How My Summer Went Up in Flames

by Doktorski, Jennifer Salvato

  “Okay, bro. We get it,” Logan says. “Breathe.”

  Spencer shoots him a look. He is undeterred. “Tomorrow, we’ll hit the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, walk around a bit, have lunch at Jack’s Bar-B-Que, and be on the road to Graceland by twelve thirty.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Matty says.

  “Sounds like watching paint dry while someone plays a banjo,” I say. Spencer looks hurt, and I wish I could take my snottiness back. Spencer is the last person in the world I’d want to hurt, and I should be thankful we’re not spending the evening trying to sneak into nudie bars. A trip with Joey and his friends would have been like a pole dance tour of America. This is a unique bunch I’m traveling with.

  Matty gives me a chance to redeem myself. “Jack’s Bar-B-Que has ribs. You know you like ribs.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “I do love ribs. I’m sorry, Spencer, it was the low blood sugar talking. And the dance lessons sound fun.” They don’t really, but this is me trying to be more like Matty.

  • • •

  When we arrive in Nashville, we check into a motel before driving over to Ryman Auditorium, where we “luck out” and are able to snag four tickets to the Grand Ole Opry. Whoo. Hoo. Or should I say, yeehaw? From there it’s on to the Wildhorse Saloon for country line dancing. I have to admit, Spencer looks pretty good on the dance floor. Matty? Not so much. But watching him try to move his lanky limbs was worth every minute of the hour-long boot-scootin’ lessons.

  After dinner—I had blazin’ wings and a burger—we head to Ryman Auditorium to see a lineup that includes the Charlie Daniels Band (“The Devil Went Down to Georgia” never gets old, apparently), Lee Roy Parnell, Diamond Rio, and some other acts I’ve never heard of and never, ever want to see again. I know I should be enjoying myself, but I’m homesick. My Jersey Girl soul is shriveling up and dying out here. I’m quiet on the ride back to the motel, and my mood only gets worse when I learn that the pull-out couch is missing a mattress.

  “Looks like we’re bunking together,” Matty says.

  “Looks like you’re sleeping on the floor, you mean,” I snipe. But when I get a good look at the floor, with its faded blue, indoor/outdoor carpeting, I relent.

  “Fine,” I say. “But if you touch me, I will kill you.”

  “I was about to say the same thing to you.” Matty makes the peace sign and points from his eyes to mine. “I’m watching you.”

  “Watch away. After I wash my face and brush my teeth, all you’re going to see is me sleeping.” It’s true. I’m exhausted. Both physically and emotionally. I miss Pony curled up on my bed, family dinner at five thirty, day trips to the beach. I want to call Lilliana, but I decide to wait until the morning. I’ve also got to call my parents for the lawyer’s number and then set up a time with his office to discuss my case.

  “Matty. Can you text my mom to tell her where we are and that everything is fine?”

  “What do I look like?”

  “The seven-foot-tall keeper of my phone.”

  “She’s got you there,” Spencer says.

  “I know, right?” I say. And then I grab a towel and head for the shower. I decide to make it quick. I’ll take another one and wash my hair in the morning.

  When I come out of the bathroom, Logan and Spencer are sitting at the table by the window and Matty is sitting on the edge of their bed. They’re playing cards and half watching a baseball game on TV. I peel away the bedspread and throw it on the floor (I’ve heard stories about body fluids on those things). Next, I turn up the edges of the fitted sheets and perform my nightly bedbug inspection before I get into the bed on the side closest to the wall. I fold the sheet over the top of the blanket so it won’t touch my skin, put an extra pillow in the middle of the bed to keep Matty on his side, then mumble something that sounds like “good night,” and before I know it, I’m out.

  Chapter 7

  When I open my eyes the next morning, Matty is staring down at me, his head propped up on his hand.

  “Morning, sunshine,” he says. “You fart in your sleep.”

  “What?!” I’m instantly wide awake. I sit up and smack him with my pillow. “I do not.”

