I stare up at the ceiling of the RV. My chest is so tight I’m not even sure if I’m breathing.
“So,” Cyrus continues, “your dad didn’t seem too excited about driving to Santa Fe. You think he’s mad at me for springing the internship on everyone?”
“He’s not mad.”
“So everything’s fine?”
“Well . . . he did try to give me ketchup at dinner.”
“You hate ketchup.”
I laugh, but it sounds raw. Fake. “Exactly.”
A door shuts on Cy’s end. “Dad’s here. I gotta show him what I found.”
I hesitate, wanting so badly to tell him not to go out with Rachel. But even as I think it, a little voice in the back of my head reminds me that there’s no point.
“See you in the morning?” he asks.
I pull in a shaky breath. “Okay. Bye.”
The phone clicks, and he’s gone.
I lie there for a second, staring into the darkness outside the window. I always told myself he wasn’t interested in me, but deep down, I thought . . . maybe. Maybe he felt the same way, but was better at hiding it than me. Maybe he wanted me to kiss him that day in the rain, just like I wanted to. But I’m kidding myself by even considering the possibility of us being together. We can’t date. Not as long as we’re travelers. Not as long as we’re family. It’s too big a risk. Even if our parents were fine with it—they’d tease us, for sure—what if it didn’t work out? It’d be chaos. Hurt feelings, fighting between the families. And it’d be all our fault. All my fault.
In the space next to ours, the Elvises begin a raucous rendition of “Viva Las Vegas,” complete with a loud instrumental track to back them up. I hear Mr. McAlister yell, “Keep it down!” but they just keep singing.
CHAPTER 5
The RV bumps along a side street, the headlights casting a yellow-white glow on the asphalt ahead. Mom strains to make out the street signs, but apparently, signage wasn’t a priority when they built this Oklahoma City suburb. “When Jeff said the lot was off the beaten path,” she says, “I didn’t think he meant we’d have to drive around in the dark for thirty minutes, searching for an invisible sign.”
“Maybe we should go back the other way,” I suggest from the passenger’s seat. The other RVs stopped for gas about ten minutes ago, but we foolishly volunteered to scout the lot. “Maybe it was—” A handwritten sign flies by my window. “Wait—stop!”
Mom slams on the breaks and we both crane our necks to see behind us. Leafy trees loom overhead. “Was there a road back there?” she asks.
“I think so. Back up.”
Mom slowly reverses. The crooked white sign comes into view. “It says ‘Parking for Greeks Only,’ and there’s a really bad drawing of the Parthenon.” I turn back to look at her. “It’s gotta be the one.”
“Yep.” She turns down a short gravel driveway and into a dirt lot, throwing the RV into park at the first opportunity. “Home sweet home,” she says, stretching her arms overhead.
I roll down the window, and we listen to the sounds of the night outside. Crickets, distant traffic, the wind whistling through the trees surrounding the lot. I breathe deeply. Mom and I spent the last ten hours sitting side by side, and somehow I filled that space with everything but the one thing I have to tell her, but can’t bring myself to say: I didn’t get into college. There were opportunities—plenty of them—but each time I opened my mouth to tell her about UCLA and all the other schools I didn’t get into, the future I let slip through my fingers, it felt like my throat was closing up. It also didn’t help that Mom kept saying how proud she was of me. So instead, I said nothing.
Dad comes out of the bedroom, where he’s been looking for freelance work on his laptop using a personal hotspot thingy he bought when we first started traveling. I try not to wonder how badly our family needs that work.
“Found the lot?” Dad asks.
Mom nods. “Finally.”
Rodney jumps off my bed and lands with a thud in the middle of the aisle. “I want to go outside,” he says. “Can I?”
Mom shrugs, but Dad shakes his head. “It’s bedtime.”
“It’s only nine thirty,” Rodney whines. “I still have an hour left.”
“We’re leaving early again,” Dad says. “Brush your teeth. You can have the bathroom first.”
