Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (5 page)

This question elicits a chorus of disapproving tongue clicks, and my throat tightens. I knew someone would ask me this—even Matt said the balance of humor and serious sections felt off-kilter—but I still don’t have a satisfactory answer.

Then an odd thing happens: As I follow everyone’s eyes, I realize that the hostility is aimed at the old guy, not at me. Apparently I don’t need to answer at all, because on the issue of funny vs. not-funny, Team Luke is winning hands down.

Dad told me that answering questions would feel like a debate competition: weird objections that I’d have to analyze and deflect. But he was wrong. The audience is completely behind me, as if the scores have already come in and I’ve been declared winner.

“The humor, Luke,” repeats the old guy, but quieter this time.

More tongue clicks.

“Well, Andy wanted this book to appeal to the kids in Sunday school,” I explain. “So I thought about what I disliked most in Sunday school, and realized it was the way everything seemed so serious, even when we were talking about great things. I didn’t want the kids at my church to think that’s the way it has to be. I wanted them to laugh, because I used to laugh a lot. I guess that’s why I figured humor had a place in
Hallelujah
.”

He cocks his eyebrow. “You
thought
? What do you think now?”

I think I wish he hadn’t asked. “I think… the response has been amazing.”

He clearly expects more, but he must be tired of playing the role of party pooper, because he gives up the microphone. As other members of the audience clamor to have their say, I realize I might just get through this after all.

“Why
Hallelujah
?” someone asks.

“Because it’s a joyful word,” I reply.

“Are you like some kind of superhero or something?” asks someone else.

“Uh… no.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“A boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Want one?”

Bradley grabs the microphone. “My goodness,” he says. “It’s time for the book signing already!”

The Christian Warehouse, Los Angeles, California

My fingers are shaking so hard, I can’t grip the pen anymore. Signing my name is torture, and every time the pile of books in front of me gets smaller, someone brings out a new box. They’ve got about twenty more boxes ready to go too. I think there are at least twenty books in a box. That means there could be four hundred books. A little voice at the back of my mind is telling me I ought to be grateful, that it’s a Very Good Thing to sell this many books. But my hand is begging me to stop.

I have enormous sympathy for my hand.

I inscribe books to Joe and Joseph and Joshua and Jeremiah, to Mary and Mariah and Maddy and Martha.
One by one the customers stand before me, their voices oddly distant. I try to reply, but quite soon the best I can manage is a bland smile. It seems to satisfy them all the same.

Eventually the line thins out. When the last person steps up, I recognize her immediately.

“Hello again,” says Teresa sheepishly.

“Hello… again,” I say, grinning stupidly.

She looks different today, so pretty it takes my breath away. She’s wearing a gray knee-length skirt and white silk blouse, a single string of pearls around her neck.

“It’s good to see you again,” she says.

“It’s good to see
you
again,” I reply. My voice sounds higher than usual, like I’m going through puberty in reverse.

Teresa hands me a copy of my book. “I forgot to buy one for my mother.” She sighs. “I’m so forgetful.”

“I’m so forgetful too.” Oh no, I did it again. “I mean, sometimes. Not always. Sometimes I remember.”

Teresa nods slowly. “Right. So my mother’s name is Gilda.”

“Okay.” I take the book from her before I make an even bigger dork of myself, and try to think of something to write. Eventually I settle on:
To Gilda, Teresa’s mother.
On the page it seems a lot less intelligent than it did in my head.

Teresa looks at the inscription, brows furrowed. I can’t tell if she’s having trouble reading my handwriting, or if she thinks she’s simply misread it. Or maybe she’s coming to the conclusion that I’m a moron.

As she bends over to get a closer look, her fingers brush against mine. It’s like an electrical current passing between us, and my breath catches. When I look up, I’m at eye level with her chest.

Someone beside us coughs, and we turn at once. “Oh, sorry,” says the new arrival.

For a moment I think I must be hallucinating. I want to believe I’m dreaming; or having a nightmare, more like. Just as long as this new girl isn’t really here.

“Sorry, Luke,” says the girl again, looking genuinely contrite. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you while you were staring at this girl’s boobs.”

