Thou Shalt Not Road Trip

by Antony John

  I still remember the photo. It was tiny, black-and-white, and stuffed in the middle of the “local interest” section, which no one ever reads. “I’m sorry, Fran. That’s awful.”

  “Yeah. Worst of all, he went back on everything he’d said the day before. I wasn’t smart; I was stupid. I wasn’t hardworking; I just had a well-prepared partner. I was rude. I was a brat.” Fran takes a steadying breath. “After he left, Mom said he shouldn’t have been so hard on me. She was trying to be nice, but I told her to tell him that, not me, which made her mad too. After that, I didn’t even want to go to the salon anymore, but she practically dragged me there. So I decided to do something to piss them off.” She touches her hair. “I skipped the highlights and went with purple.”

  I’m swigging my Coke every few seconds, but I can’t taste it.

  “Mom picked me up afterward and completely freaked. She made the stylist promise to undo it all at another appointment the next day. And to be honest, I was glad she was angry. I wanted to have it out with her and Dad—tell them my life wasn’t just about making them proud. I didn’t want to be like Alex, counting down the days until college, and never looking back. I even practiced everything I wanted to say, like it was a debate competition. But when we got home, Dad just took one look at me and walked away. Then he told Mom not to talk to me either.”

  I know Fran’s father, which is why I’m not surprised. Matt used to call him the iron fist in a velvet glove, but that’s being kind; the glove is almost nonexistent. Still, Fran must have known how he’d react.

  “Mom took me back to the salon the next day—gave me a hundred dollars to ‘fix things.’” Fran uses air quotes to make her point. “But when she drove off, I just left. There was a tattoo parlor a few doors down, so I went in and got the cartilage at the top of my ears pierced—one for each parent.”

  Her fingers drift up to her right ear, and she fingers the top hoop. There have been a lot of additions since that day.

  “When Mom saw what I’d done, she stormed off. I waited an hour, but she never came back. So I walked home—six miles. They were both waiting for me. Said I’d made a decision and there were consequences. When I was ready to apologize and stop the nonsense, they were ready to forgive me.”

  I’m so engrossed in her story that I just nod.

  “Did you hear me?” demands Fran. “They said they would forgive me.” She downs the rest of her Coke.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” She closes her eyes. “Don’t answer that. I’m just… they hurt me that day, you know? I thought nothing in the world could hurt so bad. I was wrong, but that’s what I thought. See, all I wanted was for them to talk to me again. Instead, they cut me off.”

  When she opens her eyes, she’s looking right at me. “Everything went wrong after that. On Sunday, Dad said he wouldn’t give me a ride to church, so I missed the service. Later in the week, I turned up to the church retreat and… I just couldn’t do it.” A tear appears suddenly, and she wipes it away. “I kind of lost it after that. I wanted to get away, but there was nowhere to go. Alex had already left for Caltech and my friends were at camp, so there was no one to talk to. When they got back from camp, they weren’t in the mood to listen. And when school started, it was like the teachers took a step back too. Coach Penny was the only one who said she wanted me.”

  So the mystery of Frances Embree’s transformation has finally been solved. Or has it? After all, the Fran who showed up on the first day of sophomore year had tattoos on her arms and a whole lot more than one hoop in each ear. She practically dared the teachers to exclude her.

  “Why didn’t you just go back to how you were?” I ask.

  “What?” She seems puzzled by the question, though it must have occurred to her a million times. “How could I?”

  “Just change your appearance.”

  “Even my arms?”

  “You could’ve covered them up.”

  “Yeah. That would’ve made it easier for everyone, wouldn’t it? They could’ve welcomed me back, shown me I’m nothing but the sum of my looks.” She swirls the ice around her glass. “Remember the time in freshman year when we were trying to start a Christian fellowship at school, and those seniors made fun of us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember what you told me?”

  No, I don’t. All I remember is that I was standing beside Frances Embree, and she wore a soft rose-colored sweater, and she’d just had her hair cut in a bob, and her hair was lighter than usual because she’d spent so much of the summer outdoors. I remember being paralyzed by want.

