicks is always telling me to relax and not be such a tightbottom. Though she doesn’t say “bottom.”

  I take the next exit, which has one of those signs with a picture of a knife and a fork. But turns out there’s no restaurant, just a trailer outside a Texaco with a wooden stand fixed on it. A hand-lettered sign says, GENUINE ALL-BEEF DOGS! GENUINE TOASTED BUNS!

  I pull up to the pump, thinking we might as well top off the tank while we’re here. Vicks and I get out of the Opel and stretch—it feels so good—and Mel climbs out less happily.

  “Um…this is not really what I had in mind,” she says.

  “Uh-huh,” Vicks says. “Who’s the gourmand now?”

  Mel plays with a strand of her hair. The hot dog guy is wearing a shirt that features a dancing dog in a bun, and his calf is tattooed with a faded red frank.

  “Nice tat,” Vicks calls.

  “Ain’t it something?” he says. He stands up from his aluminum chair. He’s got an umbrella set up to give him some shade. “Tell you what, I love the hot dog.”

  “I bet you do,” I say, unscrewing the cap to the gas tank and jamming in the nozzle. MeeMaw wouldn’t like that tattoo one bit—your body is your temple, and all that—but I feel at ease with guys like this. Long as they don’t ogle Mama in a wet T-shirt contest, I like good ol’ boys just fine.

  Hot Dog Guy scratches his gut. The gasoline chug-a-lugs and then clunks off. The nozzle jumps.

  “Fourteen dollars,” I marvel. “Dang, what’s wrong with this world?”

  Mel says nothing.

  “Guess I’ll go inside and pay,” I say, giving her another chance.

  Mel remains mute. I sigh. I go inside the Texaco, give the cash register lady more than half my funds, and then plunk down an extra dollar-fifty for a Florida state map. Since we’re off the main highway, I figure we might need it. I return outside to find Mel still standing there while Vicks fools with her cell phone, probably checking for messages.

  “You guys ordered yet?” I ask. To Hot Dog Guy, I say, “I’ll take your combo special with a Coke.”

  “Make that two,” Vicks says, snapping shut her phone. She jams it hard into her pocket, which tells me all I need to know. “So, hey, you been in the food industry long?”

  The food industry. She kills me. Hot Dog Guy grabs the tongs and launches into his life story, and I bump Mel with my hip. “Aren’t you going to get anything?”

  She pales as Hot Dog Guy pulls two pink wieners from the steamer. They do look, well, awfully pink.

  Hot Dog Guy says something to Vicks that involves the term “by-products,” to which Vicks responds, “Me, I’m a waffle bitch. I’m no stranger to grease, believe me.”

  “I’ll just…” Mel swallows, one of those big ones you can see. “Just a toasted bun for me, please. And a Diet Sprite.”

  “A bun?” I say. “Who orders just a bun?”

  “I do,” she says. She lifts her chin and meets my gaze dead on, and I grudgingly give the girl some respect. So she’s ordering just a bun. Fine.

  I pay for my combo—once again Mel does not whip out her wallet and say, “Oh, here, let me get that for you”—and sit on the curb. Mel follows with her bun and drink, since Vicks is still talking shop with Mr. Hot Dog. She’s quizzing him about the different fixin’s, and I’m thinking, Fixin’s? What could possibly be so fascinating about fixin’s? We’re talking ketchup and mustard here, not caviar.

  Then Mr. Hot Dog launches into a story about being on the Today show, because that’s how famous he is, and I snort. Do I like this good ol’ boy? Sure, why not. Do I think he’s been on some big, celebrity talk show? Yeah, right, I think. You and me both, buddy.

  But when Mel expresses her own disbelief, I play the devil’s advocate.

  “He is so full of it,” she says to me. “Him? On the Today show?”

  “Why not?” I say. “Just because he’s a redneck, he can’t be on the Today show?”

  “I didn’t say because he’s a redneck.”

  “You thought it, though.” So did I, but she doesn’t have to know that.

  “It just seems unlikely, that’s all.” She pulls off a bit of bread with her thumb and forefinger. She puts it daintily in her mouth. I take a whomping big bite of my hot dog.

