How My Summer Went Up in Flames

by Doktorski, Jennifer Salvato

  When they get back in the car (with Cheese Tidbits, ugh—everyone knows they suck), I take the lead on the conversation and play this game I learned in my high school theater class. It was either that or public speaking, so I picked the nicer teacher who never gives anyone less than a B.

  “So, if you were a vegetable, what kind would you be and why?”

  Spencer points to himself. “Am I supposed to answer that?” He’s sitting in the back with me.

  “We all are. It’s an acting exercise. We’ll take turns. You go first.”

  “Uh, okay. Let me think.”

  But Matty doesn’t give him a chance. “I’d be an extra-large zucchini. For obvious reasons.”

  “Really. You see yourself walking around looking like a giant dick?” Logan asks.

  “Yep,” Matty agrees.

  “Guys! Come on. Don’t be gross.”

  “I’d be broccoli,” Spencer decides.

  “Okay, good. Why?” I ask. I’m happy Spencer is taking this seriously.

  “Because I like broccoli.”

  I look out my window. This is not going the way I hoped.

  I try again. “Maybe this would be more interesting if we let everyone else decide what kind of vegetable we are and why.”

  “Just vegetables?” Matty asks.

  “Fine. We can do fruit too,” I say. Maybe they’ll find that easier. “Okay, so if I were a fruit, what kind would I be?”

  Logan doesn’t hesitate. “Bananas.”

  “Why?” I don’t know why I’m bothering to ask.

  “Uh, lemme think. Oh yeah, restraining order.”

  I’m not going to let him get to me. “Matty?”

  “Um, strawberry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you were obsessed with Strawberry Shortcake lip gloss when you were in first and second grade. You had that massive collection you kept in a shoe box under your bed.”

  I can’t believe he remembered that. I need a second before I speak again.

  “Spencer? What would I be?”

  “An orange.”

  I raise an eyebrow. This I have to hear.

  “Because . . . I like oranges?” I offer.

  “No. Because you’re tough on the outside but sweet on the inside.”

  Whoa. Caught off guard again. I clear my throat to make those sneaky tears dissolve.

  “Did the estrogen level just go up a notch, or am I imagining it?” Logan asks. He starts coughing like he can’t breathe. “Open the windows.”

  Who’s the zucchini now? I don’t let Logan’s teasing bother me. I catch Spencer’s eye and mouth “thank you.” He winks and smiles. Spencer is neither a fruit nor a vegetable, more like the surprise toy in a box of healthy cereal.

  • • •

  Hours later, after crossing the Texas–New Mexico border at Farwell, I start seeing signs for the Flying Saucer McDonald’s in Roswell. It looks awesome. Plus, I’m starving and I’m craving something, anything, dunked in ketchup.

  “We are so there!” I nearly poke Spencer on the nose when I lean across him and point to the billboard on his side of the car. Logan just gives me his Logan look.

  “What? They’ve got salads,” I tell him.

  “Screw the salad. A super-size meal and a shake, that’s what I’m talking about,” Matty says.

  “Thank you!” I shout.

  “Fine,” Logan says.

  We pull into the parking lot a short time later. The restaurant does indeed look like a flying saucer and the play area looks like a spaceship.

  “Amazing.” I sigh.

  “Gee, Catalano,” Logan says. “It’s nice to see you’re finally excited about something. After fifteen hundred miles, I was beginning to think we were boring you.”

  “Let’s see what it looks like inside,” I say. I’m the first one out of the car.

  I walk through the gleaming silver door and head for the high-ceilinged play area. I smile up at Ronald and Grimace in space suits. If I only had to see fast-food-related kitschy alien stuff while we’re in Roswell, I’d be a happy girl. But I know all about Spencer’s bigger plans this afternoon.

  We grab our food and sit down. I’m a little disappointed that this seating is normal McDonald’s style.

  “I was hoping this would be more like eating in a spaceship,” I say out loud to no one in particular. I dip a fry in one of the five ketchup-filled mini-containers I’ve lined up on my tray like tequila shots.

