Amy And Roger's Epic Detour Part 12

"Don't interrupt me, Mom," I said. The words were out of my mouth before I even registered what I was saying. I held the phone away from my face as I stifled a shocked laugh.

"Amelia Curry," she said, saying the two words that inevitably meant a serious consequence was coming after them. "You are on very thin ice, young lady. This is not some sort of ... pleasure cruise. This is not a vacation. You had one simple task to do. As though we haven't been through enough, you decide to ..." her voice shook, and trailed off for a moment, but a second later she was back, sounding as in control as ever. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "You're making my life much harder-"

"I'm making your life harder?" I repeated, feeling like I'd lost all sense of perspective, just feeling an overwhelming anger that seemed like it might take me over. "I'm making your your life harder?" I could hear my voice coming out, loud and a little uncontrolled, sounding nothing like my normal voice. Tears had sprung to my eyes, and my hand that was holding the phone was shaking. I was furious, and the depth of it was scaring me. "Seriously?" I asked, feeling my voice crack and two tears slide down my cheek. life harder?" I could hear my voice coming out, loud and a little uncontrolled, sounding nothing like my normal voice. Tears had sprung to my eyes, and my hand that was holding the phone was shaking. I was furious, and the depth of it was scaring me. "Seriously?" I asked, feeling my voice crack and two tears slide down my cheek.

"Let me talk to Roger," my mother said. "You're clearly getting hysterical."

"He's sleeping," I said sharply, a tone I'd almost never used with anyone, and certainly not my mother. "It's six a.m. here. And I'm not not getting hysterical." getting hysterical."

"You will come home right now-"

"I don't think we will," I said. The scary, huge anger was beginning to ebb and was being replaced by a kind of recklessness that I hadn't felt in a long time, if ever. "I'll be there soon, but there's some stuff we want to see first."

"You will not," said my mother, and she was using the voice that usually ended any discussions. But now it just seemed to be egging me on. "You will come home immediately-"

"Oh, so you want me to turn around and go back to California? Because we can do that."

"I meant," she said, "come to Connecticut. You know that." She now sounded mostly tired and sad, like someone had let all the anger out of her voice. Hearing this shift, I suddenly felt guilty, on top of angry and scared and sad myself.

"We'll be there soon," I said quietly. I was crying now, and barely even trying to hide it from her. What was so terrible was that this was my mother mother, and she was so close, just on the other end of the phone. All I wanted to do was to just open up to her, tell her how I was feeling, and have her tell me it would be all right. Instead of this. Instead of how hard this was. Instead of any of the conversations we'd had over the past few months. Instead of feeling so far away from her. Instead of feeling so alone. "Mom," I said softly, hoping that maybe she'd feel the same way, and maybe we'd be able to talk about it.

"I am calling Marilyn and letting her know what her son has been up to," she said, her voice now clipped and cold. Taking care of things. I knew the tone well. "If you want to do this, good luck. Just know that you are totally on your own. And when you do get here, know that there will be serious consequences."

"Okay," I said quietly, feeling worn out. "All right."

"I am very," my mother said, and I heard her voice shaking a little now. With anger, or suppressed emotion, I had no idea. "Very disappointed in you." Then the phone went dead, and I realized my mother had just hung up on me. disappointed in you." Then the phone went dead, and I realized my mother had just hung up on me.

I stared down at the phone and wondered if I should just call her back and tell her that I was sorry and we'd be there as soon as possible. I'd still get in trouble, but probably less trouble. I didn't want to do that, but I also didn't want to go the rest of the trip feeling guilty. I played with the room key, turning it over in my hands. And that's when I saw the message printed in white on the purple card.

WANDERING IS ENCOURAGED.

"Checking out?" the girl behind the front desk asked cheerfully. Roger and I nodded at her, both of us a little blearily. After I'd returned to the room, I'd gone back to bed but hadn't slept much at all, just staring at the gradually lightening ceiling and replaying the conversation with my mother. I must have drifted off a little, though, because the wake-up call at nine-the one I'd forgotten I'd left the night before-had startled me from sleep. When I had started to get dressed in the bathroom after a quick shower, I'd remembered that I no longer had my own clothes. I'd stared down at my suitcase, with no idea how to put outfits together like Bronwyn could. I'd finally just grabbed whatever was on top-a long black tank top and gray pants that were like a combination of jeans and leggings.

