How My Summer Went Up in Flames (5 page)

I cue up my Bruce playlist, and when the intro to “Girls in Their Summer Clothes” fills my ears, I feel a pang as I realize it’s summer and I want to be at the beach, not heading two thousand miles in the wrong direction. I need to sleep. Maybe in a few hundred miles I’ll look back on this, and just like it did for the Rosie in the Bruce song, it will all seem funny.

 • • •

I wake up two hours later, my head against the window, the guitar’s neck in my lap, and drool in the corner of my mouth. The car is parked and I’m alone. I look out the window. We’re at some place called the Waffle House, and those bastards are going in without me. I push the guitar off me, wipe the spit off my face, and pick through the tangles in my long brown hair. I open the car door, grab my backpack, and stomp into the restaurant.

“Thanks a lot,” I say. The three of them are standing inside the door by the sign that says
PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED
.

“We’d have woken you up by the time we were ready to order,” Matty says. I’m pissed. He’s the one who wanted me here, and now he’s trying to starve me so he can impress Logan.

“Speak for yourself,” Logan says. “She knows the rules.”

Jerk. We follow the hostess to a booth by the window. I
roll my eyes at Logan and then take the window seat. Matty slides in next to me. Thankfully, I’m across from Spencer, not Logan. I might have a muscle spasm and “accidentally” kick him.

“I would have brought you a bagel or something,” Spencer says. He shrugs and opens the menu.

“Thank you.” I give Spencer the best smile I’m capable of without lip gloss and nudge Matty’s leg with my foot. “Where are we, anyway?”

“It’s on the schedule,” Spencer says. “Didn’t you read your itinerary?”

Sleeping, duh. But I need Spence on my side if I expect to get fed on this road trip to hell. Besides, there’s no reason that Snoopy shirt should keep us from becoming friends.

“You planned all our pit stops?”

“Of course,” Spencer says. “We have an aggressive schedule. I want to make sure we get to see everything we want to see.”

“What if there’s something I want to see?”

“Is there something you want to see, Rosie?” Matty asks.

“I dunno,” I say. “I didn’t have a chance to think about it.”

“I guess launching a full-out vendetta against your ex-boyfriend takes up a lot of free time,” Logan says.

“What’s your problem?” I say. “Can’t you be nice?”

He’s smiling, in a cute-ish, not smirky way, and his voice softens. “I thought I was. I let you in my car, didn’t I? And I haven’t even asked you for gas money yet.”

“I guess that begs the question, why did you let me come along, anyway?”

“Because your friend Matty said—”

A waitress in a 1950s-style uniform arrives at our table and renders Logan, and the rest of us, speechless. The woman is older than my mom and has what appears to be a black plastic tarantula in her hair.

“Are you ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?” she asks.

I’d like to order, but my brain is screaming,
Why is there a plastic spider on your head?

“I think we’re ready,” Matty says. “Cool hair ornament, by the way.”

I can’t look at Matty. I’m afraid I’ll get the uncontrollable giggles. He’s always been good at delivering these witty one-liners without cracking himself up. He does it because he knows what it does to me.

“Thanks. Keeps people on their toes,” she says, lightly touching the side of her head. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a buttermilk waffle, a side of bacon, and orange juice.”

“I’ll have the chocolate-chip Belgian waffle and coffee,” I say.

Logan and Spencer both order Farmer’s omelets, English muffins, and orange juice, although I notice Logan requests egg whites. Odd. I didn’t think anyone under thirty worried about clogged arteries.

It sounds stupid, I know, but I miss Joey. If we were here together, we both would’ve ordered grilled cheese sandwiches and fries even though it’s breakfast time. We loved grilled cheese dunked in ketchup. We also loved the Yankees, zombie movies, the beach (even in the winter),
That ’70s Show
reruns, arcades and skee ball, taking the ferry to New York City, and just doing nothing together—sometimes for hours. I miss all those little things. But mostly, I miss the comfort of knowing I can be myself around a guy. He fell in love with me. The real me.

After the waitress brings our drinks, I go to the ladies’ room to fix my hair and apply makeup. The guys haven’t gotten their food yet, so I’m feeling confident they won’t leave without me. This would be the perfect time to call Lilliana, if only I had my phone.

How did I get here?
I think as I stare into the mirror, carefully lining my top and bottom eyelids. My eyes have looked better, but at the moment, nothing seems right.

