Your Destination Is on the Left

by Lauren Spieller

  “We’re running low on coffee.”

  I wait for a second, hoping maybe he’ll say something more—good morning, we’re having financial problems but everything is under control—but he doesn’t. After seventeen years of waking up to my dad blasting show tunes with a ten a.m. smile on his face when it’s barely even seven, this version of him feels as watered-down as his gross coffee.

  “Where’s Mom?” I ask.

  “Outside with Rodney.”

  I throw the blanket back onto my bed and pull on a sweater, the whole time watching my dad out of the corner of my eye. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own life over the last few months that I haven’t noticed what’s been staring me in the face: Dad’s pinching pennies in any way he can to save money. How could I have missed that?

  Except . . . I know exactly how I’ve missed it. For the last two years, every moment that I haven’t spent studying, taking crappy online art classes, or exploring with Cy, has been filled with volunteering at whatever animal shelter was closest to where we parked the RV. All in the name of rounding out my resume. I haven’t been paying attention to money, mostly because I rarely buy anything for myself. And when I do, it’s always cheap—a snack for the road, discounted eyeliner from a drugstore, dollar-night movie-theater tickets. The biggest splurges have always been on art supplies, and I save up Christmas and birthday money from YiaYia for that stuff. I never even worried about saving up for college, since I figured a combination of scholarships, financial aid, and a part-time job would take care of tuition and whatever extra expenses I had as long as I lived cheaply. It seemed like a perfect plan. Until now.

  Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I have been ignoring the families.

  When I’m dressed, I take another sip of Dad’s coffee, this time prepared for the lack of taste, and hand it back to him. “I’ll be outside.”

  He grunts, but doesn’t look up from the paper.

  I find my mom and brother behind the McAlisters’ RV, both standing silently, facing each other. I wait for a second, then realize they’re having one of their epic staring contests. Never let it be said that nomad life isn’t thrilling.

  “Mom, I need to talk to you,” I say when I can’t stand it any longer. “Can you . . . maybe . . . pause the game?”

  Rodney shakes his head, but doesn’t break eye contact. “No pausing.”

  “Is it important?” Mom asks without looking away from my brother.

  I think of my dad, sitting alone in our cold RV, a frown the size of Mississippi pulling his face into an unrecognizable shape. If I’m right, and he’s in trouble, then we’re all in trouble. “Yes, it’s important.”

  Mom exhales. Then she closes her eyes.

  “I win!” Rodney says, throwing his hands into the air. “You blinked.”

  Mom laughs. “Take a walk?” she asks me.

  We link arms and walk around the perimeter of the giant gas station, leaving my brother to celebrate his victory. It’s early, so there aren’t many people around. Just a lot of gasoline puddles and a few stray beer cans rolling back and forth across the concrete. Not exactly scenic, but there are birds chirping and the breeze smells like the freshly roasted coffee they’re serving inside the convenience store. It reminds me of the parking lot a block away from our old house in Chattanooga, where I learned to ride a bike. Mom would stand in the middle of the asphalt, a chipped mug of coffee clutched between her cold hands, and watch me ride around and around in a wobbly circle. We did it every Saturday for a month, until I was good enough to ride over to the parking lot on my own. I felt like a real badass, flying down the street, past the parking lot, and into downtown Chatt. It wasn’t until years later that Mom revealed she’d followed me in the car for months before she finally let me go out on my own.

  “What’s up?” Mom asks.

  I glance at her. If I ask about money straight out, she’ll just wave me off and say not to worry. But maybe there’s another way. “Remember how I asked you last month about getting a job?”

  “Yes. I also remember telling you to enjoy yourself for a few months after school ended. Take a break for once. You’re wound too tight.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I appreciate your concern, Mom, but I’m serious.”

  She sighs. “Dessa, what would you even do? You know how hard it is to find work when we’re always moving.”

  “I’ll think of something,” I say as we take a right at the gas pump.

  “Why the sudden interest in getting a job?”

