Amy & Roger’s Epic Detour
Amy &Roger’s Epic Detour
Morgan Matson
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales
are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the
author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Morgan Matson
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or
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Book design by Krista Vossen
The text for this book is set in Fournier.
Sunflower photo on page 183 copyright © 2010 by iStockphoto.com
Elvis impersonator photo on page 280 copyright © 2010 by iStockphoto.com
Manufactured in the United States of America 2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Matson, Morgan.
Amy & Roger’s epic detour / Morgan Matson.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: After the death of her father, Amy, a high school student and
Roger, a college freshman, set out on a carefully planned road trip from
California to Connecticut, but wind up taking many detours, forcing Amy
to face her worst fears and come to terms with her grief and guilt.
ISBN 978-1-4169-9065-9 (hardcover)
[1. Automobile travel—Fiction. 2. Guilt—Fiction. 3. Grief—Fiction.
4. Death—Fiction. 5. Fathers—Fiction. 6. Interpersonal
relations—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Amy and Roger’s epic detour.
PZ7.M43151Am 2010
[Fic]—dc22
2009049988
ISBN 978-1-4391-5749-7 (eBook)
For my father
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I owe huge and heartfelt thanks to Alexandra Cooper, every writer’s dream editor. Thank you so much for your editorial brilliance, patience, kindness, and humor. I couldn’t have taken this journey without you.
Thank you to Rosemary Stimola, agent extraordinaire and source of endless wisdom.
Many, many thanks and much gratitude to everyone at Simon & Schuster for going so far above and so far beyond. Thanks especially to Justin Chanda, Lizzy Bromley, Krista Vossen, and Julia Maguire.
This book, in its infancy, began at the New School’s MFA program. I owe huge thanks and dozens of cupcakes to the faculty and my fellow students for their invaluable input: David Levithan, Tor Seidler, Sarah Weeks, Amalia Ellison, Lucas Klauss, Maude Bond, Lisa Preziosi, Zach Miller, and Reinhardt Suarez.
Thanks to my mother, Jane Finn, for all her support and encouragement—and for driving across the country with me in a ’98 Volkswagen Cabrio. Twice.
Jenny Han and Siobhan Vivian—thank you for being my writing buddies in coffee shops all over Brooklyn, and for helping me to find words when I thought I was out of them. Also, for sharing your pastries.
Thanks to Jason Matson, Lola and Jesse Meyers, Laura Martin, Naomi Cutner, and Kate Stayman-London.
And above all, thanks to Amalia Ellison, my best friend. Without you, this book—and so much else—would never have been possible.
RAVEN ROCK HIGH SCHOOL
Raven Rock, CA
FINAL REPORT CARD
Student
AMELIA E. CURRY
JUNIOR/500 TRACK
Class
Final Grade
American Literature
A
American History
A
Chemistry
B-
French
B+
Physical Education
B
Honors Theater
A
Notes
This student’s academic record will be transferred to STANWICH HIGH SCHOOL, Stanwich, Connecticut. Student will be matriculating as a senior in the fall.
Absences
1—Excused (A)
5—Excused (D)
Excused Absences
A Illness
B School-Sponsored Event
C Vacation
D Bereavement
E Other
FROM: Hildy Evans ([email protected])
TO: Amy Curry ([email protected])
SUBJECT: Will be showing house at 4
DATE: June 1
TIME: 10:34 a.m.
Hi, Amy!
Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be showing the house to some prospective buyers today at four. Just wanted to make sure that you were aware of the time, so you could make arrangements to be elsewhere. As we’ve discussed before, we really want people to be able to imagine this as their HOME. And that’s easier when it’s just the family and me going through the house!
Also, I understand you’re going to be joining your mother in Connecticut soon! You can feel free to lock up when you go—I have my copy of the keys.
Thanks bunches!
Hildy
FROM: Mom ([email protected])
TO: Amy ([email protected])
SUBJECT: The Trip
DATE: June 3
TIME: 9:22 a.m.
ATTACHMENT : TRIP ROUTE
Hi, Amy,
Greetings from Connecticut! I was glad to hear that your finals went well. Also glad to hear that Candide was a success. I’m sure you were great, as usual—I just wish I could have been there!
Can’t believe it’s been a month since I’ve seen you! Feels like much longer. I hope you’ve been on your best behavior with your aunt. It was very nice of her to check in on you, so I hope you thanked her.
I’m sure all will go well on the drive. I’ll expect you and Roger no later than the tenth, according to the itinerary I’ve mapped out for you (attached). You have reservations at the hotels listed. Pay for them, meals, and gas with your emergency credit card.
