How to Be Bad Page 11

  “Good grief, Mel,” Jesse says. “Didn’t you get someone to cover your shifts?”

  “I left Abe a note that I wasn’t coming in,” Mel explains.

  “Quiet, you guys!” I bark. “Sorry, Dotty, Mel wants to know if Abe found her a sub.”

  “Pearl came in last minute so I don’t think she’s fired,” Dotty answers. “But Abe had a right old fit, I’ll tell you that.” Her voice changes. “Listen, Vicks, where are you?”

  “I don’t know, on some road past Gainesville. Why?”

  “You with Jesse?” she asks.

  Jesse glances back at me. “What’s she asking?”

  “Yeah,” I tell Dotty while motioning for Jesse to shut up.

  “Jesse’s got her mama’s car,” Dotty says.

  “Yeah, I know,” I say. “In fact I am enjoying the majesty of the Opel as we speak. Wasn’t Ms. Fix a sweetie to let us borrow it?”

  The car jerks to the right and we fly over a pothole and bounce hard on the road.

  “Jesus,” I exclaim. “Watch it, will you?”

  When I get the phone back to my ear, Dotty’s saying, “…and Harriet is why I’m calling you. She is not and she did not and she’s worried as all get-out.”

  “Huh?” I say.

  “Twyla didn’t give Jesse the car. Jesse took it without asking.”

  I don’t get it. “She what?”

  Now Dotty’s voice goes sad. “Twyla came by the Waffle this morning, and she’s fit to be tied. Jesse didn’t even leave a note.”

  I can’t believe it.

  Saintly Jesse. She took this car and left town without telling her mother? And dragged me along with her?

  “So you tell her to call her mama, ’kay?” Dotty says. “She’s out of her mind with worry.”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell her,” I say, noticing how tense Jesse’s shoulders are as she drives us farther into nowhere.

  I take the phone off my ear and snap it shut. Maybe I’m not the worst person in the car after all.

  Liar.

  Liar.

  Fine, steal a car if you have to, if you’re mad at your mom, if you’re trying to knock yourself out of whatever slump you’ve been in that’s made you such a pain to be around. Not that it’s good to steal a car, but damn, Jesse’s been acting so holier-than-thou this whole trip, cranky about drinking, cranky about flirting, cranky about virginity. How can she act like that when she stole this stupid car and tortured her mom with worry and sadness? How can she give me all that attitude and dump the silent treatment on me and be such a martyr at that party when she stole the freaking car?

  “Lookit,” Jesse says to Mel, pointing out the windshield. “A pelican—do you see?” Her words come out jittery and pitched all wrong, and I think, Yeah, you’re nervous, aren’t you?

  As she should be. Liar. And anyway, it’s not a stupid pelican. It’s a darter. We had a Florida bird book when I was a kid and I used to look at all the pictures. “Not,” I say.

  “Not what?”

  “Not a pelican,” I tell her.

  She swallows. “’Course it is.”

  “No, it’s a darter. You’re not always right, you know. You’re not always little Miss Perfect.”

  A shadow passes across Jesse’s face, and now she knows for sure what Dotty said to me. I can tell. Her breaths are shallow and she speaks only to Mel, saying, “It really is a pelican. See how long its wings are? And the pouched bill?”

  “It’s not a pelican,” I snap. “And you’re driving too fast. And you have no idea where we are, do you? Or wait. Don’t bother answering, because why should we believe anything you say?”

  We veer off the road, and I grab on to Mel’s seat as Jesse hits the brakes.

  “Jesse?” Mel squeaks. We jolt to a stop.

  “What the hell was that?” I shout.

  Jesse gets out of the car, her face tight and scared. She flips her seat forward and takes a step back, like she’s making space for me to climb out. “You drive!” she says. “Since you think I’m doing such a crappy job!”

  I climb out, stepping over empty coffee cups and the box of doughnuts. “Did you steal your mom’s car?” I demand when we are face to face.

  Jesse stammers.

  “Did you?” I persist.

  “No,” Jesse says. “Heck no! What do you take me for?”