  I shake my head.

  “You told me we couldn’t let them change us, or the things we stood for. You told me it’s what’s on the inside that matters, that being teased by seniors couldn’t touch who we really were. You said I was godly, which meant so much to me. I mean, it was the beginning of freshman year. I was so afraid people would think I was a freak. But you reminded me I wasn’t alone.”

  She’s paying me a compliment, but I can see where this is going now, and it’s killing me.

  “Even now, I haven’t changed on the inside, Luke. I’m still the same Fran; have been all year. Only, no one wants to know this version of me. And, well, if that’s how little everyone thinks of me, I guess I don’t really need them on my side anyway.”

  I want to believe she’s playing devil’s advocate, but I can tell she means every word of this. And I’m the one who gave her the argument.

  But she misunderstood me that day. I know what I said, but it wasn’t what I meant. What I meant was that no one could be allowed to change her, because she was already perfect. Perfectly beautiful. And the thought that someone might change a single thing about her was more than I could bear.

  “I’m sorry, Fran.” I want to hit myself. I want to go back in time and tell the freshman me that every selfish word has consequences. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Really? You mean that?” She’s not asking, she’s begging me to say it again, to assure her that it’s true. Behind the armor of jewelry and hair dye, Fran is as fragile as she was that day in freshman year. Perhaps even more so. I can’t be the one to let her down.

  “Yes,” I say. “I mean it. I wish I’d known how you felt.”

  She takes my hand then as a tear rolls down her face. In this moment, she’s beautiful again. She doesn’t even ask me why I never bothered to find out.

  FRIDAY, JUNE 20

  Mishaps 11: 3–7

  3. Although the Mississippi was wide, yet the boy’s will was strong. And he cried, “I will cross thee, O Mississippi!” 4. But the Mississippi said nothing. 5. Again the boy cried, “Your currents will not deter me, nor your pollution ail me. For I am strong of will. And though I cannot swim, and wear a personal flotation device, nevertheless I will conquer thee, for I am—as I have already mentioned—strong of will.” 6. Still the Mississippi said nothing. 7. And so the boy stared down the barges and the flotsam and crossed the river, and with every stroke overcame the Mississippi’s silence.

  9:00 A.M.

  Just outside Amarillo, Texas

  We park beside a wheat field and follow a dirt path. A hundred yards ahead of us is a line of large, multicolored cars, all planted nose-first into the ground.

  “Cadillac Ranch,” announces Matt. “Memorial to Route 66.”

  I swallow a yawn. “Why on earth are we here, Matt?”

  Matt keeps his eyes fixed ahead. “If you were one of those ancient pilgrims on the way to some big, important pilgrimage place, would you hurry to get there, or stop at the churches along the way?”

  “I’d stop at the churches to get food and water.”

  “But if you didn’t need food and water?”

  “How would I not need food and water?”

  “Just work with me here.”

  “Okay.” I puff out my cheeks. “I guess it’d depend on whether I had a book signing that evening at the big, important pilgrimage place.”

 
Matt doesn’t respond to that, but picks up his pace toward this automobile Stonehenge.

  The half-buried cars seem bigger because they’re sticking straight up. Well, not straight up, but leaning slightly. They’re perfectly spaced too, all ten of them. There’s no doubt that someone went to a lot of trouble to make this.

  “Cadillac Ranch,” says Alex, flicking to the appropriate page in her ever-present guidebook. “Created in 1974. Moved to the present location in 1997.”

  “Someone moved it?” I ask.

  “That’s what it says here.”

  “Who moves a bunch of half-sunken car wrecks?”

  Matt huffs. “Just hurry up and add your graffiti.”

  “What? Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because this is a living, breathing installation. And you can give it life.” He stuffs a Sharpie into my hand. “Write. Now.”

  The car in front of me looks as though it has been painted and repainted a thousand times. There’s only a tiny area of white where the pen would even show up, and there’s some rust there too. I could cut myself on that and get an infection—tetanus, or gangrene, or one of those flesh-eating ones that have Latin names. “I’d prefer not to.”

