Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (11 page)

“You need to go back and apologize.”

Now she looks up. “You’re kidding.”

“What you did was terrible. You’re lucky he didn’t call the police.”

She furrows her brows. “Hmm. I wonder why not.”

“Maybe because he didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it. You’ve got to check out these photos, by the way.”

“No. They’re not mine. Or yours. You need to return that memory card right now.”

She shakes her head. “Or not.”

“I’m warning you, Fran—”

“No, Luke, I’m warning
you
. Come and look at these
now
. Because if you don’t, I swear… I might just do what you say.”

“That’d be nice for a change.”

“Screw you!” She ejects the memory card and grasps it between her fingers so tightly they make a fist. “You think you’re so wise, don’t you? Well, fine. You deserve what’s coming.”

She places the laptop on the bed and heads straight out of the room. I brace for the sound of the door slamming behind her, but it doesn’t come. Instead she stands in the hallway, completely still, eyes closed.

“I can’t do it,” she whispers. “Even though I really want to hurt you right now… I just can’t.”

“Can’t
what
?”

She turns around. The memory card rests in her upturned palm. “Look at the photos, Luke. Don’t argue with me. Don’t fight. For once, just do it.
Please
.”

Something in her voice breaks me down, tells me I have no choice. It’s a tone I haven’t heard sincethe tour began; a tone I haven’t heard in a year. I take the card and slide it into the laptop.

A grid of photos is arrayed on the screen. When I lean in for a closer look I see they’re all the same: me and Teresa in the coffee shop, my face crystal clear even in the soft lighting. The first dozen or so are of us chatting, but then she’s leaning toward me, reaching around me, her hair draped across my face. Our lips don’t just seem close; they seem locked together, as though we’re sharing an intimate kiss. Judging by these photos, I’m the star of a steamy seduction scene.

I bring a finger to my lips, wondering if we actually kissed and I just forgot about it somehow. “I don’t get it,” I say.

“I can see that.” Fran sighs. “The photographer was paparazzi, Luke.”

“I didn’t know Teresa was famous.”

“She’s not. It’s
you
he was shooting.”

It takes a while for those words to seep in. “But I’m not famous either.”

Fran runs a hand through her hair, purple streaks heightened by the light from her bedside lamp. “You appeared on nationally syndicated TV. Journalists show up to your signings. That’s pretty much the definition of famous.”

“But how did he know we were at the coffee shop? Do you think he followed us?”

She groans. “Wake up, Luke. He works with Teresa. She’s paparazzi too.”

“No. She can’t be. She’s just—”

“What? A disciple? Auditioning to be the fifth member of the
Hallelujah
posse? Come on! She’s been at every event. She asks you out. She keeps changing her appearance. The way I see it, she’s either a stalker or paparazzi. Either way, she’s bad news.”

I don’t know what to say. Maybe I’m naive, but having lost faith in everything else, I wanted to believe in someone again. “I just thought…”

Fran sits on the other bed, elbows on her knees, chin resting in her hands. “Luke, before this book you were just another geeky high school kid. Did you really think girls like her would throw themselves at you just because you wrote…” Her voice trails off and she reddens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. The
last bit, anyway.” She smiles. “But you are a geek, you know.”

“Takes one to know one.”

She laughs. Actually
laughs
. “That’s the lamest comeback I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, yeah. I’m not good at the whole retaliation thing.”

“No, you’re not. At least, you didn’t used to be. It was one of things I liked so much about you.” She reaches over and closes the laptop. “So… something you want to say to me?”

“Like what?”

She purses her lips. “Come on, Luke. You can do this.”

“Do what?”

“Say thank you!” She waits. “Or maybe you can’t. Such easy words, but it’d mean accepting you were wrong about something… about someone.”

There’s silence now, and the air feels heavy. Fran fingers the Band-Aid on her left ear.

“Thought so,” she says, turning away from me.

I head to the bathroom. It’s late, I’m tired, and I need to brush my teeth, to get rid of the sticky coffee taste in my mouth. It reminds me of Teresa as we sat side by side, knees bumping, her breath hot against my cheek. Which reminds me of Fran beside
me at the Thanksgiving dinner, laughing together, her bright eyes and easy smile.

