How My Summer Went Up in Flames (9 page)

I step up to the counter.

“Where are you going today?” he says.

Oddly, I hear Hope’s voice in my head.
No matter where you go, there you are.
It’s the kind of advice one usually finds on a coffee mug, but it’s oddly profound.

“Newark, New Jersey?” It comes out like a question.
There I’ll be,
I think.
And then what exactly?

The ticket agent hits some keys on the computer. “That bus will be boarding in five minutes and your total will be one hundred forty dollars and ninety-eight cents with tax. How will you be paying today?”

“Uh, credit card,” I say.

I’m about to hand over my emergency credit card when Loud Lady comes unhinged and starts pounding with both fists on the ticket booth glass. I wonder if it’s bulletproof. At that moment, a uniformed man who is either a security guard or a real police officer races over and pulls the woman away from the counter. She turns and swipes at the cop’s face, but he catches Crazy Ass Lady by the wrist before she can deliver the blow.

“Let go of me,” the woman screeches. “You’re hurting me.” She breaks loose and tries to run toward the door but trips over her suitcase. That’s when the law enforcement dude plants a foot on either side of her facedown torso, placing one hand between her shoulder blades to hold her on the floor. With his other hand, he talks to someone using a crackling walkie-talkie-type device. I feel sorry for this strange woman with her face pressed against the dirty bus station floor. Who knows what makes people totally lose it? I could be her.

I close my eyes and replay the scene of Joey walking into that party with his arm around that girl. I was beyond pissed. My first instinct was to get in her face. I know it takes two to tango and all that, but I blamed her for going after my boyfriend. When Joey leaned down and tenderly kissed the top of her head, something inside me broke. I bolted from the party as all my hurt and anger bubbled to the surface. I had to do something.

It was just after one in the morning when I pulled up in front of Joey’s house. His Mustang was in the driveway, so I knew he was home from the party. I used his Valentine’s Day card to start the fire, the one with the surfing penguin on the front that said
FOR ONE COOL GIRLFRIEND
. It was so satisfying to click the Scripto lighter and send my valentine up in flames. As it burned, I stared as the ocean wave, the yellow surfboard, the penguin’s feet, disappeared. Then I dropped the card on my Joey Box and got back in my car. I had no idea things would go so wrong.

The sound of approaching sirens brings me back to the Nashville bus station. My eyes dart from the screaming woman to the pay phone to the door, where Hope is accosting newcomers. That’s when I bolt toward the pay phone.

 • • •

I’m sitting on a bench clutching my bag and sunning my face outside the bus station when the guys pull up to the curb. I couldn’t chance a cab getting me back to the Hall of Fame in time. My bus left fifteen minutes ago and I can’t imagine being stuck, alone, in Nashville.

Matty jumps out of the rear passenger door. “What the hell is this, Rosie?” he yells as he climbs out. There’s something about hearing my name spoken aloud that underscores the big trouble I’m in. I’ve never seen him so angry. He’s waving the postcard in my face. “How could you? What the—you are something, really something.”

Yikes. What’s six feet tall and red all over? Let him get it all out. I deserve it. After a few more minutes of his huffing and puffing, I say, “Relax. I didn’t go through with it. I called you, didn’t I?”

“Do you ever think of anyone except yourself? How do you think I would have felt if I read this card and knew you were gone and there was nothing I could do about it? What was I supposed to tell your parents? What if something happened to you between here and New Jersey?”

I shrug. Because I don’t have a good answer. He’s right. I didn’t want to think it through, so I didn’t.

He imitates my lame gesture. “That’s it? That’s all
you’ve got?” Matty rips my postcard into tiny pieces. He’s still yelling, though. “Yeah, well, if you pull a stunt like this again, I’m gonna let you go. Got it?” He throws the handful of postcard confetti in my face. I wince. That I didn’t see coming. Tears rise in my eyes.

I shake postcard flakes from the front of my dress. “I’m sorry, okay? What else do you want me to say?”

“You know what? I don’t want you to say anything to me for a while. Nothing. Got it? And by ‘a while’ I mean until we get to Texas. And even then I’m gonna have to think about it.” He turns, gets into the backseat, and slams the door.

