Amy & Roger's Epic Detour (27 page)

Ten minutes later, back in the parking lot, I took a doubtful bite of my chicken sandwich. “Oh my God,” I murmured around my mouthful. It was seasoned, breaded chicken on a soft roll. And we were sharing an order of spicy fries. I looked up and saw Roger nodding, his sandwich almost all gone. “This is amazing.”

Roger smiled. “I’m not going to say I told you so,” he said. “But …”

“Okay,” I said, once we were back on the road, and I’d taken a sip of my soda. “Let me make sure I’ve gotten this. She’s female,
probably
dead, famous, and
kind of
an explorer?”

“Correct,” he said, putting down his visor against the sun, which had started to peek out of the clouds. “The answer is closer than you think. Sixteen.”

While I racked my brain so that I might have a chance of winning this round of Twenty Questions, Roger checked his phone. He’d go a few minutes, leaving it in the console behind the cup holders, but then would seem to lose some internal battle with himself and would flip it open, checking the screen for something that just wasn’t there.

“How do you know if you don’t try?” I asked him as Illinois flew past the window. “You just make an O shape with your lips….” I demonstrated for him, whistling along with Paul Simon.

“I’ve tried,” said Roger. “But not all of us can be as talented as you.”

“Indiana,” I said, pointing out the window, as we crossed another invisible state line. “The Hoosier State,” I read off the sign.

“Hey,” Roger said, putting his phone back in the console and turning to me. “Did you ever see that movie?
Hoosiers
?”

It started to get hot. The sun was beating down on the car, and I had flipped my visor down as well. I couldn’t help wishing I hadn’t grabbed a black shirt that morning. I stretched my arm out in the sun hitting my side of the car and saw that I was already starting to get a few freckles.

“So it’s 1951,” Roger said. “Gene Hackman is the coach of this Indiana high school basketball team. And they’re the underdogs. And nobody expects them to win the big game, let alone the championship.”

“But they do anyway?” I guessed.

Roger turned to me, surprised. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen it.”

“I just don’t understand,” I said an hour later, slouching down in the seat, putting my feet up on the dashboard and pulling my hair off my neck. It was getting really hot in the car now, and Roger and I had been having a battle as to whether we should have the AC on (his vote) or the windows down (my vote). But I had to admit, it was getting to be a little too hot to keep the windows down. I rolled up my window, and Roger cranked the AC.

“Don’t understand what?” Roger asked. He drove up next to a huge truck, pulling the car into the shadow it cast and cooling us down considerably.

“How can someone be
probably
dead?”

“You know that counts as one of your questions, right?” he asked. “Fifteen.”

“And then Shooter—I mean, Dennis Hopper—who everyone has written off, starts coaching along with Gene Hackman. And nobody thinks it’s going to work out. Because they all think he’s a loser.”

“Maybe that’s because his name is Shooter,” I suggested.

Roger frowned at me. “Amy,” he said gravely, “this is a very important movie.”

“Then maybe I should see it for myself,” I suggested. “Rather than just hearing about it. In detail.”

“So it’s the big game,” Roger continued, undaunted. “And nobody thinks they’re going to win….”

I realized it after we’d been driving for an hour in Indiana. I’d learned that the underdogs had, shockingly, won the big game and proved all the naysayers wrong. But while Roger drummed on the steering wheel and checked his phone, I looked out the window—theoretically coming up with possibly dead females who were kind of explorers—and realized that we were free. I don’t know why it had taken so long for it to hit me, but suddenly there it was, making my heart pound a little harder, with excitement this time. I no longer had to worry about how I was going to lie to my mother. I was in big trouble, yes, and we were more broke than I’d have liked, but the two of us were also on our own. The damage was done. We could do anything—go anywhere—that we wanted. We were crossing America. We had a car and gas money and a destination. The road was open ahead of us. I looked at the rolling green hills passing by outside my window and saw my smile reflected in the side mirror.

“Amelia Earhart?” I asked, staring at Roger, once I’d finally given up.
“Seriously?”

“What?” he asked. “We don’t know that she’s dead, after all. It’s just presumed. I like to think that she landed on some fabulous South Sea island and has been having a great time for the last seventy years.” He looked over at me and smiled. “I told you the answer was closer than you thought. Amelia.”

Four songs later, I leaned back against my window and looked over at him, running his hand through his hair, something I’d noticed that he did when he was nervous. I wondered if it had something to do with the fact that we were slowly, inexorably, getting closer to Kentucky. “So,” I said, not sure how to begin. “Hadley.” Which was a terrible segue, but I wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Yeah,” said Roger, running his hand through his hair again.

“Are you worried about it?” I asked. “About seeing her?”

“A little,” he said, glancing over at me, as though surprised that