I step back into the room. “I’m sorry,” I say, just loud enough that she hears me as she turns off her lamp. “You were right. Absolutely right. Thank you.”

Fran doesn’t say a word, but in the darkness I hear her breath catch.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18

Lessons 12: 17–21

17. For there was evil in that town. 18. And the boy saw the evil and spake thus: “There is evil in this town.” 19. And the people heard him and said, “This we know, but what can we do?” 20. Yet, the boy was undeterred. “We will keep our distance from the evil, and call it by its proper name, that others may be inspired by our example and henceforth follow our lead.” 21. And the people kept their distance, and called the evil “evil,” until finally the evil retreated, and almost ceased to exist at all.

Somewhere east of Flagstaff, Arizona

We hit the road and leave the snow-capped San Francisco Peaks behind us, heading east on I-40. The speed limit is seventy-five miles per hour, so Matt keeps us going at a steady eighty. Going at or below the limit is simply not in his DNA.

We’ve been driving through the orange-brown landscape for about half an hour when I see a sign for the Meteor Crater exit. I’ve actually heard of it—the best-preserved meteor crater in the world. Alex spots the sign as well and flips through her guidebook until she finds the entry.

“The Meteor Crater,” she recites, “was formed approximately fifty thousand years ago. The meteor collision displaced up to four hundred million tons of rock, forming a crater four thousand one hundred feet across, and five hundred and seventy feet deep.”

The exit is only a couple hundred yards away. I’m really looking forward to seeing this.

“Today, visitors can tour the rim, study interactive exhibits, and watch a movie re-creating the meteor’s
path through the earth’s atmosphere.” Alex pauses as the exit signs approaches…

And disappears behind us.

“Uh, Matt, I think you just missed the exit,” I say.

“Oh, come on,” he groans. “It’s got a movie and interactive displays. There’s probably some dude in a meteorite outfit selling hot dogs. Anyway, you should be focused on your interview.”

“What interview?”

Matt turns to Alex. “Didn’t you tell him?”

“Why would
I
tell him? Colin left the message on
your
phone,” she says.

“Tell me what?” I’m practically shouting.

Matt sighs. “You have an interview on the Christian Radio Network at noon.”

“Where’s the station?”

“You’ll do it by phone. They’ll call my cell just before noon.”

“And you were planning to tell me about this when?”

“Chill out. I only got the message this morning.” He pulls out his cell phone and studies the screen. The Hummer drifts into the neighboring lane. “Just be grateful I charged up before we left.”

“Are you sure we’ll get reception?”

“Shoot. I hadn’t thought about that.” He slides the phone into his shorts pocket. “Hey, we’ve still got two
hours to find somewhere with reception,” he says brightly.

As I stare at the wilderness stretching before us, I wonder if we’ll see another town all day.

Continental Divide, New Mexico

Matt insists we’ll see signs for a restaurant or gas station soon—somewhere populated, where cell phone reception and a comfortable chair come standard. But Matt is wrong. He’s been wrong for several miles now, and my interview starts in ten minutes. I’d pray, only I’m coming to the conclusion that Matt acts as a spiritual black hole, extinguishing positive energy. The more I pray, the more powerful he seems to become.

At 11:52 he pulls off at Exit 47, and stops the car by a sign announcing that we’ve reached the Continental Divide, elevation 7,245 feet. The air feels thin, the sun especially strong.

“Here you are,” says Matt, handing me the phone. “And look at that: one whole bar!”

I step away and wait for the call. At 11:56 the phone starts playing “We Will Rock You.” I flip it open.

“Hello. This is Luke.”

“It is?” I can’t decide whether the guy sounds delighted or surprised. “Luke Dorsey?”

“Yes.”

“Coooooool.” The word takes several seconds. “Okay, well, I’m Orkle’s, uh… producer. Orkle’s wrapping up the previous segment, but after a commercial break he’ll get right back to you, ’kay?”

“Um, sure.”

“Great. Now don’t hang up or anything, Luke, ’kay? That’d really screw with his head, and Orkle’s an ornery sonofabitch, if you know what I’m saying.”

“Uh—”

“Yeah. So you just hold tight.”

