Once Upon a Road Trip (6 page)

Angie paused, wondering if his words stemmed from a genuine affinity for being a hermit, or if they were more of a resigned symptom of low self-esteem. “You never know. I think you’re too young to rule anything out yet.”

Alec gave a slight shrug, keeping his gaze fixed on his fingers as he resumed an idle plucking at the guitar strings. “I guess you’re right. Maybe there’s a chance I could meet a girl a little like you—”

Though he didn’t look up at all amid his musing, Angie was unsettled by the possible implications. “The less like me, the better. Trust me. I can hardly stand myself most of the time.” She laughed, trying to dispel her discomfort.

That’s it, keep things light. Can’t risk misleading him.

In a swift motion she scooped up her furry lap warmer and set the animal down beside her as she stood. “I should really get some sleep so I can make that drive in the morning.” She diverted the topic with nonchalance, brushing a small cloud of cat hair off the front of her jeans. “How about one for the road. You know any Bon Jovi?”

Alec flashed a bemused expression before he seemed to realize what she’d asked of him. “Oh. Sure. How about this one—” His fingers flitted into position and he launched into a series of reverberating notes.

Angie paused a few steps from the hallway and listened as he played the intro to
It’s My Life
. She chuckled when recognition hit her. “For some reason, I was sure you’d do
Living On a Prayer
.”

“This one fits you better.” Alec smiled to himself as he continued with deft precision. His voice rang clear, though he restrained his volume out of apparent courtesy to his mother.

Angie nodded with the beat and joined in at just above a whisper. She’d never given the lyrics much thought before, but now they struck her as a strangely personal narrative.

When the chorus came around for the third time, she made her way back to the spare room.

June 11
-12
,

Heart Like An Open Highway

I got a good 12 hours of much needed sleep the first night. Alec and I did nothing but watch movies on my first full day. I’ve now seen both Mission Impossible movies. And yet…I feel no more cultured. I can’t complain, it was nice to have the down time to recover. I’m still getting fevers at night.

My second day here was busy. I helped Alec practice for his driving exam. Evidently in Ohio you get four attempts, and today was Alec’s last chance. I guess the practice paid off, because he passed it this time. So it was a happy day. 

Alec is a really sweet guy. I just think he needs to get out more. Having a driver’s license can only help him, I think. He did finally open up some tonight. I was glad we at least got in a meaningful conversation before I move on to Detroit tomorrow.

Still, I’m feeling a little cowardly. I’ve never been all hung up on avoiding conflict. When I see a glaring problem, I usually feel compelled to examine it out loud. I’d intended on telling Alec that I’m concerned about his weight. Not just for the sake of his health, but also for the fact that some people are so shallow they won’t bother looking past it to all of his remarkable traits. But try as I might, I couldn’t think of a tactful way of telling someone that the elephant in the room…is them.

Maybe I just don’t have the heart to risk crushing someone with such a gentle spirit. But then, there’s part of me that thinks it’s just as risky and uncaring to take the easy way out and not address a potentially life-threatening issue. So what’s the “right” thing to do, anyway?

~Ang

Chapter 4

Driving almost due north, it took Angie less than four hours to reach Detroit.

It was late afternoon when she pulled into a middle-class suburb. The yards were large and well kept, with a generous inclusion of aging trees towering well above the houses. She pulled off in front of a two-story brick-faced home she recognized from her spring break visit. Hauling her travel bag with her to the front door, she was immediately greeted by a reddish-colored Springer Spaniel — along with his red-headed mistress.

“Angeli! Wonderful timing.” Sandra spoke in a crooning voice, motioning her inside. “I was just about to go pick up Rob. He’s been out all day doing his Habitat for Humanity volunteering.” Average in height and full in build, the woman had a disarming softness about her appearance and demeanor. Dressed in a gray jogging suit and white sneakers, she projected the energy of someone who’d just started their day.

“Good to see you again, Sandy. Don’t let me get in the way—I know I got here a little sooner than I’d told you in the email.” The dog nudged his head against Angie’s knee, and she bent to lay a hand between his ears.