  “What? You thought we’d enter an antigravitational chamber and float around while we scarfed down burgers and fries?” Spencer asks. Coming from anyone else, this would be sarcasm. But Spencer really wonders if that’s what I expected.

  “Nah. I just thought the tables and chairs would be cooler.”

  “Word,” Spencer says.

  Spencer saying “word” has the same effect on me as my mother wearing my clothes. I take a sip of my milk shake to avoid smiling.

  “Let’s go,” Logan says. “We have time to see the museum before it closes.”

  “Phew, that’s a relief,” I say. I buy myself some cookies on the way out. Tours make me hungry. Road trips make me hungry. Restraining orders and ex-boyfriends make me hungry. I think Logan has a point about emotional eating.

  • • •

  The International UFO Museum and Research Center in Roswell has a movie-theater-style marquis out front. THE TRUTH IS HERE, it brags. Doubt it. Inside we are greeted by an alien in chinos holding a sign that says WELCOME . . . PLEASE SIGN IN AND ENJOY YOUR VISIT. Again, I’m gonna have to go with “doubt it.” Admission’s only five bucks, but one glance around tells me even that is a waste of money. They offer an audio tour, like the kind we did at Graceland, but the museum’s really only one big room with bulletin board exhibits like “The Roswell Incident Timeline” or “The Great Cover-up.” I don’t want to walk around and read yellowed newspaper clips.

  “You know what this reminds me of?” Spencer asks.

  “The Deep Space Nine when Quark, Rom, and Nog travel back in time to a twentieth-century Roswell?” Matty offers.

  Spencer and Matty fist bump each other. Nerds of a feather. At least Spencer didn’t say “word” this time.

  Logan looks at me. “We’ve got to get those two laid.” His conspiratorial smile gives me the shivers. That dimple is going to do me in.

  “Don’t look at me!” I say. I need air. “I’ll be in the gift shop. Come find me when you’re done.”

  After a quick look around at the alien-theme souvenirs, I decide there’s absolutely nothing I want to buy—one more bizarre occurrence in Roswell. I never go shopping and come back empty-handed. I leave the poor excuse for a gift shop, find Matty, and ask him for my phone.

  “Here,” he says. “Why don’t you just hold it for the rest of the trip? I won’t tell. I can use a break from your parents’ incessant communications.”

  Matty doesn’t have anything to worry about. Joey’s drunk call extinguished my burning need to communicate with him. I find a spot by the museum entrance and sit down. Something is shifting inside me. My homesickness has abated at the moment; now I’d rather be in New Mexico staring at a plastic alien than on my way back to New Jersey to face what I did.

  I pick up a brochure about the museum and leaf through it. Lilliana’s text about Joey knowing where I am is still bothering me. Joey wouldn’t actually show up in Phoenix, would he? How would he know how to find me? I don’t want to talk to the guys about it, especially Logan. He’s no longer looking at me like I’m the crazy girl crashing his road trip, and I don’t want to ruin that.

  Finally, I call my parents for my daily check-in (Pony didn’t want to come to the phone this time) and text Lilliana. My stomach feels queasy when she texts me about some party at our friend Xavier’s. She took Marissa with her. Would I have gone if I were there? Probably not. The last time I went to a party, well—fire, TRO. Enough said. But what about the next party? What’s the rest of my summer going to be like when I ge
t back?

  A few minutes later I get another text. I figure it’s from Lilliana again, but I’m shocked by what I see. CAN WE TALK? Here I just got done telling myself that Matty had nothing to worry about. It’s from Joey.

  The next five minutes is like being on a crash diet with a plate of chocolate brownies in front of me. It’s a struggle, but in the end, I dial Avery for support.

  “Help me. I just got a text from Joey.”

  “Be strong, girl. What’d he say?”

  “He wants to talk.”

  “Have his attorney call your attorney,” Avery says.

  “I wish you were here. We’re at the UFO museum.”

  From where I’m sitting I can see all three boys. They’re meandering around sporting dorky headsets—that are no doubt filling their heads with all kinds of fascinating facts—and checking out the uninspired displays. I explain the scene to Avery.

  “Did those guys not understand what I meant about having fun?”