  I shrug. “I want to help out around here. With the bills, the gas . . . traveling isn’t cheap.”

  “You don’t need to worry about any of that. We’re doing just fine.”

  I want to protest, but she sounds so confident that I don’t. Maybe Rodney heard wrong. Maybe Dad’s just trying to toughen us up by not turning on the heat. It is May, after all.

  “Dessa!” Rodney shouts across the parking lot. “It’s your turn to take out the trash.”

  “She’ll be there in a second,” Mom yells, then turns back to me. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

  College. Rejections. Shame.

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Sunny Point Café is packed when we arrive at nine. They push three tables together so all ten of us can fit. As usual, Cyrus and I sit at the middle of the table, with the McAlisters’ twin girls across from us and Rodney on my left. Mr. and Mrs. McAlister take the head of one half of the table, while my parents and Cy’s dad take the other. It’s practically assigned seating at this point. Sometimes it bugs me—what if I want to sit next to someone else for a change?—but today it feels comforting. Like something that needs to be protected.

  A pretty Chinese waitress comes to the table. “Good morning,” she says in a cheerful voice, a stack of laminated menus cradled in her arms. Her eyes trail over Cy’s face and down his chest.

  Here we go again.

  “Hey,” Cyrus says. The waitress tries to hand him a menu, but he shakes his head. “That’s okay. We’ll have pancakes all around plus four sides of bacon.” Cy glances down the table at my mom, who grimaces at the mention of meat, but he doesn’t change our order. The only time I get to eat meat is when someone else cooks or orders it, so we have a longstanding deal that when it’s Cy’s turn to order breakfast, we have bacon, and when it’s my turn to order, I make sure he isn’t forced to eat scrambled eggs. “Everyone will have coffee except the twins and Rodney,” Cy says, gesturing to my brother. “They’ll have orange juice.”

  Rodney crosses his arms over his chest. “I want coffee.”

  “You can have a sip of mine,” I whisper.

  The waitress scribbles down our order, glancing up every few seconds to look at Cyrus.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asks Cy, taking a step closer so her apron grazes his arm.

  Cy and I look down the table to see if anyone has something to add, and I notice Dad looks uneasy. At first I’m not sure what’s wrong, but then something awful occurs to me: Can we afford to help pay for all that food? I want to interject, but I can’t embarrass Dad in front of everyone, especially when all I have to go on is Rodney’s word, one cold morning, and a cup of shitty coffee.

  “I think that’s it.” Cyrus looks at the name tag pinned to the front of her uniform. “Thanks, Alice.”

  She blushes, and I feel a tug of annoyance so strong it manages to trump my money worries. Every diner, every city—it’s always the same. We end up with a waitress who has an instant crush on Cy. It’s hard to blame her. He’s stupidly cute, with his warm brown eyes and quick smile. But do they all have to be so obvious about it?

  Alice returns with a tray of plastic water cups. I take a sip from mine, hoping to wash away my irritation before Cy notices. It never used to bother me when girls flirted with him. Sure, he’d go on the occasional date, but nothing ever went anywhere since we were always going somewhere. But it’s been harder to ignore lately
. Every time he smiles it’s like there’s something drawing me toward him, like a satellite stuck in a planet’s orbit.

  I really need to get my shit together.

  At the end of the table, my dad taps his fork against his plastic cup. “There’s something I’d like to say.”

  My mind immediately goes to what Rodney told me about Dad’s business. I glance over at Mom for confirmation, but she doesn’t look upset, worried, or even embarrassed.

  “As you all know,” Dad says, “things have been difficult recently. A few months ago, we lost one of our own.”

  I can practically feel Cyrus roll his eyes. He’s sick of hearing the adults talk about his twenty-year-old sister like she’s dead, instead of just settled down in Colorado. But I kind of get it. Ever since Cy’s mom actually died when we were thirteen, Jeff’s wanted to keep his kids close. It’s hard to blame him.

