How My Summer Went Up in Flames (8 page)

“Maybe,” I say. Could I? I’ve never walked around a strange city by myself, and I’m not sure I want to start today. What I really want to do is go home. Not because of Joey. I just want to feel normal again.

“Can you do me a favor and check the bus schedule from Nashville to New Jersey?”

I mull a possible scenario. As my GPS-enabled phone continues to blip westward in the Taurus with Matty, I can take the bus home and stay with Lilliana.

Lilliana sighs. “Ro. Do you really think that’s an option?
What will you do when you get home? Your parents will freak.”

“Please, Lilliana. Please just check.”

“Hold on.”

Can this work? Will Matty tell on me? Sure, he’ll be pissed, but if he blows my cover, he’ll be risking the wrath of my father. When did I become an evil schemer?

“There’s a Greyhound bus leaving at eleven a.m. today that will get you to Newark, New Jersey, at ten thirty tomorrow morning. That’s practically twenty-four hours. Do you really want to spend an entire day traveling on a bus, alone?”

Wow. I didn’t realize it would take that long. “How much is the ticket?”

“A hundred and thirty-three dollars.”

Oh, man. That’s a lot of money to put on my emergency credit card, not to mention the Dollywood tickets I charged. My heart races and there’s a pulsing sensation in the back of my skull. Can I pull this off? Should I? What will running home solve?

Lilliana interrupts my thoughts. “Rosie, are you still there?”

“Listen, I’ll call you in an hour. Can I stay with you if I decide to do this?”

“Of course. I got your back. But even I think staying away until your court date is a good idea. Stop whining and tough it out. You’ll feel better about yourself.”

I only hear about half of Lilliana’s pep talk. I’m plotting. I’ll need to stuff some supplies in my backpack for the bus ride since I won’t be able to get my bag out of the trunk once the car is locked. I can tell the guys I don’t feel like touring the Hall of Fame. Write Matty a note and leave it on the windshield, under the wiper. Then I’ll take a cab and get to the bus station before they’re done looking at Kenny Rogers’s first pair of cowboy boots. With any luck, I’ll board the bus before they notice I’m gone. Logan will probably be happy to be rid of me.

“Ro? Are you listening to me?”

“I am. I am. Let me think about this and call you back.”

“Don’t do anything crazy. You can be very impuls—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ll call ya.” I hang up before she can say any more. “Impulsive.” That adjective’s been attached to my name since I tried to escape the preschool playground when I was four. As the years went on, teachers added “intelligent underachiever” and “determined” to the comments section of my report cards. My mother maintains this is a polite way of saying “stubborn and defiant”
but is quick to add that I’m the type of person who is smart enough to do anything she puts her mind to. The problem is, “anything” is rather broad. I’ll be the first to admit, I lack focus.

The door opens again, and this time it’s Logan. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I’m wound up so tight with thoughts of escape that it’s like I melt. His touch feels protective, safe. Can I make the rest of this trip work? Is he a good enough reason to want to?

“We’re leaving here in fifteen minutes,” he says.

“Fifteen minutes?” So much for giving it a go. “That’s barely enough time to shower. How am I supposed to blow-dry my hair?”

“I suggest you bust a move.”

Bust a move? Who says that? It’s like all Logan’s dorkiness is cloaked by that great body. Clark Kent in reverse. I race inside and order the guys out of the room while I shower, change, and toss extra clothes into my backpack. My legs need a shaving, but I have to prioritize. Fourteen minutes later, I step out of the motel room in a brown sundress with my wet hair in a twist, pulling my suitcase on wheels behind me, buoyed by the fact that this may be my last motel checkout with the Geek Squad.

We drive through Starbucks for breakfast and I only get a coffee. Matty asks me if I’m feeling okay. Normally I’d be partaking in a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich with him and Spencer, but I tell him I’m still digesting my dinner from last night instead of the truth, which is that I’m too nervous to eat. Once again, health-conscious Logan gets some kind of egg-white-wheat-pita-antioxidant something or other. I hold my cup near the air-conditioning vent to cool my coffee as we drive to the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum. We’re supposed to spend an hour or two there before leaving for Memphis.

“I’m going to skip it,” I say as the guys get in line to buy tickets. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Are you sure?” Matty asks. “Want me to stay with you?”