“Nonsense—I’ll just have Mark get you settled while I’m out. Mark?!” She raised her voice at the last note and directed it up the nearby staircase. “Mark, sweetie, your friend is here! Come help with her bag!” She smiled warmly to Angie again. “I hope you’re hungry, I’ve got dinner going. It should only take a few minutes once we get back.”

“Oh, I’m definitely hungry.” Angie formed an easy laugh. “I’ll come help you with it.”

Sandra gave a dismissive wave. “No need for that. It practically makes itself.”

“Peril!” Mark’s exuberant voice came hurtling down the staircase ahead of him. For some reason Angie had yet to determine, the young man had always referred to her by one of her character’s names from the online story-writing community. Although, when she considered some of his other tendencies, it was only a minor quirk.

“There’s my favorite leprechaun!” Angie called back. Since their first meeting, she’d innately found it best to relate to Mark in the same way she would to her younger brother — which, of course, warranted a measure of teasing.

Mark planted both feet as he reached the landing, bowing curtly at the waist as he curved one arm before him. “I -have- mentioned that I’m not Irish, haven’t I? Not so much as a drop.” He smiled and reached for her bag. Despite his insistence, his appearance was misleading. Fiery fox-orange hair was cropped short to frame brown eyes and a pale, heavily freckled face. And in spite of being just seventeen, he sported an impressively thick beard. Combined with his slight stature and the fact that he favored clothing in limited shades of green, Angie’s likening him to a mythical faerie seemed justified — at least in her mind.

“That’s just what I’d expect a leprechaun to say.” Angie smirked, handing him her duffel bag.

Sandra moved to the door and called back instructions over her shoulder. “Show her where she’ll be staying, and get yourself ready for dinner. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Mark spun around and began tromping up the stairs. The Springer Spaniel followed close behind, with Angie bringing up the rear. At the top they veered left down a short hallway and Mark tossed the duffel bag onto the sleeper sofa in the guest room.

“What was your dog’s name again?” Angie asked offhanded, peeking in to survey her quaint sleeping space. The bed took up much of the room, draped in a blue and white checkered quilt that matched the window valence. Small bouquets of dried flowers rested along eye-level display shelves, accenting with shades of blue, white, and lavender.

“His name is Godot. You know, after the French tragic comedy,
Waiting for Godot
.” Mark answered cheerfully, as though the connection should be obvious to her.

Angie turned, looking at him for a moment before admitting, “No, I don’t know, honestly.”

Mark blinked in surprise, gaze darting about as he considered. “Oh. It’s an old play. Simple and clever—you’d like it. My dad and I went to the show just before going to pick up a puppy from the breeder. We ended up sitting around waiting for the longest time while they got him ready. And I thought, ‘hey, this reminds me of
Waiting for Godot
.’ So I told my dad that’s what we should name him,” he said, all while using a small flurry of hand gestures.

Angie was reminded of his flair for conveying more excitement in storytelling than the material actually warranted. “Ah. I see.”

“Of course, in the play, Godot never did arrive. So I suppose it wasn’t -entirely- fitting.” He gave a short shrug and waved for her to follow as he cut into a room to his left. “I actually prefer comedic opera. Come listen to my new Gilbert and Sullivan collection!”

Angie followed, thinking her friend sounded every bit as eager as a small child with a new toy. She didn’t have much exposure or interest in musical theater — or any sort of theater, for that matter. But for his sake, she decided she should at least feign interest.

Mark’s room was something of an eclectic monument to his childhood — which, arguably, wasn’t over. The walls were plastered with everything from world maps to posters featuring an array of musicals and theater companies. Bookcases lined the walls, housing collections of figurines rather than books. Angie shuffled over to examine some of them. Set below waist level were hundreds of dinosaur statuettes, along with selections of endangered and recently-extinct animals. Closer to eye level, he’d arranged his more current fascination: a miniature army of transforming robot toys.  

“Which would you like to hear first?
The
Mikado? H.M.S. Pinafore? The Pirates of Penzance?
” Mark called back to her from across the room as he rifled through his CD collection.

