How My Summer Went Up in Flames (10 page)

“You tried, my brother,” Logan says. “Must be her time of the month.”

Nice. That’s what guys always assume when they can’t understand the complex female mind.

A few miles down the road, Logan swerves sharply to avoid what looks like a piece of crumpled metal in the center lane. Not far ahead, pulled off to the shoulder, are the potty mouth girls. Their rack and one bike have slid onto their trunk, and they’re both standing on the side of the road looking at what’s left of the other bike, stunned.

“That is
so
satisfying,” Matty declares.

Logan beeps the horn as we pass and Spencer rolls down the window and yells: “Enjoy your karma, ladies.” I laugh hysterically and wish I could reach into the front seat and high-five Matty, but I’m paying the price for my escape attempt.

“That’ll teach ’em to drop the F-bomb on Matty,” Spencer says.

“Damn right,” Matty says.

When the laughter dies down, the conversation picks back up right where it left off.

“Like I was saying,” Spencer says, “if the funding doesn’t get pulled, they’re going to launch a replacement for the Hubble Telescope in 2018, the James Webb Space Telescope. It’s an infrared-optimized space telescope and going to be way better than Hubble.”

Oh, jeez. I put my headphones back on and pretend to sleep.

Logan hands me a camera as soon as we step
onto the hallowed grounds of Graceland. “Can you take a picture?”

“Sure,” I say. “Matty and Spencer, scooch in.”

“No way. This one is all me.” Logan holds his hands in the air as if he’s envisioning a photo caption and says, “Logan at Graceland.”

“Okaaay,” I say. “Here we go.”

I knew he was all about country, but I had no idea he felt some deep connection to the King. I’m almost inspired. After I snap the picture and Logan approves it, I stop a friendly looking couple and ask them to take a picture of me, Matty, Logan, and Spencer in front of Graceland. Although Matty agrees to be in the photo, I stand between
Logan and Spencer because Matty refuses to be next to me. I look at the photo when the woman returns Logan’s camera. Everyone is smiling except Matty, and even though only Spencer’s between us, we look miles apart. I can’t last until Dallas.

I sidle up to Matty as we’re waiting on line for tickets. “Okay, what’s it going to take?”

“Did you hear something?” he asks Spencer.

“Define ‘something,’” Spencer replies.

“Forget it. I think it was an annoying mosquito,” Matty says.

Clearly, this is going to cost me. I try to think about something Matty really wants.

“A guitar,” I say. “When we get back and I get my dog-walking business going, I’ll save up money and buy you a guitar. I swear. I’ll even work at my dad’s factory if I have to. Any kind you want, name it. But please, can you forgive me, Matty? I can’t not talk to you until Dallas.”

“Wow. Any kind?” Spencer says. “She has no idea how much a good guitar costs, does she?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, she has no idea about a lot of things,” Matty snaps. “But begging. That’s a step in the right direction.”

My cheeks burn with anger. I clench my fists to keep from smacking him in the back of the head. I guess this is Matty’s way of saying this is going to cost me more than I thought, maybe even more than a guitar. I’m going to be walking lots of dogs. I relax my hands. It’s okay. I deserve it. Plus, if it buys Matty’s forgiveness and ends the silent treatment, it will be worth it. I’m about to tell him to name his price when he makes an unexpected reversal.

“You don’t have to buy me a guitar, Rosie.” It’s the first time he’s looked me in the eye since showering me with postcard confetti at the Nashville bus station. “How about this? No more escaping and try to have a good time, or at least pretend you’re having fun.”

I think I’d rather buy him a guitar. “Okay. But it’s not like you guys are making it easy for me to have fun. Logan’s got his rules and seems perpetually pissed at me. Spencer has his itinerary. You, well, you tease me.”

“I always tease you.”

“But now I’m outnumbered.”

“She is easy prey,” Spencer offers.

Matty considers this. “Okay, I can’t speak for them, but I’ll try if you try.”

“Deal.” I throw my arms around his skinny middle. “I’m sorry,” I say into his T-shirt. He pats my back tentatively.

“You always are, Rosie.”