But it seemed that Bronwyn's clothes were magic, as I could see in the mirror behind the desk that I somehow managed to look more pulled-together than I had any right to. I yawned, feeling exhausted, and even though I covered my mouth, I saw Roger yawn as well about three seconds later.

"Okay ...," the girl said, typing on her computer. I wondered how many cups of coffee she'd had to be this awake, and this friendly, this early. Her name tag read KIKI KIKI ... ... HERE TO HELP HERE TO HELP. "So no charges except the one night's stay, is that correct?"

"Right," I said, stifling another yawn.

"And was everything to your liking?"

"Fine," I said, figuring I should take this one, since Roger hadn't been conscious for almost any of the stay.

"All right," said Kiki, fingers flying over her keyboard. "Excellent. So I'll just put that on the card I was holding the room on?"

"Yep," I said, mentally rolling my eyes at myself, but feeling resigned to the fact that I was, apparently, going to occasionally speak like a cowpoke from now on. Kiki nodded, smiled, and headed off to the small room behind the desk. I turned to Roger, leaning my elbows on the counter. "Breakfast?"

"If breakfast involves coffee," he said, rubbing his eyes, "then yes."

"I'm sorry, Miss Curry," Kiki said when she returned, looking a lot less friendly than she had just a minute before. "I'm afraid your card has been declined."

I blinked at her. "What?" I asked, flummoxed.

"I've tried it twice," she said, sliding the card across the counter at me, touching it with only one finger. "It's not good. Do you have another card?"

"Well," I said, looking through my wallet, as though there would magically be another credit card in there. "Um ..." I didn't understand how this could be happening. The card wasn't even attached to my bank account; it was linked to my mother's credit card. As soon as I thought this, I knew what had happened. I felt my stomach drop as I realized what my mother had meant when she told me I was now on my own. "Oh G.o.d, Roger," I said, turning to him. "There's something I should probably tell you."

Roger pushed our shared side of bacon toward me, and I took a piece. It was extra crispy, extra greasy, and really good. But that wasn't doing much to help the churning in my stomach. I wasn't sure we were going to be able to pull this off.

I had the atlas next to me on the table, open to the map of the country. The thought of facing all that road between Missouri and Connecticut-without the safety net of an emergency credit card-was making me feel a little sick. We'd pooled our funds, which left us with $440 to get to the East Coast. I'd provided the lion's share, thanks to my mother's drawer egg. When Roger had raised his eyebrows at my cash, I'd mumbled something about my mother giving it to me in case places didn't accept cards.

"What do you think?" I asked, looking down at the pile of money on the table between us. Our waiter, pa.s.sing by, must have thought that we were a.s.sembling his tip, as he stopped and gave us both water refills, accompanied by a big smile.

Roger rubbed his hand over his forehead, which I now recognized was something he did when he was worried. "I think it might be enough," he said. "Hopefully." He pulled the plate of bacon back to him, took a piece, and crunched down on it. Then he looked out the window, which provided a beautiful view of the parking lot, for a long moment. "I guess I'm just surprised," he finally said. "When your mother told you to come back, you said no." He looked across the table at me and raised his eyebrows.

"I know," I said. I still couldn't believe that I'd done it-that we were now cut loose, and on our own in the middle of America. That my mother had basically washed her hands of me. I looked away from his direct gaze and down at the scratched surface of the table. Someone had etched into it RYAN LOVES MEGAN ALWAYS RYAN LOVES MEGAN ALWAYS.

"Why?" Roger asked simply.

I glanced up at him. I hadn't asked myself this yet. Saying no had just been my first response. "Because ..." I looked out the window as well, beyond the parking lot to the interstate, where the cars were rushing by, heading home, running away, all of them off to somewhere else. I suddenly had the most overwhelming urge to get into the Liberty and join them. "Because we're not done yet, right?"

Roger smiled but didn't say anything, choosing instead to eat a piece of bacon pensively, something I wouldn't have thought possible without seeing the proof.

"I mean," I said, watching his face closely, "you haven't seen Hadley yet." When he still didn't respond, I felt a sense of dread creep over me. I suddenly felt chilled in Bronwyn's tank top, even though sunlight was. .h.i.tting the table and I had been too warm a moment ago. What if he wanted to end it? I had just a.s.sumed Roger would want to keep going. But maybe he didn't. Maybe we were going to change the route and head directly to Connecticut. The thought of being there, of having to begin my life there with my now furious mother, made me feel panicky. I wasn't ready to do that yet. "But if you want to stop it," I said, trying to keep my voice level, like saying this wasn't completely terrifying, "we can."