“
Pirates of Penzance
. Definitely,” Angie said, pleased that something sounded familiar to her. “Just skip ahead to the ‘Modern Major General’ song.”

“Ah, classic!” he said. “Their most popular piece… And, it’s just ‘Major-General,’ by the way.” Mark corrected others for accuracy as naturally and often as most people breathed. Angie knew better than to be offended by the fact.

“I am the very model of a modern Major-General,

I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical,

From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical…”

Angie kept up with the words a third of the way through before dissolving into mumblings. Mark applauded her, clearly delighted. Satisfied that she had contributed more than she would have guessed herself capable, Angie returned to surveying the figurine collection.   

Mark switched CDs and belted out the lyrics to another song, after explaining to her at length why he favored it as an auditioning piece. He had a good voice, in Angie’s opinion. Deep and resounding. She’d often thought he would make a good announcer. And from what she could tell, he didn’t struggle to stay on key. He played through several more songs, giving her a dissertation on the origins of each while Angie listened as intently as she could manage.

It came as a welcome break when Mark’s parents returned home. She excused herself from his impromptu rehearsal and headed downstairs to volunteer herself in the kitchen. Cutting through the formal dining room, she nearly ran into Rob as he was about to take a seat in the corner.

The short, graying man seemed older than Sandra. Although, his build was wiry and the firmness of his greeting handshake suggested a certain spryness.

“Hello again, young lady!” Rob greeted her. “How has your car been holding up?”

Angie smiled. “She’s doing great, so far. I haven’t checked the oil yet, but I don’t expect her to burn much.”

“She, hmm? So you denote a personality in your vehicle,” he said in a formal but genial tone. “Does -she- have a name?”

“Oh, well...not yet,”  Angie said. “But I’ve been thinking about it. I had a cute Japanese name picked out at first, but then one of my friends told me it meant ‘Oh no.’ I decided that wasn’t the best idea. So I’m still open to suggestions.”

Rob nodded in a manner that she couldn’t help but think of as sagely. “A good vehicle is like a good pet; deserving the respect of its own name. I’ll see if I can come up with a few ideas.”

“I’d appreciate the help.” She dipped her head, grateful. “…and I’m sure Sandra would appreciate a little help, too. Excuse me.”

“Of course. You go right ahead.” Rob rumbled in amusement as he sank into the cushioned chair he’d been aiming for.

Angie found Sandra at the kitchen stove, hovering over a boiling pot of crab legs. “You see?” the woman said, after noticing she wasn’t alone. “Hot water and some spices, and they’re no trouble at all.”

Angie peered at the steaming surface of the water. “It smells great.” She’d only had crab once before in her life, for a special occasion. She silently hoped that her host family wasn’t going out of their way for her. “I’ll set the table,” she said, scooping a stack of plates off counter and heading for the dining room before Sandra could protest.

She made two more trips, first for drinking glasses and then for the silverware. Though Mark’s family made use of more pieces than she was used to, she was at least sure about the knife blades facing in toward the plate on the right side, and forks being placed on the left. She had no idea about how she should arrange the small nutcrackers and fork picks she’d been handed for the crab meat, and so she set them in the middle of each plate.

Mark appeared without being called, and carefully edged around his father’s extended legs. “Well, he almost made it to dinner,” he remarked with a degree of mirth, sliding out a chair for himself at the table.

Angie noticed then that Rob was slumped back, sound asleep in the corner chair. His curved, professor-like glasses had slipped down his nose, threatening to drop off his face. She recalled from her previous visit that the man suffered from a sleep disorder, which rendered him capable of falling asleep just about anywhere.

Maybe ‘suffer’ isn’t quite the right term for it
, Angie thought. He’d adapted well enough to lead a completely functional life, interspersed with frequent, impromptu naps.

“He must have had a hard day,” Sandra said as she carried in a bowl of steamed vegetables in one hand and a platter of crab legs in the other. She deposited the food and then went around laying burgundy cloth napkins at each setting, which complemented the warm décor of the room.