In Honor (5 page)

They were a team, on and off the field, so it wasn’t surprising when Northern Arizona University recruited both of them with full rides and they accepted. The only surprise came right before graduation, when—out of nowhere—Finn turned his scholarship down and enlisted, and Rusty turned on the both of us so fast, it was like they’d never been friends to begin with. With Rusty passing us by without so much as a glance and Finn getting ready for boot camp instead of college, nothing could have been more surprising or more wrong. Until now.

I pushed the thought away and set my eyes on the horizon. Between the heat of the day and the heat seeping through the floorboards from the engine, my feet were burning inside the boots I’d pulled on without thinking, so I took a gulp of water that had now turned warm and worked on slipping them off while driving. The left one wasn’t so hard. I just had to dig the heel into the floor and slide my foot out. The relief was immediate, but so was the smell of leather and foot sweat. I glanced over at Rusty and inched the window down the last bit. My gas-pedal foot was trickier. I moved it off to the side and put my bare toes on the pedal so both feet were on it, then I gingerly lifted my booted foot and used one hand to yank it off.

The car swerved, and I overcorrected, tossing Rusty into the door. “What the hell?” He sat up rubbing his head and looked around, trying to get his bearings. “What happened?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, but sniffed. “Ugh. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to wear socks?”

I looked at him out the corner of my eye, being careful to keep the car steady, and turned the music down. He leaned his head toward the open window. “You got any aspirin?”

“Nope,” I said. And I was glad.

“Water?”

I glanced down at the almost-empty bottle in the cup holder next to me and motioned at it. “That’s it, right there.” He grabbed it without waiting for my permission and swallowed the last sip.

“I didn’t say you could drink it. That was supposed to last me until the next stop.”

He rolled his eyes, then rubbed his forehead. “I’ll buy you a new one when we get there.”

I sighed and popped in a piece of gum, then threw one at him. “Here. Your breath stinks.”

He unwrapped it, bent it into his mouth, then leaned his head toward the window again, eyes closed, chewing slowly. “Your feet stink.”

“You’re smelling yourself.” He didn’t say anything. “What were you drinking, anyway? You’re sweatin’ it.” I tucked my free foot beneath the seat. He grimaced and slung one arm over his face, dismissing the question.

Yep. Bringing him had been a horrible idea. I reached for the tape deck and turned the volume up full, determined to drown out anything else he had to say, and it was perfect that Kyra was singing a song about a no-good, small-town guy who was just plain mean. I couldn’t have cued it up better myself.

Rusty lifted his arm off his face and gave me exactly the kind of look I’d expected. I was satisfied for less than a second before he leaned forward and hit the eject button and yanked out the cassette adapter. He held it up, my iPod dangling like it was some sacrilegious thing, and I grabbed for it.

“Hey—”

He shook it. “An
iPod
? This is a 1967 Chevy Impala. Are you f’in kiddin’ me?”

I flinched as he wrapped the cord around it and stashed it in the glove box, shaking his head at my disregard for the old rules. I knew what he was gonna say before he said it. Somewhere along the line, he and Finn had decided that the only music that could be played in the car was classic rock. The kind they turned up and sang along to and that I associated with people my aunt’s age but was probably even older than that. Secretly, I liked a few of the songs, but I never would have admitted it.

“Never do that again.” Rusty leaned forward and found their old radio station immediately, which I was surprised at, since we were almost to the New Mexico state line. He turned it up louder than I’d had it, and I recognized the song. I could feel him looking over at me, grinning like he’d just put me in my place. I rolled my eyes, but for just a second it felt like a flash of old times.

After an uninterrupted triple play of REO Speedwagon, we pulled in to a gas station that looked like something out of one of those movies where some old creep with missing teeth is behind the counter waiting for an unsuspecting customer to walk in. I yanked my boots on and ran around the side, to where I’d seen a bathroom sign. When I got back, Rusty was standing next to the gas pump, gulping down water from a gallon container. He set it down on the trunk with a thud, then popped open a bottle of aspirin and threw a few in his mouth, not bothering with any water to swallow them. I came around to the pump.