Rodney groans, but there’s no point in arguing with Dad on travel days. We either stick to the rules, or he’ll put us on windshield duty—a particularly gross job when we’re driving across the country, since there are so many bugs just waiting to splatter across the front of the RV. I learned that lesson the hard way.
But then again, I was a kid when that happened, like Rodney is now. “Dad, I’m going for a quick walk to stretch my legs.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “You heard what I told your brother.”
“Right, but I’m seventeen, not ten.”
“Seventeen is still a kid.”
“But Cyrus went out—”
“Cyrus is eighteen, and Jeff’s kid, not mine.” He rests a hand on my head for a second, then ruffles my hair. “Get some rest.”
Dad opens the door and steps outside. Where is he going? It’s not like there’s a convenience store or something nearby—the closest street light is half a mile away. I shut the door behind him, and lean against it. I’m used to how quiet he is, to how he’ll listen to an argument for ten minutes before offering his opinion. But he’s always here. Not like the last few days—his mind seems to be anywhere and everywhere else.
I close the door behind him, but not before I hear the click of his lighter, and catch a whiff of cigarette smoke. Shit.
The bathroom door opens and Rodney comes out. I go in, put down the toilet seat, and sit. But instead of enjoying my few minutes of solitude, I imagine my dad, standing out there in the dark, smoking. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to relax, but I feel trapped in the cramped bathroom. It reminds me of how close I came to getting out of here, to having the sort of life where I could take a walk just because I felt like it. Applying to colleges was scary, but it felt so good to know the end was near. Now I don’t even have that to look forward to.
At least I have the internship . . . for now, anyway. That’ll have to be enough.
I turn on the sink and splash my face with cool water. We’ve been driving for hours, but I’m not tired. My muscles are coiled and buzzing with unspent energy. Any minute now, Cyrus and Rachel will meet for the first time in almost a year. They’ll hug hello, say how good the other looks, laugh at some dumb joke. I groan and rest my head against the mirror. I should have stayed with him in the rain. I should have pressed my body against his, and told him the truth I’ve carried since that hot day in Mississippi when our parents introduced us—
There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Dessa?” Mom calls. “You almost done?”
“Almost,” I say, flushing the toilet even though I didn’t use it. I turn on the faucet again, and stare at myself in the mirror. I am not afraid of the future, I tell my reflection. I am not afraid of tomorrow, or the day after that. I am not afraid of spending every hour of every day with my family until I die, curled up in my bed like a mummy in a too-small sarcophagus.
“Dessa,” she calls again. “Your brother forgot to wash his face. You need to hurry up.”
I wipe my hands on a towel and then open the door. “All yours,” I tell Rodney, who’s standing there, glaring at Mom.
“You’ll thank me when you don’t get acne at eleven,” she says.
Rodney locks himself inside the bathroom, leaving Mom and me standing alone in the galley kitchen. I look around for Dad, but he’s still not back.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Is Dad . . . is he smoking again?”
“Of course not,” she says, her voice ticking up an octave. “Why would you say that?”
“He seems stressed, and he’s been gone awhile. Is everything okay?”
“I’m going to bed.” She drops the towel on the stove. “Night.”
Anger bubbles inside of me as I watch her shut the bedroom door behind her. But there’s nothing to say, nothing to do. That’s the irony of living in a mobile home. You can travel anywhere you want, but as soon as you need space, there’s nowhere to go.
I climb up the ladder to my bed and pull out my cell phone. My finger hovers between Twitter and Facebook—do I want to live vicariously through strangers, or old friends I never talk to anymore? I settle on Facebook, and within seconds I’m scrolling through a mix of spring break photos and emoji-studded political rants. Then something new catches my eye: Charlotte Rosenberg’s smiling face.