 • • •

The famed home of Elvis is set back from the main road, behind wrought iron fencing. Graceland is nice, but to be honest, I was expecting a Tara-like, southern mansion. I guess it’s the biggest house in the neighborhood, but I’ve seen better on
House Hunters International
. The fourteen-acre property may be more beautiful than Graceland itself.

We take the audio tour of the house that includes Elvis’s living room, music room, dining room, kitchen, TV room, pool room, and infamous Jungle Room. It’s like a trip through the seventies. I try to picture normal, family stuff going on here, but it’s hard. I mean, just being Elvis is as far from normal as a person can get.

Once outside the house, we visit the family grave site, which is situated beside a circular fountain, and then walk down the long drive to the street. People have written their names and Elvis-centric phrases in chalk and marker on the brick columns of the gate. Logan is at the ready with his Sharpie. The boys pass it between them while I look up and down Elvis Presley Boulevard. Finally, Matty taps me
on the shoulder and hands me the black permanent marker. I find space near the gate entrance and write the title of an Elvis tune I know from the Greatest Hits album my parents own: “Hard Headed Woman.” Matty peers over my shoulder. “Progress,” he says.

At a nearby souvenir shop that sells knockoff, discount Graceland merchandise, I buy an Elvis mug. He’s sporting a flamingo-colored jacket with black lapels and standing in front of Graceland beside a pink Cadillac.
GRACELAND, HOME OF ELVIS
, it says. I get a different Elvis mug for my mom, an Elvis clock that swings its hips for my dad, and an Elvis watch for Eddie that I intend to “borrow” until I get home. I also buy a disposable camera. My parents offered to let me bring their digital, but at the time I was too steeped in bitterness to even envision wanting memories of this journey. At the register, I spot a guitar key chain. I get it for Matty. I slip it into his pocket after we leave the shop.

“Until I get you the real one.”

Matty puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me right in the eye. “Ro, forget it, really. It’s okay,” he says softly.

Even though he lets me off the hook, I know I don’t deserve it. Matty, however, deserves a guitar. My family took at least two vacations every year for as long as I can remember,
but Matty, he hardly went anywhere. His mom is always working, and they can’t afford expensive trips. This is Matty’s first official getaway and so far all I’ve done is, well, be me. And that’s hardly good enough for someone like Matty.

For the first time since being served with a TRO—maybe even since Joey cheated on me—I feel like the fog that’s been hovering over my brain is finally lifting a little. I think I’m having some kind of spiritual awakening here at Graceland, and I’m not even a fan of Elvis’s music. By the time we walk back to the Taurus, I’m determined to make a fresh start on this trip. If only my hair looked better, I think as I catch my reflection in the car door window before getting into the backseat.

Logan merges onto the interstate heading west and we drive across the high-arch bridge that spans the mighty Mississippi River and connects Memphis to Arkansas. The lights dancing on the water look so pretty. Part of me wishes we weren’t leaving. It’s been a looong day of driving. Originally, we were supposed to stay the night near Graceland, but Logan is determined to get us back on schedule. His schedule, which I messed up. So I guess I have only myself to blame for how tired I am and the way I look right now. I have only me to blame for a lot of things, and that really
sucks. Was I really in Nashville this morning? It seems like days since I slipped two bucks into Hope’s hand.

I try to fix my hair at a road stop in Arkansas. I’m going to be meeting Logan’s girlfriend in a few hours, and I don’t want to look like complete and total crap. But it’s no use. My locks have suffered a double whammy. I didn’t blow-dry my hair with my round brush and I pulled it back in a twist while it was still wet. I give up on my hair and focus on freshening up my makeup. As I exit the bathroom, I stop at the vending machine and get a diet soda. I try to remember what the guys have been drinking. I know Matty likes Gatorade, so I buy him a lemon-lime and settle on two bottled waters for the brothers. I’m sure they won’t object. I also buy four bags of chips—baked for the brothers, salt and vinegar for me and Matty.

Logan and Spencer seem surprised when I get to the car and hand them their chips and waters. Matty just says “thanks.” He’s been around my house long enough to know that it doesn’t matter if we’re home or away, we like to feed people. It’s the Catalano way.

“You look tired,” I tell Logan.

“Kinda.” He rubs the stubble along his chin.

“Want me to drive? I don’t mind. If you’ll turn over command of the Taurus, that is.”

