I look back and forth between my parents, willing one of them to argue on my behalf. But it’s Cy who speaks.
“Dad, come on,” he says. “We can find a bike in Santa Fe to fix up.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. McAlister says, shifting her daughter onto her other hip. “Never stop moving, right?”
“We should take a vote,” Jeff says. “That’s what we always do before we move.”
I shake my head. “This is totally different. It’s not some random trip to the Ozarks.”
Jeff crosses his arms. “Travelers decide together, or not at all.”
Mom steps between us. “Let’s not get worked up,” she says. “Dessa, I understand how important this is to you, but fair is fair. We should vote.”
“Mom!”
“I’m sorry, but Jeff’s right. Travelers decide together. I’ll get the hat.”
She unlocks the door to our RV and disappears inside, leaving me to glare at Jeff. We have the rules for a reason; without them our caravan would fall apart. But this is exactly why I want out of this life. If I had normal parents with normal priorities, I’d be on a plane to Santa Fe right now. Instead, my future is about to be decided by a vote, and my mom, the one person who should always be on my side, is going to be counting the ballots.
“Got it,” Mom says as she steps out of the RV. She’s holding the beat-up San Francisco Giants hat we’ve been using to collect votes for as long as I can remember. “And here’s the paper and a pen.” She hands a sheet of notebook paper to Jeff, along with a crappy Bic that’s missing a cap. “So, do we take Dessa to Santa Fe?”
The paper travels from person to person, everyone ripping off a piece. Then we pass the hat and pen around. We all avert our eyes as each person decides what to do with their paper—Y for “yea,” N for “nay,” or blank if you don’t want to decide one way or the other. Even Rodney and the twins get a vote, though I’m pretty sure the girls have no clue what’s going on. I stand at the end of the line, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet as I wait for my turn.
But when Dad hands the pen to me, I hesitate. Yesterday I would have cast my vote without a second thought. This internship is the universe’s way of giving me a second chance. Not at college, but at finding a way to make a new life for myself. A life of mixing pigments and staying up all night to capture the exact color of the moon at two in the morning. A life of color and light and texture. A life of my own, where I call the shots, instead of just being along for the ride.
But looking at my dad, I’m suddenly not sure. Going to Santa Fe will cost us money for gas and food, plus whatever we have to pay to park the RV overnight along the way. If Dad’s struggling with money like I suspect, moving is the last thing we should be doing. Am I being selfish by demanding that we go?
“Go on,” Dad says. He’s looking right at me, which is against the rules since I haven’t cast my vote yet. “It’s okay, Dess.”
I mark my paper with a Y for “yea,” then drop it into the hat. Mom takes it from me, and shuffles through the papers. I watch her closely, my hands practically shaking with nerves. I know how Jeff voted, but what about my dad? What if he voted to stay? What if the McAlisters don’t feel like visiting Santa Fe? If the vote comes out in favor of staying here, then that’s it. My family would never leave the group behind. My heart compresses in my chest. I’d have to tell Fiona Velarde I’m not coming.
I feel Cyrus reach for my hand. I let him hold it.
“Okay,” Mom says, dropping the slips of paper back into the hat.
“So?” I say. “Are we going?”
“Eight yea against two nay. Looks like we’re going to New Mexico!”
“Yes!” I yell, throwing my hands up in the air. Jeff mutters something and walks away toward his RV to pack. I stick out my tongue after him.
“Dessa . . . ,” Dad warns, but he’s finally smiling.
“We better hit the road if we’re going to make it in time,” Mr. McAlister yells from the doorway to his RV.
“Everybody pack up.” Mom kisses me on the forehead. “I knew it would work out,” she whispers.
We pile into the RV to batten down the hatches. It’s been a while since I’ve loved this lifestyle, but one great thing about being nomadic is that we don’t have to do much before traveling—we don’t have to put a hold on our mail, ask the neighbors to house-sit, or dig our suitcases out of the attic. Everything we need, everything we own, is already in the RV. All we have to do is make sure our stuff is locked away in the cabinets and off the floor so it doesn’t roll around while we drive. Sometimes I make my bed before we travel, but since I promised Rodney he could hang out up there, I settle for climbing the ladder to straighten my comforter and lock the storage compartment by my bed. I may have agreed to let him up here, but that doesn’t mean I want him messing with my stuff.
