Wayward Son (Simon Snow, #2)(23)

“I didn’t eat the squirrel.”

“Oh, sorry, you drank it, and threw its little squirrel body in the ditch. Do you think there are any magickal creatures or magicians here, Penny? Everything seems so mundane.”

Baz turns to me. “Snow needs you to cast your angel spell on him. I hid his wings for breakfast, but they’re still there.”

“Um,” I say. “What are we going to do now?”

“What do you mean?” Simon asks. “Our plane tickets are from San Diego, right? We press on.”

“Yeah, but—” I don’t feel like pressing on. I feel like pressing off. “Agatha isn’t expecting us. She might not be happy to see us. I was wrong about surprising Micah.…”

“It won’t be that bad,” Simon says. “It’s not like Agatha’s planning to dump us.”

Baz elbows him. Like I can’t be reminded that I’ve just been dumped. Like I might have forgotten.

“I mean,” Simon says, chagrined, “we may as well see the country. The mountains. The ocean. Maybe the Grand Canyon. Or that rock with all the guys’ faces on it.”

I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I got us into this. I’m still not. “What do you think, Baz?”

Baz is rubbing sunblock on his hands. He looks like my grandmother in that scarf. He glances over at Simon. “Yeah,” he says, “we may as well finish our road trip.”





20





SIMON


Iowa is beautiful. It’s all gentle green hills and fields of maize. It reminds me of England. But with fewer people in it.





BAZ


Iowa looks exactly like Illinois. I’m not sure why they bothered to separate them. Just an endless stretch of motorway and pig farms. (There’s the distinction: Iowa smells more like pig shit than Illinois.)

The sun is relentless.

The radio is blaring.

I haven’t had any tea at all today. None.

And I’ve decided not to let my nose smoulder off, so I’m reapplying sunscreen like an addict.

And I think my magic’s gone wonky. I tried a few spells on the car top that should have fixed it. I put all the magic I had into “Shipshape and Bristol fashion!”—and nothing! My wand shot out sparks.





SIMON


Baz coached me through traffic today, then onto the motorway. I feel like I’m really doing this, I’m driving. I need to get some sunglasses now. Wayfarers.

Baz’s sunglasses are as big as his head. And that scarf. It should make him look like a mad old bat, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look half glamourous. Like a boy Marilyn Monroe.…

My brain gets kind of stuck on “boy Marilyn Monroe” for a while.

Then my favourite song comes on again.





BAZ


Apparently there aren’t enough golden oldies to fill out a whole station, because this is the fourth time we’ve heard this song since we left Chicago. Why would you go through the desert on a horse with no name? Why wouldn’t you name the fucking horse at some point?

Snow goes to turn the stereo up, but the sixty-year-old volume knob is already cranked all the way to the right.

I slide my wand out of my pocket and point it at the radio. “Keep schtum!”

Nothing happens!





SIMON


“In the desert, you can remember your name, ’cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.…”





BAZ


“‘Welcome to Nebraska … the good life’—I wonder if that’s a spell.…”

It’s the first thing Bunce has said since we left Des Moines. She’s been lying in the back seat with her arms over her face. I’ve envied her.

We whiz past the sign and into the first city we’ve seen in two hours. I’m encouraged that most Americans seem to realize this part of the country is blighted and have settled elsewhere.

“I’m hungry!” Penny shouts. Snow doesn’t hear her. She leans between us to turn down the radio.

“Hey!” Snow grins at her. “You’re up! Are you hungry!? I’m hungry!”

She gives him a thumbs-up, hanging between our seats.

“Belt up!” I shout at her. She lifts her arse in the air and wiggles it, just to bug me. I point my wand at her and say it with magic—“Belt up!” But, again, nothing happens! That spell should have made her sit down and shut up and buckle her seat belt—but nothing!

You’re never supposed to point your wand at your own face, but I do. Is something wrong with it?

“What do people eat in Nebraska?!” Snow asks.

“Their dreams!” I shout at him.

“Hey, look—” He points at another sign at the side of the road. Middle America is papered in signs. EXOTIC DANCERS! WHOLE WHEAT BREAD! VERY COLD BEER!

This one says, OMAHA RENAISSANCE FAIRE & FESTIVAL! JOUST DO IT.

“Nooooooo,” I say.

“It’s this weekend!” Snow shouts. “How lucky are we?!”

“Desperately unlucky,” I say.

“Penelope?!” He looks at her in the rearview mirror and shouts. I’m sure she can’t hear him. “Are you in?! It’s a festival!”