by Antony John
9:55 A.M.
Route 66, somewhere in Oklahoma (I think)
I’m woken by a crash of thunder. Drool dribbles down my chin. I turn to face Fran, see the same bleary-eyed expression on her face that I know must be on mine. We smile guiltily, mirror images of each other, impossibly in tune.
Fran opens her window just enough to squeeze her hand through, and I do the same. Rain lashes down, cool and refreshing, but I never take my eyes off Fran. I can’t. She’s a vision of open smile, high cheekbones, delicately arched eyebrows, and feather-soft hair. Nothing exists but her and the rain running down my hand and along my arm.
“I love the rain,” I say finally.
Fran beams. “It feels so fresh, so cleansing.”
“Praise be!” cries Alex. “Oklahoma’s getting an enema!”
Having shattered the mood, Alex flounces back against her seat and stares blankly out the window. Fran blows me a kiss, and I know it’s my cue to turn around, to hide what we’re really feeling—what we’ve become.
“Where are we?” I ask no one in particular.
Matt grunts. “Don’t know. Somewhere past Tulsa.”
“Do you know where we are, Alex?”
“No, Luke. How the hell would I?”
I gulp. “I don’t know. I thought maybe it says something in your guidebook.”
“Would that be the guidebook in the glove compartment in front of you?”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess so.”
“Great.” She claps her hands together. “Now here’s an idea: Why don’t you look yourself?”
“Enough!” shouts Fran. “We’ve got one more day together, and I will not let you screw it up. Pull over, Matt. We need to talk.”
Alex leans forward and growls in Matt’s ear: “You pull over, you lose a testicle.”
“Oh, yeah?” says Fran. “The way you two are behaving, I don’t think you’ll get close enough to do that.”
Alex inhales sharply. Then she busts out laughing.
“Just do it, Matt,” says Fran gently. “Your testicles are safe with me.”
Matt glances at me and turns bright red. “That doesn’t mean what you think it means, bro. Honest.”
10:05 A.M.
Catoosa, Oklahoma
Matt pulls into a parking lot and jams on the brakes.
“Well, would you look at that,” he says.
Alex undoes her seat belt and leans against the two front seats. “I guess we know where we are now.”
Actually, I have no idea where we are. I just know that in front of us is a larger-than-life painted blue whale stuck in a pond.
“The Blue Whale of Catoosa,” announces Matt, like we’ve stumbled on the eighth wonder of the world. “Incredible. We just… found it.”
“No, you didn’t,” says Fran. “I told you to stop the car so you two can make up before I have to kill you. But hey, I’m glad this place is meaningful for you.”
As Matt and Alex turn and glare at her, she playfully winds her hair around a finger. She has the cute younger sister role down cold; well, except for the purple hair, piercings, and tattoos.
“What’s the Blue Whale of Catoosa?” I ask.
The guidebook is sitting in my lap, but no one reaches for it.
“The Blue Whale of Catoosa,” begins Fran, pretend narrating, “was built to celebrate the Year of the Whale. Legend has it that the whale comes to life every leap year, and that the pond water was once clean enough to swim in.”
“Is that true?” I ask.
“No, silly. You’re the one with the guidebook. I’m just filling the awkward silence.”
I get out of the car and begin sweating immediately. Still, it’s not like I’ve showered yet today, so no great loss. Fran doesn’t seem to mind either—she holds my hand and we practically skip toward the whale. Matt and Alex follow us, arms by their sides, not a finger touching. How have we changed roles so quickly? Did Fran and I shift the balance of the universe?
When we reach the whale Fran turns around. “Okay,” she says, “you two have five minutes to take photos or kiss the whale or whatever it is you’re supposed to do with freaky roadside attractions. Then we talk. Got it?”
She pulls me into the hollow belly of the whale and pushes me against the metal wall. My hands grip her waist as our lips come together, tongues gently touching. No matter how close we are, I need us to be closer. I want us to be one. I want—
I pull back suddenly.