I can’t breathe. My face, already red, burns with the power of a thousand suns.

“Oh!” gasps Teresa. “I never intended… I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no. My fault,” I say. “Teresa, this is—”

“Fran,” announces the arrival, giving a brief wave. The sleeves of her combat jacket are frayed at the ends. Her fingernails are black. “I’m a close friend of Luke’s since…” She puffs out her cheeks and winds
a strand of shoulder-length purple hair around her finger. “Well, years. We were practically inseparable, weren’t we, Luke?”

Fran waits for confirmation, but I can’t form words.

Meanwhile, Teresa is staring at Fran like she’s a particularly puzzling piece of art. “I see,” she murmurs. Then she turns to me again, mouth twisted into an anxious smile. “So, um, would you be able to chat today? You were tired yesterday, but today… well, it’s still early, and this morning I read a passage in
Hallelujah
that I’d love to discuss, and there’s a coffee shop across the street.” She almost trips over the words, like she’s been building herself up to say these things.

Before I can reply, Fran grabs my bottle of water and downs it in one go. When she’s done, she seems surprised that I’m watching her.

“What?” she asks. “Oh, wait, you want my permission, is that it?” She shrugs. “Yeah, you two should totally go out on a date. You’ll make such a cute couple. And don’t listen to all that stuff about how long-distance relationships never work. If anyone can make it work, it’s you, Luke.”

For a moment there’s nothing but silence. I can’t even look Teresa in the eye anymore.

“I didn’t mean…” Teresa covers her mouth with
her hand. “That was really un-Christian of you,” she tells Fran.

Teresa looks at me again, but there’s no way I can say yes now. With nothing left to say, she holds out her hand and we shake. Then she turns and walks away. I want to take in every last footstep, but Fran is watching me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’ve been visiting my sister,” she says flatly. “Nice to see you too, by the way.”

I re-cap my Sharpie and stand up. “Well, I hope you’ve had a lovely time.”

“Sure have. I’ll tell you all about it on the way home.”

“Don’t bother. Just tell Matt to come pick me up once he’s dropped you off.”

Fran pauses. “You sure about that? It’s going to take him a while to get to St. Louis and back.”

Then she watches me closely as her words sink in.

Parking lot of the Christian Warehouse, Los Angeles, California

Matt is giving me a look. It says:
This is not my fault. Please don’t make a scene. Or ask me why Fran is here. Or why I agreed to let her come with us.

I give Matt a look too, through which I attempt to communicate the following:
I’m seriously unhappy. I’m dreading this. It’s fortunate that one of the commandments is “Thou shalt not kill.”

But I don’t say anything. At all. I should be on the fast track to sainthood for this.

In response, Matt shifts his weight from foot to foot, and pretends to adjust the cases in the trunk until Alex arrives to save him. She has a mile-wide smile and the large eyes of a Disney princess. Kind of like Fran—before she changed.

“How are you doing, Luke?” Alex wraps me up in a burrito hug. “I read your book. You must be so proud. How are your lovely parents?”

“They’re dinosaurs,” interjects Matt. “Completely out of touch with reality. What’s lovely about that?”

Alex cocks an eyebrow. “Hey, any time you want to swap, just let me know. At least your parents talk to each other.”

Matt’s had even more firsthand experience with Fran and Alex’s overbearing parents than I have. “Point taken,” he says quickly.

Alex hugs me again. “Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she says with such affection that I wonder if we’ve been best friends without me knowing it. “So, hey, Matt’s all over your schedule, and I just know we’ll be in great shape. The next signing isn’t until Tuesday. And Flagstaff is only seven hours away.”

“Good.” It’s reassuring to know that Alex is on top of things too. She’s the most organized person I’ve ever met.

“Still, no use in wasting time. So let’s hit the road and see how far we get, huh?”

“Suits me,” I say.

A moment later she claims shotgun, relegating me to the backseat. I climb in and discover that Fran is already there. We exchange the briefest of looks and push ourselves against opposite doors, so there’s at least a yard of leather seat between us.

“You kids play nicely now, okay?” says Alex. She concludes her teasing by pecking Matt on the cheek. It makes the distance between Fran and me feel even greater.

