I watch her cigarette burning down to the filter as Winston double-checks Randy’s notes and makes dots with a marker on each of the cities where we will stop. Portland, Bend, Eugene, Ashland, Yakima, Boise, even Pocatello, some spots in suburban Seattle, and almost every tiny town in between. Then a red star for home.
“No one is touching the Z,” he says, overly concerned about his car. He stubs his cigarette out into the ashtray that is holding one corner of the map.
Transportation is the one minor detail that Randy and Winston have somehow overlooked during their intense planning. We are debating a caravan of my car and maybe Jay’s.
How Winston forgot about transportation is beyond me. He lives for cars. And sex. And snack cakes. Yep, sex and cars and a creamy filling stuffed into straight-leg jeans: that’s my brother.
I am practically clawing my eyes out, trying not to take over. Winston seems amazed that he has done something this well, and I don’t want to wreck his moment; but his oversight isn’t inspiring a lot of faith. I also don’t want to walk when my car gives out somewhere near the base of the Three Sisters. It dies when I drive it through a deep puddle.
Winston has lists upon lists and a strange subcategorization system that involves checkmarks and asterisks and scribbles that look mysteriously like his pen is running out of ink.
It seems like he has everything figured out other than the car, but I can’t be sure, I’m not wearing my secret decoder ring.
A beam of headlights crosses the yard, and Billie gets up. It is probably just Dad, home early. She swats at a bug that is circling her head; then she presses her nose flat against the screen door.
“You have got to see this,” she says.
I push away from the table, glad to leave the marker smell behind. Winston grabs his smokes and follows me out.
An old white van is pulling up into our front yard, leaving two strips of crushed grass behind it. I stop on the bottom porch step and stare.
It looks like Winston has been saved.
Jay is in the passenger seat with a baseball cap on backwards. He leans out the window, waving like a madman. CRAZY CARPET KING is painted on the dented sliding door. The words are faint, barely hidden by a thin layer of white paint that still has brushstrokes in it. A tiny silver crown topped with fake jewels dangles from the rearview mirror.
“Look what graduation got us,” Jay says as the van lurches to a stop.
“Why does it sound like a lawn mower?” Billie asks.
Ty and Jay climb out. The engine is still ticking.
“Does it even have seats?” I ask, not dying to spend the summer riding around perched on top of a pile of rolled carpets.
“Better,” Jay says, reaching over to pull the handle. He opens the sliding side door with a game show flourish. “A bench.”
Covered in shag. Just like the walls and the floor and the ceiling, as if 1972 had puked all over inside, golden orange with brown flecks.
“Crazy carpeted it for free,” Ty says.
“How lucky for us.” I stick my head in and sniff. It makes me want to sneeze.
“Is it really ours?” Billie asks, stretching up onto her toes to see in over Winston’s shoulder.
“Bought it this morning,” Ty says, holding out the title.
It was signed over by Crazy himself.
Now I know where those savings bonds went. They are cashed out and parked at the edge of my yard.
I am kind of glad the van is ugly. That makes it feel like we are all equal. If we had to drive around all summer in a shiny new Sprinter, compliments of Ty and his generous relatives, it wouldn’t be the same.
A new van would make me feel obligated, as if my hair always had to be washed and I couldn’t wipe Dorito dust on the upholstery when necessary. And you need chips on the road . . chips and soda.
I lean back and cross my arms. Yep, this van is just ugly enough to work. Jay and Billie climb inside and shut the door.
School is done.
My dad said yes.
Winston has a plan.
The new old white van is ready and waiting.
“I guess Ginger’s not going to Berklee,” I say to Ty.
Inside the van Jay blinks the headlights on and off, and Billie blasts the horn.
“Guess not,” he says.
“Good.”
Our room is a disaster. The closet door popped off the track. Socks and tights and tank tops spill out of the dresser, dripping over the edges of the open drawers. Shoes and boots dot the floor: total land mines when you aren’t looking.