Why does he have to be so nice? It makes me feel extra guilty for what I’m about to do.

“No, no. Go ahead. I’ll be fine. I want to get some sun. I’ll meet you back here in two hours.”

“You shouldn’t be all by yourself without a phone.” Matty pulls my phone out of his pocket. “Here. Call me if you need me.”

“It’s okay. You keep it. I don’t need it.”

Matty raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. Can
he tell I’m up to no good? If my plan is going to work, the phone needs to stay with him. I guess I could leave it on the windshield with my note, but what if it got stolen? I guess I have no choice.

“Fine, give it.”

He plops it in my open hand like it’s a hot potato.

“Just remember, no Joey.”

I’m so consumed with escape plans that I wasn’t even thinking about Joey. Hearing his name triggers the memory of my dream.
Meet me in Phoenix on the Fourth of July.
Inside, I cringe that my subconscious would even think something like that. Thank God it didn’t happen. And anyway, my hair is still wet. I would never reach out to Joey looking like this. It sounds stupid, but I’d need perfect hair and makeup to call him. Feeling good, to me at least, starts with looking good. Sadly, I don’t have any other real talents, so I stick with what works.

The guys enter the Hall of Fame, and I’m left standing alone on the sidewalk staring at my phone. I should call my mom. I need to talk to her about my lawyer before I leave my phone behind and get on that bus. Poor Matty. He’ll be able to cover his ass for a day or so, but after that, I don’t know what’ll happen. I’m trying to picture how my going
home will play out, but I can’t, so I don’t. I’m getting on the bus and that’s that.

“Hi, honey, how was Dollywood?” Mom asks when she answers.

“Great.” It really was. No need to mention things haven’t been going so well since. “How’s Pony? What’s he doing?”

“Sleeping in the corner of the kitchen, big surprise. Pony, guess who I’m talking to? It’s Rosie.”

I hear a couple of quick woofs. “Aw, don’t tease him, Ma. What’s he doing now?”

“He’s looking out the back door for you.” That makes my eyes well up.

“Poor guy. I miss him.”

“You’ll see him soon enough. Hold on a sec, your dad left me the attorney’s number. Should I just text it to you?”

“No, no. I’ve got a pen right here.” I hope I don’t sound panicked.

“You’re supposed to call his secretary, Miranda, to set up a time to talk.”

“Miranda? Steve Justice has a secretary named Miranda. Are you kidding me?”

“What can I tell you? That’s her name. Is everything else okay? You sound a little off.”

How does she do that? Forget the GPS in my phone, it’s like Mom planted a chip in my brain. I try to make an excuse.

“Mom, don’t make me point out the obvious here. I’m not in a very good place right now.”

“I know, sweetie, but things will get better. You’ll see. You know what your
abuelita
always says, don’t you?”

I sigh. I hope this isn’t going to be a long story. “Abuelita says a lot of things, Mom.”

“Lo que no te mata de fortaliece.”

“Whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger? Everybody says that, Mom. Is that supposed to help?”

“It sounds better in Spanish.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Te amo, mija.”

But that does. “Love you too, Ma. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I may even see you.

 • • •

My brain feels fuzzy. I need more caffeine, and I’m suddenly hungry. At the museum’s restaurant, I get a large coffee and bagel to go. The cashier tells me the bus station is a five-minute cab ride away, so I’ve got a little time before I need to
head over there. I’d rather hang out here awhile longer. I pick up a free brochure about the Hall of Fame and sit outside on a low wall and read up on this place. Hmm. From the sky, the building was designed to look like a bass clef. The windows resemble piano keys and the edge of the building is supposed to be a 1950s Cadillac fin. I decide to step back to get a better view of the piano keys and fin.

I’m standing about fifty yards away from the building facade, cup of coffee in one hand, bagel in the other, when it hits me. WTF? What am I doing? Am I really going to run away? This tingly sensation comes over me and my heart starts racing. I need to buy something. Anything. I walk back toward the museum. There has to be a gift shop in this freaking place. I look at my phone. Forty minutes until my bus leaves. I wander around the gift shop examining the various guitar-shaped souvenirs, then browse the women’s apparel. I pass on the black T-shirt that says
GOT COUNTRY?
in white lettering, but something about the pink tank that says
WELL-BEHAVED COWGIRLS RARELY MAKE HISTORY
grabs me. I decide the thirty-five-dollar price tag is worth it. After all, it will be my only souvenir of this adventure. I get the shirt and also buy a Hall of Fame postcard for Matty.

