Girl Out of Water(74)

The flavors hit me hard and fast. Sweet and spicy and tangy all at the same time. The whole spice rack must have gone into this one dish. I take another bite and then another and then spear some of the corn soufflé and scoop up some of the potatoes and finally try a bite of crunchy slaw. It’s all equally delicious.

I turn to Lincoln. He’s shoveling in food at the same pace as me. “Looks like we picked the right exit,” I say.

Mouth half-full, he grins and says, “Looks like it.”

“Now Marybeth,” I say, feeling more comfortable with a steaming plate of food in front of me. “I’m sure you have some more interesting stories to tell.”

She winks at me. “Oh, where to begin?”





Sixteen


By the time we’re done with our lunch (which was the opposite of a quick pit stop), we’ve heard Marybeth’s full life story and exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch. “Let me know if you’re ever in Santa Cruz!” I tell her.

“I’ll definitely do that,” Marybeth says. Before we leave, she asks the waitress to pack us two extra slices of pie for the road. As we go to pay, she shoos away our money. I try to insist, but she says, “You youngins in love traveling the country need to save every penny you can. Besides it’s my treat to treat people.”

We finally relent, grab our to-go bags, and head back out to the warm parking lot. I know we’re running behind schedule and will probably get to Santa Cruz late, but it doesn’t really matter. I’ll sacrifice an hour of waves for the Tuesday Special any day of the week.

It’s hard not to doze after a meal that heavy, but Lincoln and I play marry, bury, screw, which might be weird to play with someone who’s lips have been on yours on a regular basis for the past few weeks, but coming up with combinations like the Loch Ness Monster, Springsteen circa Born to Run, and the tooth fairy makes it so weird it’s not weird at all. For the record, I would marry Springsteen circa Born to Run, bury the tooth fairy, and screw the Loch Ness Monster, and Lincoln would marry the Loch Ness Monster, also bury the tooth fairy, and screw Springsteen circa Born to Run, which neither of us found the least bit surprising.

We play the game until we feel a little delirious and a little too familiar with each other’s obscure predilections, then turn on the stereo and listen to Emery’s road trip CD on repeat, at which point I discover another rare Lincoln flaw—he can’t sing. Like at all.

But that sure as hell doesn’t keep him from doing it.

An out-of-pitch person belting out Rihanna’s “Shut Up and Drive” at the top of his lungs is quite the experience, especially when it takes place in a moving vehicle in which, for all intents and purposes, you are trapped.

“Make it stop,” I moan as the song switches to “500 Miles,” and Lincoln starts singing with even more enthusiasm.

“Never.” He grins. And sings. And grins. And sings. “I’m the driver, and the driver gets to make all the rules, and this driver says I’m allowed to sing as much as I want even if Anise is staring at me like she’s devising the five best ways to murder me and get away with the crime.”

“Honestly, going to jail would be worth it at this point,” I mutter.

Lincoln laughs. “Oh you’re just as sweet as honey.”

I laugh back. But really. I do need a break from this car. With the exception of a quick fuel and bathroom break, we’ve been driving for five hours straight since lunch. My cramped legs protest. I need a surfboard or a skateboard or at least a little walking to stretch them out. I glance out the window at the signs whipping past and spot one that says “Reno: 12 miles.”

Reno.

My mom’s postcard. The bar.

I close my eyes and try to visualize the name. I think it was called Kelsey’s or something. “Let’s get off here.”

Lincoln furrows his brow. “Really? Not sure we can do much gambling until we’re twenty-one.”

“Let’s just look around. I need to stretch my legs.” I pull out my phone and Google “Kelsey bar Reno.” Sure enough the bar pops up. I look up directions. “Actually I have somewhere specific in mind. Take a right off the exit.”

“Have you been here before?” Lincoln asks even though he knows very well that I’ve never been anywhere but California and Nebraska and now a string of highway between the two.

“I’ve just heard of this bar. It’s famous or whatever.”

“A bar? You do realize I’m only eighteen, and you’re still shy of that. You packing fake IDs and didn’t inform me?”

Actually I do have a fake ID back in Santa Cruz. I used it once to buy beer for one of our bonfires, and even though I didn’t get caught, I still had a near heart attack using it. From that point on, I always let Tess buy our booze since the possibility of getting arrested doesn’t seem to faze her.

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “I think they serve food there too. They probably only ID you if you want to drink.”

I continue to give Lincoln directions, and he follows them quietly for a few minutes. But I know that quiet won’t last. Eventually he asks, “Anise, how have you heard of a bar in Reno?”

I don’t answer. Maybe if I just keep giving directions instead, he’ll let it go.