Billie is buried in a pile of hoodies and striped T-shirts on her bed.
We are supposed to be packing for the road. Billie has the bag she packed weeks ago stashed under her bed as a backup, so today she is mostly playing games on her phone and lolling around on top of the laundry I did earlier so we’d have half a chance at smelling fresh when we started out.
Propping a stack of sweaters under my chin, I navigate toward my bed.
“Shit!” I stop and rub my bare toes on my shin, caught by surprise by a high heel hidden under the edge of the rug.
I hate packing. With each fold, it feels like I might never come home again, and that makes me try to take everything I own with me, just in case.
We’ve never been far from home.
No relatives to visit, no summers at the shore.
God, we never even got to be Girl Scouts and spend the night in a musty tent. There was no such thing as sleepaway camp. The farthest away we’ve ever been are school trips to the Space Needle and slumber parties down the street.
Winston looks in on us on his way down the hall and shakes his big head.
“One bag,” he says, “that you can carry.”
The sweaters land on my bed in a heap. This new Winston is so bossy. I grab my duffel bag and start to chuck that mother full.
Dad’s truck pulls up out front. The crunch of his tires carries in through the open window over Billie’s bed and I look out at him. He’s home early. Must have called in sick for his night shift.
“Let’s barbecue,” he says, meeting Winston halfway across the front yard. He is carrying a bag of groceries by the handles. Carrot tops, or something green, pokes out the top of the bag.
I raise my eyebrows at Billie. She pops up and peers out.
“Vegetables?” she asks, climbing out from the pile of clothing on her bed and walking with me toward the kitchen.
Winston sets his phone onto the counter and immediately starts mixing up his secret sauce.
Billie and I get out the plates and the cups and the big platter we never use while my dad starts the grill. The platter has a chip in the side, but we pretend it is okay. It is the biggest plate we have.
Ty shows up just in time to hear the sizzle of the very first steak. Dad has splurged. We never have steak.
“You hungry?” Dad asks.
“Always,” Ty answers.
Dad grins and turns back toward the grill, poking and flipping. The sun is almost set, and sweet, meaty-smelling smoke drifts in the air. It is June and the peonies are blooming and it is our last night at home, our last dinner together before we leave.
We sit around the fire, talking and eating while the sky gets dark. We pass the steaks around on the big platter and then the sauce. The carrots went into a salad that Billie and I put together, even making the dressing ourselves.
Dad closes the lid on the grill and hangs the tongs from the handle on the side. He pulls his chair up next to mine and sits down in the summer darkness.
Winston prods the coals of the bonfire with a long stick over and over, never content to just let things burn. His feet are resting up against the rocks that circle the flames, the bottom of his shoes smoldering. They smell like they are starting to melt.
Sparks shoot up from the jabbed-at embers, glowing hot and bright and then gone into the night.
The front of me feels cooked.
Ty’s head is back, resting against h
is chair, staring up at the starlit sky. Billie is curled up in a lawn chair on the far side of the flames, knees tucked into my sweatshirt, stretching it out. Her chin is down, her eyes glossed over, hypnotized by the fire’s flicker and pop.
The food is long gone. Mismatched steak knives rest on the empty plates at our feet. Winston’s sauce has worked its magic; there isn’t a drop left.
“Get my guitar,” Dad says, reaching over to pull on my sleeve.
I raise my eyebrows and look his way, lazy from the heat. He never plays for us. He only plays late at night when he thinks we are asleep, keeping his voice low and the music quiet.
He lifts his chin toward the house and urges me on.
“Come on,” he says. “It’s getting late.”
I stand, balancing my plate on my arm, and reach down to take Ty’s, too. He sits up straight, handing his plate to me with a curious look. As far as he knows, my dad stacks palettes and survives on tuna salad sandwiches, and that is it. He doesn’t know there is music involved.
I blindly set the plates on the kitchen counter, reluctant to turn on the light inside and break the spell cast in the backyard by the fire and the food. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the soft thud of my shoes in the hall as I walk toward my room.