After I leave the gift shop, it’s time to put my plan in
action. I call Lilliana and tell her I’ll call from a pay phone when I get to Newark tomorrow. She sounds disappointed that I’m not sticking it out but says she’ll come and get me. I rummage through my bag for a pen and flip the postcard to the blank side. I write small so everything I need to say fits and end my note with
I’m really, really sorry. Thanks for trying to help me. Love ya, Rosie.
My chest feels tight as I walk to the car. I put the postcard under the windshield wiper on the driver’s side and notice I’ve lucked out. Spencer left his window open a sliver, probably in anticipation of how hot it’s going to be when they leave the Hall of Fame. God bless him. I slide my phone through the crack and it lands on the front seat. Excellent. I take a few steps away, then glance back. My breath catches in my throat as I get a last look at the Taurus before turning away to find a cab.

No disrespect to the country music capital of the
world, but I wouldn’t want to find myself at the bus station after dark. The terminal is nice enough. Lots of windows. Very blue outside, very white inside. But the neighborhood is a bit sketchy.

As I step through the automatic doors, I immediately get the impression some of the clientele may be too. A man in dirty cargo shorts, worn work boots, and an
American Idol
T-shirt approaches me and holds out his hand.

“Keep hope alive, baby,” he says.

I try my best to ignore him and scan the waiting area for an empty seat so I can collect my thoughts for a minute before buying a ticket. A dull ache is forming at the back of my head. I spy an end seat and make a beeline for it. As
soon as I plop down, I start rummaging through my bag, pretending to look for something so I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone. As I organize the contents of my purse, picking out gum wrapper scraps and old receipts, tattered work boots enter my sight line. I look up to see the man from the door smiling at me with his four good teeth.

“Got a dollar in there, baby? Come on, keep hope alive.”

I give him my best northern New Jersey attitude. “How will giving you a dollar keep hope alive?”

He puts a hand to his chest as if he’s about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance and says, “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Hope.”

Oh, man. I should have seen that coming. The pain spreads across my forehead. I need Advil. I rub my temples and close my eyes.

“Tell ya what. I’ll give you two dollars if you stop following me.”

“Deal, baby,” Hope says, and I hand him the money, convincing myself as I do that he’s going to buy food with it, though his bloodshot eyes tell me a different story. “Have a safe trip, baby, And remember, no matter where you go, there you are.”

“Thanks.”

I check the time and look over at the maze in front of the Greyhound counter. There’s a short line. I take a deep breath. It’s time. If I’m going to make that bus home, I’ve got to buy my ticket now.

I take my place at the end of the line just as a lady at the counter is getting loud with the Greyhound employee. “Try the card again,” she says. “I know it’s good. I just used it this mornin’.”

This is going to take a while. What if I miss my bus? My stomach twists and my heart pounds in my ears. My head may very well explode. Maybe this is a sign that I shouldn’t get on that bus. If I leave now, I can get back to the Hall of Fame, retrieve my note, and make up some lie about why my phone is in the car before the boys realize I’m missing. I’m mulling this over as Loud Lady kicks the volume up a notch.

“Maybe it’s your machine. Did you ever think of that?”

I peer at the ticket booth as she takes another credit card out of her wallet and slaps it on the counter. “Try that one,” she snipes before adding, “jerk.” Oh no, she didn’t.

Another Greyhound ticket agent steps up behind the counter. He whispers something to his coworker, then opens a second window.

“I can help the next customer,” he says.

The line starts moving. He assists two customers while Loud Lady continues her tantrum. Maybe I should try the self-serve ticket kiosk.

“This in UN-believable,” she screams. “Someone get me a manager.”

And then a horrible thought enters my brain. What if this woman is on my bus and what if she sits next to me? Twenty hours with her instead of the guys—is that what I really want?

If only I had my phone, I could call Lilliana to talk through this. And then I remember the calling card. I scan the room for a pay phone as I simultaneously rummage through my purse to locate my wallet with the card. I spy a phone near the entrance to the ladies’ room just as the ticket agent looks at me and says, “I can help you here, young lady.”