Charlotte was my best friend from the moment we met in second-grade art class. We played video games and rode our bikes, and she was the first person that noticed I could draw. I thought we’d stay best friends, even when I moved away. And for a while, we did. We talked on the phone every night, and I sent her postcards whenever we stopped somewhere new. But then she made new friends, and started telling me stories about people I didn’t know. Who I didn’t want to know. I’m not sure who stopped calling who first, but in my heart of hearts, I think it might have been me.
But here she is, Charlotte Rosenberg, staring up at me from my phone with a smile so big it’s practically leaping off the screen. She’s holding a piece of paper. I try to read it, but the type’s too small, so I read the caption instead.
Just got the news! University of Southern California said YES. Film school here I come!!!
I stare at the screen, Charlotte’s face blurring into colorful pixels. Charlotte is going to college. I squeeze my eyes shut, and try to breathe. I shouldn’t be surprised. Charlotte was always a good student, and I remember seeing a post about the film club she started her sophomore year. She worked hard. She deserves this. But that doesn’t make the truth of the situation hurt any less: Charlotte’s going to college, to live the life I want so badly that I can taste it in the back of my mouth. And I’m staying right here.
The RV door opens, and Dad comes back inside. As he walks by my bed, I catch a whiff of something stale and burning—cigarettes. I grip my phone. First Charlotte, now this. There are so many things I want to say. I want to shout and cry and beg Dad to stop, but he’s heard it all before. Nothing makes a difference once he starts, not even the cancer scare YiaYia had a few years ago. She quit, but it took him months to finally kick the habit. And now it’s back.
“Everyone’s parked. You should get ready for bed,” he says, gesturing at the boots I’m still wearing. “Early start tomorrow.”
I glare at him, but he just nods and pats my knee. “Chuff, chuff,” he says with a tired smile. “See you in the morning.”
I don’t answer.
Below me, Rodney curls up on his pullout bed, and Dad turns out the lights. “Good night,” he whispers, then goes into his bedroom and shuts the door, leaving Rodney and me alone, cocooned in darkness. I let the sounds of nighttime wrap around me. Mom snoring in the other room. The creak of the RV’s suspension. Rodney tossing and turning in his bed, making little noises as he battles whatever monsters populate the dreams of ten-year-old boys. I pull my pillow over my head, humming to drown out the noise. Instead, my mind returns to Charlotte’s radiant smile, and to the hateful, hateful message on the UCLA website.
Application Status: Enrollment Denied.
What will Fiona say when she finds out I’m not going to college? Will she kick me out of her studio for being a liar, for wasting her time? I groan, and rub my eyes. I have to focus on something else. On anything else. I reach for my cell phone again. Whenever I can’t fall asleep, I text Cyrus. He’s got a touch of insomnia, so there’s usually a good chance he’s still awake, reading an auto magazine, or researching the music scene wherever we’re living. Sometimes we talk about what we’re doing the next day, and sometimes we just send goofy selfies back and forth until we’re laughing so hard we wake our parents. I start typing a message to him—then stop.
He can’t talk right now, because he’s not home. He’s on a date. With Rachel.
I throw my pillow at the wall. “Damn it.”
Rodney turns over in his sleep. I freeze, counting slowly to ten before I let myself move.
The earthy smell of Oklahoma dirt drifts into the RV through the open windows. Cyrus is out there somewhere, having fun. I bet Charlotte is too. Why should I be stuck in here? I always follow the rules, always do what I’m told. I aced the SATs, busted my ass in my home school classes. And for what? All my good behavior has ever gotten me is a stomach full of disappointment. Maybe it’s time to try being the laid-back traveler kid my parents always wanted me to be, instead of an uptight artist with a freaking pipe dream.
Before I lose my nerve, I climb down the ladder, careful to skip the squeaky third step. When I reach the bottom, I grab my purse with one hand and open the door of the RV with the other. It’s warm and humid, so I pull off my sweatshirt and stuff it into my bag. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’ve explored the nighttime world with Cy a million times, but I’ve never snuck out alone. Just the thought of it sends a shiver down my spine.