"No, it's not that," he said, looking across at me. He ran his hands through his hair, bringing it from its post-shower neatness to its normal messiness, and sighed. "I'm supposed to be the responsible one here. My mother is not going to be happy about this either. And I don't want to get you into trouble."

"You're not," I said quickly. "I did that on my own, believe me."

"I just feel guilty about this."

"Don't," I said. "Really." I looked at him closely. "Do you want to stop?" I held my breath, hoping for the sake of my health that he wouldn't take long to answer.

Roger looked across the table at me for a long moment, then shook his head. "I don't," he said, sounding a little surprised by the answer. I let out a long breath and felt my stomach unclench a little.

Our waiter pa.s.sed by then, dropping our check and a handful of cellophane-wrapped mints on the table.

Roger took out his phone. "I should make some calls," he said. "I still haven't been able to talk to Hadley. And I should probably call my mother before yours does."

"I'll take care of this," I said, counting out money for the check.

"You want to hold on to that?" Roger asked, nodding at the rest of the money. "I'd be worried I'd lose it."

"Sure," I said, folding the bills and tucking them in my wallet.

"Meet you at the car," he said, grabbing one of the mints off the table and heading out the door, the bell above signaling his exit.

I looked down at the map and traced the route we'd take to Kentucky. We'd estimated about eight hours to get there, so we should be there by early evening, six or seven. I looked below Kentucky and saw Tennessee. And in the corner of the state, almost to Arkansas, was Memphis. I let my finger rest on the bolded name for a moment, thinking about the trip I was supposed to be on this summer-the trip that would have taken me there. To Memphis, but specifically to Graceland. It was strange to think how close we were going to be to it once we got to Louisville. Probably only a few hours away. But it would be backtracking. And I didn't want to go without my father. Which meant, then, that I never would.

I closed the atlas, trying to push this unsettling thought away. I paid the bill, placing the money on the check and securing the waiter's tip under my water gla.s.s. I figured I'd given Roger enough time to make his calls in private and got up to leave. As I did, my eyes caught the graffiti again. I wondered who Ryan and Megan were. And if, wherever they were, they'd made it. I wondered how anyone could have been so sure about a concept so tenuous and impossible as always always that they'd be willing to carve it into a tabletop. that they'd be willing to carve it into a tabletop.

I glanced at it for a moment longer, then headed out of the diner, squinting against the sun.

I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill.

-Elvis Presley.

SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.

My father swung the car around into a spot in front of the Raven Rock tennis complex and leaned back so that I could reach over and honk the horn. I used the honk we always used for Charlie, honk-honk-honkhonkhonk honk-honk-honkhonkhonk, what my father for some reason called "shave and a haircut."

We sat back to wait, and a moment later, From Nashville to Memphis From Nashville to Memphis, the CD that had gotten us from home to 21 Choices and then to the tennis complex ended, and started over at track one. This was not permitted in my father's car. In his mind, once you started listening to a CD on repeat, you stopped hearing its nuances. "Maestro?" he asked, turning to me.

"I'm on it," I said, opening up the glove compartment and flipping through the Elvis CDs. I pulled out Elvis at the Movies Elvis at the Movies, bringing us solidly to the sixties. "All That I Am" started playing, and my father tapped his fingers along to the rhythm of the song, smiling.

"Nice choice, pumpkin," he said, looking over at me with a nod of approval. "You know, I think this is my favorite of His songs?" The way my father said it, Elvis's name was always capitalized. He'd told us once, scandalizing my grandmother, who happened to be visiting, "I hope there's a G.o.d. I know there's an Elvis."

"It's my favorite song too," I said, making the decision on the spot.

My father laughed, leaned over, and ruffled my hair, causing me to scowl and smooth it down.

There was knock on the back window, and I turned to see Charlie tapping on the gla.s.s, his racket in its case slung over his shoulder, looking tired and grumpy. My father unlocked the car, and Charlie got in the back, buckling himself into the middle seat.

"Hey, champ," my father said as he started the car. "How was practice?"

"Lame," Charlie said.

"Why lame?" I asked, turning around to face him.

