How to Be Bad Page 4

  “When will you be back?”

  “Sunday night.”

  “Who’s driving?”

  “Jesse.”

  “Is she a good driver?”

  “Yes. Mum, I gotta go.”

  “Do you have enough money?”

  “About a hundred. A hundred and fifty, maybe?”

  “Take my AmEx card from the credenza,” she says. “Just sign my name. Have fun! Be good!”

  She would never give Blake or Nikki her credit card. She’d worry he’d charge a Jet Ski and she’d buy a diamond tennis bracelet or whatever. But she trusts me.

  “Thanks!” Maybe I should buy a Jet Ski. Or a diamond tennis bracelet. Right. Maybe I should take my iPod. And my pillow. Yes, I definitely should. I run back to my room, toss in my iPod, and then unsuccessfully try to cram my pillow into my bag. I resort to carrying it under my arm. “Bye, Blake! Rosita! Nikki!”

  I hear Blake and Rosita wish me good-bye.

  I knock on my sister’s door. “Nikki? I’m—”

  “I’m on the phone!”

  “Okay, I’m—”

  “Mel, I’m on the phone!”

  Whatever. “Have a good weekend. I’m leaving.”

  “Wait. You’re not taking the car, are you? I need it.”

  Oh, now she’s paying attention.

  I never take the car. Nikki’s convinced it’ll get stolen out of the Waffle House parking lot, so my dad drops me off for the morning shifts and whoever’s around picks me up. Today I just called a cab. Honestly, I don’t even like driving. I just got my license a few months ago and sitting in the driver’s seat is just too scary. “I’m not taking the car,” I say, and then hurry down the stairs. At the sound of two loud honks I slip into my flip-flops, heave my bag over my shoulder, and firmly close the front door, leaving my family and the over-air-conditioned house behind.

  I skip down the concrete steps, waving to the girls. Instead of waving back, they both stare at me like I’m some sort of alien. Jesse’s left hand is draped out the window, and she’s tapping her long, soft pink nails, decaled with tiny silver angels, against the side of the door. Nikki would never let me get away with decals, but I kind of like them.

  “Finally,” Jesse says through the rolled-down window.

  “Sorry you had to wait,” I say, the wet heat enveloping me like bathwater as I walk around the car to the trunk. “Would you mind popping it?”

  “I just did,” Jesse says, sounding annoyed.

  I try to lift it, but it doesn’t want to go up.

  “What is wrong with her?” I hear Jesse grumble, and my back tenses.

  “Don’t be like that; you know it gets stuck,” Vicks says, and then adds, “I’ll do it.”

  Vicks comes around to help. Even crouched over, she towers over me. The tallest building on the skyline, someone you can’t help but pay attention to. Someone who won’t be ignored.

  “Rockin’ Beamer,” she says, fiddling with the trunk while still checking out the car. “Your dad’s?”

  “My sister’s,” I say. “And mine. And my brother’s eventually, but he’s only fifteen so he can’t drive yet.”

  “Lucky.” She heaves the trunk open, tosses in my bag, and then slams it closed.

  “Thanks,” I say. I struggle to figure out how to push forward her seat, but then Vicks does it for me, and I climb into the back.

  Jesse shifts the car into reverse.

  “Mel, someone’s looking for you,” Vicks says, pointing to the porch.

  Nikki is staring at the car, confused. She must have assumed the honks were for her. She beckons me back inside.

  Now she wants to talk to me? Now that I’m leaving?

  “Just go,” I say, looking down and pretending I don’t see her. And just like that, we’re on our way.

  4

  JESSE

  “AT LAST!” I put the pedal to the metal, and my mood soars. The windows are down and the late-afternoon air rushes in and I yell, “Whoo-hoo!”, not caring if Mel thinks I’m a hick. Mel with her fancy house and fancy cars—that girl has more money than anyone I’ve ever met. Not that I want to trade places. As the Bible says, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” Her sister even looked like a camel, all prissy at the door, like she wanted to spit or nip or whatever it is camels do when they’re cranky.

  I laugh out loud, and Vicks says, “What?”