I know which guitar he wants. He has two in his bedroom, a black one and a blue one, but he wants the original, the one I borrowed from him so long ago with the stars and the moon on the strap. It is in my room, resting against my headboard, ready to go on the road.
My bed is made, only a dent left behind where my duffel bag has been. Now it is packed and waiting by the front door. Billie’s bed is made, too, somewhere under the stuffed animals and mass of unfolded laundry.
The moon is shining in over her bed. Her music box sits open in the middle of the rings and bracelets and wrappers on the top of the dresser. Our room is messier than it has ever been, even though it is about to be empty.
I feel homesick. I will miss this room, messy or not.
I smooth the dent from my blanket and unsnap my guitar case.
Pulling the guitar out, I glance around the room one last time. I reach over and tear a tiny piece from the wallpaper beside me and tuck it inside my case, a faded gold and blue corner that nobody will notice but me, a secret piece of home.
I head back toward the yard, Dad’s guitar in my hand. My hip pushes the back door open. I catch it with my hand so it will close softly behind me.
Winston has a beer between his knees. A six-pack of glowing green bottles is planted underneath his chair.
They stoked the fire while I was gone. It is blazing.
I hand the guitar to my dad and sink down on the grass by Ty’s feet, lower and closer to the warmth, wishing we had marshmallows.
Dad tunes the guitar carefully, adjusting the strap to his size.
Billie stirs.
Ty sits forward in his chair, and my dad starts to strum.
It is a shy, quiet start. It sounds kind of country but not sad. Then he sings, and his voice is this mellow smoothness, this highway that rolls and rolls and rolls, dissolving into an endless horizon. I want to stay here forever, where my dad’s voice melts into the sky.
I lean into Ty’s leg, looking up at him. His body sways, denim and muscles, as my dad plays. He taps along, and I can feel his vibration through the soft ground as he finds the structure beneath the song.
Winston opens another beer. Hisss. . . .
My dad changes keys.
Ty’s eyes flicker. His face is flushed with firelight, his gaze growing bright with realization. He looks across the flames, considering Billie and then Winston, while Dad rolls one song into the next.
From star to star to star he moves—my sister, my brother, my dad, and then me—soaking us all in, connecting and understanding, finally seeing for himself how our constellation was built.
Somewhere in this world there are people with matching luggage sets. Large suitcases and small suitcases, the kinds that fit into overhead bins, with tiny, shiny combination locks and rolling wheels. We are not those people.
The back of the van is filled with backpacks and duffel bags and boxes wrapped in duct tape. I am pretty sure I see a plaid bowling bag in there, too, near the bottom.
My dad reaches for my duffel and throws it on top of the pile. Winston takes my guitar and slides it in sideways, as if it were the missing piece of a Chinese puzzle, then swings the back doors shut.
I climb into the front seat and reach for the door. Dad is holding it open, his fingers wrapping over the edge of the doorjamb.
Leaning in, he repeats the line he always uses when I am about to face the unknown, when he is letting us go, off on the first day of school or the Christmas pageants or the third-grade Springtime Jamboree that he never made it to.
“Get up there,” he says. “Do a good job.”
He pushes the door closed between us. “Show Billie how it’s done.”
Early-morning light breaks through the clouds and shines into his face. He rests his hand on top of mine, watching me.
I nod along with him, trying not to cry.
Billie is in the back with Winston and the boys, bare feet resting on the seat in front of her, headphones on. She is already a million miles away.
“Text me,” I say as the van rattles beneath us and the wipers catch the last of the morning mist, set to delay. “Or call.”
Jay revs the engine.
Dad nods.
He has a copy of our itinerary and all of Winston’s scribbly notes in a folder on top of his dresser. I put each page through the ancient creaking copy machine down at Randy’s radio station myself, just to be sure it was done right.