  “You do,” Logan says from the chair by the window. He’s reading this thick book with a boring cover. His hair is wet, like he’s freshly showered, and he’s already dressed. In that instant, he reminds me of my father. “Nothing to be ashamed of. Everybody does it.”

  I want to die. I don’t know if they’re telling the truth or teasing me. I kick off the covers, stomp to the bathroom, and open the door. I catch Spencer coming out of the shower mid-stride. He shrieks and it’s as if we’re on the Timber Tower all over again, only this time, I scream too and slam the door.

  I feel trapped. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt without a bra, but I don’t care. I bolt for the front door, bed head and all. I plop myself into one of the two plastic white chairs under our motel room window and cross my arms over my boobs. The door opens a few seconds later. Matty sits down beside me and hands me my phone.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “You don’t fart in your sleep.”

  I don’t feel the need to comment further on my flatulence or lack thereof, so I simply take my phone. “Trust me?”

  “Yep.” Then he gets up and goes back inside the room.

  I look at the clock on my phone. Seven fifty-five. Is there a time difference between New Jersey and Tennessee? Either way, it’s too early to call Lilliana. She sleeps until noon if she’s not working. This doesn’t stop me, though. I’m expecting straight to voice mail, but Lilliana answers.

  “Hey,” says a groggy voice.

  “Hey, you answered.”

  “I’ve been leaving my phone ringer on just in case you need me.” My eyes fill with tears and I’m too choked up to talk. Lilliana is so not the mother hen type. But it confirms what I’ve always known. She’s a great friend. “Everything okay?”

  “Define okay. Does it include sitting outside a motel in Nashville with morning breath, bad hair, and nothing to look forward to but a morning at the Country Music Hall of Fame?”

  My voice breaks. I’m crying now and not even trying to hide it.

  “Don’t be such a wuss,” Lilliana says. “There’s got to be something else you can do. Maybe you can go shopping and meet up with the guys later. Shopping always makes you happy.”

  “Maybe,” I say. Could I? I’ve never walked around a strange city by myself, and I’m not sure I want to start today. What I really want to do is go home. Not because of Joey. I just want to feel normal again.

  “Can you do me a favor and check the bus schedule from Nashville to New Jersey?”

  I mull a possible scenario. As my GPS-enabled phone continues to blip westward in the Taurus with Matty, I can take the bus home and stay with Lilliana.

  Lilliana sighs. “Ro. Do you really think that’s an option? What will you do when you get home? Your parents will freak.”

  “Please, Lilliana. Please just check.”

  “Hold on.”

  Can this work? Will Matty tell on me? Sure, he’ll be pissed, but if he blows my cover, he’ll be risking the wrath of my father. When did I become an evil schemer?

  “There’s a Greyhound bus leaving at eleven a.m. today that will get you to Newark, New Jersey, at ten thirty tomorrow morning. That’s practically twenty-four hours. Do you really want to spend an entire day traveling on a bus, alone?”

  Wow. I didn’t realize it would take that long. “How much is the ticket?”

  “A hundred and thirty-three dollars.”

  Oh, man. That’s a lot of money to put on my emergency credit card, not to mention the Dollywood tickets I charged. My heart races and there’s a pulsing sensation in the back of my skull. Can I pull this off? Should I? What will running home solve?

  Lilliana interrupts my thoughts. “Rosie, are you still there?”

  “Listen, I’ll call you in an hour. Can I stay with you if I decide to do thi
s?”

  “Of course. I got your back. But even I think staying away until your court date is a good idea. Stop whining and tough it out. You’ll feel better about yourself.”

  I only hear about half of Lilliana’s pep talk. I’m plotting. I’ll need to stuff some supplies in my backpack for the bus ride since I won’t be able to get my bag out of the trunk once the car is locked. I can tell the guys I don’t feel like touring the Hall of Fame. Write Matty a note and leave it on the windshield, under the wiper. Then I’ll take a cab and get to the bus station before they’re done looking at Kenny Rogers’s first pair of cowboy boots. With any luck, I’ll board the bus before they notice I’m gone. Logan will probably be happy to be rid of me.