  Fran steps forward. “It’s okay, Luke. You don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Although I must say, if adding a line of graffiti to a car in the middle of a wheat field gets you all freaked out, you could really do with loosening up. I mean, look at it—it’s already a wreck.”

  She tilts her head and tries to hide a smile. This is a dare, I can tell. It’s peer pressure. Fran is trying to lure me to the Dark Side. So I uncap the pen and scrawl: Luke was here. I even add an exclamation point.

  The others stare at what I’ve written.

  “Luke was here,” Matt repeats slowly. “You graffiti the headstones of Route 66, and the best you can do is ‘Luke was here’?”

  Fran and Alex don’t stop laughing all the way back to the car. I guess my initiation to the Dark Side has been put on hold.

  1:55 P.M.

  I-40, somewhere in Oklahoma

  We pass the world-famous leaning water tower of Groom; Texas’s first Phillips 66 service station in McLean; the U-Drop Inn in Shamrock. Roadside curiosities drift by to the accompaniment of Alex’s monologue, like illustrations from a coffee-table book come to life.

  We stop at each one and take photos. Time passes, but the landscape changes less and less. It makes me long for the interstate and dangerously high speed limits.

  We cross the border into Oklahoma, and though it’s nothing but a line on a map, it feels like progress. Oklahoma borders Missouri, and I live in Missouri. It’s a step closer to home.

  Luckily, Route 66 has been consumed by I-40, so we move fast through dust bowl territory. Looking out at the sandblasted, sun-scorched land, it’s hard to imagine how anyone ever survived here.

  Eventually the landscape includes some greenery. Matt pulls into the right lane and signals.

  “Why are we getting off?” I ask.

  “Because it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry. Plus I’m suffering Route 66 withdrawal.”

  Sure enough, he’s found an old alignment of Route 66.

  “Why do you keep doing this?” Alex groans. “Are you allergic to keeping things simple?”

  “It’s not a big detour, Al. And we’ve got ages. I bet Oklahoma City’s only an hour or so away.”

  “You don’t know that!” I snap. “Just for once, can we please stay on the interstate?”

  The road veers left and the interstate disappears from view. My heart sinks. I-40 has become my security blanket: Five seconds of separation and I want it back.

  We cross an impossibly long iron bridge with more arches than I can count. Below us, the Canadian River meanders through a suddenly fertile area.

  “You don’t get stuff like this on I-40,” says Matt quietly.

  “That’s not the point,” I tell him. “Some of us have seen enough of Route 66 already.”

  Matt shakes his head and turns on the radio. It’s just static.

  Alex turns it off.

  As Matt turns it back on, there’s a resounding thunk, followed immediately by an equally ominous thud.

  Alex screams. Fran makes a grab for my hand and misses. Even Matt flinches. I’m guessing it was a possum, although it could have been almost any small animal. It’s not like we’ll be stopping to identify the carcass.

  “Oh. My. God.” Alex is hyperventilating. “You just killed a… a… something.”

  Matt rubs his chin. “I’m not certain.”

  “I saw it, Matt.”

  “Really? I thought you were messing with the stereo.”

  “It bounced.” She presses her palms against her eyes as though she’s trying to erase the image. “Oh God. I saw its fur, and its legs. I think it was a skunk. It was looking at us. It was trying to tell us something.”

  “To slow down, maybe?”

  “This is not funny!”

  Matt sits up a little straighter and resumes his normal speed. “Look, stuff like that’s going to happen. It’s the circle of life. Darwinism. Still, no harm, no foul, right?”

  “What do you mean, no harm?”

  “To the car. That’s the advantage of driving a Hummer.”

  She spins around to face him, teeth clenched. “All hail, harbinger of road rage,” she cries, stretching her arms and bowing. “Glory to you, all-powerful Hummer driver.”

  Matt bites his lip. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “God, Matt. You can be such a dick.”