And please be safe! AAA information is in the glove compartment in case of emergencies.
I know you send your brother your love. He e-mailed me—he says hi. You can’t call at his facility, but he can check e-mail. It might be nice for you to write him one of these days.
Mom
TRIP ROUTE
Start: Raven Rock, California
First Night: Gallup, New Mexico
Second Night: Tulsa, Oklahoma
Third Night: Terre Haute, Indiana
Fourth Night: Akron, Ohio
End: Stanwich, Connecticut
I will then drive Roger to his father’s house in Philadelphia. Please drive safe!
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
1 Miss California
Eureka [I have found it]
But I think it only fair to warn you, all those songs about California lied.
California is a garden of Eden, a paradise to live in or see. But believe it or not, you won’t find it so hot, i
f you ain’t got the do-re-mi.
You ain’t never caught a rabbit, and you ain’t no friend of mine.
I’d like to dream my troubles all away on a bed of California stars.
You’ll be missed, Miss California.
2 The Loneliest Road in America
Long-distance information, give me Memphis, Tennessee.
She’s gonna make a stop in Nevada.
We’re on the road to nowhere. Come on inside.
Yesterday, when you were young . . .
A love-struck Romeo sings a streetsuss serenade.
3 Colorado Springs Eternal
There’s no surf in Colorado.
And you’re doing fine in Colorado.
Mistakes become regrets.
Have you ever been down to Colorado? I spend a lot of time there in my mind.
Those memories so steeped in yesterday. Those memories you couldn’t run away.
4 Through Adversity to the Stars
I’ve reached the point of know return.
There’s no place like home.
Where they love me, where they know me, where they show me, back in Missouri.
I called your line too many times.
I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill.
We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home.
5 How to Decapitate a Moose
You’d better go on home, Kentucky gambler.
I said, blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shining.
She met a boy up in Kentucky.
6 Life Savers
We both will be received in Graceland.
Well they’ve been so long on Lonely Street they ain’t ever going to look back.
I took a trip while I was gone. I cashed in all my savings and bought an El Dorado, drove to Tennessee.
I was on your porch last night.
While I Breathe, I Hope.
I’ll be right here with you, come what may.
If you don’t mind, North Carolina is where I want to be.
Country roads, take me home to the place I belong.
Maybe this time with all this much to lose and all this much to gain: Pennsylvania, Maryland, the world.
Behind closed doors . . .
You’ve Got a Friend in Pennsylvania.
Good-bye, so long, farewell . . .
Into the woods, then out of the woods, and home before dark.
1
Miss California
Eureka [I have found it]
—California state motto
I sat on the front steps of my house and watched the beige Subaru station wagon swing too quickly around the cul-de-sac. This was a rookie mistake, one made by countless FedEx guys. There were only three houses on Raven Crescent, and most people had reached the end before they’d realized it. Charlie’s stoner friends had never remembered and would always just swing around the circle again before pulling into our driveway. Rather than using this technique, the Subaru stopped, brake lights flashing red, then white as it backed around the circle and stopped in front of the house. Our driveway was short enough that I could read the car’s bumper stickers: MY SON WAS RANDOLPH HALL’S STUDENT OF THE MONTH and MY KID AND MY $$$ GO TO COLORADO COLLEGE. There were two people in the car talking, doing the awkward car-conversation thing where you still have seat belts on, so you can’t fully turn and face the other person.
Halfway up the now overgrown lawn was the sign that had been there for the last three months, the inanimate object I’d grown to hate with a depth of feeling that worried me sometimes. It was a Realtor’s sign, featuring a picture of a smiling, overly hairsprayed blond woman. FOR SALE, the sign read, and then in bigger letters underneath that, WELCOME HOME.
I had puzzled over the capitalization ever since the sign went up and still hadn’t come up with an explanation. All I could determine was that it must have been a nice thing to see if it was a house you were thinking about moving into. But not so nice if it was the house you were moving out from. I could practically hear Mr. Collins, who had taught my fifth-grade English class and was still the most intimidating teacher I’d ever had, yelling at me. “Amy Curry,” I could still hear him intoning, “never end a sentence with a preposition!” Irked that after six years he was still mentally correcting me, I told the Mr. Collins in my head to off fuck.
I had never thought I’d see a Realtor’s sign on our lawn. Until three months ago, my life had seemed boringly settled. We lived in Raven Rock, a suburb of Los Angeles, where my parents were both professors at College of the West, a small school that was a ten-minute drive from our house. It was close enough for an easy commute, but far enough away that you couldn’t hear the frat party noise on Saturday nights. My father taught history (The Civil War and Reconstruction), my mother English literature (Modernism).
