Open Road Summer(41)

Shreveport to Jackson


We make our way through the Southwest, Arizona to the Texas shows. After Austin, Dee’s lack of sleep catches up with her in the form of a nasty cold. She has tonight and tomorrow, the Fourth of July, to recover. Lilah Montgomery has never canceled a show, and the fear of disappointing her fans is visceral to Dee. Faithful to the doctor’s orders, she’s on medication, vitamins, and vocal rest, communicating only on a whiteboard that Peach got her.

Peach is riding on the band’s bus again, to avoid getting sick, but I won’t leave Dee. Dee attends business meetings as a competent professional, but she reverts to a kindergartner once she has a cold. A mean kindergartner. But she’s taken care of me during countless hangovers—with her special brand of love, served with a side of judgment—so I won’t bail on her. Oh, and because there is absolutely no way I’m riding with Matt Finch.

After the trip to LA, I did something so completely pathetic that I can barely think about it without hating myself. I don’t even know what compelled me. Well . . . actually, I do. Morbid curiosity, my competitive instinct, passive-aggressive jealousy: take your pick.

I searched for pictures of Matt’s old girlfriends online.

Apparently I’m one of those girls who stalks a crush she doesn’t have the nerve to act on. I cleared the search history immediately, in an effort to pretend it didn’t happen. But now I know that the girl he dated while in the Finch Four was a long-haired brunette. I can’t deny that she’s beautiful—but it’s such an uninteresting beautiful. Medium height, slender, with no features that particularly stand out. Beautiful but forgettable. Besides, based on the fact that she sold their breakup story to the tabloids, I assume she has the personality of a trash bag.

There were also a few photos from events he’d attended with a girl named Corinne. She’s petite and curvy, a sort of guitar-shaped body. With freckles and a friendly smile, she’s cute, but not in a threatening, Hollywood way. She’s more like best-friend-in-a-rom-com cute.

Basically what I’m saying is that I think I could give either of those girls a run for their money. Or at least I could if Matt was really a consideration for me. Which he’s not. In light of my girlfriend-stalking attempt, I’ve faced fact: getting too close to Matt makes me pitiful. No, thank you. Old Reagan sneers at New Reagan’s descent into loserdom.

Across from me, Dee buckles into a hacking cough. It hurts my spine just to hear it. I get up from my couch and pull another bottle of water from the fridge.

Setting it next to her on the couch, I say, “Drink this. The doctor said tons of fluids.”

She ignores me, scribbling on her whiteboard. When she holds it up, it reads in sloppy loops of handwriting: At this stop, go ride with Matt.

“No.” I sit back down, settling my computer onto my lap. If I’m looking at my photo-editing software, then I can’t look at her whiteboard.

“Reagan, I feel bad enough,” she says, her voice croaking. “If you get sick, I’ll feel worse.”

“Stop talking. You’ll make your throat worse.”

Dee glares at me, which is impossible to take seriously. Her angry face looks as threatening as a kid’s whose mom won’t buy her a bouncy ball at the grocery store.

“I’m not going to leave you by yourself on this bus, not while you’re coughing like a ninety-year-old who smokes six packs a day.”

The bus pulls into the gas station, and Dee stands up as if she’s planning to storm off the bus and tattle on me to someone.

“Dee, stay here. If you get out, it’ll cause mayhem.” There are already people taking interest in the line of buses. Having Dee’s face on the side of them is not exactly subtle.

She plops back down with an exaggerated harrumph, but the bus doors open anyway. Matt climbs on, looking perfectly chipper. Easy enough, since he’s not riding with the attitudinal equivalent of Oscar the Grouch.

“Hey, sickie,” he chirps at Dee. “How ya feelin’?”

She wrinkles her nose at him and crosses her arms, clearly irritated.

“Don’t take that charming expression personally,” I tell him. “She’s unbearably bratty when she’s sick.”

As if to prove my point, Dee flicks me off. Matt bursts out laughing at this complete diversion from her usual behavior. In retaliation, she scrawls on her whiteboard, then holds it up to both of us.

Stop laughing, it reads. I’m on a lot of meds.

It’s true. Her pupils are dilated, and she looks a bit crazy. Then she rubs off the writing with her palm and scribbles something quickly.

She points the board toward Matt, but I can still see the message, which reads: Take her with you. She’s getting on my nerves. There’s an arrow pointing to me.

Traitor. “You’ll just pawn me off on anyone, won’t you?”

She rolls her eyes and squeaks out, “She’s going to get sick. Make her go.”

“What did I tell you about not talking?” I demand. Looking at Matt, I say, “She needs someone to keep an eye on her.”

“Are you sure she can’t stay?” Matt asks. “I was kind of hoping I could hang here with you guys. I’m lonely.”

Dee considers this, returning to her whiteboard. Want to write together?

“Well,” Matt says, laughing, “I was planning to screw around. But, sure, we can work.”