Don't Stop Now

  “Lil?” she starts. Pause.

  “Yeah?” I’m waiting.

  “Don’t tell anyone still, OK?”

  “I haven’t yet, have I?” Doesn’t she get that I already could have? Does she not know who the FBI is?

  “You’re a really good friend,” Penny says.

  Zing. Ouch. Fine.

  I’m completely thrown off by the statement. So thrown that I forget to ask where exactly Ethan’s house is or what his last name is or anything important. By the time I remember all of the things I need to know to complete my quest, Penny mumbles through the end of a bad connection, and the phone goes silent.

  “So I notice you’re not writing down an address or anything. She’s calling you back, right? Or now you’ve got a number you can call her at?” Josh inquires. He grabs the fork out of my hand, at the end of which are the remains of a once-lovely cake, and stuffs the mush into his mouth.

  “She told me I was a really good friend,” I say, staring ahead at the buffet, the cornucopia of foods blurring into a flavored rainbow.

  “Bitch,” Josh chides. “How dare she?”

  “She didn’t even care that the FBI is after me! She just wanted to know if Gavin knew anything.”

  “One-track mind, that kid.” He talks through the cake bits in his mouth.

  “I should call her back now. Get the address.” I find the first number in my recent calls folder and press the call button. The phone doesn’t even ring but goes directly to voicemail. A relaxed, deep voice says, “Hi, this is Ethan. Leave me a message.” Beep.

  “Hey, Ethan, um, this is Lillian Erlich. I’m a friend of Penny’s. She really needs to call me when you get this message. Please? My number is…”

  I close my phone, breathe in deeply through my nose, and then go off. “I can’t wait to get to Portland so I can flick her stupid face and make her talk to the FBI and the cops and her parents!” I’m seething at the audacity of her calling me a good friend. Why couldn’t she just let me be mad at her, at her irresponsibility, her victimhood, her sucking of me into her pathetic world? I take my palm and smash down several tiny desserts on my plate, one at a time like Whac-A-Mole.

  “That looks fun,” Josh enthuses, and we spend the next five minutes trying to avoid each other’s hands as we attempt to smash the rest of the treats. “We’re getting The Look.” Josh nods to a buffet worker giving us the stink eye. “Let’s go.” Josh drops a couple bucks on the table as a cleanup tip, and we step into the warm night air. “What now?” he asks.

  I’m buzzing from the twenty desserts and the conversation with Penny. My quest has turned into a vendetta. All I want to do is get to Portland, find Penny, and tell her what an idiot she is. Then I’ll force her to see that faking her own kidnapping to avoid a complete bastard of a boyfriend—or is it to get his attention? Or her parents’ attention? She’s sure got my attention. Whatever her motivation, it is NOT NORMAL.

  “Do you feel like driving?” I ask Josh. “Maybe all night?”

  “We’ll see how far we can go on sugar and caffeine. We can always sleep in the car. It’s a pretty big backseat.” Josh waggles his eyebrows.

  You should know, I think, but brush it away. No time for those kind of thoughts right now. Don’t stop now, I think, and I’m ready to hit the road.

  I met someone. In Disney World. My age. Really nice. Too nice? Ethan. His name’s Ethan. He makes me laugh. He asks me why I cover my mouth when I smile, and I tell him because I have one tooth that’s crooked. He asks to see and holds my chin. I shouldn’t let him, but I do. And I smile without covering it up.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We peel out of Deadwood with a “Yee ha!” and cross the Wyoming border in a half hour. Still not having crashed from the sugar rush, we shout our state-crossing chant. The view from the Eurosport—the part of it that’s not obscured by the ever-growing collection of bug splat on our windshield—is of never-ending land and sky. Mountains are everywhere, something you just don’t see in the flatlands of Illinois (hence the Wisconsin insult “Flatlanders” to our “Cheeseheads”). The waning moon exposes peaks and crags enough so we know we’re not anywhere near home. I imagine a road on another planet. Maybe Venus. Or Mars. Don’t know. Never paid too much attention in science class when we studied planets in elementary school. I wanted to be interested, because they were so pretty, but they just seemed so far away.