“Did you pay for the gas?”

“Yeah.” He still looked like hell, but I could tell from his eyes he was sobering up.

“Thanks,” I said, then stood there awkwardly for a second when he didn’t answer. “I’m gonna get some candy or something. You want anything else?”

He shook his head as he pulled the nozzle out of the tank and shut it. “Nope. I need to sleep this shit off.” Without another word, he screwed the gas cap back on, walked around to his side of the car, and got in. Charming.

A set of bells jangled on the door when I pushed it open, and a loud fan blew a cloud of cigarette smoke and perfume right at me. “Hi there,” a girl’s voice said from behind the counter. She was a few years older than me, and pretty—honey-colored hair, blue eyes, thick black eyeliner. The kind of girl Rusty’d probably hit on as soon as he walked in. Nowhere near the toothless old guy I’d been picturing. “Your fella out there’s in a bad way.” She laughed. “Still pretty cute, though.” I didn’t know quite how to respond, and it must have shown. She smiled. “Sorry. I get bored is all. You two are the most interesting thing that’s happened all day.”

I glanced around the tiny store, hoping for a candy rack. “I’ll bet.” She popped her gum and went back to her magazine, and I found what I wanted. I went ahead and grabbed a couple of bags of Sour Skittles, a pack of gum, and a box of Red Vines, because that’s what Finn always bought at pit stops. On the way up to the counter, I stopped in front of a display of little tree-shaped air fresheners. I preferred vanilla, but Finn loved the irony of driving around in the Impala with new car scent hanging from the dash, so I added the familiar blue tree to my haul and smiled. When I took it all up to the counter, the girl at the register set her magazine down, open to a full-page collage of pictures, all of Kyra Kelley.

“Oh, wow, can I see this?” She nodded, and I spun the magazine around so it was facing me.

She nodded as she punched the keys and popped her gum. “Just got it in the mail today. Her first interview in a long time, all about how she’s giving everything up. Walkin’ away, just like that. Crazy, you know?”

I looked at the shots, mostly candid, by paparazzi. Her walking out of a Starbucks, Frappuccino in hand, her going into a sushi restaurant, her in workout clothes and huge sunglasses, carrying a bottle of water. Her in the backyard of her newly purchased home, somewhere “away from the generic luxury of the Hollywood Hills” and closer to family—her words.

“Yeah,” I said absently. “I do.” I looked around for the magazine rack. “Got any more copies of this?” There were no magazines in the store.

“Nah, it’s mine. But I’ve read it five times already. Take it.” She grabbed it and slid it into the brown bag with my candy.

“Really? Thank you . . . I . . . thanks!”

She smiled. “No problem. Thank
you
for dropping by with your hot, hungover boyfriend. You two have a nice trip.”

The bells jangled again as I pushed through the door, flipping to a full-page photo of Kyra Kelley on stage, wearing a smile that was all hope and light. It didn’t matter that Rusty was leaned back against the seat, passed out again, when I opened the door. I was ecstatic. I had something to go on.

“Rusty! Wake up. The girl inside just gave me this magazine, and it shows Kyra’s new house and talks about her last show and
everything
.” He mumbled something unintelligible, and I got in. “You don’t understand what this means.” He didn’t answer, but I didn’t care.

It felt like some sort of sign that what I was doing was right and not crazy. I slid the magazine into my purse next to Finn’s letter, tied the little blue tree to one of the AC vents, and revved the engine, ready to drive for three days straight if that’s what it took to get to Kyra Kelley’s last show.

5

Somewhere past the New Mexico state line, after two bags of Sour Skittles and endless miles of static and dusty interstate, I lost momentum. With no working clock, I had no idea what time it was, and my purse with my phone in it was too far away to reach. Rusty was snoring away, just as he had been for the last few hours and was of no use to me. I shifted my weight in the seat, stretched out my left leg, and leaned forward on the steering wheel, then pinched my damp sundress away from my back. It had to be near five, but it was still at least ninety-five degrees out. And it was becoming painfully clear how much I hadn’t thought through—driving through the desert in August with no AC, no real plan, and Rusty as a companion. Not to mention only four days to get from Texas to California and back to Austin—all before my first class. I was pushing it.