I’m about to climb down when I see the Greek prayer beads YiaYia gave me when I was Rodney’s age. It didn’t occur to me until just now, but if we’re going to Santa Fe, we’re going to see YiaYia. Stay with her, even. I grip the prayer beads tightly. Of all the people in my life, YiaYia is the only one who really understands why I want to go to art school so badly. She also totally gets why I’m tired of camping in the desert, or taking yet another detour down a random dirt road. Cyrus pretends to commiserate when I complain about not having a room of my own, but I can tell he secretly loves sleeping in his foldaway bed against the window, gazing up at the stars.
But none of that matters for the next two weeks. All that matters is that I kick this internship’s ass.
“Buckle up!” Mom says from the front seat.
I jump off the ladder and shout, “Never stop moving!”
• • •
We break for gas outside Asheville. The three RVs in our caravan take up more than half the open pumps, earning us dirty looks from a few drivers, but we ignore them as usual. While Dad fills up the tank, I run over to Cy’s RV and pull open the door. He’s standing on the other side, a pile of clean laundry in his arms. A local hip hop station is playing quietly in the background, the DJ’s voice barely more than a murmur. “Hey, what’s up?” Cy asks.
“I thought I’d ride with you for a few hours so I can grill you about that unauthorized application you sent in.”
“Sure,” he says, stepping aside to let me in. “But you have to help me fold these.”
My dad honks the RV horn, and moments later we start to move. Cy and I grab a seat on the foldout sleeper, the laundry between us. I sit on the edge, ignoring the fact that in a few hours he’ll be lying here in nothing but his boxers, eyes closed as the moonlight pools on his skin. . . .
“Are you excited?” Cy asks.
“What?” I say, my cheeks flushing. “I mean, yes! But it’s all happening so fast—I’ve barely had a chance to think.”
“Don’t think,” he says, picking up a wrinkled T-shirt and handing it to me. “Do.”
Cy turns up the radio, and we get to work folding clothes to the beat of old-school A Tribe Called Quest. It takes twice as long as necessary because I have to fix almost every shirt he folds.
“So which piece did you send Fiona?” I ask. “Was it the still life? Or the abstract?”
“Neither.”
“Oh no,” I say. “You didn’t send—”
“The sunburst? Hell yeah, I did.”
“Cyrus!” I grab a shirt and throw it at him. “That wasn’t even in my portfolio.”
“I know, but it’s the best one. She said to send her something full of passion, and that one definitely is. So I took a picture of it with my phone—don’t worry, I made sure it got good light and everything—and sent it to her.”
I lie back on the couch, my head resting on some of the laundry. “She probably thought it was so juvenile,” I groan. “The brushstrokes are messy and I completely disregarded what I learned last summer—”
“You already got the gig. Stop worrying.”
“Yeah . . .” I si
t back up, but my stomach is in knots. I never would have picked that painting. Not in a million years. Fiona is a serious artist, with shows all over the world. Sending her my sunburst painting is like sending J. K. Rowling my third-grade English homework and expecting her to be impressed I got an A.
But Fiona still chose it. Does that mean Cy was right, and if I had used that painting in my portfolio, I would have gotten into college? Or is this just a fluke? Did Fiona make a mistake?
“I wonder what kind of stuff she’s going to have you do,” Cyrus says, scrunching a pair of jeans into a ball and throwing them back on the couch. “Aren’t most internships about getting people coffee and making photocopies?”
I pick up the jeans he threw, fold them in half lengthwise, then again three more times until they’re a tight square. “She wants someone to help her prep for an upcoming show in Santa Fe. I’ll probably be helping pack up her art so it can be moved safely, making a few phone calls, managing her calendar, stuff like that. And, you know . . . actual art classes.” I grin at the thought. Me, taking art classes one-on-one with a real artist. It’s been a while since I’ve sketched or painted anything, but working with Fiona will definitely help me find my muse again. I’ve just needed some good news, that’s all.
