Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (19 page)

“Why not? You still wrote it.”

“Did I? Sure, I wrote the first version, but then I gave it to Andy and he suggested a gazillion changes—all of which I made. And then my editor made more, and my copyeditor corrected all the little mistakes, and by the time it came out, it wasn’t anything like the book I wrote.”

“So?”

“So—it’s like the teachers did my homework, and now everyone’s congratulating me for getting an A on a topic I know nothing about.”

She laughs, and knocks her feet against mine playfully. “It’s not like that at all. Anyway, Andy’s suggestions were so small: Change this word, cut this section, explain something better.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he showed me your first draft. Let me read it too.” She watches my reaction. “We’ve stayed in touch, Andy and me.”

I can’t believe she read it. I wish she hadn’t. Why did Andy even show it to her? Surely he realized how much it had to do with her? And what did
she make of the sudden change in tone in the second part, when I couldn’t crack a smile, let alone a joke? Did she know she was the cause of it?

“Look, you want to go for a walk?” she asks. “It’s why you came out here, right?”

She jumps off the wall, and holds out her hand as though I might need help. Her hair falls across her face, giving her an air of mystery. In the dark I can’t tell that it’s purple at all.

I take her hand and jump down. There’s almost no space between us. I figure she’ll let go of my hand now, but she doesn’t.

We wander around the back of the hotel, where a security light casts an amber glow across a bank of grass no bigger than a tennis court. Beyond it, I can see the outline of a pond.

We stop walking—both of us, at the same time. I’m not sure what has led to this understanding that we’ve already reached our destination, but barely a second passes before Fran reaches across and takes my other hand in hers. I stare into her wide eyes. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, I lean forward and kiss her.

With our lips gently touching, the stress of the evening melts away. I can’t imagine what a crisis of faith might be. It’s like I’ve been transported back in time, and I’m standing beside her after the debate
competition. I’m in paradise again, and when my lips begin to open, it’s the other Luke making it happen.

Fran pulls back a few inches, enough to break the spell. Our hands loosen.

I turn away from the light, ashamed at myself. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For doing that.”

“Why? I want to kiss you too. I just need a moment, that’s all.” She looks at her nails. In the light I can see she’s been picking at them again, and the polish is speckled and ugly. She’s hiding behind her hair too, unmistakably purple now. “Hey, lighten up, okay? It’s just a kiss.”

“Yeah, I know. No big deal, right?”

She stares at me with eyes full of hurt. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

Oh crap. She’s going to leave now—I just know it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Now she looks confused. “So why did you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not good enough. Try harder.”

“Okay, it’s… it’s because I’m afraid you’re going to break my heart.”

“Oh.” She raises her eyebrows. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re
Fran
.” I take a couple deep breaths. “Under it all… you’re still Fran.”

I expect her to ask me what the heck
that
means too, but she just waits.

“I was ten years old the first time you came to church,” I tell her. “I remember the date, and the weather, and the dress you wore. And for the next five years, I never heard a word of Andy’s sermon because I was too busy thinking about you. When your mom told me you were going to join the debate team, I got to school early and said I wanted in. I knew I’d never have the guts to sign up if you joined before me—you know, in case everyone guessed why I was really doing it. You were so out of my league. So popular. Outside the church crowd, no one even knew who I was.”

“They do now.”

“Yeah, because they think it’s cool that I have a book. Before that, I wasn’t even friends with the church crowd—not really. They were your friends, not mine. You just shared them with me.”

“Not this year, I didn’t.” She shoves her hands in her pockets. “What’s your point, Luke?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like everything’s changed. Like, I don’t even know why I go to church anymore. I pray to God all the time, but it’s just a habit. I watch the younger kids getting excited, so I pretend
to be excited too, but it’s an act. When I look around me, I see this big, happy club. I want to be part of it, but I’m not. It’s like my membership expired a year ago.”

“When I changed.”

“Yeah.”

I sit cross-legged on the grass; not because I’m tired, but because I’m afraid I’ll run away if I don’t. Fran joins me, pulling at the grass beside her.