“What is it?” asks Fran.
“I… I just had an impure thought.”
Fran’s mouth crinkles into a smile. “And what would that be?”
“I can’t say.”
“What can’t he say?” asks Alex, rounding the corner. Matt is a step behind her.
“What can’t you say?” parrots Fran.
“I-I can’t say.”
Fran is enjoying this way too much. “Hmm, the witness is not being forthcoming, Your Honor.” She paces in tiny circles before me like a lawyer contemplating her next move. “Though, from his behavior, we may surmise that it is a combination of many things: a desire to express his affection physically, perhaps; the need to apologize for once having lost sight of that; a hope that our years of friendship are sufficient to overcome any minor obstacles between us.”
“Minor?” cries Alex.
“Yes, minor,” replies Fran, no less forcefully. “And most of all, I imagine, Luke is looking forward, considering what he wants for us both in the future. And discovering that the depth of his feeling is surprising to him.”
Alex stares at me now, and I have to look away. I feel like the frog dissected in freshman biology: my innermost everything revealed. I can’t believe Fran has seen it all so clearly. I don’t know if I should feel ashamed, or apologetic, or—what? Meanwhile, Alex continues to watch me, a tear running down her cheek.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
She nods. “I’m okay.”
As if a spell has been cast, she steps back into Matt’s waiting arms.
I want to know how Fran does it, but she grasps my hand as if the case is closed and it’s time to leave. I throw our siblings a final glance as we leave, and quickly wish I hadn’t. They’re back together again, yes, but something isn’t right. Matt holds on to Alex as though his life depends on it; but she’s just a rag doll in his arms.
That’s how I know Fran wasn’t really talking about me. And whatever spell she has cast already seems to be wearing off.
I squeeze her hand once, and don’t relax until I feel her squeeze back.
2:50 P.M.
Route 66 Hotel, Springfield, Missouri
The Kansas section of Route 66 is so short I almost miss it. We arrive in Springfield, Missouri, with two hours to spare before tonight’s event, but I’m not exactly relaxed. In the back of my mind I keep replaying last night’s debacle. What if people ask about the minibars again? What if they have proof that something was taken? If I blame Matt, will he get into trouble since he’s under twenty-one?
Matt pulls up at the hotel, and Fran and I enter together. The receptionist narrows his eyes as we approach the front desk. “Can I help you?” he asks.
“Two rooms under Dorsey, Luke.”
“Ah, yes. Luke Dorsey. Rooms twenty-one and twenty-two.” He hands me two keycards. “I’ll let your publicist know you’re here.”
“C-Colin is here?”
“Indeed.” The guy dials a number and purses his lips as he awaits a response. “Yes, sir. Mr. Dorsey is here. Uh-huh. No problem.” He hangs up and looks me square in the eye. “He’s on his way.”
My heart is pounding. I have a pretty good idea that if he could have, Colin would’ve preferred to chew me out over the phone. Since I’ve made that impossible, he’s flown out from New York City—or wherever the heck he was—to do it in person. No one flies a thousand miles or more to say “Well done!”
Fran studies my expression and acts quickly. “Well, come on, Matt,” she says, tugging my arm. �
��We’d better go get your brother.”
It takes me a moment to catch on. I hadn’t realized she could lie smoothly too. “Oh, right. I’m sure he’s just outside.”
“You’re not Luke Dorsey?” asks the receptionist.
“I’m his brother,” I say as we shuffle toward the exit.
We’re almost to the door when I have to stop. I’m hyperventilating, and now would be an inconvenient time to pass out. “What am I going to do, Fran?”
She scans the foyer, all business. “You’re going to take the stairs to room twenty-two. Don’t take the elevator in case you meet Colin. I’ll wait outside for five minutes, then come back and tell him you’ve gone to the bookstore. By the time he realizes something’s up, you’ll be showered, dressed, and out of the room.”
“How will you know what he looks like?”