  Speaking of far away, I’m feeling a distance between me and Josh that’s somewhere between the size of Mount Rushmore (which we’ll try to see on our return trip) and the Grand Canyon (which we’ll miss on this trip completely without a mega detour). Josh and I stopped at a gas station just over the state line to fill up, and he picked up several cans of a repulsive energy drink to keep him awake. The chemicals have him spouting off some ridiculous idea for a concept album, but I can barely hear him over the whoosh of the wind. I was hoping this night could turn into our time to talk (again), since we’ve managed to do so little of that even with all of this concentrated time together. But the heat of the day hasn’t cooled down enough, not yet, and the car amplified any and all sun that it connected with. The tornado of air and the drone of Josh lulls me into sleep quickly. It never takes much.

  I am awakened at one point by Josh hollering out the state chant for Montana but fall hard and fast into a deep sleep. Sometime later, I’m awakened by the state cry for Wyoming again, much less boisterous than the last cry, but I’m still zonked. I finally wake on my own to the orange glow of the sunrise splashing through the window. My neck is kinked to the left where it hung all night against the headrest, and there is drool on the seat belt. The air outside is thick with mist, so thick that all I can tell about our surroundings is that (a) they’re not moving, so neither are we, and (b) we’re in a parking lot because I can faintly see other cars nearby and yellow lines on the ground.

  I locate Josh immediately by the snore/snort from the backseat and turn to find him curled up into a childlike ball. I open the door, which I’m happy to see Josh locked in an effort to keep out any hobos or hook-handed maniacs. The air outside is finally cool, and the mist is so thick, it’s wet. I catch a hazy view of a wooden sign, alerting me to our whereabouts: Old Faithful Visitors’ Center in Yellowstone National Park. I remember hearing about Old Faithful as a kid, but it always sounded to me like something out of another era, like Smokey the Bear or the Hoover Dam.

  The visitors’ center has a bathroom, thank god, which I use and attempt to wash off the seat lines that appear to be permanently etched into my face. My red hair still surprises me, although I don’t think it would fool anyone in a lineup. Has the FBI figured it out? Do they know I’m hiding the truth? Do I really need to worry in an area remote enough that I don’t even get cell phone reception? I’m starting to think that the nature in the national parks is a good thing.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket to double-check the reception (or lack thereof) and see the battery is running low. Not warning message low, but less than half. I turn the phone completely off, since all it’s good for right now is its clock and camera.

  Once I’m as preened as one can be in a national park bathroom, I stroll around the visitors’ center and read the story of Old Faithful, named so because its spout of boiling water shoots up so predictably. There are numerous quaint anecdotes about how back in the 1800s, people used the geyser to do laundry, but only for cotton items. It ripped wool to shreds. Odd. I’d think wool would be hardier.

  My mind wanders to the name Old Faithful, and I try to pound some sort of symbol for my quest out of it. Is Penny Old Faithful because at least she’s predictably pathetic and needy and does absurd things, albeit never as previously absurd as faking her own kidnapping? Is Josh Old Faithful because I can always count on him for a laugh, a hug, and a fantastical conversation about a band that will never be? Or am I Old Faithful because I stand by these two, in sickness and in (mental) health, richer or poorer (Josh’s richer to my poorer), grope fest or no? Nothing s
exy about being Old Faithful.

  I move out of the visitors’ center, annoyed at myself for starting a metaphor that I can’t finish. The mist has cleared considerably as the wind picks up, and I see Josh, Old Faithfully Shirtless, stretching his arms outside of the car. “Morning, Sunshine,” he calls, and the few other early morning nature enthusiasts in the lot look to find the sunshine in question. I tip my fake cap to Josh and walk over.

  “What time did we get here?” I ask. Josh starts to dig through the car for a shirt and finds one that reads, fear the badger. “Can you get one for me?” I request. He sifts through the shirts, picks one up, reads it, throws it back down, picks up another, repeat, until he finds one suitable enough for me. It’s red and reads, WISCONSIN IS FOR CHEESE LOVERS.

  “Around five,” he tells me, as I discreetly lean into the car and pull off my old shirt to slip into the new one. I hope Josh watches. He doesn’t. “What time is it now?”

  “I don’t know. I turned off my phone to save batteries. Must be after eight, though, because that’s what time the visitors’ center opens.”