  Matt grips the steering wheel tightly. We veer to the left and cross the lines in the middle of the road. Forty miles per hour suddenly feels very fast indeed. “Why are you so angry?”

  “Why do you think? You just killed an animal. And instead of feeling bad, you congratulate yourself for driving a military assault vehicle. Why didn’t you just go all out and get us a freakin’ Sherman tank? We can’t even go a hundred miles without stopping. You’re spending a hundred bucks a day on gas.”

  “I wanted us to ride in comfort. Is that so bad? Geez, Alex, I thought you might actually like it.”

  I’m bracing for Alex’s expletive-filled comeback, but she looks at Matt very steadily and asks, “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” says Matt, perhaps sensing a breakdown in her resistance.

  Alex leans back into her seat and runs her hands through her hair. “Why would you think that? After three years together, how could you believe I’d like a Hummer, of all things? Please, tell me you know me better than that. Just tell me you know me at all.”

  Matt doesn’t answer, but a moment later he pulls to the side of the road and skids to a halt.

  Alex responds with a bitter laugh. “Oh, so now you stop.”

  “I don’t have much choice.”

  “Why? Because I’m pissed as hell, or because you’ve grown a conscience?”

  “Because the temperature gauge is rising and there’s steam coming from the hood.”

  No offense to the roadkill we left a mile back, but this is by far the worst news of the day. Even when Matt turns the engine off the steam thickens. It looks like the car is on fire. The air-conditioning is off too, and the temperature rapidly heads toward intolerable.

  “The engine will cool down in a minute, right?” I try not to sound desperate.

  “Chill out,” says Matt. “There’s a reason I got us AAA.” He takes the cell phone from his pocket. “Oh, no,” he mutters.

  “What?”

  “No reception again. Bad timing, bro. Seriously bad timing.”

  2:20 P.M.

  Somewhere strikingly hot, Oklahoma

  “You don’t think Matt’s suicidal, do you?” asks Fran.

  Fran, Alex, and I are crouching beside the Hummer. The sun is almost directly overhead, so there’s only about three square feet of shade. We have to crush up together to savor
it, which kind of defeats the purpose.

  “I’m just saying, it’s been ten minutes,” she continues. “Plus, Alex was pretty harsh.”

  “Hello, I’m right here,” says Alex. “And I don’t think it’s unreasonable to be upset when your boyfriend of three years doesn’t know the first thing about you.”

  Right on cue, Matt joins us. “AAA’s on the way,” he says.

  “Thank God!” cries Fran. “How long?”

  He rubs his foot across the ground, kicking up dust. “An hour or so.”

  “An hour?” I glance at my watch. “How long is it going to take to get to Oklahoma City from here?”

  Matt puffs out his cheeks. “That kind of depends on where here is.”

  “Have you looked at the map?”

  “Our map collection seems to have an unfortunate gap.”

  Fran pats my arm. “So how did you describe where we are?” she asks Matt.

  “I said we’re stuck on Route 66 west of Oklahoma City. The woman sounded cool about it. She told me there’s a truck out on Route 66 anyway, so we should just flag it down.”

  “And how did she know that would take an hour?” I ask.

  Matt sighs. “I don’t know, Luke. For all I know, she may have been blowing smoke up my ass.”

  “So what do I do now?”

  Matt kicks at the ground. “I don’t know, okay?” He turns away from me. “I’m sorry, though. I’m really sorry.”

  I believe him, but it doesn’t change anything. “Please, Matt. Tell me what to do.”

  “The only thing I can think of is hitching a ride. I’ll wait here, get this thing towed to Oklahoma City, and join you all at the hotel. Just… don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay? If they know you’re hitchhiking, they’ll kill me.”

  “No, they won’t,” says Alex quietly. “They’ll tell you they’re disappointed, and you’ll make up some BS about how it wasn’t your fault, and they’ll believe you. Because that’s how ridiculously nice they are.” She flares her nostrils. “Sometimes I wish we could switch parents. Just for a day. Just long enough for you to realize how easy you’ve always had it.”