Spencer gets out of the front seat. “You’d better ride up here, Rosie,” he says. “I’ll get in the back with Matty.” He and Matty are so much alike, always trying to smooth things over.

Spencer is still talking. “The Hall of Fame was great, ya know. Could have stayed there all day. Too bad you missed it.”

I’ve got to get this boy a life or at least a girlfriend, though to him, the latter would probably equal a life. He doesn’t have a half-bad body for a skinny kid. Not that I was checking him out when he got out of the shower or anything. But, well, he was right there in front of me. There’s
got to be a girl somewhere who will go out with him. Now I am staring at Spencer.
Get in the car, Rosie. Look sheepish and repentant.
“You’re right. I probably should have stuck to the itinerary.”

“At least you didn’t miss Graceland,” Spencer says. His sincerity makes me want to keep my sarcasm to myself.

I slip into the front seat and Logan nods toward my bag. “Shopping?” His question puts me at ease. One corner of my mouth turns up.

I take my bad cowgirl shirt out and hold it against my torso to model it.

“Nice. Is there a picture of you in handcuffs on the back?” There’s something reassuring about Logan being Logan. He doesn’t seem mad, even though I must have thrown off the schedule by at least thirty minutes this time. He catches me off guard when he puts a hand on my shoulder. “You know, if it were my decision, I wouldn’t have picked you up, right? I would have let you sweat it out.”

“Admit it. You would have missed me.”

He smiles and I know I’m right.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” he says.

“I’d like to think it’s part of my charm.”

Matty snorts from the backseat and launches my phone
into the front, where it lands by my toes. A move that clearly means “Call Joey. See if I care if you screw yourself.” Matty and his motherly reverse psychology. Logan, who is either amused or entertained, shakes his head and puts the car in drive while Spencer fires up some old song about going to Graceland.

I lean over to pick up my phone and remember that I’m supposed to call Miranda. First, I send Lilliana a quick text.
PLAN ABORTED. EN ROUTE TO MEMPHIS. HUGS, R.
Her return text comes quickly.
THX FOR THE ANEURYSM. STAY
PUT. PROMISE?
I type back.
SO SORRY, MY FRIEND. CROSS MY HEART.
My phone makes the text sound again. But it’s not Lilliana, it’s Spencer from the backseat.
HE’S ONLY PISSED BECAUSE HE
CARES . . . A LOT.
I type.
I KNOW. YOU’RE A GOOD FRIEND.
He texts.
GLAD U CHANGED UR MIND ABOUT LEAVING.
It’s hard not to turn around and smile at Spencer.
KNOW WHAT? ME TOO.
Then I dig out Miranda’s number and dial, vowing to make it to Arizona without committing any more misdeeds requiring an apology. Yeah, right.

When Miranda answers, I introduce myself, and she tells me she’s been expecting my call. I’ll bet. Probably has me down on her calendar as Torch Girl. She asks me to give her a second as she pulls up a fresh Word document, then
tells me to start at the beginning and give her a rundown of everything that happened the night of the blowup. Saying it all out loud, again, with an audience (a third of which is very angry at me), makes me feel weird. Out of body. Like I’m talking about some lunatic girl on a TV sitcom. Was this the perspective that my mom was talking about when she tried to convince me this trip was what I needed? I wonder if Mom gets tired of being right.

“Who’s she talking to?” Spencer asks Matty.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Matty answers. And then he takes out the guitar and starts strumming. I put a finger in my ear so I can block out the background noise and focus on what Miranda is saying.

“Were there any witnesses?” Miranda asks.

“Not that I know of. I went there by myself and I didn’t stick around much after I lit the box on fire. But I called Joey from the car and waited until he came outside.” I realize how horrible that sounds. I guess it sounds horrible because it is horrible. And hateful, childish, despicable. I decide to keep the part about bringing a Big Gulp along in case the flames got out of control to myself. No need to add “crazy” to the list of adjectives.

“Steve has a guy who does investigations for him. He
might want to send him over there. Every neighborhood has a busybody. Maybe someone saw something that can help with your defense.”

She’s right. I think about Mrs. Friedman who lives across the street from us.

“Do you think maybe it wasn’t my fault? The car part, I mean. I know I can’t deny that I torched the box.” Things are looking up all of a sudden.