“I liked you so much the way you were, Fran. Loved you, even. I’ve spent this whole year hating that you changed.”

“Only on the outside. If you’d talked to me, you’d have known that.”

“But the outside was part of what I loved. Maybe that’s wrong, but it’s the way I felt. And just now, when I kissed you, I closed my eyes and pictured you the way you used to be.”

“If this is supposed to be an apology, it’s not going well.”

“I know. I’m just trying to tell the truth for once. When I think of you that way, I still feel like I’m not good enough for you.” I bite my lip. “So I push you away first, say dumb things, just trying to put off that moment.”

I can’t believe I just said that. I guess I’m not the only one either; Fran stares at the pond, head nodding
gently. “That’s the most honest you’ve ever been,” she says finally.

“Yeah. It is.”

“You’ve been so weird all year. I’d see you at school, and you just looked pissed the whole time. I thought when the book came out you’d be happy, but you weren’t. But now you’re finding yourself again, I think.”

“Doesn’t excuse me for being an idiot.”

She leans across and kisses me on the lips, just once. “Thank you for admitting that,” she says. “So, come on. Since we’re having this heart-to-heart, you got anything else you need to confess?”

“Well, I may have told someone at the signing that you’re my cousin.”

“Your
what
?”

“Yeah, and—”

“What do you mean
and
? There’s more?”

“Yeah. Somehow people have the impression you’re along for the ride because I’m trying to, uh, help you.”

I can tell she was steeling herself not to react, but she flinches anyway.

“I’m sorry, Fran! I know it’s wrong. Please forgive me.”

“It’s a lie, Luke! Forget about offending me. You
lied
. Is it really that easy for you?”

Actually, it
was
really easy. And it shouldn’t have been.

Fran doesn’t allow the silence to linger. She’s probably no more eager to hear the truth than I am to tell it. “Well,” she says, “if we’re cousins, I guess we can forget about making out in future.”

“Huh?”

“It wouldn’t be right,” she insists. “The thought of kissing my cousin grosses me out. So no more of this”—she takes my hand and brings it to her lips, kisses it gently—“or this”—she turns my hand over and brushes her lips across my palm—“and absolutely none of this”—her lips glide along my index finger. When she reaches my fingertip, she opens her mouth and places it inside, runs her tongue around it.

It’s so intense, so beautiful I can barely stand it.

She sits back suddenly, her face a giant question mark. “Unless, you know… we’re not really cousins at all.”

I swallow hard. “Does that mean we’re…”

“What do you think?”

She puts my index finger in her mouth again and peers up at me with those irresistible eyes.

“I-I don’t know.” My voice sounds odd, breathy and unreliable. “I guess I’d kind of like it if, well… you know.”

She returns my finger with a butterfly kiss.

“I think it means whatever we want it to mean, Luke. And I think we both want it to mean the same thing.”

I could agree with her, but my hand is already reaching behind her head and pulling her toward me. And as we fall onto the ground and I feel her body beneath me, I realize there’s nothing more to say.

SATURDAY, JUNE 21

Realizations 4: 22–25

22. That was the night the boy gave up, and wept cruel tears, and gnashed his teeth, and pounded his fists, and did lots of other things that signified the extraordinary degree to which he was giving up. 23. And, yea, it was not merely because of the heat—though the desert was hot—or the dryness—though the desert was dry—or the insects (well, actually the insects were a pretty big deal)—but because in his heart he felt abandoned. 24. But as a mirage holds the promise of water, so his dreams assured him that he had not been abandoned. 25. And when, finally, he emerged, he recognized at last the presence that had been within him all along. And it filled him with joy.

Behind the Hotel Okie, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

The sun is already rising when I wake up. Fran is folded into me, her purple hair draped across my arm. My entire left side has cramped up from being on the hard ground, but I don’t move a muscle. If I wake Fran, she might leave. At this moment nothing in the world is more important than being beside her.