“Right.” Cyrus looks out the window. The recently rain-soaked North Carolina landscape whips past, a blur of green and brown I’d love to capture in paint. “So . . . there’s one thing I forgot to tell you,” Cy says. “But you have to promise not to freak out.”
I pause, the T-shirt in my hands half-folded. “What is it?”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal when I first applied for you, and I’m sure it’s still not, but . . .”
“Cyrus. Tell me.”
“There was a little note at the bottom of the application.” He clears his throat. “It said she was only looking for ‘college-bound’ seniors.”
My heart drops into my stomach, taking my breath with it.
“But you’re still college-bound, right?” Cy asks. “You just haven’t gotten in anywhere yet.”
I look out the window.
“Dessa? It’s okay, right?”
I sigh, but don’t turn away from the window. I have to tell him the truth, but that doesn’t mean I have to see the disappointment on his face when I do it. “UCLA was the last school. So, no. It might not be okay.”
Cy lets out a long whistle. “What do you want to do?”
I lean my forehead against the window and watch the pavement streak by beneath us. This was supposed to be my second chance, not another reminder that I don’t have what it takes. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 4
Graceland RV Park looks like every other RV park we’ve stayed in. Short, leafy trees planted in an attempt to make it feel homey, hookup sites to dump waste, 30/50 amp service to recharge. The only difference is that it’s on Elvis Presley Boulevard behind Elvis Presley’s Heartbreak Hotel, and there’s a group of Elvis impersonators staying in the site next to ours. It’s not even eight p.m. and they’re already drinking hard. No fewer than thirty six-packs are stacked on a picnic table, and a middle-aged Elvis is busy unloading a cooler full of booze.
“These were the only spots available,” Mom says.
“Let me guess,” I say, tapping my finger against my chin. “Peanut butter and banana convention?”
As if he’d been waiting in the wings for his cue, a tall Elvis with a red face steps out of his trailer. “Hey, ladies! You ready to shake, rattle, and roll, or what?”
Mom and I look at each other. “I’m going to take a walk,” I say.
“Okay, but keep an eye out for these guys,” she says, nodding toward the Elvises. “All of them.”
“Got it.”
I leave our site, careful not to make eye contact with our drunk neighbors, and take a right. The first thing Cy and I usually do when we arrive in a new RV park is stretch our legs and figure out if there’s anyone our age in the area. Being on the road all the time can be lonely, even if you’re constantly meeting new people, and are surrounded by family. Especially when you’re surrounded by family. But Cyrus had promised his dad he’d do some preliminary research on the Santa Fe motorcycle scene, so tonight I’m on my own, wandering around an RV park like a loser. If it was up to me, we’d still be on the road, driving straight through to Santa Fe. But it’s not up to me, or even my dad. It’s up to the families, so here we are, stopped for the night.
I turn down Heartbreak Lane, taking in the sights. Elvis impersonators occupy most of the park, but only some of the Elvises—Elvi?—brought their A game. Most have shitty costumes, but a few look like professionals making a pit stop on the way to Vegas. Outside a Travel Trailer fitted with Barbie-pink spinning rims, a woman with Dolly Parton hair squints against the setting sun as her husband waits impatiently for her to dab at the fake tan spray running down his neck and onto his rolled-sleeve white T-shirt. Past them, two Elvises in motorcycle jackets, black jeans, and synthetic wigs sit outside a rickety, silver Airstream trailer. When they spot me, the one on the right raises his eyebrows and holds up a joint, but I shake my head and keep walking. My mom may be a tree-hugging hippie, but that doesn’t mean she won’t skin me alive if I come home smelling like pot.
I make a right onto Hound Dog Way, and my thoughts turn to my internship. Maybe I don’t have to tell Fiona Velarde about the whole college thing. The internship is only for two weeks—long enough for me to say that I’m still waiting to hear back from schools. By the time it’s over, she’ll probably have forgotten all about it.
I approach a crowd of Elvises standing around a junky- looking trailer with floral curtains, watching something just out of view. “Hound Dog” blares out of somebody’s RV speakers and a guy calls out, “a-five, six, seven, eight!”