  “Be glad you missed Matty and Spencer’s Deep Space Nine discussion.”

  “Matty asked me for my number.”

  “We know.” I tense up waiting to hear what she says next.

  “He’s a sweet guy; I would have felt bad saying no. But I don’t want to lead him on. Distance and timing are not in his favor.”

  “I can relate.” My muscles relax.

  “Ya know, Rosie, sometimes when you don’t know what to do, it’s okay to do nothing.”

  I think about that as I delete Joey’s text.

  • • •

  Later, at the motel, I tell Matty about the Joey text and give him my phone. “Turn it off. Lock it in your suitcase. I’m tired of looking at it.”

  “I wish I could, but Mama Catalano would not survive a communications blackout,” Matty says.

  I sigh and grab my toothbrush. “I’m going to bed.” Exhaustion and sheer boredom are overtaking me. We drove such a long way for old cars and little green men. Thank God for the McDonald’s spaceship, lackluster seating and all, or today would have been a total bust. It’s not that I don’t want to have fun on this trip; it’s just that this stuff is not my idea of a good time. I feel like I’m on a field trip. A loooong field trip.

  I fall into bed with Matty without a fuss. I merely plop a pillow between us, turn on my side, and mutter, “The Grand Canyon better not be the bland canyon. I hope that hole in the ground rocks my world.”

  “No pun intended?” Matty says.

  I open the eye that’s not smushed against my pillow. “We’ve been spending too much time together,” I mumble as I shut it again and drift off to sleep.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning I’m awakened by a bright light. My eyes flutter open and there’s a glowing white orb about two inches from my face. Is that the sun? Or . . . oh no. I gingerly feel the back of my head and neck. Phew. No probes. That’s a relief. Because obviously, if anyone’s getting abducted while we’re in Roswell, it’s me. That’s the kind of luck I have. Reassured, I slowly reach toward the light—and burn myself.

  “Sonavabitch!!!” It is two inches from my face, and so are the guys.

  I sit straight up in bed and grab my sizzling index finger. It better not blister.

  “What the hell? Why are you idiots shining the desk lamp in my eyes? A bunch of freakin’ weirdos. That’s who I’m seeing America with. A bunch of freakin’ weirdos.”

  “There’s the Rosie we love,” Matty says.

  “Don’t be mad, Rosie. We have a surprise for you,” Spencer says.

  “I know, I know. Area 51. More alien crap,” I huff.

  “Nope. Change of plans. We’re going off the itinerary.” Spencer sounds so proud of himself.

  “Wait, we’re not going to Carlsbad Caverns, are we?” I’d seen signs for it on the interstate. “I am so not doing any more caves.”

  “Better,” Logan says. He’s already dressed and zipping up his duffel bag.

  “You’re putting me on the first plane home?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Matty says. He’s waving around a brochure that he must have gotten from the table in the lobby. If you can call the Formica counter with the cash register, plastic plant, and Mr. Coffee a lobby.

  “Let me see that.” I stand on top of the bed and lunge for the brochure. Matty, who is now standing next to me, dangles it two feet above my head. I grab hold of his arm to steady myself and try to launch myself to grab it. It’s no use. Jolly Green is too tall.

  I’m about to make one more attempt, but as soon as I’m in motion, Matty kicks my legs out from under me. I fall back onto the bed and take him down. Now he’s sprawled on top of me, grinning. We’ve wrestled like this since we were kids, but for some reason, I’m blushing from head to toe. My embarrassment is embarrassing, but my bigger concern is the fact that I didn’t sleep in a bra and I’m worried, well . . . let’s just leave it at that. I’m worried.

  “Get off me, you big oaf.” I’m beginning to sweat.

  Spencer looks at us with his hands on his hips. “I’d say get a room, but—”

  “Enough! Somebody better tell me where we’re going today,” I demand as Matty rolls over.

  “Albuquerque,” Logan says.

  “To do what?”

  “You’ll just have to wait,” Matty says. He stands up, folds the brochure, and puts it in his back pocket. “This is gonna be so cool.”

  “Does it involve bathing suits and suntan lotion?” I ask.