I’m feeling only slightly more human when I emerge from the bathroom with smoother hair and copper eye shadow, my summer shade. As I walk down the hallway, away from the restrooms, and back toward our table, I pass a pay phone. Aha! That’s it. I need to figure out how to use one of those things. Lilliana gave me a prepaid calling card before I left. She vowed to be my eyes and ears back home. Right now, however, my food is probably out, and I don’t feel like getting left behind at a Waffle House in—where am I, anyway?

Matty steps out of the booth and lets me slide in toward the window. “So, when’s our next stop?” I ask.

“It’s in the—” Spencer says.

“I know, I’ll read it when we get back in the car. Can you just answer my question for now?”

“Luray, Virginia,” Spencer says.

“What’s there?”

“Luray Caverns,” Matty offers.

“What’s Luray Caverns?”

“Only one of the most famous caves in the entire world.” Spencer sounds like I’ve insulted him.

One of? Are others more famous? Spencer is going on and on about crystallized calcite, stalactites, stalagmites, blah, blah, blah. This dude is all about the caverns. It’s kind of cute, the way he’s getting so excited. I smile and try to listen (okay, maybe not that hard), but all I can think about is what may be lurking amidst those rocks.

“Uh, are there bats in these caverns?”

“I knew it,” Logan says. “You can wait in the car.”

“Maybe I will,” I say. Great comeback.

I silently obsess about creatures of the night during the rest of breakfast, and after three cups of coffee I totally need to pee before we leave. I drag Matty with me, using the excuse that I need to use my phone in private, but the truth is, I’m beginning to think Logan is serious about leaving me behind.

“Uh, I’m not going in, you know that, don’t you?” Matty points from me to the ladies’ room door.

“You mean you’re not going to line the toilet seat with paper for me? Of course I know you’re not going in. Just wait here!”

“Relax,” Matty says.

“Sorry. Logan is just such a jerk. He’s pissing me off.”

“Yeah, that’s why you’ll be in love with him by the time we hit the Pennsylvania-Virginia border,” Matty half mumbles.

“What?”

“You heard me; just pee, will ya.”

At least I found out I’m in Pennsylvania.

 • • •

When we get back to the car, Logan is leaning against the driver’s door. He looks at us and makes this lasso/whoop-dee-doo motion with his pointer finger before getting in the Taurus. Is that, like, dork code for hurry up? It’s very annoying.

Once we’re all in the car, Logan lets out a big sigh before he starts the engine. “Notice how you made two trips to the bathroom and we didn’t go at all.”

“Yeah, well, I heard holding in your pee causes impotence,” I snipe.

This gets Spencer’s attention. He stops hooking up his tunes to the car stereo and whips his head around.

“That’s not true,” Spencer says. “Where did you hear that?”

It’s not true. At least, I don’t think it is. But Matty the peacemaker jumps in and lightens the collective mood. He picks up the guitar and starts strumming, making up his own words to a Black Eyed Peas song.

“I got a feeling,” he sings, “there’s a plastic tarantula in my hair. I got a feeling, it’s a giant arachnid, but I don’t care.”

“When did you start playing guitar?” I’m shocked.

“Spence’s teaching me. I’d be a lot better if I owned my own guitar,” he says.

Huh. How did I not know this? He practically lives on our sofa. I pick up my itinerary as Logan drives back toward the highway.

Luray Caverns, here we come.

“We’re going to Dallas? Why are we going to Dallas?”
I sputter.

I’m flipping through the folder Spencer gave me as the Taurus makes its way along Skyline Drive—a 105-mile scenic trip through the Blue Ridge Mountains in Shenandoah National Park, according to Spencer’s notes. We’ve passed lots of rolling, green mountains and two wild turkeys. So far, the scenery is underwhelming and the conversation is lacking. After Luray, we’ll head to Nashville, then Memphis, and then, for some strange reason, we veer off Interstate 40 and instead head south to Dallas. Why?!

“Booty call,” Spencer says to me. He’s tuning his guitar in the front seat.

“What?”

“It’s not a booty call,” Logan insists. “We’re stopping by to see a friend.”

I wish they’d both quit saying “booty call.”

“You don’t just ‘stop by’ Texas,” I say.

“I do,” Logan says.

“Must be some friend,” Matty says. “What’s her name?”

“Avery. We hung out all weekend at a prefreshman orientation a few weeks ago. She’ll start ASU in the fall too.”