  I shake my head. I still don’t have the slightest clue why Mel wants to go to Miami with us, and my hopes of a last-minute back-out have just been dashed. To her credit, she did climb right into the backseat like she knows that’s where she belongs. Vicks is up front with me, where she belongs, so I’ve decided to think of Mel as, like, a mosquito. If she gets too annoying, smack.

  “This is great, huh?” I say. “Don’t you think, Vicks? Aren’t you glad I kicked your fanny into gear?”

  Vicks doesn’t respond. She’s fiddling with the radio, which, okay, fine, maybe isn’t working quite up to par like I said it was. Her forehead is getting that frown that makes her look like a bear.

  “Dude,” she says. The only station she can hit is Klassic 103.9, home of the golden oldies. “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” blares from the speakers, and I shake my booty to the beat.

  “‘These boots are made for walkin’!’” I sing. “‘And that’s just what they’ll do!’”

  “Oh, vomit,” Vicks says.

  “‘One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over—’”

  Vicks twists the knob.

  “Hey!” I protest. I try to find it again, but all I get is static, static, and more static.

  “Noooo,” Vicks complains. “I thought you said we’d have music! Can’t have a road trip without music!”

  Then Mel’s hand is snaking up to the cigarette lighter, fiddling with some cord, and out of nowhere, “Drive” by Incubus fills the car. It’s coming from the Opel’s speakers, and yet I know it isn’t the radio because Niceville’s alternative rock station is way down on the register, and I’ve got the red doohickey up in the hundreds.

  “Leave it,” Mel calls as my hand goes to the knob. “You have to keep it on the same station for it to work.”

  “Duh,” I say. I understand about reception; I just don’t know what miracle station we’ve somehow landed on. I turn the knob, and Incubus is no more. Vicks shoves my hand away and re-tunes. Incubus returns, and Vicks’s forehead smoothes.

  “It’s iTrip,” Mel explains. She holds up her iPod, thrusting it between the front seats. It looks like a normal iPod, only it’s connected to a black cord she stuck in the cigarette lighter.

  “See?” she says. “Now we can listen to whatever we want.”

  She’s far too pleased with herself, and Vicks is far too appreciative.

  “Mel, you rule,” she’s saying.

  Whatever. I’m irked that Mel picked “Drive” because Vicks loves indie rock. Her brother Penn got her into it.

  “I would have pegged you as more of a pop-star girl,” I say.

  “Oh, I like pop too,” Mel says. “But isn’t this the perfect song for a road trip? I think I heard it in a movie, or maybe on American Idol.”

  I glance at Vicks to make sure she’s catching this. Vicks isn’t an American Idol fan, which normally I would rip all over her about, ’cause American Idol is, like, the American dream. I love American Idol. But in this particular instance, I’m happy to let Mel take the fall.

  Only Vicks doesn’t take the bait. She throws it right back at me, saying, “‘These boots are made for walkin”?!”

  “Please,” I say. “I was singing ironically.”

  “Uh-huh.” She holds her hands palms up, pretending to be a scale. “American Idol…golden oldies.” Her hands go up and down to show that the two are awfully close in the corn category.

  I slug her shoulder. “Irony!”

  “I don’t get it,” Mel says. “What are you guys tal
king about?”

  Vicks and I laugh.

  “Sorry?” Mel asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, turning up the volume.

  At the next intersection, as I ease into the left-turn lane, Vicks scans the road signs and says, “No, dude, turn right.”

  I shake my head. “I-10’s north of here.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t want I-10.”

  “Are you wigging? To get to Miami, we take…” I trickle off, watching as she leans down, fishes in her backpack, and comes up with her battered copy of Fantastical Florida. Ah. Her guidebook.

  She flips to a dog-eared page and scans the print. “Ha,” she says triumphantly. “Not even three hours away.”

  “Old Joe?” I say.

  Mel leans forward. “Um, when you said giant gator…could you maybe explain exactly what you meant?”

  Vicks picks up on something in Mel’s voice—I hear it too—and turns toward her. “You’re not wimping out on us, are you? This early in the game?”

  “What? No!”

  “I thought you wanted to see Old Joe.”

  “I do!”

  Vicks cocks her eyebrows.

  “I do!” says Mel.

  Uh-huh, I think, my spirits rising. Sure you do.