  “Gotta drain the snake,” Josh declares, and with his toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, he heads for the visitors’ center bathroom. I check my own breath (not pleasant) and opt for a piece of sugarless mint gum. I hate brushing my teeth in a public sink. Spitting. Blow-drying my face when there are no paper towels.

  Josh makes it back to the car in less time than it would take me to squat and flush, and inhales his newly minty freshness through the sides of his teeth. “Want to check out ye Ol’ Faithful?” Josh asks. I laugh, and he presents his hand for me to hold. We walk together in this familiar, misleading manner to a sort of observation pier that looks over a barren area with a steamy hole in the ground. Surrounding the desolation is a never-ending forest of pine trees. Or maybe they’re firs. Or maybe firs are pine trees. An old couple, wrinkly and hunched, stand nearby in matching yellow raincoats. The man leans on a cane, and the woman smiles at us. “Such a lovely young couple,” she creaks.

  “Thank you.” Josh bows proudly. My old faithful friend. Friend friend friend. Blah. My grump is short lived when a loud eruption makes me jump. Out of the steamy hole shoots the geyser, over a hundred feet into the air, like a supersize fireman’s hose. It sprays for half a minute, and I become unimpressed. It’s just hot water ejaculating from a hole in the ground. I don’t get it. I think it reads my thoughts because the wind shifts and the tower of water starts to lean the opposite way toward the pier. The elder couple pull up their hoods, and a few seconds later we’re showered with a spray of warm water. The geyser itself is still erect (Erect? Ejaculates? Where is my head?), but the wind has made it clear that nature is to be marveled at, and we are merely puny humans next to this unstoppable, faithful force.

  Just because something’s faithful doesn’t mean it’s predictable.

  I was so happy. For a week and a day. But now my cheek hurts and my stomach hurts, and I need to get to the store to buy a new foundation to match my tan and cover up my cheek. If only I had just waited until Gavin came over to give him his souvenir coconut patties. If only I hadn’t gone to his house and saw him and his dad fighting. If only I didn’t see his dad punch him in the stomach. If only I hadn’t been there as his getaway car. If only I’d been the one to get away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Back on the road, I sit in the middle seat as we cruise the required low speed limit through Yellowstone. The radio is off, and the slowness means wind can’t overpower our speech.

  Josh starts, “So I had this idea while I was driving last night….” My interest peaked, I’m certain he’s about to finally reveal his undying devotion to me. Or at least that he’d like to make out some time. But instead he says, “Tambourines, man. Gotta get some tambourines.” Logically.

  In the past, Old Faithful would let Josh drone on about the fascinating subject of the tambourine, its origin, famous tambourinists throughout history, the different sound qualities among particular brands, but maybe I feel like talking today. So I interrupt. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about school lately.”

  Josh is quiet for a minute. “Oh?” he finally asks, in a tone that’s not angry, but definitely perturbed.

  “Yeah. All of this driving and nature, it’s making me think a lot about writing versus film. You know, the written word versus visual expression. I don’t know how I’ll pick my major.”

  “Yeah,” is all Josh can say, so I continue.

  “Winthorp is supposed to have both great creative-writing and film teachers, so I’m hoping I’ll just know once I meet them, you know? Kismet, and all that?”

  “Sure.” Josh looks out his window. I can’t tell if he’s even listening, so I try to make the conversation a little more interactive (more interactive than already ending each sentence with a question). “So, if you ever do go to college, do you think you’ll major in music?”

  “What?” Josh springs to indignant life. “Hell, no. I’m not going to college. Any creativity you have just gets sucked out by the bureaucratic machine,” he tells me. “The only way to make real music is to live real life.” He speaks as though it’s the gospel, as if of course I’m thinking the same thing. Which I’m not.

  “Right. Because actually learning how to play an instrument correctly would do so much damage to your music. God forbid you try at something instead of just talking about it.” I know it’s hitting below the belt, but he completely insulted me and my bureaucratic machine.

  “I don’t just talk about music. I create it,” Josh says defensively.

  “In your dad’s basement. And rarely does it escape those wood-paneled walls.” I continue my attack, setting aside the fact that I actually believe in Josh and his bizarre music. But how can he dismiss my future when all I’ve done is support his?

