“Door hit me in the face,” she says with a smile. Sherry’s brow deepens in that same way my grandfather’s did when he was worrying about me. Miranda’s face was a total accident, but regardless, I don’t feel like talking about it now. A huge part of me feels one hundred percent responsible for the damage inflicted upon her, even if she is legally an adult.
“That’s insanely nice of Mr. Hernandez, he didn’t have to do that,” I say, bringing the conversation away from my niece and back to the situation. The one time in my life I actually have extra cash to blow, I don’t even get to spend it. The moral and ethical side of me wants to argue and demand that I pay for my own room, but the other moral and other ethical side of me thinks it’s actually fair that the man pay for the damage his son caused. Had my car not been smashed, we would never have stayed in this tiny crap hole of a town.
“They are some nice people.” She takes the card from me and places it back in the file. “So, what are you two girls going to do for the remainder of your stay?”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” I admit, glancing around the foyer for a brochure shelf or something advertising tourist info and local entertainment. There’s no public transportation system here either. “What is there to do in Salt Gap?”
“Well…” Sherry says, glancing to the ceiling as she thinks.”
“Oh ya know,” Miranda says. “Skeet shootin’, porch sittin’, wrastlin gators.”
I give her a look and turn back to Sherry, awaiting her real reply. There’s no way she’s going to suggest those things.
Sherry brightens at the mere thought of what she’s about to say. “Ah! Of course. You’re here just in time for the Cockroach Festival!”
Chapter 9
“Cockroaches?” Miranda rips open a garbage bag I pilfered from my smashed vehicle and pulls out a few shirts. She holds each one up to her chest, glances down in disgust and tosses it on the bed, wherein I then grab it and start pointing out nice things about it. She shakes her head at my latest offering and I toss it into her rejected pile. “What kind of inbred rednecks dedicate a town festival to cockroaches?” she asks.
“Why do you keep calling them inbred rednecks? That’s so insulting.”
She shrugs and tosses a burnt orange halter at me. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just being stereotypical. We’re from the city so they probably think we’re all gay, pierced and tattooed.”
“Well I am pierced and tattooed,” I point out, wiggling my inked left foot.
“And I made out with a girl last summer.” Miranda shrugs. “See, maybe stereotypes were made for a reason. For all we know, Sherry could be married to her cousin.”
“There aren’t many options for lovers in a town this small,” I agree with a laugh. She pulls a purple top from the bag and holds it up to her shoulders. It’s a V-neck long sleeve top with sequins along the neckline and it hugs my curves exactly right. “This will do,” she says, turning the shirt toward her face and basking in its softness.
I check my cell phone, which I discovered will get exactly one bar out of five potential bars of signal if it’s placed exactly on the far left of the bay window in our room. It hasn’t rang all day, and there are no new messages. I used to wonder what my funeral would be like, how many people would come and cry about how much they miss me. But now I’ve disappeared out from under them and no one cares. At least not yet.
The Cockroach Festival starts at six o’clock in the town square, which I’m assuming is that popular stretch of road that we drove through when we first got to town. There was a modest chamber of commerce building and a small park with a gazebo next to it. Apparently the park turns into quite the shindig once a year for this festival and there’s even something called a cockroach spitting contest, but I hope to God I heard her wrong. Sherry had told us to dress warm, wear loose pants for all the food we’d be eating, and not to show up late because then we’d miss the crowning of this year’s Cockroach Queen.
Yeah, like anyone would want to miss that.
Miranda takes a long time to get ready, bitching and moaning about my shoe selection the whole time. Her ass is way smaller than mine, but luckily the only useful thing she did throw in her backpack from home is a pair of jeans. As for me, I throw on the orange halter she rejected and pair it with a jacket, some dark wash boot cut jeans that make me look ten pounds lighter and a pair of patent leather boots that make me four inches higher. Or, you know, regular woman height since I’m kind of embarrassingly short.