My twin brother, Charlie—three minutes younger—had gotten a perfect verbal score on his PSAT and had just barely escaped a possession charge when he’d managed to convince the cop who’d busted him that the ounce of pot in his backpack was, in fact, a rare California herb blend known as Humboldt, and that he was actually an apprentice at the Pasadena Culinary Institute.
I had just started to get leads in the plays at our high school and had made out three times with Michael Young, college freshman, major undecided. Things weren’t perfect—my BFF, Julia Andersen, had moved to Florida in January—but in retrospect, I could see that they had actually been pretty wonderful. I just hadn’t realized it at the time. I’d always assumed things would stay pretty much the same.
I looked out at the strange Subaru and the strangers inside still talking and thought, not for the first time, what an idiot I’d been. And there was a piece of me—one that never seemed to appear until it was late and I was maybe finally about to get some sleep—that wondered if I’d somehow caused it all, by simply counting on the fact that things wouldn’t change. In addition, of course, to all the other ways I’d caused it.
My mother decided to put the house on the market almost immediately after the accident. Charlie and I hadn’t been consulted, just informed. Not that it would have done any good at that point to ask Charlie anyway. Since it happened, he had been almost constantly high. People at the funeral had murmured sympathetic things when they’d seen him, assuming that his bloodshot eyes were a result of crying. But apparently, these people had no olfactory senses, as anyone downwind of Charlie could smell the real reason. He’d had been partying on a semiregular basis since seventh grade, but had gotten more into it this past year. And after the accident happened, it got much, much worse, to the point where not-high Charlie became something of a mythic figure, dimly remembered, like the yeti.
The solution to our problems, my mother had decided, was to move. “A fresh start,” she’d told us one night at dinner. “A place without so many memories.” The Realtor’s sign had gone up the next day.
We were moving to Connecticut, a state I’d never been to and harbored no real desire to move to. Or, as Mr. Collins would no doubt prefer, a state to which I harbored no real desire to move. My grandmother lived there, but she had always come to visit us, since, well, we lived in Southern California and she lived in Connecticut. But my mother had been offered a position with Stanwich College’s English department. And nearby there was, apparently, a great local high school that she was sure we’d just love. The college had helped her find an available house for rent, and as soon as Charlie and I finished up our junior year, we would all move out there, while the WELCOME HOME Realtor sold our house here.
At least, that had been the plan. But a month after the sign had appeared on the lawn, even my mother hadn’t been able to keep pretending she didn’t see what was going on with Charlie. The next thing I knew, she’d pulled him out of school and installed him in a teen rehab facility in North Carolina. And then she’d gone straight on to Connecticut to teach some summer courses at the college and to “get things settled.” At least, that’s why she said she had to leave. But I had a pretty strong suspicion that she wante
d to get away from me. After all, it seemed like she could barely stand to look at me. Not that I blamed her. I could barely stand to look at myself most days.
So I’d spent the last month alone in our house, except for Hildy the Realtor popping in with prospective house buyers, almost always when I was just out of the shower, and my aunt, who came down occasionally from Santa Barbara to make sure I was managing to feed myself and hadn’t started making meth in the backyard. The plan was simple: I’d finish up the school year, then head to Connecticut. It was just the car that caused the problem.
The people in the Subaru were still talking, but it looked like they’d taken off their seat belts and were facing each other. I looked at our two-car garage that now had only one car parked in it, the only one we still had. It was my mother’s car, a red Jeep Liberty. She needed the car in Connecticut, since it was getting complicated to keep borrowing my grandmother’s ancient Coupe deVille. Apparently, my grandmother was missing a lot of bridge games and didn’t care that my mother kept needing to go to Bed Bath & Beyond. My mother had told me her solution to the car problem a week ago, last Thursday night.
It had been the opening night of the spring musical, Candide, and for the first time after a show, there hadn’t been anyone waiting for me in the lobby. In the past, I’d always shrugged my parents and Charlie off quickly, accepting their bouquets of flowers and compliments, but already thinking about the cast party. I hadn’t realized, until I walked into the lobby with the rest of the cast, what it would be like not to have anyone there waiting for me, to tell me “Good show.” I’d taken a cab home almost immediately, not even sure where the cast party was going to be held. The rest of the cast—the people who’d been my closest friends only three months ago—were laughing and talking together as I packed up my show bag and waited outside the school for my cab. I’d told them repeatedly I wanted to be left alone, and clearly they had listened. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. I’d found out that if you pushed people away hard enough, they tended to go.
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