  “We knew Meagan wouldn’t stay forever,” Dad continues, “but none of us expected her to leave the traveling life so soon.”

  Jeff sighs, and closes his eyes. Mom pats his shoulder.

  “And now,” Dad continues, turning to look at my side of the table, “we’re preparing to lose another.”

  I slide down an inch in my seat. This isn’t about money. This isn’t even about Meagan. This is about me.

  “I know it’s been hard waiting to hear from schools,” Dad says, “but you’re giving it everything you have, Dessa. We’re all very proud of you.”

  I squeeze my hands together in my lap and force a smile. I wonder how proud they’ll be when they find out I failed.

  “You’ll get in somewhere wonderful,” Mrs. McAlister adds. “My niece got into college last year, and she wasn’t half the student you are.”

  Her words are like a gut punch, but before I can recover, Mom speaks up.

  “Personally,” she says, twisting her rings around on her fingers, “I don’t think Dessa needs art school to be successful. She’s already an artist. I shouldn’t have to lose my baby just so a few professors can tell us something we already know.”

  “Hear, hear,” Jeff says, leaning back in his chair.

  I dig my nails into my palms and take a slow, deep breath. “Mom, I’ve told you a million times that’s not all art school is for. It’s also about getting a degree, and establishing myself in the art community so I can go on to have a career—”

  “Your dad is a web designer, and he doesn’t have a degree.”

  “Mom, please—”

  Cy stands up. “I have an announcement.”

  Everyone freezes.

  He rubs the top of his head, like he always does when he’s nervous, which makes me nervous. “Dessa, will you stand up for a second?” he asks.

  “Cy . . .”

  “Trust me,” he says, pulling me to my feet. I stand next to him, my hands shoved into my pockets.

  “Well?” Jeff calls down the table, a big grin on his face. “What happened? Did you two get hitched or something?”

  My mom’s eyes go wide.

  “No!” I say, before she gets the wrong idea. It’s an unspoken rule that we can never date. It would be way too complicated. At least, I assume that’s how everybody feels. It’s not like we’ve ever had a reason to talk about it.

  Cy clears his throat, and I blush. Thank god he can’t read minds.

  “A month ago,” he says, his voice oddly formal, “Dessa told me about an internship in Santa Fe with an artist named Fiona Velarde who needs help preparing for her upcoming gallery exhibit. The internship was the chance of a lifetime, but Dessa didn’t apply because she figured there was no chance she’d ever get it. So instead, I applied for her.”

  I stare at him. “You did what?”

  “It was hard to choose which piece of art to send since she only wanted one sample,” Cyrus continues, ignoring me. “Competition was fierce. Apparently, almost a hundred people applied.”

  My mind is flooded with questions. I want to know which piece he sent in, whether he used the crappy digital files I sent to him in an email a few months ago. But more than anything I want to know what the hell he was thinking sending in my work without asking me first.

  “When do you find out if she got it?” Mr. McAlister asks.

  “Actually, I already know,” Cy answers. “She announced it on her website this morning.”

  Everyone at the table is staring at us, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. Please don’t let this be another rejection. Please don’t let this be another failure.

  Cy grins, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “It’s you, Dess. You got it.”

  My mouth drops open, and for a moment, the whole world disappears. My favorite living artist wants me. Fiona Velarde chose me. It’s as if I’ve been filled to the brink with warm air, and I’m floating toward the ceiling.

  Cyrus folds me in a tight hug. His scruffy cheek tickles mine, and I can smell his shampoo. I lean into his chest, and his hand curls around the back of my neck. His touch makes my skin feel like it’s on fire. I’ve kissed a few guys before, including a scruffy hipster in Portland last summer, but none of them have ever made me feel the way Cy can just by touching me.

  Someone at another table laughs, and I remember everyone is watching us. My joy at Cy’s embrace turns into panic. I pull away, ready to make excuses, but Mom and Mrs. M are hugging, and Dad is smiling extra big. Cyrus winks at me.

