How My Summer Went Up in Flames (7 page)

Logan raises one eyebrow as he leans toward me to take a sip, holding my gaze longer than expected. “Aren’t you afraid I’ve got cooties?”

“Cooties don’t scare me.” But the way my heart speeds up when he looks at me with those honey-colored eyes? That’s a different story.

It’s two minutes after nine on Sunday morning
and I’m in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, standing inside the front gate of Dollywood. I should be more excited. I would be if I were here with Lilliana and some girlfriends, or even my family. But my reason for this road trip won’t exactly win me a spot on Ms. Parton’s next TV commercial. “I just got served with a TRO. I’m going to Dollywood!” I wish I were here under happier circumstances. Wait until my dad sees how much admission for four adults costs. I felt light-headed with guilt when I handed over his Visa.

I unfold my park map, and Spencer and Matty peer over my shoulders. Logan stands apart from us, reading the schedule in front of one of the theaters. I guess he really does love country.

“I say we start with the Thunderhead or Tennessee Tornado,” Matty says.

“Or Blazing Fury,” I say. “That sounds interesting.”

Spencer points to the map’s attractions list. “Ooh. What about Star Trek Live? I want to leave time for that. It’s a Mad Science presentation. Remember Mad Science camp, Matty?”

I don’t question how Star Trek fits into a Dolly Parton theme park. I can’t argue with the Dollywood logic; so far this place has something for everyone. It’s like the Magic Kingdom of the Appalachians.

“Where’re we headed?” Logan asks as he rejoins the group. He’s in a surprisingly good mood.

“The Thunderhead,” I say.

The dark scruff Logan’s got going on makes him look very rock star. For a few seconds, my mind slips into hotguy fantasy mode, but then Logan makes that annoying lasso motion with his index finger and says: “Let’s get moving.” I can almost hear my dream bubble pop.

We wind our way through the maze for the Thunderhead. There is this girl with ginormous breasts in a spandex tank top about ten people ahead of us.
Put those away!
I want to scream. I know I’m not one to talk, but I keep my curves tastefully covered. We pass her every time the line
moves. If these three morons don’t stop gaping, I’m gonna push one of them so hard he’ll fall into that cleavage canyon. Finally, we arrive on the platform, where the line splits up and people pair off to wait in cattle chutes for the next coaster to arrive. Spencer and Matty want to ride in the front car. The line for that car is, like, three times as long.

For once, Logan and I agree—we’re not waiting. The downside is that I’m now crammed into a tight car with Logan. Our thighs are touching out of necessity, and I try to convince myself that the only reason my heart is yammering away is because I’m anticipating the first big drop. Thankfully, I love roller coasters, so I know I won’t go all girly on Logan and grab hold of his arm or anything. The coaster begins its slow ascent, clackety-clacking along the metal tracks. I look off into the distance. The scenery is lush—Tennessee has beautiful rolling green hills. I’m watching some kind of bird with a huge wingspan circle above the treetops when the bottom drops out from under me and we careen straight down, pivoting into a sharp turn at the bottom. Adrenaline rushes through me, and I throw my arms in the air.

“This is awesome!”

“What?” Logan screams.

“This is awe—” But I don’t have time to finish before we’re falling again.

After a few more fast twists and turns, which press me up against Logan and Logan up against me, the car finally screeches to a halt.

“Looks like Spock and Bones are still waiting for the first car,” Logan says. He offers me a hand out of the coaster car. “Bet we have time to ride this one again. You in?”

I try to ignore the tingle when I put my hand in his. “Sure.”

 • • •

After the Thunderhead, we go on the Tennessee Tornado, the Blazing Fury, and the Timber Tower, which looks like a giant circular free fall but falls over like a giant tree, hence the “timber.” Spencer shrieks like a thirteen-year-old girl and later explains that he gets vertigo on anything that spins. We end our day at Dollywood with lunch, followed by a show called Dreamland Drive-In, which makes me almost appreciate country music. There’s a tell-it-like-it-is raw emotion that I find appealing. It’s heartbreak music.

“Three chords and the truth.” That’s what Logan says when I share my thoughts with him as we leave the show. “Harlan Howard said that.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Bono?” I’m being serious.

