“Oh yeah? So she tells you everything.”
Zena shrugs. “Enough, anyway.”
“Well, did she tell you she’s thinking about us moving?” I say.
And Zena’s right eyebrow kind of twitches. “Moving? When?”
“August. She’s not telling us where, just like she didn’t tell us about this trip, okay? So if Dad kept secrets, he’s not the only one.”
Zena takes a beat to compose herself. “If we’re moving, it’s her business, it’s her job and her house, and she’d consult us anyway before she did that.” Then she turns away from me. “Mom? Are we moving?” she asks.
“Go ahead, tell her,” I urge Mom.
My grandmother clears her throat and turns to me. “Honey, you look awful. You really ought to clean up. Come on, let’s go inside.”
She’s right. I’m sweating from my run, my shirt is wet, and now it’s covered in dirt, twigs, and gravel. I convince Jenny to let me get my duffel out of the luggage bay, and go inside to change.
“Please don’t talk about it,” I say to Grandma when she follows me into the restroom. “I’m so sick of talking about it.”
“I wasn’t going to,” she says. “I told you, I don’t believe in talking until you’re blue in the face.”
She watches while I rinse my face and arms off with cold water; then she hands me my clothes over the stall door to change into. When I come out, she insists on putting these cute doll barrettes in my hair. “I don’t think so,” I tell her.
“Just try it. Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud,” she says.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“You know I’m sixteen, right?” I ask, looking at my reflection, which is kind of like someone trying to dress ten years younger than they are.
“Right, I know,” she says. “But if you’re sixteen, that means your mother is forty-four, which means I’m sixty-seven. I can’t handle that. So let’s just pretend for a second that you’re not sixteen.”
“Okay,” I say. “Can I be eighteen?”
She laughs. “Definitely not. Ever.”
When we come outside, there are feet sticking out from underneath the bus, and seconds later Wolfgang emerges, holding Mom’s wedding ring. She hugs him and knocks off his glasses with her new Wilde cowboy hat.
The Wild Wilde West: the only museum in South Dakota dedicated to Oscar Wilde, where you’ll go Wilde discovering the Importance of Being Outwest.
Hi Dad,
How is your summer going?
It’s really hot here in South Dakota.
I think we’re going to Mount Rushmore. We always wanted to see Rushmore, remember?
But the bus is broken down, so at the rate we’re going, we might be back home by September. Of next year.
Zena says hi.
Miss you. Wish you were here.
—A
Chapter Eleven
We sit outside the museum in the baking sun, eating hot pizza, while a mechanic works to repair the bus.
Lenny is playing a trivia game called Name the Presidents with some people, while others are playing bridge, and still others, finished with their lunches, are napping.
“Let’s play Leisure-Lee Truth or Dare. South Dakota edition,” Andre says.
“Is there any other?” I ask.
Zena and Bethany are doing karaoke, with no machine, using pop straws for mikes. Wolfgang and Dieter ask if they can have a turn, and Wolfgang starts singing a Daft Punk song, and Dieter does a kind of robotic dance.
“Dare,” I say.
Andre points to a plastic container. “If you drink that garlic dipping sauce in one shot, I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”
It sounds like the kind of bet my dad would make, then lose. “You’re not serious.”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“A hundred dollars. Do you really have a hundred dollars to give me when I do it?” I ask.
“You’re not going to do it. Because I have to get back on the bus with you, and I don’t want you puking. But anyway, why wouldn’t I?”
“Sorry. Just assuming your mom is as chintzy as mine,” I say. “You say you have it, you have it.” How do I know he’s not carrying around forgive-me bribes from his father, too? I peel back the top and look inside the cup of dipping sauce. “No, I can’t drink it. It’s disgusting.”
“Good, because I don’t actually have the hundred. I have a ten. Want to sip it for ten?” he asks.
“God, no.” I glance at the ingredients on the package, which all sound very nauseating. “I actually do have a hundred dollars. It’s like . . . blood money, or whatever that phrase is.”