A trio of Elvises start to dance. They’re all wearing the King’s signature white pantsuit, with the exception of the Elvis in the middle, whose jumpsuit is covered in sparkly pink rhinestones. As he thrusts, the sun bounces off the glittery plastic and throws pink light all over the side of the RV.
“No no no!” yells a short man standing off to the side. His styled hair is jet black and shiny, as if he and Elvis once shared a hairdresser. “Jimmy, you’re still thrusting out of time,” he says, glaring at the pink Elvis.
I stifle a laugh and pull out my phone.
Just saw dancing Elvises. You’re missing out.
Cy’s response comes fast. You join in? You’d look cute in a white jumpsuit.
A warm blush spreads across my cheeks, but I don’t respond. He flirts with everyone.
I do a few more laps of the park, stopping more than once to watch an Elvis rehearse for an impersonation competition, or fix another Elvis’ hair. By the time I get back to the RVs, the sewage tanks are empty and the dead bugs have been cleaned off the front windows. Mom stands over a picnic table, setting out plates and napkins, while Dad fiddles with the site’s barbecue. Jeff, Cy, and the McAlisters are seated at the picnic table on the other side of the scraggly shrub separating our parking spots. I wave, but stay on our side of the foliage. Sometimes it’s nice to have nuclear-family time.
“Oh good, you’re back,” Mom says. “Soy dogs for dinner. Chicago-style. Grab the pickles.”
Dad hands out the food, and we each take a seat under the awning that slides out of our RV. I sniff the soy dog, then force myself to swallow one bite, then another, before setting my plastic plate on the bench next to me. I’d rather go to bed hungry than choke down another bite of these meatless monstrosities.
“I know soy isn’t your favorite,” Mom says, “but you know how I feel about processed meats.”
“They’re fine, Mom.” I pick up my hot dog and take another bite. “See?”
On the other side of the shrub, the McAlisters, Jeff, and Cy talk and laugh, but I’m too focused on this whole internship dilemma to be very chatty. I notice Dad’s distracted too. He keeps offering me ketchup even though I don’t like i
t on hot dogs, and when Rodney does an impression of the Elvises’ horrible singing, Dad doesn’t laugh. He stares right through him, like my brother’s not even there.
After dinner I help Mom carry the dishes inside to the kitchen while Rodney works on his homework outside. Dad disappears, but I figure he’s walking off his food. Mom hands me the dirty plates just as my cell phone rings in my pocket, the Beatles crooning through the fabric. Cyrus’ ringtone.
I hold up the phone in my free hand. “Can I—?”
“Go ahead,” she says with a sigh, taking the dirty dishes back. “You can use our bedroom. But don’t be long. We’re getting an early start tomorrow.”
I go into the back and close the door behind me. “Hey,” I say, collapsing onto the Murphy bed. I can see the side of Cy’s RV out the window. “What’s up?”
“I finally finished researching our Santa Fe options. There are a couple of bikes for sale on Craigslist. When Dad gets back from the McAlisters’, I’m going to show him the one I think we can fix up in two or three weeks.”
The sound of his voice makes my fingers itch with the desire to touch him, even though I wouldn’t do it even if he was sitting right next to me. “That’ll keep you busy.”
“For sure.”
The line goes quiet. I grip the phone, imagining all the things he could be thinking and not saying.
“I got a weird email,” he says at last. “Do you remember Rachel?”
Roscoes and Rebeccas and Roberts and Rashidas flash before my eyes, but no Rachels come to mind. “No, should I?”
“I guess not. She was the girl who worked at the coffee shop in Dallas.”
“The one with the lip ring?”
“Yeah, that’s her. She’s thinking about buying a bike, and she wanted my opinion.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, I told her we’re going to be in Oklahoma City tomorrow night, and she offered to drive up and meet me. I guess there’s a show she wants to see anyway, so we’re gonna go together.”
I sit in silence, waiting for him to invite me. But the silence stretches on.
“Anyway, I just thought that was a weird coincidence,” he says. “What are the chances, right?”
Your Destination Is on the Left Page 4