Logan shakes his head, disappointed. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

Unfortunately, Spencer isn’t feeling much better as we leave the park and head for the car. Poor guy, I was hoping food and the air-conditioned theater would help. Spencer is very delicate, I’m learning.

“The only way I’m not going to get carsick is if I drive,” Spencer says.

“Knock yourself out, little bro,” Logan says. “I’m going to sit in the back and sleep.”

“Shotgun!” Matty and I yell in unison like two ten-year-olds. Logan grimaces and takes a quarter out of his pocket.

“Heads or tails.” He looks at me.

“Heads.”

Logan flips with his right thumb and slaps the coin down on his left forearm. He peeks underneath without revealing the coin.

“Heads.”

I wonder if he’s being nice and letting me win, or if he doesn’t want to be in the backseat with me. Matty scowls. I expect him to demand to see the coin, but he gives in.

“Fine. But if she’s sitting up front, we’re listening to my
tunes. I put a lot of work into Matty’s Playlists for the Road, and we haven’t listened to them yet.”

Then Logan does his lasso finger motion again. He’s not going to be happy when I reach over and bend that finger backward.

“What’s on here?” Spencer asks as he hands Matty the cord so he can hook up his iPod to the car stereo.

“The tunes range from epic to apropos of location,” he says. “Like this one.”

Matty taps the screen and cues up a song. Banjo, upright bass. “Country,” I mumble.

“Not just any country,” Matty says. “Cash.” We roll down the windows. The afternoon sun is still blazing, but Spencer claims he needs fresh air so he won’t puke up his veggie kabob. Enough said. I’ll put my hair in a twist and deal with the aftermath later. We drive in silence as we head toward the interstate. The air smells flowery and the sky is cloudless. I lean my head out the open window and look at my distorted face in the side-view mirror as I listen to the song about love and burning, fire and desire.

I turn and glare at Matty. “What?” he says, all innocent. “Johnny Cash lived near Memphis.”

“We’re on our way to Nashville,” I say.

“A place he helped to define. He was the youngest living person inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame,” Spencer adds.

“Right . . . so this has nothing to do with me?”

“You flambé one car and now you think every song with fire in it is about you,” Logan says. “Get over yourself, Catalano.”

“Apropos of location,” Matty says. “And epic.”

 • • •

Spencer pokes his head into the backseat and looks back and forth between me and Matty as he speaks. His stomach has settled and Logan is driving again. “Here’s what we’ll do,” Spencer says. He flips to the page in his trip itinerary titled Nashville in One Day. Due to our unscheduled stop at Dollywood, he’s modifying the plan to fit what’s left of today and part of tomorrow and calling it A Taste of Nashville. “As soon as we arrive, we’ll head over to Ryman Auditorium to see if we can get tickets for the Grand Ole Opry tonight because we can’t be in Nashville and not go to the Grand Ole Opry. Then we can probably make it over to the Wildhorse Saloon for line dance lessons and dinner before heading back for the show. Tomorrow—”

“Okay, bro. We get it,” Logan says. “Breathe.”

Spencer shoots him a look. He is undeterred. “Tomorrow, we’ll hit the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, walk around a bit, have lunch at Jack’s Bar-B-Que, and be on the road to Graceland by twelve thirty.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Matty says.

“Sounds like watching paint dry while someone plays a banjo,” I say. Spencer looks hurt, and I wish I could take my snottiness back. Spencer is the last person in the world I’d want to hurt, and I should be thankful we’re not spending the evening trying to sneak into nudie bars. A trip with Joey and his friends would have been like a pole dance tour of America. This is a unique bunch I’m traveling with.

Matty gives me a chance to redeem myself. “Jack’s Bar-B-Que has ribs. You know you like ribs.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I do love ribs. I’m sorry, Spencer, it was the low blood sugar talking. And the dance lessons sound fun.” They don’t really, but this is me trying to be more like Matty.

 • • •

When we arrive in Nashville, we check into a motel before driving over to Ryman Auditorium, where we “luck out” and are able to snag four tickets to the Grand Ole Opry. Whoo. Hoo. Or should I say, yeehaw? From there it’s on
to the Wildhorse Saloon for country line dancing. I have to admit, Spencer looks pretty good on the dance floor. Matty? Not so much. But watching him try to move his lanky limbs was worth every minute of the hour-long boot-scootin’ lessons.