Twenty yards away Fran is fiddling with the car stereo. Matt and Alex appear to have left for some alone time. Fran leans out the driver’s door and shouts, “What’s the station ID?”

I relay the question, but the producer isn’t answering. Then there’s a faint beeping sound: call waiting, I think. No way I’m taking that. I wouldn’t even know how.

The producer rejoins me. “You still there, Luke?”

“Uh-huh. What’s the station ID, by the way?”

“Oh. Um… ninety-nine-point-three.” Either the reception is terrible, or his voice is flaking out. “You’re still here!” he adds, like he can’t quite believe it.

“Indeed, still here.” I shout out the station ID to Fran, who turns her attention to the stereo.

“Okay, I’m passing you to Orkle on three, two, one—”

I’m deafened by the whine of electric guitar. Then Orkle takes over, his hyperactive spiel dotted with scatological sound effects. It’s the opposite of the Continental Divide’s soundtrack: the gentle hum of the interstate, the ever-present wind, and the occasional shriek of a hawk gliding overhead.

“Iiiiiiiiiiit’s Orkle!” he screams, to a background of clapping that morphs into farting. “And today I have a special guest. A
very
special guest. Welcome to the show, Luke Dorsey.”

“Hi,” I say, still trying to purge the memory of the farting.

“So, you and the legendary Pastor Mike, eh?” says Orkle, sounding eerily similar to his producer. “Kind of a big fish, isn’t he.”

“Yeah, he’s a great guy.”

“Sure is. I read a poll where Midwesterners like your good self were asked which of four adjectives best described him, and sixty-two percent chose
angelic
. What do you think of that?”

“
Angelic?
Really? What were the other adjectives?”

“Damned if I know, Luke, but that’s hardly relevant, is it?”

“Well, I—”

“So where do you stand?” he asks, as if I haven’t spoken. “Is Pastor Mike a direct descendant of the deity?”

“Um, I suppose so… because we’re all children of God.”

“Indeed, we’re all descended from the big guy in the sky. Which leads me to the night of the naughty nookie.”

“The
what
?”

“Sex, Luke. Rumpy-pumpy. Amorous apples. The old heave-ho, the—”

“Oh!”

“Yeah. So are you a spokesman for procrastinating procreators?”

“Sorry?”

“Celibacy, Luke.” He sighs like a teacher forced to explain the same simple question over and over. “Do you advocate the monastic method for today’s motivated minors?”

“Um, if you mean abstinence, then, uh…” Actually, I really don’t care what other kids do, but I’m also fairly certain that the author of
Hallelujah
ought to care, or at least have an answer. And I think I know what that answer should be. “Yes.”

“But research shows that preaching the awful absence of amorous application is ultimately useless.”

“Are we still talking about abstinence?”

“Yeah.”

I’m already exhausted and we’ve only been speaking for a minute. “Well, the weakness of today’s youth should not be taken as an implicit failure of the principle itself,” I say, a line that I may have stolen from someone else, but sounds pretty airtight.

“But it’s not just
today’s
youth. And if the principle, as you put it, is perennially pointless, then perhaps it’s the principle that requires revision.”

“Have you got a better idea?” I try to sound calm—we’re on familiar debate territory here, after all—but actually, I’m annoyed. I wish we could change topics.

“Sure I do. Follow Uncle Orkle. Practice safe sex. Fewer unwanted pregnancies, fewer STDs—”

“In your opinion.”

“No, Luke. In the opinion of numerous professional associations in the fields of medicine, health, psychology… You want me to go on?”

“Hey, if that’s your bandwagon, then so be it. I’ll stick to abstinence.”

“Judging by your author photo, that shouldn’t be too difficult.” He adds another sound effect that I can’t place. “But don’t you have a social duty to educate and enlighten? Or at least to discuss this dangerously detailed data.”

“What data?”

For a beat, the line is silent, and I wonder if we’ve finally lost our connection. But then he’s back. “Let me get this straight. The St. Louis high school debate champion holds an immutable position on teen sex without being aware of most of the evidence.”

It’s not an immutable position; it’s just
a
position—one he’s forced me to take because he refuses to talk about anything else. It’s pretty clear he’s not on Team Luke. Unfortunately, with every passing second it becomes more obvious that he’s got me cornered.