  “If he owned some fancy-schmancy five-star restaurant, then would you believe him?” I say with my mouth full. “’Cause, FYI, money doesn’t make you a better person. In fact it usually makes you a worse person.” I think about Dr. Aberdeen, Mama’s oncologist, who made Mama wait for two hours before going over her lab results. I know he wouldn’t have made Mel’s mother wait like that. I know it in my soul.

  “Who said anything about money?” Mel asks.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you talking about me?”

  “What? No!” My heart starts pounding, ’cause this isn’t where I meant to go. “I just think it’s wrong to label people, that’s all.”

  “Jesse, you’re the one who basically said that all rich people are jerks.”

  Me and my big mouth. “Um…well…”

  “Guys, check this out,” Vicks says. Mr. Hot Dog’s holding a photo, and he and Vicks are admiring it.

  I get up and brush the crumbs from my shorts. Mel folds her napkin into fourths and drops it in the trash can. We walk over to see the picture.

  It’s Mr. Hot Dog and Al Roker, the weatherman from the Today show. The black guy who lost all that weight. He’s shrunken looking in the photo, with an oddly large head, and he’s holding up a hot dog.

  “No way,” I say. I raise my eyes to the in-the-flesh Mr. Hot Dog. I can’t believe I’m talking to someone who stood within millimeters of a TV star.

  “Best day of my life,” Mr. Hot Dog boasts. He shuts his wallet.

  “Well, we gotta go,” Vicks says. She sticks out her hand, and Mr. Hot Dog shakes it. “It was a pleasure.”

  “Don’t forget what I said about relish,” he warns. “There’s an entire spectrum of relish out there.”

  “Spectrum of relish,” Vicks says. “Got it.”

  The Opel is as hot as sin when the three of us climb in, and Vicks says, “Damn, somebody should have parked in the shade.”

  “Somebody should keep her opinions to herself,” I retort. But she’s right. I should have moved the car after filling it up. My fanny is being scorched even through my cutoffs, and I’m mad at myself for the mistake.

  “Toasted buns,” Mel says, giggling.

  “What’s that?” Vicks says.

  “Genuine toasted buns,” she repeats.

  Ohhh—from the sign. “I think you mean genu-wine,” I say. “It’s all about the accent, Canada Girl.”

  “Genu-wine toasted buns,” Mel says, stretching it out.

  Vicks laughs, and just like that I feel better. I kinda want to glance at Mel, to tell her thanks or something.

  Instead, I start the engine.

  5

  MEL

  I’M NOT GOING to make it.

  We still have a half hour of driving before we get to Carrabelle, home of the world’s smallest police station, and I can barely breathe.

  Vicks has…stomach issues.

  And they’re bad.

  The two of them think it’s hilarious.

  “Don’t you know it’s unlawful to pass wind in Florida, after five o’clock, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays?” Jesse asks.

  Vicks laughs, her feet propped up against the dashboard. “But on Saturday it’s okay?”

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  “I am so not lying!” Jesse says. “That is an honest-to-goodness state law. I learned it when me and Mama were playing Balderdash.”

  The smell returns in a second wave.

  “You did it again!” Jesse shrieks, fanning the air.

  “Silent but deadly,” Vicks says, not the least
bit embarrassed.

  If it were me, I’d have to move back to Canada. I try to breathe through my mouth. I cough.

  “Poor Mel has to sit behind me,” Vicks says, shaking her head.

  “No problem,” I say, almost choking.

  She shrugs. “It’s not my fault. It was the hot dog. Al Roker had gas too.”

  “What, you’re psychically in tune with Al’s intestines?” Jesse asks.

  “Me and Al Roker, you’d never know we had so much in common, would you? United by flatulence.”

  Flatulence. I’m in a car discussing flatulence. My family would rather die than discuss flatulence. I would rather die than discuss flatulence.

  Vicks turns to look at me. “How’d the dog go down with you? You’re looking green.”

  “Mel had her hot dog without the dog,” Jesse says, when I’d just as soon she kept that bit of information to herself. I think she’s mad at me because I didn’t pay for the food. I should have paid for the food. The only reason I didn’t offer was because, well, I thought that maybe they wanted me around for more than just my wallet. I was hoping that perhaps it was the excuse for letting me come, but that secretly they wanted me along.