Marcus drives us there, and the awkwardness of our acquaintanceship fills the air like a giant helium elephant-shaped balloon. In the daylight, he’s way less hoodlum-looking, almost cute in a way. If I were still into eighteen year old boys, I’d think he was hot. It’s a shame he’s a total delinquent. “What’d your dad say when he found out what you did?”
“He laughed.” My eyebrows hit the roof of the truck. He laughs. “No, well he laughed at first because he thought it was that asshole’s car. But then I told him it was really some girl’s car and I had fucked up bad. Then he grounded me for eternity and is making me work off the cost of the damage at his shop.”
“Eternity might be a little harsh,” I say. “If you’re grounded, why are you allowed to go to the festival?”
His fingers tap the steering wheel. “I’m not. But I am supposed to drive you anywhere you need to go.” He flashes us an embarrassed smile.
Booths and people fill up every square inch of the small park. A long banner welcomes us at the entrance and live country music livens the atmosphere. As a business woman, I don’t listen to country music. But as a Texan, there will always be a special place in my heart for it.
The festival’s great feat is how they manage to fit a few rides into the small park grounds. Some of them I remember from childhood trips to the county fair. The Zipper, the Tilt-a-Whirl and the Gravatron line the back of the park and have incredibly long lines of children anxiously awaiting their turn to ride.
Miss Cockroach and Miss Congeniality pose for photographs in the gazebo, complete with white sashes draped over their shoulders. I shudder when I see that the O in the word cockroach is a plastic cockroach. How could anyone want to win an award like that? What is wrong with these people?
Sherry was right though. The food is amazing. Miranda and I split a funnel cake and then promptly order another one because this sort of deliciousness only comes once in a lifetime and you do not need to waste your life by only eating half of it. We sit on a picnic table licking powdered sugar remnants off the paper plates where our funnel cakes used to be. Ah, those were better times.
“Are you having fun?” Miranda asks.
“I don’t know, I guess,” I answer with a shrug. How much fun can one have at a thing like this if you’re over the age of ten?
“You know, I was thinking,” Miranda begins. I’ve only been around the girl two days but I can tell when she’s about to drop a crazy idea on me. “Since you refuse to let us live here, we’ll never see these people again. We should just let loose and do whatever the hell we want.”
“Okay….” I lick my finger and run it along the plate, sucking up any remaining bits of sugary goodness. A teenager takes the stage and starts singing a Reba Macintyre song. “Got any ideas?”
“I want to spit a cockroach.” Miranda’s gaze pierces into mine, as serious as a fucking heart attack.
I shake my head. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m sane. You’re crazy not to do it.” She throws her hands on the table, palms down as she stands. “Let’s do it. How many chances in your life will you get to spit a cockroach? For money?”
Scooping up our trash, I toss it in the trashcan next to our table. “I don’t know, Miranda. I would need a lot of alcohol for that.”
Miranda’s eyes flicker toward the Bud Light trailer near the food venders. I hold up my finger. “Let me amend that by saying, I would need a lot of alcohol and a lobotomy before I would ever consider spitting a cockroac
h.”
Miranda’s eyes flicker with an evil sort of excitement. “Alcohol first. Lobotomy later.”
There are a few things I’m not proud of in my life. Bitching out during a thirty-thousand dollar deal and losing my job—not proud of that. Losing my virginity in the backseat of a Toyota Tercell parked behind a Catholic church—definitely not proud of that. Oh, and getting piss drunk on cheap margaritas in the middle of Salt Gap freaking Texas.
Because now I’m stumbling around and Miranda is holding my hand, and I keep asking her why her nose is black and I laugh every time she tells me the answer but then five minutes later I’ve forgotten what that answer was so I have to ask again.
“And I thought my mom was embarrassing when drunk,” Miranda says. “Maybe you’re a little too drunk.” We’re looking at the craft booths with all these amazing and shiny things for sale. She’s holding a handmade cow fur purse with rhinestones and metal stuff all over it. Wait, is cow fur the word for it? Oh well, I don’t care, I’m dizzy and I think I’ll buy it for her. She deserves a nice cow fur purse.