“Don’t get too excited. There’s still the alleged stalking. You haven’t had any other contact with the defendant? That is, aside from driving by his house, seeing him at the mall, and the two text messages you sent.”

My body gets hot with embarrassment. The trouble I’m in is serious. This can get bad, real bad. I can hear it now. Guys in my town are gonna be like: Rosie the Stalker? Dude, steer clear of that.

“I don’t think so.”

“You need to know so. Is there anything else Steve needs to be informed of? We don’t want to be in court and hear about any surprise phone or computer records.”

Why did I say I don’t think so? My last night home and the memory of my Benadryl haze has got me totally unsettled, that’s why. But there’s no way I’m going to tell
Miranda about that right now, with the guys listening in. Besides, it wasn’t real and I don’t want to seem more “off” than I already do.

Miranda’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “You still there?”

“Still here.”

“So, is there anything else?”

“Nope. That’s it.”

Before we get off the phone, Miranda sets up a time for me to speak with Steve tomorrow. That should work out fine since we’ll be in Dallas by then. I’ll be able to talk with him privately.

“What’s next?” I ask as I end my call.

“Food,” Logan says. “Then Memphis.”

“Still planning on getting to Dallas tonight?” I ask. I’ve made a tight schedule a lot tighter.

“Yep,” Logan says.

 • • •

After a quick, and quiet, lunch at a rest stop, we’re back in the Taurus and careening down Interstate 40 toward Memphis and the Tennessee border. I’m in the back with Spencer. Matty rides up front. He still doesn’t want to be near me. My phone makes its text sound. Spencer:
HE’LL COME AROUND.
Me:
HOPE SO.

I put in my earbuds. My plan is to retreat into my sonic bubble until we get to Graceland. I select a playlist that will cleanse my ears of country music and my memory of the Nashville bus station and my fight with Matty. I’ve got on my game face, but my stomach is in knots. I can’t stand having him this angry with me.

I close my eyes and adjust my sunglasses. As the miles roll by, I occasionally pause my tunes to listen in on the guys’ conversation, partly to make sure it’s not about me. Paranoid much? Despite the fact that Matty is still ignoring me, he’s been unusually chatty since Nashville. All three of them are.

“The UK has given us iconic bands, but the US only produces iconic solo artists,” Matty says the first time I pause my iPod. Elvis’s abode no doubt sparked this gripping discussion.

I want to say “Metallica,” but I turn up the volume instead. I don’t want Matty getting all up in my face about music. He’s mad enough already. Anyway, it really is hard to throw any American bands into the same sentence with the Beatles, the Stones, and the Who.

An hour later, during another iPod pause, I hear Logan say: “College football is never going to move to a true playoff system.”

“They’ve got to,” Matty exclaims. And here I was hoping to be like a wildlife photographer and get an uncensored glimpse into the male psyche to keep me from making another Joey-like mistake. No dice. I hit play and fish around in my bag for that darned trip itinerary. May as well make good use of my time.

The third debate I have the privilege of overhearing is about superheroes. This one surely initiated by Spencer.

“Green Lantern. No question,” Matty states.

“Are you kidding me?” Spencer says. “Are you forgetting the Hulk?!”

I wish I could fly off in my invisible plane like Wonder Woman. Upon my fourth attempt at eavesdropping, I finally think I’m overhearing some real guy talk.

“Check out that rack,” says Matty.

Without moving my head, I shift my eyes and try to look at the cars on either side of us.

“Where?” Logan asks.

Yeah, where?

“In the right lane. Two cars up.”

Huh? How can he tell from back here?

“Pull up next to the car,” Matty directs. When Logan does, I see there are two girls, maybe a little older than me,
driving together. Their cleavage looks pretty much covered up, so now I’m wondering what Matty’s seeing that I don’t. Matty rolls down his window and begins gesturing. What is that boy doing?

“The rack,” he shouts. “Rack!” I can’t believe Matty would talk trash to a girl that way, but then I notice he’s pointing to the bike rack on the top of their car. It appears one of their expensive-looking mountain bikes is coming loose.

The girl driving the car, who, upon closer inspection, does have a decent rack, misreads the situation like I did at first. Her windows are closed, but it’s not hard to read her “F you.” Then both girls give Matty the finger before their car tears off down the highway.