I know he’ll never call. Dad is more a sit and wait, no news is good news kind of guy. And texting is out of the picture; his fingers are too big for his phone. I wipe my eyes, bracing myself for the good-bye.
I am cowled up in my jacket. It smells of woodsmoke and the rich tallow of meat from the night before. I lower my chin and breathe in deep, hoping that memory will stay with me a long way down the road.
Dad holds on tight for another second and then lets go, the pain of our departure already recorded and stored away for safekeeping. He watches us leave, hands jammed into his parka, the wind picking up and sweeping his dark blond hair off his forehead.
I wave as the window closes, then press my palm against the cool glass while Jay jerks us into first gear and we roll away.
12
I climb onto the stage in shadowy darkness. Our first gig on the road is in a tiny basement bar called the Rathskeller. It may be small and dark and damp, but tonight the place is packed.
I see the crowd and start unsteady, with a little wobble instead of my usual rip. Every night we will get farther from home, I think. Each night will be new, a different place, with a crowd of people ready to clap or boo or, worst of all, have no reaction at all. My fingers fumble. I’m unsure how to find my way.
I turn my back on the world and let Ty lead me in.
Focusing on his face, I lock my eyes onto his. He wipes his arm across his brow and shakes his head between beats; the pink sweatband he always wears flashes on his right forearm.
His rhythm settles into me, and I imagine we are in my garage. It’s just another Saturday night. The song is familiar, the size of the space about the same. My breathing slows as I center myself on Ty.
Billie blurs between us: boots and blond hair streaking across the tiny stage as fast as she can go.
Jay holds steady on our left with a sound so low and deep I can feel it behind my back teeth, making my throat tingle. I can’t bend low enough to get to the grumble of Jay’s bass guitar. I stick with Ty’s bass drum instead.
Ginger Baker stands tall next to Ty, his elbow so pointy in the swampy red light, so close to the crash of Ty’s cymbals. His arm cuts through the air around the drum kit like a bony sickle ending in lightning fast fingers.
Feeling grounded, I straighten my spi
ne and turn to face the crowd. I don’t need to worry if the music followed me down the road or away from home because Ty will be right behind me, note by note, all summer long.
I ratchet it up a notch, and we shake the windows down the street.
The original plan was that Billie and I would share a room. We share everything, don’t we? But after a long, hot day trapped in the van, followed by a set in a tiny German basement, Ty grabs my duffel bag and swings the motel room door shut behind us.
Ty throws our bags onto the sagging double bed meant for Billie, and we drop down onto the one on the other side of the nightstand. The sleeping arrangements have changed.
The trouble is, Ty’s shoulders take up too much room. I long for my skinny bed at home, the softness of my quilt. I am stuck in the crook of Ty’s neck, the bleachy smell of the sheets and cheap hotel soap pressing into my nose.
I lie there for hours, flipping and flopping and sniffing the sheets until the sounds of footsteps slow in front of our door, then move on down the hall.
“Billie.” Winston’s voice echoes along with the soft thudding of his fists on a door. “Billie.” I wait to see if she answers, scratchy sheet pulled to my chin.
“Billie.” Winston thumps again.
When I sit up, Ty rolls over onto his side.
My jeans and sweater are on the floor. I pull them on and grab the room key from the dresser, then give myself the once-over in the mirror so I don’t run out into the hall with a condom wrapper stuck to my foot or something.
As soon as my bare feet touch the hall carpet, I wish I had put shoes on. It is spongy.
Winston is a couple of doors down, still thudding softly. The sound of the television set blares through the closed door when I step in next to him.
“How do you know she’s in there?” I ask before I start to pound along with him.
He looks pissed. “Because I’m crammed in down the hall with Ginger Baker and Jay!”
I push him out of the way with my shoulder. “Don’t you have a key?”
“I didn’t want to just go busting in,” he says, glaring at me. “You never know what might be going on.”
I hold my hand out, and Winston drops the plastic card into it. It takes me two tries; the stupid little light keeps blinking red.
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