My cash falls out of my wallet and all over the ground. Miranda and I bend to pick it up, but I collide with her and bash my nose into her shoulder. She says a few creative curse words and apologizes to the lady. My nose hurts so badly, and it is so, so, hilariously, ridiculously funny.
Miranda looks great in that purple shirt and her new redneck style purse. I tell her this and she smiles. “We can spit cockroaches later. I think maybe we should go back to the inn.”
I kick at the ground and shove my hands in my pockets. “But I don’t want to go back.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder and then makes her face go all blurry somehow. “We need sleep. Remember what Marcus said about them getting your car parts in earlier than expected? Your car might be done tomorrow and then we can leave.”
Only half of what she says makes sense. Car parts and cockroaches make no sense. But leaving does. I want to leave. I can feel it in my guts and in my soul and even in my fingertips. I can’t remember why or how, or even when, but I do know without a doubt that all I’ve ever wanted to do for a very long time is leave.
“Where are we leaving to?” I ask.
She shrugs. “We don’t know yet, but we’re not staying in this stupid town.” She whispers the last part to me and I giggle. “It’ll be our little secret,” I say. Her eyebrows narrow and she shakes her head at me like I’m a bad dog who just peed on the carpet. Regardless, we’re going to leave. Leave this place and leave this town and maybe even leave the planet. I don’t know. But I’m leaving.
I grip her elbow, her soft purple-covered elbow, as she pulls me through crowds of people, assuring me that she knows the way back to the inn. I don’t know what’s at the inn but I really want to go there. We step to the side of a large white tarp that two men are rolling out on the ground. It’s not like any other tarp I’ve seen out at construction and home remodeling sites. It’s some kind of chart, or map, with lines and numbers on it. Like a ruler.
“Last call for contestants,” says the man next to me. He’s pale-faced and portly and looks like a milkman even though I know that milkmen don’t exist anymore.
“Me!” Miranda says, shooting her hand up like she’s in school. “I wanna do it. So does she,” she says, grabbing my arm and holding it up like hers.
“Well done!” the milkman beams, handing her a round white sticker with the number fourteen on it. My sticker says fifteen.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. I’m so confused I think my head is about to explode. I want another drink. And the five on this sticker looks like the letter S.
“We’re going to spit a cockroach. Whoever spits it the farthest wins five hundred dollars.”
My mouth falls open and I make some kind of sound like what Scooby-Doo would make when faced with a what the fuck situation. “Is it alive?” I ask. The milkman clasps his big meaty hand on my back. “You bet it is, darlin’.”
Everything is a blur as I’m pulled up on a makeshift stage and stand at the end of a line of people. All but three of us are men. We have a big audience. I think all 1209 citizens are here watching us.
A red plastic ribbon marks what is called the Spitting Zone. I’m vaguely aware of what I’m about to do and it feels wrong but it also feels right. Something about never seeing these people again and how we should make the most of our lives, and something else about sweet iced tea. I could totally go for some sweet iced tea right now.
Some kids in the crowd make squeamish sounds as a woman in tight jeans with a fluffy brown coat walks down the line of Spitters. She holds a plastic bucket and each person reaches inside and grabs something. When it’s Miranda’s turn I look over and see dozens of big, disgusting three inch long cockroaches squirming around inside of the bucket.
She tenses, closes her eyes and reaches into the bucket. When she’s got one, she cups it in her hands and holds it close to her chest. The woman holds the bucket out to me. A jumble of words and thoughts and emotions toil around in my head, but only one actual coherent thought forms: thank God I wasn’t the first person in line.
“You can do it,” Miranda whispers. “It’s not so bad. Remember? We won’t see these people again or ever get this opportunity ever again. We’re living life to the fullest and all of that.”
I nod. Her words sound so right, so true and perfect. A burp escapes my lips and it tastes like cheap tequila. I think I say something like, “fuck it,” but all I really know is that in this moment I reach in, let one of them crawl into my hand and then I hold it the way Miranda holds hers. Surprisingly, it doesn’t move that much.