  “Nope,” Logan says. “Jeans and . . . do you even own athletic shoes?”

  “Yes. I just don’t have running shoes. And what’s up with the glasses?” Thick glasses, at that. They make his eyes look itty bitty. “I never saw you wear them before.”

  “Wouldn’t you opt for contacts if your glasses looked like that?” Spencer says. “You should have seen him when he was fat and wore glasses. Attractive. Very attractive.”

  “I’d kick your ass, little bro, but we don’t have time,” Logan jokes.

  Discovering Logan was fat and wears glasses makes something click in my brain. Sure, Logan’s got a confident, borderline cocky attitude, but it’s more about being smart, and right, than about being hot. Meanwhile, Joey knows exactly how good he looks and works it—flirting with the world is Joey’s modus operandi. Logan, on the other hand, knows he’s smart, but he doesn’t necessarily know how good looking he is. “It explains a lot,” I blurt out.

  “What?” Logan asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Gotta get ready.”

  Thankfully he does the guy thing and moves on.

  “You’ve got a half hour, Catalano. Remember, jeans. No shorts.”

  • • •

  Forty-five minutes later, we’re back in the Taurus. Yes, I took a little longer getting ready today. The round brush was working its magic as I blew my hair dry, and I did not want to rush the process. For once, nobody complains. Logan even lets me ride shotgun.

  “You look . . . nice,” Logan says softly as he opens the door for me.

  I’m not sure whether I should return the compliment or check the back of his neck for probes.

  “Thanks,” I say. Best to keep it simple.

  I click my seat belt and stare out the window. Spencer fires up his tunes. It’s his turn to pick the music. I put my shades on, close my eyes, and listen to his first selection. Make that try to listen. Classic rock. Better than country, but with Spencer strumming along on the acoustic, it’s like being forced to watch someone play Guitar Hero.

  “Can we listen to my songs next?” I ask. It’s worth a shot.

  “That’s depends,” Matty says.

  “On what?”

  “If you have an appropriate playlist,” Logan says.

  “My Bruce mix includes ‘Badlands,’ ” I offer.

  “There are no badlands in New Mexico,” Spencer explains.

  “There is no Kansas in New Mexico. And yet that’s what I find myself listening to,” I say. “‘Dust in the Wind’? Does it
get any sadder?”

  Spencer defends his choice. “I’m learning this guitar part.”

  I know I’m difficult, I’m aware of that. But these three have no idea how utterly infuriating they can be in their collective passive-aggressive way. I sigh and accept my defeat.

  • • •

  As we pull onto Route 40 west, I look out the window at the caramel-colored landscape. I swear we’ve passed that same mountain ten times already and we’ve only been in the car for eleven minutes. My impatience grows with every mile until I blurt out to no one in particular, “If you’re not going to tell me where we’re going, can you at least tell me how long it’s going to take to get there?”

  “Three hours,” Matty says.

  Why do I bother asking? Deflated, I sink down in my seat. Every time we get in this car, it seems like I always spend a minimum of three hours with my butt on these taupe fabric seats until our next destination. I’m getting tired of leaving Somewhere, driving through the Middle of Nowhere, and ending up Somewhere again. I click the heels of my Skechers together. Nothin’. Must only work with ruby slippers. Either that, or my heart knows I don’t really want to go home.

  We’ve traveled nearly two hundred miles and for the past hour, no one has said a word. This would never happen in a car full of girls. We’d have endless topics of conversation: movies, boys, music, SATs, celebrity gossip, boys, split ends, gel manicures. Whatever. Girls can fill the silence.

  “Why does it take so long to get anywhere?” I finally say.

  “It’s a big country, Catalano,” Logan offers.

  “That’s why my family sticks to the edges.”

  “Quit your constant complaining,” Matty says. “We’re here.”

  “Really? Where?” I perk up and look out the window.

  “I think the sign says it all,” Logan says.

  “Sandia Stables?” I’m smiling ’cause I know.

  “We decided that the only thing better than seeing an alien in New Mexico would be seeing you on horseback,” Matty chimes in. “I told them how you’ve always wanted to ride a horse.”