As soon as Matt can navigate our behemoth of a vehicle out of the tiny parking lot, we grind along the supersized L.A. streets and throw ourselves into the white-knuckle rapids of the Foothill Freeway. I wonder aloud how anyone can bear to drive in the city. Matt tells me to be thankful it’s Sunday, otherwise the traffic wouldn’t be so light.

At the other end of the backseat, Fran stares out the window at the L.A. sprawl. I can see her reflected in the glass, and when she notices me watching her, she turns to face me.

“Yeah?” she says. It’s an accusation, not a question.

“Nothing,” I say.

By the time I dare to look out her side of the car again, an hour later, we’re on Interstate 15, heading north through the San Bernardino Mountains.

“I wish we had time to stop at Lake Arrowhead,” says Alex. “It’s so beautiful up in the mountains. The water’s cold, but it feels great.”

Matt shuffles in his seat. “When did you go to Lake Arrowhead?”

“A couple weekends ago.”

“Huh.” He breathes deeply. “I didn’t know that.”

“It was just some people from the lab. You’re not upset, are you?”

“What? No! Anyway, we can make a trip there this fall, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Alex takes his hand and squeezes it. But when Matt reaches across to squeeze her back, she reaches for a guidebook, and his hand just hangs in the space between them.

I-40 at Ludlow, California

Matt pulls off Interstate 40 near a town called Ludlow. We stop for gas, but afterward we don’t head back toward the interstate. Before I can ask where we’re going, Alex pulls out her guidebook and clears her throat.

“Ludlow, California,” she says, voice brimming with excitement. “Gateway to prealignment Route 66. Former water stop for the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad, the town grew following the discovery of iron ore in the nearby hills. Route 66 gave the town a fresh start, and businesses moved to accommodate travelers. These buildings can still be seen today.”

When she’s done, she peers over her shoulder as though she’s expecting applause. But we’re passing between the boarded-up skeletons of the Ludlow café
and garage now, and applause is the last thing on my mind. Other buildings cling to the road too, unnamed, but equally dead. It’s a ghost town in the truest sense of the word.

“Um, Matt,” I say, “why are we on Route 66?”

“Route 66 is a national treasure, Luke. It’s a spiritual experience. You of all people should appreciate that.”

I gawk as we pass the last shell of a building. There’s nothing but an eerily vast expanse of sand-colored wilderness before us. “But we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yes, we are. Smack bang in the middle. If nowhere has a geographical center, this is probably it. But look around you—have you ever seen anything like it?”

“Well, no,” I admit, “but then, I hadn’t exactly seen anything like the scenery from I-40 either.”

“We’ll stop for a break at Amboy,” says Alex, who clearly doesn’t like the direction of our conversation. She taps her guidebook. “It says here that Amboy is a Route 66…
oh!
”

“What?” asks Fran.

“Funnily enough, it’s another ghost town,” explains Alex. “Official population, twenty; actual population, four. Maintained in its weathered state for use as a motion picture location.”

“Hold on, how do you
maintain
a weathered state?” I ask.

“You resist the temptation to make improvements,” says Fran.

“Sounds like your kind of place.”

Fran shakes her head and looks away, so I do the same. For the next twenty-five miles I watch the Mojave Desert drift by.

Amboy is as small and ghostly as advertised. It’s impossible to miss it, because the buildings here are the first we’ve seen in miles, and the ground is so flat that I can tell there won’t be any more for several miles after this. All the same, I can’t help wondering why the town exists at all.

Matt pulls over by a sleek building with a giant neon sign:
ROY’S MOTEL CAFÉ
. As soon as we stop, he and Alex pile out and start taking photos.

I step out into blazing heat and a stiff wind. Fran wanders toward an enormous canopy and shelters beneath it. Since it’s the only shade around—the café clearly isn’t open—I join her there.

“I thought you’d want to get away from me for a few minutes,” she says, studying her nails.

I decide to play innocent. “Why?”

“You know why.” She looks up, eyes blazing. Even a thick application of eyeliner can’t hide those eyes: sky blue, almost translucent. I’ve spent quite a lot of my life dreaming of those eyes. “Please don’t stare,” she says.