  “Okay, seriously, I’m not wimping out,” she says. “I just kind of need to know if he’s in a cage, that’s all.” She swallows. “He’s in a cage, right? With bars? It’s not one of those natural habitat places where there’s just a ditch or something?”

  “Now, come on, who wants to be locked up in a cage?” I say. “Anyway, I thought you’ve been on a safari.” I stretch it out all hoity-toity. “What’s one wild and free gator compared to a whole passel of wild and free lions?”

  In the rearview mirror, I see Mel blanch. Old Joe is stuffed—he hasn’t been wild and free for a long time—but Vicks doesn’t correct me. I love how we’re teasing Miss Scaredy-cat together.

  The light turns green. I flip my blinker and switch out of the left lane.

  “Now what?” I ask Vicks.

  “Your next turn’s on White Point Road,” she tells me. She twists around. “But don’t worry, Mel. We’re not off to see Old Joe.”

  “We’re not?” I say. “Then what were we just talking about?”

  “We’ll get to Old Joe eventually,” Vicks clarifies. She holds up one finger as if lecturing a roomful of eager students. “First, the world’s smallest police station.”

  “Aw, girl!” I say. “You crack me up.”

  She grins. “I do? Why?”

  “The world’s smallest police station?!”

  “It’ll be awesome. Miniature desks, miniature squad cars…maybe even itty-bitty policemen! What’s not to love about that?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say. “I know what you’re up to. You’re stalling, that’s what.”

  “What are you talking about? You said we could go see that stuff! ‘Anything you want,’ you said.”

  “Hey, sure, happy to oblige. I’m just saying: Mel’s scared of Old Joe, and you’re scared of sweet ol’ Brady. That’s why you’re sticking in so many detours.” I mean it as a tease, because that’s what Vicks and I do. We tease.

  But she says, “God, Jesse,” and faces the window.

  I’m stung. And I feel wrongly accused, because aren’t I in fact bouncing along this crappy side road instead of heading toward I-10? I’m “living a little,” dang it. Don’t I get credit for tarnishing my stupid halo?

  And she shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. That’s one thing I refuse to do, no matter how Goody Two-Shoes it makes me, ’cause otherwise I could end up in the bad place. That’s what MeeMaw says. MeeMaw prays all the time about Mama, ’cause she’s afraid that’s where Mama’s going to end up if she doesn’t change her ways. Mama doesn’t even go to church with us. MeeMaw and Pops pick me up each Sunday and Wednesday, and off we go.

  “I’m not scared of Old Joe,” Mel says in a tinyish voice.

  I don’t bother to respond.

  Incubus fades out, and “Oops!…I Did It Again” by Britney Spears takes over. But despite the pull, I refuse to share a grimace with Vicks. She lost that privilege by being a jerk.

  What kills me is she doesn’t even seem to notice.

  By seven, my belly is growling, but I don’t say anything ’cause I don’t want to be the one who has needs. “Wheat Kings” is on the stereo, some Canadian song Mel wants us to listen to. It’s soft and kind of lonely sounding, and Mel starts telling us all about Canada, which is where she’s from. Just as I’ve never known a rich person before, I’ve never known a Canuck, either. That’s what Mel says Canadians are called. Canucks. Sounds like an insult to me.

  She tells us that in Canada they have dollar coins instead of dollar bills, and that they’re called loonies. They have two-dollar coins too that are called twoonies. They even spell things differently up there. Color and favor have a u; gray is grey. In Canada, everyone has free health care. In Canada, you don’t have to take SATs. In Canada, the drinking age is eighteen or nineteen, depending on the province. In Canada, they have provinces instead of states.

  She’s kinda trying too hard, as if she thinks we’re gonna like her better for being so sophisticated. Or maybe she’s just homesick. But to my surprise, I don’t mind her jabbering. It’s interesting to hear about a whole different country where people have whole different spellings and hopes and dreams. I wonder if Epcot has a little bitty Canada stuck in there with the other countries.

  In addition to the other Canadian stuff, Mel also talks about food, which is the part Vicks latches on to. Sometimes in my head, I imagine Vicks in one of those white poufy chef’s hats, cracking eggs on the edge of her spatula while judges watch and a timer ticks away. What’s that show called? Iron Chef? It’s on the Food Network, which we get ’cause Mama loves her cable. I know it’s a waste of money, but I don’t complain. With cable, we get the Praise Network, which means I can stay caught up on all my talk shows.

