As soon as there’s a break, Andy ushers me away. The photographers who have been held back dart forward, but Andy blocks them well. When we get to his office he pushes me inside, shuts the door, and remains outside like my personal bodyguard.
I lock the door. I need a moment alone. Several moments, actually. Maybe a day or two—just long enough for the press to get bored and move on.
“What are you doing?”
I spin around. Fran is sitting cross-legged against a wall, reading Hallelujah.
“I didn’t know you were in here,” I say.
“Well, that’s a relief. Be kind of weird for you to lock me in otherwise, wouldn’t it?”
“No weirder than what just happened in there.” I point my thumb in the direction of the church.
“True.” She laughs. “Heck, if I’d known services had gotten so exciting, I might have come back before now.”
“Hmm. I think you bring your own excitement. You cast the first stone, remember?”
She closes the book. “I thought you needed some help.”
“I did. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“No problem. Felt good, actually. I’ve been wanting to throw something at you all year.”
An uncomfortable silence follows her remark, which makes the noise in the corridor seem even louder. Maybe the reporters are planning to riot too. Heck, why wouldn’t they? Everyone else is.
I cross the room and sit beside Fran. She shuffles slightly like she’s about to pull away, but then stays put. She places Hallelujah on the floor between us.
“Andy told me you critiqued it,” I say. “The first part, anyway. I’m sorry you ever saw the second part.”
She keeps her eyes trained on the book. “Why? It’s how you felt, right?”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t thinking straight. When you didn’t come to the retreat, I got upset. I figured it was because you’d changed your mind about how you felt about me.”
She snorts. “No, you didn’t. Come on, Luke. No more lies, okay?” Finally, she turns to face me. “I saw the way you looked at me that day. You were horrified. Couldn’t turn away fast enough.”
“I was surprised.”
“So?”
“So I needed time to get my head around it.”
“Around what? We were different—remember? We could look beyond the surface. We refused to judge by appearances. But then you turned away from me. From me.” She takes a deep breath. “If you couldn’t face me, then who the heck could, huh? Who?”
I know she’s right, so I say sorry again. I’ve used that word so much today, I’m afraid it doesn’t mean anything anymore, but it’s all I have left.
“Hey, you want to get out of here?” she asks.
“Sure. If you can convince the reporters to leave, I’ll be right behind you.”
She tsks. “Where’s your imagination?” She walks over to the window, unlocks it, and pushes it open. Before I can ask what she’s doing, she’s halfway out. “You coming?”
When I reach the window, she has already jumped. I want to follow her, but the drop to the ground is at least six feet.
Fran rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch you,” she teases.
I slide my legs over the windowsill. It’s so much quieter outside, and my heartbeat slows down just a little.
“Hey!” A guy leaning against a TV van points a finger at me. “There he is!”
I push off and hit the ground, but a battalion of reporters is already converging on me. My instinct is to run.
Fran seems to know it too, and grabs my arm. “You’re not thinking of leaving without me, are you?” she asks.
Within seconds a dozen microphones are shoved in my face, questions fired so quickly I don’t understand a single word. We begin walking briskly, and the photographers surround us.
“A hundred years ago, we’d have had a chaperone,” says Fran airily. “Now we get thirty paparazzi instead.” She puffs out her cheeks. “My, how times have changed!”
“You can say that again.”
The photographers jostle for position. I can practically feel their breath on my neck. I’m about to turn around when Fran locks arms with me and keeps me facing forward. “Don’t,” she whispers. “It’s not worth it.”
I wasn’t going to say anything, actually; but she doesn’t know that, and I’m amazed that her instinct is still to protect me. So I keep walking, eyes fixed on a distant chimneystack.
“I’m proud of what you did today,” she says, breaking the silence. “Going in there. Facing them.”
“You were right: It was something I needed to do.”
“Yeah, but that didn’t make it any easier. A week ago you never would’ve had the courage.”
Is this conversation being played out for the reporters, or for us? I wish I knew.
“Speaking of difficult,” she continues, “some of what people said to you in the signing line… it isn’t true, you know.”
“Yeah. But some of it is.” A microphone bumps my left ear. I ought to feel angry, but I don’t. I feel almost nothing at all but her skin against mine. If only our arms weren’t so stiff and awkward.
“Okay, some of it was true,” she concedes. “And I guess a few people have a right to gripe. Like your publisher, for instance.” She leans closer, as if she’s sharing something confidential. “You weren’t thinking of writing a sequel, were you?”
I actually laugh. “What? And go on tour again?”
Fran chuckles too, and releases my arm. I’m glad; I couldn’t have walked another block like that. But then she squeezes my hand, and her fingers brush my palm. It feels so natural. It takes me back to a better place, a place without paparazzi and rejection and failure.
I squeeze her hand back, and she lets me. So I try to twine my fingers with hers. This time she pulls her hand away.
“No,” she whispers. “I’m not trying to…” Her voice trails off. “We’re friends now, okay? That’s what I want.… All I want.”
For a moment I feel the full force of her words. Even though it’s what I deserve, it hurts—it really hurts—and my mind fast-forwards to tomorrow’s newspaper headlines, the ones that confirm my rejection in print: Dorsey dissed!… Pilgrim punked!… Hellacious ending for Hallelujah boy!
Then my mind clears and I realize that’s okay too. Because as I feel Fran there beside me—partner in my walk of shame; my guide to a future full of hope and forgiveness—I know that simply being friends is a priceless gift. Life without her felt empty; life with her feels full. And somewhere between yesterday and today, I’ve learned to value whatever I can get.
We break into a sprint at exactly the same moment, reading each other’s minds.
Acknowledgments
Thanks…
To Audrey and Clare—my go-to readers. I’m so fortunate to have you on my side.
To the many booksellers who have worked diligently to get my novels into readers’ hands. A special shout-out to the St. Louisans who’ve kept me so busy: Melissa Posten and Nikki Furrer at Pudd’nHead Books; Vicki Erwin at Main Street Books; Danielle Borsch and Sarah Pritchard at Left Bank Books; and Deborah Horn at the Fenton Barnes & Noble.
To the librarians of St. Louis Public Library, especially the Schlafly Branch; and to Patty Carleton, Director of Youth Services. And a tip of the cap to all librarians—I’ve come to know firsthand the enormous contributions you make to schools and communities.
To the baristas at Kayak’s and the Central West End Pi, for feeding my caffeine addiction. This book was written faster because of you.
To the Route 66 fanatics who’ve documented every inch of the Mother Road in words, pictures, books, and blog posts. There are too many of you to name, but you sure made it easier to write this book.
To the Dial team: Heather Alexander; Scottie Bowditch; Regina Castillo; Kathy Dawson; Lauri Hornik; Jasmin Rubero; Greg Stadnyk.
To my agent, Ted Malawer, and editor, Liz Waniewski—the dedication says it all.
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Antony John, Thou Shalt Not Road Trip
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