“Blood money? You mean, like, tainted, illegal, wrongly gotten?”
He just described my dad and his finances in four words. “Maybe.”
“So why not spend it right away?” Andre suggests. “Get rid of it.”
“I don’t know.” I push a slice of pepperoni around on my plate. “I guess because I’m saving it, just in case.”
“In case of what?” asks Andre.
I think: In case he asks for it back when he’s broke. But that’s too personal and weird for someone I just met. “Just in case,” I say.
He nods. “Good plan.” He leans back and looks around at the motley group of pizza eaters. “You know, everyone’s pretty distracted right now. It wouldn’t be hard to slip off.”
I point out that we’re in the middle of nowhere, that getting a ride out of here seems impossible, that it’d mean walking down a long, dusty highway. And dying of thirst. Nobody’s been at this museum, except us, in the past couple hours. It’s obviously not on the list of South Dakota must-sees.
“Okay, so maybe I’ll dig out one of those Mini cars. Think they still run?”
“That depends. Did you take auto mechanics in school?”
Andre sighs. “Sometimes we don’t know what courses to take until it’s too late. You know?”
“Do I ever.” When I look over at the road, there’s a silvery shimmering wave coming off it. It’s kind of the way my head feels. “Are you serious about this mutinous escape plan?” I ask.
“Yes. Up here, anyway.” He taps his forehead. “Maybe it’s just the garlic talking, but I can’t see sticking around when life is actually happening somewhere else.”
“Exactly,” I say. “And nothing against this store—though it’s a little weird—”
“A little?”
“Or these car sculptures—also weird—or the state. It’s a fabulous state, and being from big Midwestern states ourselves, we can appreciate the bigness, and the stateness, and the fabulous tourist attractions.”
“Definitely,” says Andre. “Because we’ve gone on trips to see Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox before.”
“You have?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“Which one? Bemidji, Minnesota, Paul Bunyan, because I’ve seen that, or Brainerd—”
“How should I know? I was, like, seven,” he says. “Anyway, it’s not South Dakota. Maybe I would have rather gone to New York or L.A., but whatever. It’s the fact that we’re on a bus and, like, nobody is on a bus anymore. And when I have to talk about my summer vacation, I’ll have to say I took a trip on a bus. With forty senior cits.”
“Is that so bad? The stigma or whatever?”
“When you go to a private school? Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Oh.”
“People take trips on yachts. Ocean journeys. They go see the Tour de France. And while they’re at it, the rest of Europe,” he explains. “We’re not supposed to be here. I mean, look around. Everyone else here is at least sixty. Or German. Or your sister.”
I laugh. “You know what I hate? They say the trip is all about us. But it’s so not about us. You know?”
Lenny is making a tour of the captives and he stops in front of us. “How are you two enjoying our little detour?”
“Fine,” I say.
“Great,” says Andre. “What’s next?”<
br />
“Well. I shouldn’t tell you, but . . .” He looks to one side and then the other. “As soon as the bus is fixed, we’re traveling up the road a bit. Heading north.”
“I thought we were going to Wall,” I say. “West. Can we keep going west, please?”
“Nonsense. There’s a lovely little café where we’ve got dinner reservations. Best biscuits and gravy in the entire world, I’m telling you.”
“We just had lunch.”
“Well, we’re not going straight there, of course not. This afternoon we’ll be visiting one of the world’s largest balls of twine. What is it, second-largest?” he asks Jenny, who’s come up beside him.
“I can’t believe you’re telling them this,” she says. “What happened to the element of surprise?”
“They can keep it to themselves. Can’t you?” says Lenny.
“Definitely,” I tell him.
Jenny eyes me suspiciously. “Anyway,” she says. “Leonard, it’s not a ball of twine. It’s a ball of yarn. It’s in the Knitting Hall of Fame.”
“Twine, yarn, same thing.”
“Not the same thing.”
“Why do you always have to contradict me?”
“I don’t!” says Jenny.
“There. See? You just did it again.”