I can see Logan in the rearview mirror. He smiles in a way that really pisses me off.

“And we’re going to Dallas because . . .?” I need more here.

“Avery lives there.” I can hear the “duh” in Logan’s voice and I don’t like it. “We’ve been talking a lot. She said to visit her if I’m ever in Texas.”

“But we’re not going to Texas, we’re going to Arizona, and it doesn’t exactly look like it’s on the way.”

“It is if my brother thinks he’s going to get some. . . .” Spencer trails off.

Logan holds the wheel with his left hand and whops Spencer’s head with his right.

“Watch the guitar.” Spencer’s all jammed up in the passenger seat with the acoustic on his lap. Unfortunately, the case is still hogging up the backseat.

“You should be happy,” Logan says in my direction. “You’ll have some female companionship for a couple of days.”

“Days? Whataya mean ‘days’?” I ask incredulously. How well does he know this Avery person?

“We’re spending two nights at her house,” Logan says.

“All four of us?” Is he serious? Maybe she’s the kind of person who invites strangers to her house but doesn’t really mean it.

“She says there’s plenty of room,” Logan adds.

“You should have known all this,” Spencer says, turning to look at me. “It’s in the—”

I hold up my hand to stop him. “Well, if Logan gets to go to Dallas, then I want to go to Dollywood.”

“I thought you hated country music,” Matty says.

“I do, but I love roller coasters and Dolly Parton. She’s Miley’s godmother.” I have a secret addiction to
Hannah Montana
reruns.

“We don’t have time,” Spencer says. “From the caverns we’re driving straight through to Nashville.”

“So?” I say.

“So, Dollywood is near Knoxville, which is before Nashville. We’d have to spend the night there. That’s not part of the plan,” Logan says.

“Let’s change the plan,” I say. “We can stay one night in Dallas, which would give us time to spend one night near Dollywood.” And then I say, in a singsong voice for effect, “Probably more girls at Dollywood than at Avery’s house.”

Spencer turns around again and raises his eyebrows. He looks at Matty, who seems equally intrigued by the idea. Aha, I might have a mutiny on my hands. I give Spencer and Matty a knowing smile and let it drop for now. If I work this right . . . Hooray for Dollywood!

 • • •

An hour later, we pull into the visitors’ center at Luray Caverns. I grab my backpack and follow the boys to the rustic-looking main building, where we each shell out eighteen bucks for the tour and proceed to the cavern’s entrance.

There’s an eerie chill as we begin our slow descent down the smooth stone walkway inside the caves. Goose bumps rise across my arms. If I weren’t so anxious all of a sudden, it would feel like I’m on line for the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World. I wish I were. Where is Orlando Bloom when you need him?

Darren, our tour guide, is going through his spiel about flowstone and dripstone as we walk along the well-worn
pathway. He explains formation after formation—like the Great Stalactite pipe organ, these rocks that look like fried eggs—each illuminated with dramatic lighting. Under different circumstances, I might enjoy the beauty of these ancient sculptures, but it’s hard to concentrate because (a) I’m terrified of winged creatures with fangs and (b) I’m wearing a tank top and short shorts and it’s freezing in here. A guy toward the front with a kid on his shoulders reads my mind and asks about the temperature.

“The caverns remain at a constant fifty-five degrees,” Darren says. Hearing that only makes me colder, not to mention hungry. “Remember, at our lowest point we will be one hundred and sixty-four feet below the earth’s surface.”

Great. Now it feels like the walls are closing in.

“What time is it?” I whisper to Matty. I’m lost without my phone. I need to get a watch. I need to get air. I need to get out of this cave.

“Eleven thirty.”

“How long is this tour?”

“About an hour,” Matty says.

“If you’ll follow me this way,” Darren says. “We’re approaching Dream Lake. The lake is only about eighteen
to twenty inches deep, but the stillness of the water gives you a perfect reflection of the stalactite ceiling. It’s an amazing photo op.”

I inhale slowly through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I’m trying to appreciate Dream Lake, but my thoughts wander back to the rock formation that looked like giant potato chips, and that reminds me of the Cheez-Its in my bag. Did Darren say anything about eating on the tour? Screw it. I’m cold, starving, and edgy. I move toward the back of the group, pull out my snack bag as discreetly as possible, and sneak some crunchy squares into my mouth. Everyone else is gawking at Dream Lake and taking pictures, but I hang back, munching away and breathing better with each salty bite.