  “What?” Vicks shrieks. “Without the dog?”

  “Without the dog,” Jesse repeats “You missed it. You were discussing the finer points of relish.”

  “What is wrong with you, woman?” Vicks cries. “I thought you were hungry.”

  My cheeks heat up. “I don’t like hot dogs.”

  “And why not?”

  “I heard they’re made from the leftover scraps of cows and pigs and stuff,” I mumble.

  “Says who?” Vicks asks.

  “Says my sister.”

  “Is she a doctor?” Jesse asks.

  “No, but I told you, she’s always on a diet.” I instantly feel dumb for using my sister as an expert. She’s just obsessed with food. And how much she and I eat of it. I sink into my seat. Am I ever going to know the right thing to say to these girls to get them to like me?

  “It’s a sad life when you can’t eat a hot dog,” Jesse says. “If a hot dog comes your way, you eat it.”

  “Dude,” Vicks says. She cracks up.

  “What?” Jesse says.

  “Not to burst your bubble, but when have you ever eaten the hot dog?”

  Ew.

  “Are you wigging?” Jesse says. “I ate my hot dog.” Then she gets it. “Ohhh,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Very funny.”

  “What about you, Mel?” Vicks asks me. “You ever eaten the hot dog?”

  First they talk about flatulence and now…that. “You guys,” I say, my cheeks now on fire.

  “Oh, come on. You look innocent but you’re secretly a badass, aren’t you?”

  “Not quite,” I say.

  A third wave of wind sneaks through the car—Vicks most certainly did eat the hot dog—and I might really gag this time.

  “Geez Louise, woman!” Jesse says. “For the last time: Stop pooting!”

  Even with all the windows open, we’re being asphyxiated.

  “Al Roker! You are my kin!” Vicks cries.

  “Feet off the dashboard,” Jesse commands, swatting her legs. “Point that thing in another direction!”

  Vicks cackles. Jesse speeds up to escape the fumes, and I’m relieved when she finally eases to a stop in front of an empty phone booth. We all spill out of the car.

  Thank God, fresh air.

  “This is it?” Jesse says, obviously disappointed. “The world’s smallest police station?”

  Vicks gestures at a neatly lettered sign on the glass, which does indeed say POLICE. But other than that, it’s just a boring phone booth.

  “Where are the police officers?” I ask.

  “Police officer,” Jesse says. “It couldn’t fit more than one.”

  “Maybe he’s off duty,” Vicks says.

  “Maybe the whole town’s off duty,” Jesse says.

  There’s no sign of life on the entire block, other than the deafening chirp of cicadas. There’s a convenience store across the street, its faded wooden sign hanging from a single nail. No one is inside.

  We stare at the vacant phone booth.

  Vicks looks sheepish. She shifts her weight and another wave of grossness squeaks out. Jesse takes a step away.

  I can’t help but feel embarrassed for Vicks.

  “Seen enough?” Jesse says at last.

  Miss Indigestion smacks her fist into her palm. “Now we go see Old Joe the Alligator,” she says. “He’s only half an hour away in Wakulla Springs, and he’s got to be better than this.”

  Jesse climbs back into the Opel, and Vicks folds her seat forward to let me in.

  “Come on, come on,” Vicks says.

  “So Old Joe…,” I begin. I was kind of hoping that they might have forgotten about visiting the gator.

  “Some jogger got eaten by a gator just last week,” Jesse says. She turns the key in the ignition and puts the car in gear while Vicks scans the map. “In Pensacola. People say they’re getting braver.”

  “Haven’t there been, like, three alligator-related deaths in the last month?” Vicks wonders aloud.

  “Guys,” I say.

  “The jogger lady’s friend saw it happen, but there was nothing she could do,” Jesse says. We pull onto the highway. “Chomp, and she was gone.”

  “In Orlando, a gator carried off a three-year-old,” Vicks adds. “Now, that is so sad.”