The speaker next to me bursts to life. “Are the contestants ready?” I nod, thinking that whoever asked that can probably see me. Luckily, some of my buzz is starting to wear off and I can see without double vision now. A few of the men down the line let out a true Texas holler or whoop. The speaker cracks again. “At the sound of the gunshot, each contestant will spit their cockroach. Judges, get your marking tape ready.”
There’s a countdown from three and then a loud bang. Miranda pops her roach in her mouth and I do the same. At first it’s a weird feeling, not at all what I expected. The roach is cold and its feet prickle my tongue. And it’s moving. A lot.
Oh shit. Everything comes back to me now, as if the mere existence of a filthy insect in my mouth is the cure to drunkenness. It wriggles around and tickles the hanging thing in the back of my throat. I hear a few peh, peh’s and other people spit their roach onto the white tarp.
But I’m only aware of one thing as my heart races so quickly it burns. I’m going to throw up. Thank god I will never see these people again.
I open my mouth hoping the thing will jump out, but it doesn’t. It just buries itself in the side of my cheek. With one flailing ounce of panic, I hop up and down, willing the thing to get the fuck out of my mouth.
“Spit it!” Miranda hisses in my ear. “You can do it! Just spit like it’s a watermelon seed.”
Oh right, spitting. That’s probably more effective than jumping up and down and flailing like a chicken with its head cut off. The roach stops wriggling in my mouth. Maybe it’s dead. For some reason the thought of a dead roach in my mouth is even worse than the thought of a live one. People are cheering and clapping and I think Miranda starts chanting my name.
“Rob-bin! Rob-bin! Rob-in!” Other people join in on the chant. “You can do it, mama-sita!” That was definitely Marcus’ voice.
Because it’s now or never—because it’s now or it’s drop dead from embarrassment with a roach that may or may not be dead in your mouth—I suck in a deep breath of air through my nose, position my tongue in the spitting position, purse my lips, spit and—
Trip over my heels, topple off the two-foot tall stage and soar through the air at the same speed as my roach. I don’t know where the roach lands, but I land on a pair of cowboy boots. A hand touches my back, and my arm and my hair. Either someone with three hands
is helping me up, or several people are. Opening my eyes, I scramble to stand up, using the cowboy boots and the legs attached to them to gain my balance.
I think maybe I am still drunk. Roach sobriety only lasts so long as the roach is in your mouth. And now my cheek hurts.
A voice sounds in my ear as a hand wraps around my upper arm and helps me into a standing position. “First time at the Bug Bowl?” His voice is deep, with a hint of that country twang just like Elizabeth the waitress. Only this deep masculine twang isn’t as annoying.
“Er, yeah,” I say, surprised that my voice still works. My right cheek stings and burns and feels like it’s covered in dirt.
He laughs and releases my arms. “You smell like Big Rob’s margaritas.”
A burp rises to my throat and I try to play it off as lady-like as possible by covering my fist over my mouth as I stand on wobbly legs. “Also correct.”
I brush the dirt off my side, my back, my jeans and—well basically everywhere. With a cautious glance, I check my surroundings and find to my relief that the crowd has turned their attention to a young boy who is smiling from ear to ear as the milkman puts a gold medal around his neck. Miranda appears at my side, her lips tight in concentration as she picks grass and hay out of my hair.
“I’m taking you home,” she says.
I feel a sad puppy frown pull at my lips. “Are you mad at me?” My voice is child-like and weak. She should be mad at me. I’m the grown up here and I’m drunk and making an embarrassment of myself.
She shakes her head and mouths something to the guy behind me. Something that looks like, “Sheshoo ally dink,” but is probably more like, “She doesn’t usually drink.”
“My roach went eleven feet,” she says, gripping my shoulders and talking directly to me. I nod and burp again. “Okay, okay,” she laughs. “We need to get you home.”
The Fate Series Box Set (Robin and Tyler Book 4) Page 6