  “Good work, kid.” Jeff leans across Rodney and holds up his hand for a high five. I slap my palm against his, relieved that no one but Cyrus seems to have noticed how happy that hug made me. “Thank you so much,” I whisper to Cy. “I owe you.”

  “Nah,” he says. “Just dedicate your first masterpiece to me, and we’ll call it even.”

  Cy and I sit back down just as Alice returns with the coffee and orange juice. When she places Cyrus’ mug in front of him, I notice she takes an extra second to turn it so that the handle is facing him. When she puts mine down, the coffee sloshes onto the table. Maybe someone noticed our hug after all.

  “So, Dessa,” Mr. McAlister says as I wipe up the coffee with my napkin, “does this internship pay?”

  “She should save the money if it does,” Mrs. M says, staring hard at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “You never know when you’ll need a little extra.”

  “Or give it to me,” Rodney says.

  “It doesn’t pay,” I say, but no one hears me. They’re too busy arguing over what I should do with my imaginary paycheck.

  “I think Dessa should buy herself something fun,” Mom says. “Maybe a yoga mat.”

  Jeff shakes his head. “She should be helping out, like Cyrus does. Contribute to her family.”

  “She doesn’t need to do that,” Dad says immediately.

  “Why not?” Jeff asks. “It can’t hurt. And it’ll teach her a sense of responsibility.”

  “Dessa is already responsible.” Dad wipes his mouth and drops his napkin on the table. “And we don’t need her help.”

  Next to him, Mom nods. “That’s right—we’re just fine. But that’s very sweet of you for offering, Dessa.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “I said we’re fine,” Dad snaps at me.

  The group goes quiet. My dad never raises his voice, never gets mad. I glance over at Cyrus, but his eyes are glued to the table.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly, even though I have no idea what I’m apologizing for.

  “Well,” Mrs. M says, reaching over to pat my hand, “the point is that Dessa has a fantastic opportunity, and that’s just great.”

  Alice appears behind Cyrus, a tray of plates balanced on her shoulder. “Who’s ready for pancakes?” she says, and the McAlister girls’ hands shoot into the air.

  Alice gets to work distributing the pancakes, and everyone launches into conversation, talking all at once. It’s like the tension at the table has cracked right down the middle, along with any resentment I had toward Alice. When she places my plate in front of me, I smile up at her,
and say, “Thank you.”

  • • •

  When breakfast is over, we slowly walk to the church parking lot where we left the RVs. I feel buoyed by the news. But when we arrive at the lot, Dad looks anything but happy. I kept an eye on him when the check came, but he split it with Mrs. McAlister and Jeff, so it didn’t end up costing too much. But maybe I missed something. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing, nothing,” he says, running his hands through his hair. He gestures for me to follow him, and we walk away from the group and stand in the shadow of our RV. When we’re out of earshot, he says, “I’m just wondering when this internship starts?”

  “Oh,” I say, relieved. “I don’t actually remember.”

  I motion for Cyrus to join us, and he ambles over. “What’s up?”

  “When does my internship start?” I ask him, feeling foolish that I don’t already know.

  “Well, that’s the complicated part. It actually starts in four days.”

  “What?” Dad and I say at the same time.

  “Yeah . . . when I applied, I didn’t realize how quickly this Fiona woman was going to want Dessa to start. But . . . you know. Artists.”

  The rest of the group joins us, leaning against the RV or sitting on the steps. Mom puts her arms around Dad’s neck. “Everything okay?”

  Dad clears his throat. “We’re going to have to leave for Santa Fe a little sooner than I realized.”

  “How soon?” Mrs. McAlister asks, hoisting up one of the twins to sit on her hip.

  “Right now.”

  The whole group immediately starts talking, and I feel the first pinprick of worry. We’re used to picking up and moving, but it’s always because we want to. Never because we have to.

  “Now hold on a second,” Jeff says, raising his voice to be heard over everyone else. “We just got here, and I was going to put in a bid on a new bike this afternoon. I’m not ready to leave yet.”