After dinner—I had blazin’ wings and a burger—we head to Ryman Auditorium to see a lineup that includes the Charlie Daniels Band (“The Devil Went Down to Georgia” never gets old, apparently), Lee Roy Parnell, Diamond Rio, and some other acts I’ve never heard of and never, ever want to see again. I know I should be enjoying myself, but I’m homesick. My Jersey Girl soul is shriveling up and dying out here. I’m quiet on the ride back to the motel, and my mood only gets worse when I learn that the pull-out couch is missing a mattress.

“Looks like we’re bunking together,” Matty says.

“Looks like you’re sleeping on the floor, you mean,” I snipe. But when I get a good look at the floor, with its faded blue, indoor/outdoor carpeting, I relent.

“Fine,” I say. “But if you touch me, I will kill you.”

“I was about to say the same thing to you.” Matty makes the peace sign and points from his eyes to mine. “I’m watching you.”

“Watch away. After I wash my face and brush my teeth, all you’re going to see is me sleeping.” It’s true. I’m exhausted. Both physically and emotionally. I miss Pony curled up on my bed, family dinner at five thirty, day trips to the beach. I want to call Lilliana, but I decide to wait until the morning. I’ve also got to call my parents for the lawyer’s number and then set up a time with his office to discuss my case.

“Matty. Can you text my mom to tell her where we are and that everything is fine?”

“What do I look like?”

“The seven-foot-tall keeper of my phone.”

“She’s got you there,” Spencer says.

“I know, right?” I say. And then I grab a towel and head for the shower. I decide to make it quick. I’ll take another one and wash my hair in the morning.

When I come out of the bathroom, Logan and Spencer are sitting at the table by the window and Matty is sitting on the edge of their bed. They’re playing cards and half watching a baseball game on TV. I peel away the bedspread and throw it on the floor (I’ve heard stories about body fluids on those things). Next, I turn up the edges of the fitted sheets and perform my nightly bedbug inspection before I
get into the bed on the side closest to the wall. I fold the sheet over the top of the blanket so it won’t touch my skin, put an extra pillow in the middle of the bed to keep Matty on his side, then mumble something that sounds like “good night,” and before I know it, I’m out.

When I open my eyes the next morning, Matty is
staring down at me, his head propped up on his hand.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says. “You fart in your sleep.”

“What?!” I’m instantly wide awake. I sit up and smack him with my pillow. “I do not.”

“You do,” Logan says from the chair by the window. He’s reading this thick book with a boring cover. His hair is wet, like he’s freshly showered, and he’s already dressed. In that instant, he reminds me of my father. “Nothing to be ashamed of. Everybody does it.”

I want to die. I don’t know if they’re telling the truth or teasing me. I kick off the covers, stomp to the bathroom, and open the door. I catch Spencer coming out of the shower mid-stride. He shrieks and it’s as if we’re on the
Timber Tower all over again, only this time, I scream too and slam the door.

I feel trapped. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt without a bra, but I don’t care. I bolt for the front door, bed head and all. I plop myself into one of the two plastic white chairs under our motel room window and cross my arms over my boobs. The door opens a few seconds later. Matty sits down beside me and hands me my phone.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You don’t fart in your sleep.”

I don’t feel the need to comment further on my flatulence or lack thereof, so I simply take my phone. “Trust me?”

“Yep.” Then he gets up and goes back inside the room.

I look at the clock on my phone. Seven fifty-five. Is there a time difference between New Jersey and Tennessee? Either way, it’s too early to call Lilliana. She sleeps until noon if she’s not working. This doesn’t stop me, though. I’m expecting straight to voice mail, but Lilliana answers.

“Hey,” says a groggy voice.

“Hey, you answered.”

“I’ve been leaving my phone ringer on just in case you need me.” My eyes fill with tears and I’m too choked up to talk. Lilliana is so not the mother hen type. But it
confirms what I’ve always known. She’s a great friend. “Everything okay?”

“Define okay. Does it include sitting outside a motel in Nashville with morning breath, bad hair, and nothing to look forward to but a morning at the Country Music Hall of Fame?”

My voice breaks. I’m crying now and not even trying to hide it.

“Don’t be such a wuss,” Lilliana says. “There’s got to be something else you can do. Maybe you can go shopping and meet up with the guys later. Shopping always makes you happy.”