I strained to see down the road, hoping for a billboard or another mileage sign to the next town. Anything. I hadn’t been paying close attention to where we were because according to the map I’d looked at, we’d be on the 40 forever. The landscape had changed gradually since we’d crossed the border. Flat farmland had given way to barren, rocky desert that was pretty in its own sort of way, with the cloudless blue sky and surprisingly fresh smell of heat and dirt. Still, I had no idea where we were or how close we might be to somewhere decent to stop. Or where we would sleep. If Rusty could get it together, we could take shifts driving through the night and not have to worry about that at all.

I nudged him, gently at first. “Hey. Wake up. I need you to look at the map for me.” He licked his lips and furrowed his brow, but his eyes stayed closed. I tried again, this time with a well-aimed fist in his shoulder. “Rusty. Wake
up
.”

It worked. He sat up and yawned loudly, rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, then squinted over at me, one eye still half-closed. “What time is it?” His voice was gravelly from sleep, and he went straight for the water at his feet.

“I don’t know. Check my phone. I can’t reach my purse.” I motioned at it down by his feet, and he grabbed it, rummaging through roughly until he held my phone.

“Almost six, and you got eight missed calls,” he said, dropping it back in. He looked around. “Where the hell are we?”

“Somewhere in New Mexico.” I grabbed the map from beneath the seat and did my best to ignore the guilt creeping over me about lying to Gina and not returning Lilah’s calls. “Here,” I said, shoving the map at him.

He looked at it blankly. “That’s not gonna help us if you don’t know where we are.”

“I know where we are.” I paused, looked around for some point of reference to avoid looking stupid. “We’re on Highway 40, headed west . . .” Lucky for me, the outline of a sign came into view, just up the road. “. . . coming into . . . Santa Rosa, the City of Natural Lakes. Eight miles. See? Look it up.” I pushed the map at him, but he didn’t open it.

“So let’s stop in Santa Rosa. Bet they got a place to eat.”

I didn’t want to stop now that he’d been the one to suggest it, but my stomach felt hollow, and stretching my legs outside the car would feel like heaven, so I put my foot down hard on the gas, and we covered the eight miles in less than five minutes. The Pala was practically older than me and Finn and Rusty combined, but it was fast. Finn had made sure of that.

We pulled into the Comet II Drive-In, which looked like it had probably been around since the old Route 66 days. Though it was styled like an old-fashioned burger joint, it boasted “The Best Mexican Food in Town,” which was good enough for me. After I’d ordered half the menu, the girl at the pickup window seemed surprised to see only two of us in the car. I motioned at Rusty and fake whispered. “He’s hungover. Needs the grease.” She bent down so she could see in the car, and Rusty gave her a nod, sending a flush up her neck that bloomed in her cheeks.

“Y’all have a good night. And good luck with that hangover.” She winked at Rusty, who smiled back, knowing exactly the effect he’d had on her. Gag. I pulled out of the drive-thru before he could say anything back, and plunged my hand into the grease-dotted bag of tortilla chips.

He watched me, amused. “You never were one to eat ladylike.”

I crunched a too-hot, perfectly salty chip in my mouth and glanced over. “I’ve been driving for half the day without anything to eat.” I swallowed and reached for my soda. “You were passed out, remember?” I took a long gulp before I said anything worse.

Rusty reached in for a few chips. “Yeah, I know. I feel like crap.”

I swallowed another mouthful of chips and looked around for a good spot. We were rolling slowly down the main street of the town, and I took in what I could in the dimming light. It was a modern little desert city with bits of fifties-era nostalgia all over the place. We passed the city hall, the Route 66 Auto Museum, and more than one Mexican cantina.