"It just was, okay?" he said, pushing his hair, dark with sweat, back from his forehead. "I don't know if I want to play anymore. I mean, what's the point?"

"The point," said my father, "is that you can do something extraordinary, and something that a lot of people can't do. And if you have the opportunity to work on your gifts, it seems like a crime not to. I mean, it's just weakness to quit because something becomes too hard. Am I right?"

Charlie slumped back against the seat. "How come Amy doesn't have to play tennis?"

I rolled my eyes. Charlie had been using variations on this argument whenever he threatened to quit, for about two years now, and it was getting old.

"Because Amy didn't like tennis," my father said with a sigh.

"I liked the clothes," I pointed out. I had stuck with it for a few years because my mother had bought me a new tennis outfit every year, and I'd really liked them. After a while, though, I'd decided that it wasn't worth spending hours trying to hit a fuzzy yellow ball just to get a white shirtdress.

"That's right," my father said with a smile and a shake of his head.

"Did you guys go to 21 Choices already?" Charlie asked, leaning forward, looking at the crumpled napkins on the console. "I thought we were all going to go after practice!"

"Sorry, champ," my father said, casting his eyes into the rearview mirror. "Your sister wanted to go beforehand. But how about we make a quick stop right now?"

"Forget it," Charlie muttered, slamming himself back against the seat and staring out the window. "I don't want to go anyway."

I glanced in the rearview mirror and looked back at my brother. We'd never had that secret twin connection I read about in books, and more often than not, it felt like we were battling for something that had never even been named, so couldn't ever be won.

"Do we have to keep listening to this?" Charlie asked petulantly after a few minutes of Elvis's crooning. "We're always listening to Elvis. And I'm sick of it."

Saying this, in my father's car, was akin to swearing in front of your teacher, and I felt my pulse begin to quicken a little, wondering what Charlie thought he was doing.

"Hey now," my father said, as he made a left, and I realized that we were pa.s.sing University, heading for downtown and away from our house. "You can't insult the King like that. You have to pay him his proper respect."

"I just think his music's stupid," Charlie muttered, but more quietly, and I had a feeling that he realized he'd gone too far.

"It's not just the music, son," my father said. "Though it's mostly the music. But it's what he represented. You'll see. Someday we'll all go down to Graceland, and you'll see."

"All three of us?" Charlie asked.

My father laughed, and I began to relax a little bit. "Maybe even all four of us, if we can talk your mother into it. I was there once years ago. I even wrote my name on the graffiti wall."

I turned to my father, and out of the corner of my eye, saw my brother grinning in surprise in the backseat. "You did graffiti?" I asked, shocked. "At Elvis's house?"

"Everyone does it," my father said with a laugh. He made another turn, and I realized where we were going, but I didn't think Charlie had yet. "It was probably sandblasted away years ago. But I'd like to go back and see if it's still there."

"Awesome," Charlie said. "Can I do it too?"

"Sure," said my father. "You too, Amy."

"No, thank you," I said firmly, causing both my father and Charlie to laugh. I didn't mind, though. Sometimes it seemed like the only time the three of us could all get along was when they were teasing me.

"All right," my father said. "You can be the law-abiding one. But I'm telling you, kids, when I die and go on to the great cla.s.sroom in the sky, I want you to scatter some of my ashes at Graceland. Because that's where I'm going to be. Hanging out in the Jungle Room with the King."

"Don't talk about that," I said, more sharply than I'd intended to.

"I'm just kidding, pumpkin," he said, glancing over at me. "Don't worry." I nodded and let out a breath. When I looked up, I saw we were pulling into a parking s.p.a.ce right in front of 21 Choices. "Why, look at where we are," he said with mock surprise. "Now, I think it'd be a shame to waste this parking spot. So who wants dessert?"

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home.

-Kentucky State song.

"Snacks?" Roger asked, starting the ignition.

"Roger that," I said, lifting up the bag we'd just bought from MO Mart. I saw Roger roll his eyes at that, but I felt myself smile, realizing the bad pun had just slipped out, before I'd thought it over. It felt like something the Old me would have done.

"Drinks?" he asked.

"Check," I said, placing the cream soda and root beer in our respective cup holders, then loosening Roger's root beer bottle top a little for him, as we'd found out this was challenging to do without taking both hands off the wheel.

"Tunes?" he asked.