“I figure he’ll be the one screaming obscenities.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“Kidding!” She laughs. “Look, you double back and head for the stairs. Just give me the keycard for room twenty-one so Matt and Alex can start repairing their relationship.”
“What do you— Oh! You mean…”
“Yes, Luke, I mean…” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Although it’s probably better if we don’t think about that. Yet.”
Now the color returns to my face with a vengeance.
“That’s my boy,” says Fran, leaning forward and planting a kiss on my lips. “Now, hurry up. I can’t exactly help you once you’ve been caught and dismembered.”
I’m back to my pale, wan look again. I don’t hang around to see if her prediction comes true.
4:05 P.M.
On the way to Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri
I’m ready to go, and there’s still an hour until the signing. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, and for good measure exit via the back of the building. I’m behaving like a fugitive, but I have to put off my conversation with Colin until later.
The bookstore is a few blocks away, in a converted redbrick factory with a towering smokestack and the outline of the factory’s original name in faded white paint. I head for the entrance.
“You don’t want to do that,” shouts Fran from an alleyway to my right.
“Hey,” I say, jogging over to her.
She meets me halfway. “Colin’s waiting for you inside. I said you must’ve gone back to the hotel, but he’s no fool. He’s just hanging out—him and his nine millimeter revolver.”
“Wha—?”
“Kidding again. But I suggest you find another way to pass a half hour.”
“Got something in mind?”
“Haven’t you?”
I kiss her then, and if that’s not what she had in mind, she’s doing a good job of faking it.
She pulls me into the alley, away from prying eyes, and we kiss until things become a little heated.
“Whoa,” she says, leaning back. “Let’s not forget that someone has a book signing.”
“Actually, I’d love to forget it.”
Fran laughs as she adjusts my shirt collar and tie. Satisfied with her handiwork, she takes the Sharpie from my shirt pocket and puts it between her teeth. Then she unbuttons the cuff on my right sleeve.
“What are you doing?”
She rolls up my sleeve.
“Fran?”
Still no answer, but the Sharpie is out of her mouth now, and uncapped. She runs her tongue across her teeth. I think I know what she intends to do, and I’m shaking.
“Don’t be nervous, silly boy,” she says. “You’re wearing a long-sleeve shirt, remember? No one’ll see.”
See what? I want to ask. But she’s leaning closer, her breath on my arm—warm, electric.
“You have the finest hairs,” she says, pressing the pen against my skin. “They’re so soft.”
She keeps writing, until the whole of my upper arm has been covered in pretty black cursive. When she’s done it reads: She loves the one who sees her. It takes me a moment to work out what she means—is the emphasis on sees or her?—but I get it. I really do. And I’m so overjoyed to be the one that I can barely keep myself from proving it to her. But she’s holding out the Sharpie, and now my hands are shaking again.
“I can’t,” I begin.
“You must,” she finishes.
I rest my hand on her bare upper arm. The nib hovers just above her smooth, tan skin. What I’m about to do is doing weird things to me—I’m light-headed, breathing fast, sweating, and so completely in the moment that I welcome all of it.
“So thoughtful,” she teases. “The furrowed brows. The gritted teeth. A picture of concentration.” She’s not nervous at all—wants to display this message for the whole world to see.
I bring the nib down. My letters are big and uneven, but Fran doesn’t care. It’s about the words, not the execution. And I know exactly what the words must be: His dream come true.
When I’m done, I blow on the ink—though it’s already dry—and Fran shivers.
“Thank you,” she says.
“I’m sorry it looks so bad.”
“Unlike the rest of my arms, you mean?” She studies her forearms. “I wish I hadn’t…”
I look too. The lines are so random, it’s like she doodled with her eyes closed. But each one must’ve taken hours, and hurt too. “Why did you do it, Fran?”
She shrugs. “Because no one told me to stop. I figured someone would eventually—someone who cared; someone who was afraid for me. But I was wrong. Everyone was afraid of me instead. So I punished myself some more.”