“I did not. Maybe you should ride in the back for a while. Visit with the passengers in the back rows.”
“Maybe I will,” he replies.
My mom should give them one of her books, or schedule an emergency session. Never mind the bus—I don’t think their relationship is going to make it to Wall.
Yarn it all—come back! You’ve just missed the world’s third-largest ball of yarn!
Gloves,
You could have a field day with this thing.
Miss you,
A
Chapter Twelve
The next day, we don’t get to Wall until late afternoon. Our off-course adventure ended up taking a very long time because it turned out there had been a mistake (which made Lenny and Jenny argue even more) and we had no motel reservation. So we had to keep driving farther and farther off the beaten path to find a place with enough rooms for all of us. By that time we were practically in North Dakota, or perhaps Canada—I took a long nap and quit paying attention—but Lenny assures us that now we’re back on track.
“You’ve seen the bumper stickers,” Lenny says as we pull into a small town with old storefronts that could be real, or could be a movie set or one of those new shopping mall styles. It’s really difficult to tell. “You’ve seen the billboards. Now, experience it for yourselves. Are you ready, guys? Are you ready? Then let’s . . . hit Wall!” He pumps his fist in the air as half the people on the bus scream, “Hit Wall!” with him.
There’s a story about how Wall Drug began as a place to stop on the older highway: They had a sign up that they offered free ice water to everyone passing by. Now they have a sign up that says their Western Art Gallery restaurant can seat 530 people.
“I want my free water,” someone is muttering behind me as we drift into the massive store, as if water isn’t free almost everywhere these days.
The clerks don’t seem fazed at all when the big group filters into the store. They’re friendly and smile and say hello. They must be used to bus tours. Either used to, or sick of. Then again, forty-five people could drop a serious amount of cash on souvenirs, so maybe they’re excited, although we’d fill less than one-tenth of the restaurant.
Inside, it is postcard heaven. It’s the hugest gift shop I’ve ever been in. Magnets. Jewelry. Black Hills gold, whatever that is. T-shirts, any kind of shirts, a giant wall of cowboy boots.
But there’s also all the practical stuff, like shampoo and Advil. You could completely start your life over here with the contents of this store. You might not be exactly chic, but you could do it.
I stand there and fill my hand with postcards, skimming for new ones I haven’t seen before, and grabbing as many as I can, as if this is a timed game show and I need to end up with the most prizes.
“I’m going to buy some sneakers for running,” Uncle Jeff announces. “And maybe some cowboy boots.”
“I’m buying cowgirl boots,” Mom says, following him in her Corn Palace sweatshirt. “Keep track of Zena!” she calls over her shoulder, as if I could, as if Zena is even talking to me.
I wander around, considering mugs, glasses, sunglasses. Then I see the SEND AN EMAIL FROM WALL DRUG! sign. I can hardly move fast enough. I push aside some fellow bus-ees who are clogging the hat and bandanna aisle and rush to the computers. There are two of them, and only one is being used.
I check my email and it feels like months since I’ve done that, instead of only days. I’m expecting dozens, but since I told everyone I was going to be gone there are only a few random ones. But there’s one from Dylan. So nothing else really matters.
AREIL,
Just in case you get email after all, ’cause it turns out we do this year. Got a few of your postcards. Thanks. Sounds like you’re having fun.
It does? Really? Because I’m not, I Gchat him, but he’s not online, which is probably a good thing, because that sounded weak. Again, I’m the kind of person who needs time to write something good. Rush into things and I come out sounding horrible.
Of course, I don’t misspell someone’s name; for instance I don’t write DILLON, or DLYN.
Anyway. Wyoming is very cool, and camp’s great, but way too busy. My first day off isn’t for another week. I’ve met lots of people. Half the counselors are new, and I was voted in charge of the sports activities. We have a big competition in two weeks, all the cabins compete.
Areil, don’t sweat it if things don’t work out this summer. I know I’m gone a long time and we really aren’t serious or anything. But you are cute.