  “I thought you liked my music.” He practically pouts.

  “Did you even hear what you said before? You totally crapped on my life.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he says, shocked.

  “Um, creativity getting sucked out? Bureaucracy and all that? I’m going to college. And I believe that it’s going to help me creatively, not stifle me just because I might be learning something along the way.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean you.” We’re still crawling along at the speed limit, when someone in an SUV zooms around us on a single lane, no passing road. Josh jams his middle finger up high out the window. “What a dick!” He turns to me to watch me agree. And I do.

  “Yeah, what a dick.” I scowl and continue where I left off, “You know, Josh, it seems like there are a whole lot of things you think don’t apply to me. Like, everyone who goes to college is a drone, except me. And every girl is worth flirting with, except me. And holding hands means something to everyone else in the world, except us. I thought I did, but I don’t get you at all.”

  Josh sighs loudly, not angrily but thoughtfully, pauses, and pulls the car into a scenic view spot. Out the Euro-sport window is an open prairie surrounded by the backdrop of evergreens (Pines? Oh, shut up!). Josh shuts off the engine, unclicks his seat belt, and turns toward me. “Lil, don’t you like holding hands with me?”

  “You know I do, Josh. You’ve always known. And I think that kiss from the other day should more than tell you the answer.” I look down at my hands and pick at a cuticle. Josh rests his hand on top of mine, and I stop.

  “Well, I like holding hands with you, too. That’s why I do it. Your hands aren’t clammy or hot or icy-dead feeling. They’re always so smooth and comfy.” Great. I have smooth, comfy hands. Maybe I should go into hand modeling instead of writing. “And I liked kissing you, too, if you didn’t notice. I mean, I kissed you back, didn’t I?” Oh. “It’s just”—and here comes the but—“like I said before: I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

  “That’s cliché and a cop-out, and you know it. Why would adding something good take away from what we have?” I look up at his melty brown eyes. They look back at m
e defeated.

  “Have you ever known me to have a good relationship with a girl after we hook up?”

  “Well, no, but if you did, then we wouldn’t be hanging out now. It just takes one good one to stick.”

  “Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s me.”

  “You are so full of clichés today. How could it be you if you’re always dumping them? Are you saying that maybe you have a compulsive dumping habit? Should we call Dumpers Anonymous?”

  “Yeah, well, about that. I don’t think Dumpers Anonymous would take me, since I’ve never actually technically dumped a girl,” Josh mumbles.

  “Wait—what? Really? How?” I’m shocked. Josh has had double, maybe triple digits’ worth of girlfriends, or at least hookups, since I’ve known him, and he never once did the breaking up?

  “Truth?” he asks, looking at me sincerely.

  “Truth.” I nod.

  “I think I bored them to the point of dumpage. The initial me”—he waves his hands over himself, acknowledging his undeniable beauty—“gets the girl no problem. But after the hands-on exhibit and we start talking, they just don’t want to hear about my music and stuff.” While I guess I could kind of empathize with the girls, Josh’s passion for his music more than makes up for the actual content. At least most of the time. And the combination of the physical with the musical devotion?

  “They’re idiots,” I assure him. “Maybe they didn’t want to hear you talk.” I try to lighten it up. “Maybe they were using you for your body. It is in rather usable condition.”

  “True.” He perks up a bit. “So is yours, you know,” he adds with a cornered smile. I blush.

  “You think so?” I ask, looking down at his hand still on mine.

  “Most definitely,” he says, in an intonation I have only heard reserved for waitresses and cashiers. I look up again, expecting something, but not at all what I see. Behind Josh through the window is an enormous beast. “Oh my god!” I jump and Josh turns around to see a two-thousand-pound male bison peering into our window. His head is half the size of the Eurosport, his eyes BB-pellet black and glassy. He breathes in snorting bursts through his nose, and he’s close enough that he causes the still air in the car to circulate. Frozen, I stare at the nappy brown fur on his back. Is it soft? I manage to wonder. Would he maul me if I touched him? We stare at each other, frozen for minutes, when finally a red pickup truck pulls up and two very large women with cameras get out and call to the bison in Southern accents. He barely manages to lumber toward them, and I whisper-yell to Josh, “Start the car. Go!” And he does.