  “Imagine seeing your one-and-only child be dragged off in the jaws of a gator,” Jesse says. “Not even having a body to put in the coffin.”

  “Guys,” I plead.

  They laugh, and Vicks turns up the music.

  Old Joe here we come.

  When we get there, the place Vicks wants to go to is just a little museum. Not a natural habitat with night tours, which is what I had pictured. This is nothing but a small building with a CLOSED sign on the front door, down the road from a Stop-N-Go and a Piggly Wiggly grocery store, also shut for the night. This town is even deader than Niceville; no, even deader than Carrabelle, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. The street is dark except for our headlights.

  Thank God.

  “Oh, well,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved. “We better get going anyway. It must be at least nine, and we still have a long way to go till we get to Miami, eh? We’re not supposed to be on the road after one A.M., right? Since we’re not eighteen? I think that’s the rule in Florida. I don’t want you guys getting into trouble.”

  “Damn,” Vicks says, ignoring me. “I really want to see Old Joe.”

  “You can’t always get what you want,” Jesse says.

  Vicks gets out of the Opel and strides to the museum. She tries the door. Locked. She disappears around the side, then fast-walks back into sight. “Hey, y’all,” she whispers. “Come here.”

  Oh, no.

  Jesse turns off the headlights, and darkness stretches around us. She climbs out of the car. I don’t want to, but I don’t want to sit here by myself, either. I scurry after them.

  “What’s the scoop?” Jesse asks her.

  Vicks leads us to the back of the building and points up to a rear window no one bothered to shut. It’s the type that cranks outward instead of being raised; there’s maybe a four-inch gap between the pane and the sill. The screen inside is torn. It’s directly above the back entrance.

  “Someone with small hands could reach through and jiggle the knob to the back door,” Vicks says.

  I clasp my hands behind my back.

  “If that small-handed person so desired,” Jesse says.

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I say, my heart pounding.

  “I’m thinking it is,” Vicks says.

  I glance down the street. There is no one, absolutely no one, around. But what if we get caught? Arrested? What would people think?

  That I’m a criminal? That I’m pathetic?

  I would so lose my c
redit card privileges.

  But if I don’t? What are Jesse and Vicks going to think? That I’m a wimp? That I’m no fun?

  I wish I didn’t care what anybody thought.

  “We’re not going to fool with anything,” Jesse says. “We just want to see Old Joe.”

  “Old Joe needs us,” Vicks says earnestly. She presses her palm to her heart. “I can feel it.”

  “Come on,” Jesse says. “Please?”

  Vicks cups her hands below the window and nods, like, See how easy?

  I close my eyes. I don’t want to be a wimp. I don’t want to be a wallet, either.

  I want to open the damn window. I place my sandaled foot in Vicks’s hands, and she heaves me up. I teeter. Oh, no. I’m going to fall. I’m going to fall. I’m going to bust my head open and die.

  Jesse grabs my waist and steadies me. “Whoa, soft shirt,” she says. “Like…super soft.”

  “Um…,” I say. “Thanks?”

  “Can we focus here?” Vicks asks. “Do you have it?”

  I worm my arm through the window, but I can’t find the doorknob. “No,” I say, my voice shaking. I touch something sticky. Was that a spiderweb? Oh, God.

  “Now?” Vicks asks again.

  Nooooooo, I want to yell, but I don’t.

  I can’t do it. I just can’t.

  “You can do it, Mel,” Jesse says, reading my mind.

  I turn to her and she’s nodding, and I think, maybe I can. I stretch my fingers out and I feel it, hard and smooth.

  That’s it! That’s it! I turn the lock, and we all hear the click. “Got it!”

  Light and laughing and giddy with pride, I free my jelly arm from the window. The girls lower me down.

  Vicks runs up the steps and opens the museum’s back door.

  Jesse squeezes my shoulder.

  I wonder if I’ve finally earned my seat.

  6

  VICKS

  THE ROOM WE enter is dark, but a few windows let in light from a single street lamp outside. A wooden counter holds several racks of postcards, an old-time cash register, and a lamp like in someone’s living room. The walls are lined with maps and old tourist posters. A model of the intracoastal waterway stands in the center of the room.