CU, Dylan
My heart is pounding. I immediately start to type:
DYLAN, YOU WON’T BELIEVE THIS—WE ARE ALMOST IN WYOMING TOO!
And I sense someone looming over my shoulder and prepare my defense for Mom, but it won’t be too hard because I didn’t say anything bad about her yet, or anything too risqué, but it isn’t Mom. And it isn’t Zena, either, for a change.
It’s Andre. It makes me feel weird to be writing even more to Dylan in front of him, like that’s all I do or something. Which isn’t true. Except maybe lately it is.
“Hey,” he says. “You might want to turn off the caps lock.”
“Not like you’re reading over my shoulder again, or anything,” I complain.
“Sorry. Just caught my eye.” He slides into the now-empty seat at the counter next to me.
“Just caught your eye,” I mutter. “Yeah. Right.”
“It did! I’m sorry,” he says, laughing as I turn my back toward him and resume attempting to write in all caps.
“Five minutes to a customer, okay?” The clerk behind the counter smiles and sets the electronic timer on top of each computer.
I start typing like crazy, but I do so much pausing and revising that I actually end up taking forever just to say a couple of things. Beside me, Andre has already written a novel or two, mailed to multiple addresses, created a trip blog, etc. I don’t actually know this but I can hear how fast his fingers hit the keys, and it’s entirely possible.
I lamely write:
I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU CAN CALL ME, WE’RE TOTALLY PHONELESS, BUT IF YOU SEND EMAILS I WILL TOO AT THE NEXT PLACE WE STOP. I THINK WE ARE GOING TO BE REALLY CLOSE TO YOUR CAMP. I JUST HAVE THIS FEELING.
Why did I use that phrase? Why didn’t I think before I decided to tack that on at the last second? I want to hit delete because that sounded idiotic, but it’s too late.
“So how’s the boyfriend?” Andre asks as the timer rings, sounding like we’ve just completed a round in a prizefight. We both stand up, and immediately new emailers slide into our vacated seats.
“He’s great.” I smile, sincerely this time, because I am really happy about the turn o
f events.
“Where is he again?” Andre asks.
“Wyoming,” I say. “It’s a small town near Casper.” We stand by a large wall of maps, and I point out where Camp Far-a-Way is located. It’s not all that close to where we’re going—yet—unless of course that is where we’re going, because you never know with Leisure-Lee Tours.
“Come on, we have to check out the T. rex outside in the backyard.”
“We do?” I ask.
“We do. That’s what we do, remember? Investigate the backyard sculpture gardens of the Wild West.” We stroll along past various displays. “A person could really get lost in here,” Andre comments. “I mean, which room were we in?”
“I don’t know.”
We walk past photos of the Old West, of Wall Drug throughout history. We stop at the gigantic restaurant and I peek inside to see what kind of place can actually seat multiple bus tours, over five hundred people.
I spy Zena and Bethany sitting at the table, and go in to say hi and check on her. “Do you need some money?” I ask.
“No,” she says, and then she slurps whatever’s in her cup with a straw. “Bethany’s treating.”
“Because I have money,” I insist. “And you could have some of it.”
“No, thanks. We’re good,” says Bethany.
Zena stares over at Andre, who’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the host stand. “Hey. I thought you liked Dylan,” she says.
I shrug. “I do. I was just emailing him, actually.”
“So why are you with him all the time?” She gestures toward the doorway.
“Why are you with Bethany all the time?” I counter. “I mean, who else am I supposed to hang out with?”
“But he’s weird,” says Zena. “He says everything in threes.”
“You’re weird.” I grab one of her French fries and head over to Andre.
We’re sitting in a photo booth having our picture taken as we pose like Western heroes when suddenly the curtain opens.
“There you are,” Jenny says. “We’ve all been looking for you.”
“You ruined the shot!” Andre complains. “You totally ruined the shot, and it was going to be the best one.” He stands there and waits for the photo strip to print, then shows Jenny the last one, where we’re both looking sideways and it’s no good. He’s right.
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