He hesitates for a moment and then gives me the keys, prompting Spencer and Matty to yell, “Shotgun.”

“Forget it,” Logan says. Deflated, they retreat to the backseat.

The sun is setting as I drive along Interstate 30. As we near the Arkansas-Texas border, we pass the town of Hope, which immediately calls to mind my bus station buddy. It’s the birthplace of former president Bill Clinton—they’ve even got a highway sign that says so. And not far beyond that sign, I notice some unusual roadkill on the shoulder. I squint, trying to make out what it is.

“Armadillo,” Logan says.

“No way.”

“Never saw an armadillo before?”

“I’m just a girl from New Jersey,” I say without a hint of sarcasm.

“You’re living now, Catalano,” he says. “See what you would’ve missed if you got on that bus?”

 • • •

Spencer and Matty play guitar in the backseat for a while. Spencer is helping Matty learn the chords to “Master of Puppets”—great metal never dies. Eventually, though, they both fall asleep and Logan turns on the radio. I’m surprised
when he bypasses the country station and settles on something more alt rock. Now we’re talkin’. I’m even more surprised that he knows and likes the song enough to play air drums.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

I’ve rolled my eyes so many times on this trip, they’re going to get stuck that way. “Why ASU? What made you want to go so far away from home?”

“Wanderlust.”

I don’t say anything. I’m trying to imagine what it would feel like to want to leave my family to go to college thousands of miles away. I like where I live. All my fantasies about the future involve me, a husband, and my hometown. College has always been this hazy notion in the periphery. Logan must mistake my silence for stupidity.

“‘Wanderlust’ means—”

“I know what it means. Jeez. I’m not an idiot.”

He just raises his eyebrows in a don’t-make-me-answer-that face. I push on with my interrogation.

“But Arizona?”

“I visited Tempe and could picture myself living there. The desert was like nothing I’d ever seen before. Plus, ASU has a great sustainability program.”

He holds up the book he’s been carrying around. I glance at it.
“Sustainability: A Global Approach to . . .”
a big long phrase I don’t feel like reading.

“Uh, yeah. Now you’ve lost me.”

“It has to do with the sustainability of environmental resources and how that relates to economics, sociology, politics—”

I hold up my hand and cut him off. “Enough. It’s now become clear to me that you, too, are a total nerd.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Logan gives me a half grin and the dimple makes another appearance. My heart does a grand jeté.

“Can I ask you another question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why air drums?”

Logan chuckles. In fact, I almost make him full-out laugh. I can tell.

“Probably the same reason you randomly belt out one or two words from whatever song you’re listening to on your iPod.”

I’m glad it’s dark so Logan can’t see how red I am. “I don’t do that, do I?”

Logan turns toward me and rests his hand on my
thigh, which makes it hard to concentrate on the road.

“Yes. Yes, you do.”

I scrunch my eyebrows and consider this. I guess I get caught up in my tunes sometimes. “Now I feel stupid.” What else is new?

“No worries,” he says, then mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “It’s cute.”

“What was that?”

“I said it makes me want to puke.” He’s looking out his window now. I have this urge to touch his thigh. Despite his cranky personality, urges are piling up where Logan is concerned. I’m not happy about that, but it’s the truth. So, I keep my hands at ten and two and stare straight ahead at the stretch of highway illuminated by the headlights.

Logan changes the station again. My reprieve from country music is over, apparently. The song is pretty, though. It gives me chills and makes me want to slow dance with a cowboy.

“Who is this?”

“Who is this?” Logan is incredulous. “It’s only George Strait. He is country music. Do you know any country singers at all?”

“Keith Urban.”

“Because he’s hot?”

“Nooo. Because he’s a kick-ass guitarist. And he’s in
People
magazine a lot.”

“I knew it.”

“I make no apologies. I like celebrity gossip magazines and hot guys.”

“What about college?” Logan asks.

“That was a non sequitur.”

“Where are you thinking of applying?”

“You mean
if
I apply. Somewhere in New Jersey. I’ll probably wind up commuting.”

“How are your grades?”

“B-ish.” I pause. “Occasionally more C-ish than B-ish.”

“Test scores?”

“You sound like my dad. I’m not telling you my SAT scores!” I say this louder than I intend to and wake up Matty.