  I just look at her.

  “I borrowed it,” she continues. “The keys were right there on the counter!”

  “‘Thou shalt not steal,’” I spit at her. “Isn’t that one of the ten commandments?”

  “Why are you getting on me like this?” she says. “You’re the sinner. Not me!”

  What? I knew she thought it sometimes, but I never figured she’d actually call me that to my face. “You don’t get to use that on me,” I tell her, narrowing my eyes. “I’m not the one stealing other people’s property and making them crazy with worry. All I did was sleep with my boyfriend. Consensual, protected sex. No harm done.”

  “Yeah, but…but—”

  “You are so full of crap. You make me sick.”

  “I didn’t steal from you, so what’s the big deal?” Jesse asks. “You’re acting like it’s a personal betrayal!”

  “Because it is,” I tell her. “People should be true. People should be who they say they are.”

  A splat of rain hits the roof of the Opel. Then several in a series, plop plop plop.

  I gesture to the backseat. “You want me to drive? Fine. Get in. I’ll drive.”

  I am a little surprised when Jesse does what I tell her without saying a word. I push the front seat back into place and drop down into it.

  “Pelican my ass,” I say, and slam the door.

  16

  MEL

  AWESOME. NOT ONLY have I lost my phone and unknowingly conspired to commit a felony, but I am now trapped in said stolen car with two people who won’t stop fighting.

  I hate that they’re fighting.

  The first day I saw Jesse and Vicks was the day I spent job hunting, looking for anything that didn’t mean working for my dad. They were in their gray and white Waffle shirts and bow ties, and Jesse was pulling Vicks by the hand through the restaurant, howling with laughter. Right that second, I decided I wouldn’t mind working at the Waffle.

  It was so good to see a friendship that was based on something more than matching sheepskin coats.

  But is it possible they don’t really have that?

  No. No way. They love each other. They need each other. They just have to apologize to each other and move on.

  I scroll through my iPod, find the Feist song I’m looking for, and press “play.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  Oh, yeah. How can they not feel sorry when they’re listening to this song? It’s psychologically impossible!

  “—When I realize I was acting all wrong—”

  Vicks has one hand on the steering wheel, blasé. Jesse is staring out the window in the back. Why are they not apologizing?

  Maybe it’s too low-key. I need something more dancey. Something to get them pumped up.

  Aha! I know! I find Will Smith’s “Miami” and press “play.” Oh, yeah. C’mon. We’re going to Miami!

  Party in the city where the heat is on,

  All night on the beach till the break of dawn—

  No acknowledgment, except for a big sigh from Jesse.

  “Do we have any Ho Hos left?” Vicks asks, like she doesn’t even hear the music. “Oh, never mind. I’m not really in the mood.”

  Not in the mood for fun, obviously.

  Fun! That’s it! That’s Plan C. Silly me, why didn’t I think of this before? New song. Great song. A classic. I crank the volume on baby-voiced Cyndi Lauper. “I come home in the middle of the night—”

  I start grooving in my seat, just a little, because how can anyone hear this song and not dance? “‘But girls, they want to have fun,’” I sing. “‘Oh girls—’”

  “Not Jesse,” Vicks sa
ys. “Other girls maybe. Like me, for example. I love fun.”

  I sneak a look back at Jesse, and she looks pained. I glance over at Vicks. She’s not happy, either.

  I press “stop.”

  I adjust my shorts, which are riding up a bit. I pick at a chapped spot on my lip.

  But I’ve got to do something. We can’t just drive like this forever, all doom and gloom and hot hot hot.

  Hot! Weather! It worked so well last night, when I was sitting outside with—

  No, my brain says.

  So I don’t.

  But still, weather is…weather. It’s multipurpose.

  “So,” I begin. “Sure is hot here, eh?”

  “It’s Florida,” Vicks points out.

  Jesse lets out another epic sigh. “It’s fixing to pour.”

