Mosquitoland(42)

At Walt’s prodding, Beck pulls into a line of cars at a fast-food place called Medieval Burger. When this trip is over, I’m going to have to look into one of those trendy full-body cleanses, something to detox all this processed meat out of my system.

“Did they even have burgers in the Middle Ages?” I wonder aloud.

“Oh, sure,” says Beck. “Nothing more refreshing after a long day of crusading and pillaging and walking through the mud and what have you.”

Oh God, he’s witty. “The Middle Ages were quite damp, weren’t they?”

“And dreary.”

Walt flips on the vintage turn-dial radio of the old truck and scans the waves. Landing on a Reds versus Cubs baseball game, he claps his hands and leans in to listen.

The line inches forward, stops.

“So?” says Beck.

I turn to find him looking at me, arms crossed.

“So what?”

“How about a name, for starters?”

“How about your name?”

“I already told you. It’s Beck.”

“I just figured that was, you know, an alias or something.”

Before he can respond, his cell phone rings. Pulling it from his jacket, he checks the caller ID and answers. “Yeah, hey.” Pause. “No.” Longer pause. “Claire, listen . . .”

I become inexplicably interested in the analogue clock in the dashboard. It appears to be broken, as neither hand is moving. Interesting. Inexplicably so.

“It’ll just take a few minutes,” he says. “I know.” Pause. “Okay, Claire.” Short pause. “Thanks.” He hangs up.

Color me intrigued.

“So.” He glances sideways. “What about that name?”

I’m ready this time. “What, you mean—for the truck? Fabulous idea.” I twist around, look through the cab window, and tap my chin. “I’d say he looks like a Phil.”

Beck smiles. “I have an uncle named Phil.”

“No shit.” I pat the dashboard. “Uncle Phil it is.”

We pull up to the speaker, and I wonder if Beck is as grateful for the interruption as I am. One of us is gonna have to break eventually.

We give our orders and drive up to the window.

“Here,” I say, taking a twenty from Kathy’s can. “I got this.”

Beck doesn’t even put up a fight, which is both mildly curious and annoying. We pull into an empty parking spot while he divvies out Walt’s burger and fries, then his own. “So,” he says, folding up the bag.

“Umm, my food is still in there.”

“Oh, I know. And you’ll get it—but it’s gonna cost you.”

“You mean more than the twenty bucks I already dished out?”

Beck unwraps his burger, takes a bite, and nods. “S’good, too,” he says, his mouth full. “Real . . . medievally.”

I smile, wondering whether I’d rather punch him or jump him. “And what exactly does medieval taste like?”

He holds up the bag with my food in it. “Care to find out?”

I’ve never been part of a conversation like this, where my heart is jelly and my brain is in my shoes. I should be pissed at his boyish antics, but right now should is miles away.

On the radio, the broadcasters discuss an impending rain delay. Blissfully engaged, Walt digs into his fries; Beck is already halfway done with his burger. I roll my eyes, sigh in my most overly dramatic tone, and offer my hand across Walt’s back. “Fine, I’ll go first.” Beck takes a bite while shaking it, and if I thought his look was stunning, his touch is downright majestic. “I’m Mary Iris Malone . . . but only my mother gets to call me Mary.”

I’m in deep before I know it. With a few carefully omitted details (the BREAKING NEWS, my war paint, my solar retinopathy—God, freak show, anyone?), I proceed to unload on Beck. I tell him about the divorce and the move and the conversation I overheard in the principal’s office. I tell him about Mom’s mystery disease in Cleveland and the series of letters I flushed down the bus toilet, my only proof of Kathy’s awfulness. I tell him about the bus accident and Arlene and Walt and Caleb and our perilous rooftop episode, which landed us at the police station. It’s that scene in the movie where the nervous girl just keeps talking and talking, but unlike the douchebags in those movies, Beck actually seems interested in what I’m saying. And I hate admitting this—probably because I don’t like being the most predictable character in my own film—but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t wearing my cute face the entire time. (I know my cute face when I feel it.) Once done, I come up for air. “Wait, where’re we going?”

“North,” says Beck, merging onto the highway. “You said Cleveland, right?”

I vaguely recall him starting up the engine during my soliloquy. “What, you’re gonna drive us?”

“How else you plan on getting there?” He hands over my food. “And here. I officially lift the embargo.”

I’m not above eating fries while being indignant. If anything, indignation is bolstered by fries. “Umm, these are amazing. And—lest you forget, Uncle Phil belongs to me. I bought him with my cash-monies. That’s how we plan on getting to Cleveland.”

“Umm, yes they are. And lest you forget, I’m the one with the license.”