As soon as I reach the main street, I pull out my cell phone and open the map. Usually Cy and I waste at least ten minutes arguing about how to spend the first night in a new place—wander around downtown? Dollar movie night? Catch up on laundry?—but tonight the decision is all mine. I’m not too far from downtown Oklahoma City, so I figure I’ll start there. I use my phone to find out which bus will take me, then set off in the direction of the nearest bus stop.
Walking alone with no one asking anything of me, no one telling me what to do or where to go or who to be . . . it’s incredible. As freeing as traveling the country can be, it’s not often I get to do exactly what I want to exactly when I want to. I grin into the darkness, punctuated only by the winking bodies of the fireflies hovering around me, their soft light pulsing their hello.
When I reach the bus stop, I take out my phone and see a text from Cyrus. This place is packed. Rachel says hi.
I clench my teeth. Is he trying to torture me? My fingers itch to answer him. I want to tell him what I’m doing. Maybe it’ll make him wish he was with me instead of with Rachel. It would serve him right.
I shake my head and drop my phone into my purse. I’m not going to spend my one night of freedom worrying about Cyrus. He can hear about it tomorrow. Tonight is for me.
The bus pulls up to the curb, and I get on. The driver barely looks at me, and he takes off with a lurch as soon I drop my coins into the machine. I make my way down the aisle, holding on to the backs of seats even though I’m used to walking while a vehicle’s moving—nothing like living in an RV to give you sea legs. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I’m smiling like I’ve never been on a bus before. I try to stop, but I can’t help it.
There are only two other passengers on the bus. An old man, slumped over in his seat, his hat pulled down to cover his eyes. And a girl around my age wearing a cropped leather jacket despite the heat. I take a seat across the aisle from her and look out the window. The bus is the brightest thing in this neighborhood, its yellow headlights illuminating the sleeping lawns as we pass. I imagine my bed, the sheets holding the shape of me even though I’m not there, my worries pressing down on the fabric in my absence. I’m glad to be out here, speeding through the night, on my way to nowhere in particular.
The quiet neighborhood slowly gives way to lively city streets. The ding of a passenger requesting a stop rings out, and I turn to see the old man using the back of the seat in front of him to pull himself up. When the bus stops in front of a convenience store, the old man gets off, leaving just the girl and me. I wonder where she’s going. A friend
’s apartment? Maybe to a late-night job? She glances at me, and I look away, but a second later I’m staring at her again. Her red hair is pulled back tight against her head in a ponytail, and her eyeliner is razor thin. She’d look severe, but there’s something about the way her lips are curled up at the sides that makes it look like she’s about to smile at any moment.
“Can I help you?” she says.
I jump in my seat. She’s the one staring at me now, an expectant look on her face. “Sorry,” I say. “You just remind me of someone.”
It’s a bad excuse, but then she smirks and I realize it’s true—she really does remind me of someone. The way her head is tipped to the side as she waits for me to answer, how she’s squeezing her knees to her chest while her cowboy boots tap against the back of the seat in front of her—it’s exactly how Charlotte used to sit on the bus ride home from school, back when my family still lived in Chattanooga in the Pre-Nomad days.
“I get that a lot,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Dessa. You?”
“I’m Taryn.”
“Where are you headed?”
She looks at me funny, and I remember that non-travelers feel uncomfortable when a stranger asks them where they’re going. “Sorry,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me.”
She shrugs. “I’m going to the Little Red Rooster. You heard of it?”
“No, sorry.”
She turns in her seat to face me, her legs sticking out across the aisle. “What about you? Where are you going?”
“I’m not really sure,” I admit. “I’m only in town for one night, so I thought I’d walk around for a while.”
“You’re traveling alone?”
“No, with my family. We’re going to Santa Fe so I can start an internship. But I needed a break.”
She laughs. “I know that feeling.”
The bus stops at a red light, and a pregnant woman gets on. When the bus moves again, Taryn scoots across the aisle into the open seat in front of me. Her green eyes stare straight into mine.
Your Destination Is on the Left Page 5