  “Is it?” I say. I peer through the windshield, and see that, yes, there are a whole bunch of dark clouds cluttering the sky. “We need to be optimistic,” I say, trying to keep my voice peppy. “Oh! I know just the song. A little ‘Walking on Sunshine,’ ladies?” I scroll through my music, press “play.” As soon as the words kicks in, I sing along.

  Jesse swivels her head to look at me. Her expression is forlorn. “Mel, can you turn it off? Please? My head is killing me.”

  I hit the power button and slump against the seat.

  I miss the snow.

  17

  VICKS

  THERE’S THIS THING the rain does in Florida. It trickles for a few minutes, and then the sky goes suddenly black and before you know it, you’re standing in a waterfall. It’s not even cold out; the water can be warm. Buckets and buckets pour onto you and you forget the sun ever shone. Forget the sun shone on you that very morning, heating up your skin until you were dying to escape into some air-conditioning, shone on you till you squinted your eyes and put on your shades. It’s like all that never happened, and the world is just wet and black and loud with the weeping sound of tires going through puddles. I’m crawling the car through sheets of water that seem to stretch forever down this blank stretch of asphalt Jesse’s got us on. I don’t even know what road we’re on, but when I see something that looks like a highway and the sign says SOUTH, I pull onto it.

  I’m not a great driver. My brother Tully, who taught me, was always telling me I drove “like a girl,” which was the biggest insult in his book. I’d spit back and say, “Then the way a girl drives is awesome, as you can see from my mad skills, so up yours.” Or, “Thank you very much. Then I know I’ll pass my test the first time around.” But then his meanness kind of sapped my confidence when I was learning, because he’d laugh at my parking and say I looked over my shoulder too much and I shouldn’t be so fussy about my blind spot. I got my license, but the mad-skills thing was just a front. I never get to drive my parents’ van because one of them is always using it, and when I do drive, I get nervous, and hear Tully’s teasing voice in my head: “Ugh, Vicks, don’t be such a woman! Just change lanes!”

  But I don’t want Jesse and Mel to think I’m anything less than stellar behind the wheel—especially since Jesse herself is an annoyingly good driver. Usually. And I don’t want to question where we are because I don’t want to get into it with Jesse about what turn she made or didn’t make. We don’t need to get to Miami anymore anyway, because Brady doesn’t really want to see me and I don’t want to see Brady; so driving one way is pretty much the same as another.

  We are all silent. We just listen to the rain, which hammers the windshield with little relief from the sluggish wipers.

  Great. A toll booth. The signs never say how much you need until you’re right up next to that little metal basket and then you’re digging around in your pockets and the guy behind you is irritated because you’re so slow, and besides, I’ve only got three bucks left after the hot dog yesterday.

  “Toll thing,” I say, to get Mel’s attention.

  She seems to have gotten the hint after we made her buy the doughnuts this morning, and hands me two quarters from her change purse. It’s so wet out, I wait until we’re under the roof of the toll booth to try and roll down the window.

  Ugh. The window won’t go down.

  “Bang it under the handle,” Jesse says from the back. She says it like I should know it.

  I bang.

  It still won’t go down.

  “No, you gotta wiggle waggle it before you turn it.”

  I try. No luck.

  A guy in some monster-size pickup has pulled up behind me, and he’s honking.

  “No, you’ve got to bang, then right away wiggle waggle. No pause in between.”

  I bang, wiggle waggle, roll. The window opens. But we are way too far from the metal bucket where you’re supposed to throw your change. And I cannot do crap with my left hand. Really. Tully and Jay are always teasing me about it. “Throw past Vicks on the left,” they’d tell their buddies when we all played basketball. “She’ll never block it.” It’s even evident in the kitchen at Waffle House. T-Bone can pour pancakes with his left while he flips eggs with his right. But not me.

  The toll is fifty cents. I toss the first quarter in the direction of the metal basket. It hits the pavement. Damn.

  I unhook the seat belt, open the door, and look for the quarter on the ground.

  Can’t see it.

  “Just throw another one,” says Mel, handing me another quarter while looking at the truck behind us. “It doesn’t matter.” How can she be so calm?