I can see our campsite at last. It’s a regular dumping ground—entire trash bags tossed into the tall, brown grass. Even the pond is inky, and the stench of waste wafts up on the morning breeze. The whole place is a pit, and yet, as I turn my attention to Fran, I realize that it’s just as romantic now as it was before. With Fran beside me, everywhere becomes Eden.

“You planning to wake me anytime soon?” she asks, eyes still closed. She’s been reading my thoughts again.

“Uh-uh.”

A smile blossoms on her face. “So no more kissing for you, huh?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She opens her eyes, takes in the sunrise. “Today is June twenty-first. Summer solstice.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is.”

She shifts position so that her head rests on my outstretched arm. “This event—this sunrise—was a holy time for ancient civilizations. It was a time for worshipping the earth, and getting married, and celebrating the plants and crops. I get it too. It makes sense to me.”

I pull her close. “Do you ever find yourself wishing our faith had moments as…
definitive
as this?” I ask. “Something you can feel and see. Something so obviously real.”

Fran tilts her head toward me, a serious expression on her face. “Yesterday, I did. But today I woke up next to you. If that isn’t a miracle, I don’t know what is.”

The sun is already above the horizon, a reminder that just as the solstice is temporary, so our time here is fleeting too. Which is why I kiss her, knowing I’ll never forget this moment as long as I live.

Parking lot, Hotel Okie, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Matt is standing beside the Hummer. “I’ve already put your bags in,” he says without looking at us.

Alex arrives bearing doughnuts and coffee. She hands one to each of us. She even remembered that my favorites are jelly-filled.

“This is cream-filled,” says Matt, spitting out a hunk of doughnut.

“I thought you liked them,” she replies, her face a picture of innocence.

Matt pops the half-eaten doughnut back in the bag and climbs into the driver’s seat. “Bus leaves in twenty seconds. You snooze, you lose.”

“Excellent use of a tired cliché,” says Alex, reaching for the back door handle at the same time as me. “No, Luke. You ride shotgun today.”

“Actually I’d prefer to—”

“Just get in the front seat!”

I do as I’m told, but it doesn’t feel right. I haven’t even finished adjusting the seat before I’m aware of
the emptiness of not having Fran beside me. I lower the sun visor and adjust it so I can glimpse her in the mirror, but it’s not enough. I close my eyes and picture her lying beside me, the gentle smile teasing her lips, the delicate curve of her body.

“Stop groaning, dude,” says Matt.

“What?”

“I’m just saying: A sound like that shouldn’t be public.”

Fran reaches around the seat to hug me. “Something on your mind?” she whispers. “Maybe some
one
?” She laughs softly, which sends a rush of air that jolts every fiber of my body. She leans closer, so that her lips brush my left ear. “Dream on, Luke Dorsey. Just make sure it’s about me.”

I’m bright red now, but since she said it’s okay, I close my eyes again and dream sweet dreams as the purring engine lulls me to sleep.

Route 66, somewhere in Oklahoma (I think)

I’m woken by a crash of thunder. Drool dribbles down my chin. I turn to face Fran, see the same bleary-eyed
expression on her face that I know must be on mine. We smile guiltily, mirror images of each other, impossibly in tune.

Fran opens her window just enough to squeeze her hand through, and I do the same. Rain lashes down, cool and refreshing, but I never take my eyes off Fran. I can’t. She’s a vision of open smile, high cheekbones, delicately arched eyebrows, and feather-soft hair. Nothing exists but her and the rain running down my hand and along my arm.

“I love the rain,” I say finally.

Fran beams. “It feels so fresh, so cleansing.”

“Praise be!” cries Alex. “Oklahoma’s getting an enema!”

Having shattered the mood, Alex flounces back against her seat and stares blankly out the window. Fran blows me a kiss, and I know it’s my cue to turn around, to hide what we’re really feeling—what we’ve become.

“Where are we?” I ask no one in particular.

Matt grunts. “Don’t know. Somewhere past Tulsa.”

“Do you know where we are, Alex?”

“No, Luke. How the hell would I?”

I gulp. “I don’t know. I thought maybe it says something in your guidebook.”