  “Ro? Are you listening to me?”

  “I am. I am. Let me think about this and call you back.”

  “Don’t do anything crazy. You can be very impuls—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. I’ll call ya.” I hang up before she can say any more. “Impulsive.” That adjective’s been attached to my name since I tried to escape the preschool playground when I was four. As the years went on, teachers added “intelligent underachiever” and “determined” to the comments section of my report cards. My mother maintains this is a polite way of saying “stubborn and defiant” but is quick to add that I’m the type of person who is smart enough to do anything she puts her mind to. The problem is, “anything” is rather broad. I’ll be the first to admit, I lack focus.

  The door opens again, and this time it’s Logan. He puts a hand on my shoulder. I’m wound up so tight with thoughts of escape that it’s like I melt. His touch feels protective, safe. Can I make the rest of this trip work? Is he a good enough reason to want to?

  “We’re leaving here in fifteen minutes,” he says.

  “Fifteen minutes?” So much for giving it a go. “That’s barely enough time to shower. How am I supposed to blow-dry my hair?”

  “I suggest you bust a move.”

  Bust a move? Who says that? It’s like all Logan’s dorkiness is cloaked by that great body. Clark Kent in reverse. I race inside and order the guys out of the room while I shower, change, and toss extra clothes into my backpack. My legs need a shaving, but I have to prioritize. Fourteen minutes later, I step out of the motel room in a brown sundress with my wet hair in a twist, pulling my suitcase on wheels behind me, buoyed by the fact that this may be my last motel checkout with the Geek Squad.

  We drive through Starbucks for breakfast and I only get a coffee. Matty asks me if I’m feeling okay. Normally I’d be partaking in a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich with him and Spencer, but I tell him I’m still digesting my dinner from last night instead of the truth, which is that I’m too nervous to eat. Once again, health-conscious Logan gets some kind of egg-white-wheat-pita-antioxidant something or other. I hold my cup near the air-conditioning vent to cool my coffee as we drive to the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum. We’re supposed to spend an hour or two there before leaving for Memphis.

  “I’m going to skip it,” I say as the guys get in line to buy tickets. “I’ll wait outside.”

  “Are you sure?” Matty asks. “Want me to stay with you?”

  Why does he have to be so nice? It makes me feel extra guilty for what I’m about to do.

  “No, no. Go ahead. I’ll be fine. I want to get some sun. I’ll meet you back here in two hours.”

  “You shouldn’t be all by yourself without a phone.” Matty pulls my phone out of his pocket. “Here. Call me if you need me.”

  “It’s okay. You keep it. I don’t need it.”

  Matty raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. Can he tell I’m up to no good? If my plan is going to work, the phone needs to stay with him. I guess I could leave it on the windshield with my note, but what if it got stolen? I guess I have no choice.

  “Fine, give it.”

  He plops it in my open hand like it’s a hot potato.

  “Just remember, no Joey.”

  I’m so consumed with escape plans that I wasn’t even thinking about Joey. Hearing his name triggers the memory of my dream. Meet me in Phoenix on the Fourth of July. Inside, I cringe that my subconscious would even think something like that. Thank God it didn’t happen. And anyway, my hair is still wet. I would never reach out to Joey looking like this. It sounds stupid, but I’d need perfect hair and makeup to call him. Feeling good, to me at least, starts with looking good. Sadly, I don’t have any other real talents, so I stick with what works.

  The guys enter the Hall of Fame, and I’m left standing alone on the sidewalk staring at my phone. I should call my mom. I need to talk to her about my lawyer before I leave my phone behind and get on that bus. Poor Matty. He’ll be able to cover his ass for a day or so, but after that, I don’t know what’ll happen. I’m trying to picture how my going home will play out, but I can’t, so I don’t. I’m getting on the bus and that’s that.

  “Hi, honey, how was Dollywood?” Mom asks when she answers.

  “Great.” It really was. No need to mention things haven’t been going so well since. “How’s Pony? What’s he doing?”