  Mama won’t watch the talk shows with me, not even Word! with sassy Faith Waters. She prefers those Animal Planet shows, especially the one where some dog trainer comes in and cracks the whip with dogs who bite and pee all over the floor. Mama doesn’t agree with his methods, but she has to admit he gets results. She wants to be a dog trainer someday instead of a dog groomer.

  If someday ever comes, I think, and then I switch off that brain channel right there. No. Nuh-uh. I tune back in to Canada.

  “Poutine?” Vicks is saying.

  “Poutine,” Mel says.

  “What is it? Sounds dirty.”

  “Fries and gravy and cheese curds,” Mel says, as if that combination of words wouldn’t make everyone and her brother want to gag.

  “Nasty,” Vicks says.

  “No, it’s amazing, trust me. The most fattening thing in the world, but worth every calorie. Even my sister loves it and she’s always on a diet.”

  “I don’t mean fries and gravy,” says Vicks. “I mean the word. Poutine—it sounds like Tully asking Penn about what he did last night.” Vicks deepens her voice. “‘Dude, you were out late with Liza. Were you getting yourself some poutine in the backseat?”

  “Ew,” Mel says.

  I laugh, like I always do when Vicks brings up Penn. Though I don’t like the thought of him getting poutine in any backseat. That’s just nasty. “He’s not going out with Liza again, is he?” I ask.

  “No. He’s single. Why, you interested?” Vicks says.

  I blush.

  “Ooo, someone’s blushing!” she crows.

  “Oh, please!” Like Penn and me could ever be a couple. Penn is not the marrying type, and according to the scripture, I’m not even supposed to date anyone unless I can see the two of us joining in holy union. Which has limited my dating options, believe me. To like, zilch. I kissed Matthew Pearson at Vacation Bible School last summer, and that is it for my wild and exciting love life. And Matthew was so not Penn Simonoff.

  I blush some more an
d fervently hope Vicks isn’t a mind reader. But I’m safe ’cause, lo and behold, she’s moved back to her favorite topic of food, food, and more food.

  “Well, anything with fries and gravy is okay by me,” she says. “But what I wanna know is, what’s a cheese curd? Is it like cottage cheese?”

  “More like hunks of soft cheddar,” Mel says. “Hey, all this food talk is making me hungry. Should we maybe stop for dinner?”

  “Here,” Vicks says, tossing her a cellophane-wrapped pack of Ding Dongs.

  “Do we, um, have anything healthier?”

  “You want healthy? No prob.” Vicks lobs back a mango.

  “Ow!”

  Vicks laughs. After a second or two of silence, she glances over her shoulder and says, “I’m not hearing any smacking sounds. Why am I not hearing any smacking sounds?”

  “Mangos are too messy,” Mel says in a small voice.

  “Nooo, you did not just say that. Mangos are too messy?”

  “Um…well…I don’t want to drip all over the seat. Mangos are very…drippy.”

  “Girl, you have insulted the wrong fruit,” I say. “Vicks is all about mangos. Ask her how to cut one—turns out there’s a foolproof technique.”

  “Well, there is!” Vicks says.

  “She about throttled me once for cutting one up like you’d cut a peach.” I lean away to avoid her thwack. “Hey! No hitting the driver!”

  “I learned it from Rachael Ray,” Vicks says, meaning that lady who has her own TV show.

  “Ooo, Rachael Ray!” I say.

  “You have to peel them like they do in Cuba, with slices cut in so you can pull the flesh off the pit. It was on one of her ‘Tasty Travels’ episodes.”

  “Ooo, tasty travels!”

  “Does peeling a mango count as cooking?” Mel asks.

  I giggle, and this time I fail to avoid Vicks’s thwack.

  “I happen to be a gourmand,” Vicks says. “Do we have a problem with that?”

  “She’s a gourmand,” I say to Mel.

  “A gourmand,” Mel echoes seriously.

  Vicks huffs. “It’s only an hour to Carrabelle. We can eat there.”

  “What?” Mel wails. “No!”