I hug her to stop the self-doubt. There’ll be time to talk, to mend and heal. Besides, as we kiss again, I realize that I wouldn’t change a thing about her. Which maybe, just maybe, is love.
4:40 P.M.
Inspiration Bookstore, Springfield, Missouri
Colin is waiting for me when I enter the bookstore. “Luke, my boy,” he bellows. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m—”
“That’s great!” He has a crazy man’s forced smile, and a voice to match. He places his hand between my shoulder blades and guides me toward the back of the store at a jog. “It’s the damndest thing, but somehow I missed you at the hotel.”
“Really?” I say. “Oh, I must’ve been—”
Colin raises a finger to his lips. “How about we step inside this nice empty room first?” he says, pointing to a door marked PRIVATE. “It’d be awfully bad for your image for anyone to overhear the lie you’re about to tell.”
The room is filled with Luke Dorsey paraphernalia: boxes of books, a stack of posters, even a trio of cardboard cutouts. I can’t believe any self-respecting bookseller would actually ask for this stuff.
Colin pulls a couple of chairs together and we sit facing each other. He removes his suit jacket and fiddles with his bowtie. “So,” he says, “busy week, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“And not in a good way.”
“Oh.”
“To be honest, I’m not exactly thrilled to be here. Nothing against Springfield, you understand—I’m sure it’s a lovely city—but today is Saturday. I just got off tour this morning, and I had to cancel my flight to New York so I could join you instead. I won’t get back home until tomorrow evening either, which means I miss Sunday morning. And you know what happens on Sunday morning.”
I bow my head. “Church.”
“Golf, Luke. Golf!” he barks. “So, let’s start at the beginning. Mind telling me how you walked into a Pasadena bank armed with nothing but my credit card and convinced a cashier to let you withdraw a thousand bucks?”
“Uh—”
“And while we’re at it, just how on God’s green earth did you rack up one hundred and seventy-eight dollars of charges at Egghead Kegs?”
“What?”
“My feelings exactly. How do I explain to my boss that America’s Golden Boy paid for two kegs of beer despite being underage and in Los Angeles for just o
ne evening? One evening! Don’t get me wrong—that kind of alcoholic tolerance would be welcomed by any frat house in the country, but in spite of your now-viral interview with Orkle, that’s still not our target market.”
“I don’t know anything about Egghead Kegs.”
Colin removes his designer glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Come on now, Luke,” he says gently. “I’m on your side. But denial is one of the first signs of alcoholism.”
“I’m not an alco—”
“Come on! Everyone knows you raided the minibar in your first hotel room. I’ve got an itemized list, for Pete’s sake. And so does the National Enquirer.”
“Oh, no.”
He puts his glasses back on. “Oh, yes.”
“I don’t even remember seeing a minibar.”
“Really? Because I called the Empress Pasadena myself, and they confirmed the room had one.”
“Hold on. Did you just say ‘Empress Pasadena’?”
“Yeah. Again, a pretty cheeky move to treat yourself to a hundred-and-fifty-dollar room.”
Suddenly the puzzle shifts before my eyes. Alex mentioned the Empress Pasadena, and Fran said that I wouldn’t have noticed the minibar in the first hotel. Well, of course I wouldn’t—I wasn’t there! While I was sleeping on a battered mattress, Alex and Fran were living it up in a fancy hotel, and Fran was helping herself to the contents of the minibar. If I didn’t adore her, I’d probably want to strangle her. Come to think of it: Why did Matt use Colin’s credit card to pay for it anyway?
Colin misreads my silence as a confession. “Listen—and here I’m speaking not just as your publicist, but also your friend—maybe when this tour is over you might want to get some help. I clearly underestimated how stressful this whole experience has been for you. But you have to believe me: Booze is not the answer.”
“But I—”
“No, Luke. Don’t say anything more. I value honesty in all my relationships, and I’m sure you do too. Obviously there’s a lot we need to iron out—like how completely unacceptable it is to go radio silent for practically the entire tour—but for now your main priority is to give these people a good show.”