  “Sleeping in the corner of the kitchen, big surprise. Pony, guess who I’m talking to? It’s Rosie.”

  I hear a couple of quick woofs. “Aw, don’t tease him, Ma. What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s looking out the back door for you.” That makes my eyes well up.

  “Poor guy. I miss him.”

  “You’ll see him soon enough. Hold on a sec, your dad left me the attorney’s number. Should I just text it to you?”

  “No, no. I’ve got a pen right here.” I hope I don’t sound panicked.

  “You’re supposed to call his secretary, Miranda, to set up a time to talk.”

  “Miranda? Steve Justice has a secretary named Miranda. Are you kidding me?”

  “What can I tell you? That’s her name. Is everything else okay? You sound a little off.”

  How does she do that? Forget the GPS in my phone, it’s like Mom planted a chip in my brain. I try to make an excuse.

  “Mom, don’t make me point out the obvious here. I’m not in a very good place right now.”

  “I know, sweetie, but things will get better. You’ll see. You know what your abuelita always says, don’t you?”

  I sigh. I hope this isn’t going to be a long story. “Abuelita says a lot of things, Mom.”

  “Lo que no te mata de fortaliece.”

  “Whatever doesn’t kill you will make you stronger? Everybody says that, Mom. Is that supposed to help?”

  “It sounds better in Spanish.”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  “Te amo, mija.”

  But that does. “Love you too, Ma. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  I may even see you.

  • • •

  My brain feels fuzzy. I need more caffeine, and I’m suddenly hungry. At the museum’s restaurant, I get a large coffee and bagel to go. The cashier tells me the bus station is a five-minute cab ride away, so I’ve got a little time before I need to head over there. I’d rather hang out here awhile longer. I pick up a free brochure about the Hall of Fame and sit outside on a low wall and read up on this place. Hmm. From the sky, the building was designed to look like a bass clef. The windows resemble piano keys and the edge of the building is supposed to be a 1950s Cadillac fin. I decide to step back to get a better view of the piano keys and fin.

  I’m standing about fifty yards away from the building facade, cup of coffee in one hand, bagel in the other, when it hits me. WTF? What am I doing? Am I really going to run away? This tingly sensation comes over me and my heart starts racing. I need to buy something. Anything. I walk back toward the museum. There has to be a gift shop in this freaking place. I look at my phone. Forty minutes until my bus leaves. I wander around the gift shop examining the various guitar-shaped souvenirs, then browse the women’s apparel. I pass on the black T-shirt that says GOT COUNTRY? in white lettering, but something about the pin
k tank that says WELL-BEHAVED COWGIRLS RARELY MAKE HISTORY grabs me. I decide the thirty-five-dollar price tag is worth it. After all, it will be my only souvenir of this adventure. I get the shirt and also buy a Hall of Fame postcard for Matty.

  After I leave the gift shop, it’s time to put my plan in action. I call Lilliana and tell her I’ll call from a pay phone when I get to Newark tomorrow. She sounds disappointed that I’m not sticking it out but says she’ll come and get me. I rummage through my bag for a pen and flip the postcard to the blank side. I write small so everything I need to say fits and end my note with I’m really, really sorry. Thanks for trying to help me. Love ya, Rosie. My chest feels tight as I walk to the car. I put the postcard under the windshield wiper on the driver’s side and notice I’ve lucked out. Spencer left his window open a sliver, probably in anticipation of how hot it’s going to be when they leave the Hall of Fame. God bless him. I slide my phone through the crack and it lands on the front seat. Excellent. I take a few steps away, then glance back. My breath catches in my throat as I get a last look at the Taurus before turning away to find a cab.

  Chapter 8

  No disrespect to the country music capital of the world, but I wouldn’t want to find myself at the bus station after dark. The terminal is nice enough. Lots of windows. Very blue outside, very white inside. But the neighborhood is a bit sketchy.

  As I step through the automatic doors, I immediately get the impression some of the clientele may be too. A man in dirty cargo shorts, worn work boots, and an American Idol T-shirt approaches me and holds out his hand.