  I close the car door and throw the next one, which goes in. But the third one hits the edge and bounces out again. I am starting to sweat.

  The guy behind us honks again.

  Damn.

  I open the door a second time to scout around the ground for those two quarters that didn’t go in. Where did they go? I can’t see them. Just asphalt and a few cigarette butts. Are they under a wheel?

  Honk. HONK.

  I’m not asking Mel for yet another quarter. Even though she said she’d pay for stuff, it’s another thing to keep giving coins to a person who is throwing them into the middle of the road like a complete fool. So I step out of the car, get down on my knees, and look underneath it.

  Honk. HONK.

  I can’t stand it. I get back in the car, slam the door, step on the gas, and drive through the red light.

  “What are you doing?” screams Jesse. “We can’t go through without paying!”

  “That guy was honking at me,” I explain.

  Damn. Maybe Tully was right about me. Maybe driving like a girl is as lame as he thinks it is, and maybe I do cower in the face of monster pickups. Hell, I can’t even toss a quarter into a toll basket.

  “Stop driving. Pull over,” Jesse commands. Although we are back in the torrents of water, I do what she says. The honker in the pickup drives past us. “Since when do you run through a toll booth, Vicks?” Jesse barks. “What are you thinking?”

  “We tried to pay,” I say. “We left three quarters instead of two, even.”

  “But they’re not in the basket!” yells Jesse. “I’m going to get a ticket! We’re gonna get in even more trouble than we already are. What if my mom calls the police and has them trace the license plate for a stolen car and now we’re caught on the hidden camera?”

  “I tried to pay the toll,” I say. “I didn’t run through on purpose. That guy was honking at me.” It sounds stupid, even as I say it.

  “Look,” says Mel calmly. “Let’s go back and pay it now.”

  “I can’t reverse on the highway!” I cry. “There’s like no visibility. Someone’s going to drive right into me while I’m going backward!”

  “Well, if you just walk back there and pay the toll,” Jesse says, “they won’t know what license plate it’s for.”

  “Use your cell camera,” says Mel. “Take a picture of the car and of you paying the toll, that way you’ll have proof you went back and paid if they send you a ticket.”

  “What planet are you on?” I say. “I don’t have a cell ca
mera.”

  “Oh.” Mel looks startled.

  “Do you have one?” I ask her. “Use yours.”

  “I lost my phone,” Mel says.

  Since when?

  Jesse’s breathing fast. “I can’t get two tickets in less than twenty-four hours. Mama’s already going to kill me.”

  Mel has a new idea. “I know. We make the security camera work for us!”

  “How?” I ask.

  “We run out, find the camera, look at it, hold up a little sign with the license plate number on it, and put in a quarter.”

  “Do we even have another quarter?” I ask.

  Mel roots around in her purse and hands me three nickels and a dime. Jesse finds a pad of paper and writes the license number on it in lipstick.

  I pocket everything and step into the downpour.

  We are silent again when I’m back in the driver’s seat. Mel thoughtfully put a towel underneath me, but I’m shivering and damp and I can hardly see the road.

  “I need another doughnut,” I say, squinting through the windshield.

  “Me too,” says Mel. “Can you please just call a truce and eat doughnuts for a few minutes without any more arguing?”

  “All right,” says Jesse. And if she can say “all right,” then I can too.

  “All right,” I say.

  Jesse hands up doughnuts from the back and we all three eat, driving ten miles an hour through the storm.

  “Wanna play a car game?” Mel asks.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Um…free association?”

  “Explain.”

  “I say a word, then Jesse says the first word she thinks of, then you say the first word you think of, and we go around.”

  “Yeah, okay,” says Jesse.

  “Can I start?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  Me: “Doughnut.”

  Mel: “Naughty.”

  Jesse: “Sticky.”

  “No, Jesse,” Mel interrupts. “You’re still thinking about doughnut. You have to clear your mind and only think about naughty.”

  “Okay,” says Jesse. “Sorry. Do-over.”

  Me: “Doughnut.”

  Mel: “Naughty.”