Love Over Matter (10 page)

“
It seems like it’s working
okay,” I state with a shrug.

“
Sure, for the main roads.
Highways and stuff. Those haven’t changed much in the past ten
years. Other than that, it’s so outdated it’s useless—or worse. One
time it tried to send me down the river. Literally.”

I stifle a laugh. “What about over
there?” I ask, squinting—and pointing—into the distance, where I’m
sure I’ve spotted the signature blue-and-orange logo of a
Cumberland Farms. “That might be something.”

He wedges a bottle of water between
his legs, uncaps it and takes a swig. “I hope so, because those,
uh, ‘granola bars’ are doing a number on my stomach.”

Part of me wants to chastise him for
taking his hands off the wheel, but another part of me admires his
dexterity. “Get in the slow lane,” I suggest. “So we don’t miss the
exit.”

“
Man,
my stomach,” he groans, giving the side-view mirror a glance
before easing us over. He drives faster than he should, clutches at
his abdomen and moans.

I ask, “Are you okay?” (He’s starting
to go green.)

Through gritted teeth, he says, “I’ll
be fine, if I can just . . .”

Only a red light stands between us and
the Cumberland Farms, a fact that doesn’t stop Ian from blowing
through the intersection, the Love Machine narrowly escaping a
sideswipe from an oncoming but (luckily) turning SUV.

“
What
the . . . ?!” I yell, glancing back at the
intersection, where I’m sure I’ve spied my own ghost. “You could’ve
gotten us killed!”

The van bounces to a
cockeyed stop. Ian throws the shifter into park and, without a
word, bolts for the store. For a moment, I think of sitting tight
and pouting, so he’ll have no choice but to apologize when he gets
back. But then my stomach starts doing a twist of its own.
Great,
I think.
How do I love public restrooms? Let me count the
ways
 . . .

I make it into the store in time to
spot Ian slipping into the men’s room. When I try the ladies’ room
door, though, it’s locked. And now the attendant, an overly pretty
twenty-year-old girl with a beach glow and sunlit hair, is giving
me a pouty-mouthed stare down. I fumble through a rack of movie
candy—Raisinets, Junior Mints, Goobers—as if I’m in the market for
a sugar high. Finally, the ladies’ room door swings open and I rush
in, barely clearing the seven-year-old who has just
exited.

When I’ve finished my business, I
peruse the store for Ian, who may or may not still be holed up in
the men’s room (the door remains closed, so I can’t be sure). As
I’m winding my way through Potato Chip Land, something bizarre
penetrates my ears: “Cass! Cassie! Hey!”

I pivot on my heel for the
entrance, where in struts Haley with Opal hot on her trail. And is
that—I blink, stare, blink some more—
Rosie
bringing up the
rear?

What in the
world?

I cut my gaze toward the window, a
giant pink bunny winking at me from the hood of Rosie’s
car.

Haley and Opal pin me kitty-corner to
a display of Cool Ranch Doritos. In unison, they cross their arms
over their chests like prison guards.

I search my mind for a witty quip, but
there’s only one thing for me to say: “What are you doing
here?”

Rosie marches right up to
me and spits, “Are you
crazy?!
”

“
Wha— Uh, wha—” I stammer.
“What?”

Her nostrils flare. “Don’t play dumb,”
she fumes. Her hand goes for my face, presumably to scratch my eyes
out. But instead of her fingernails, my lashes bat up against the
creamy white letterhead on which I’ve etched my alibi
note.

Over Rosie’s shoulder, Haley grins so
maniacally she should hold the pose for a horror-movie poster
(doesn’t she realize that black lipstick makes even healthy teeth
look rotten?). “Calm down,” I say, my voice weak and
unconvincing.

Rosie rattles the note in my face.
“Your parents would’ve had an aneurysm if they’d seen this. Is that
what you want? After everything your mother’s been through? You
blew it this time, Cassie.” She shakes her head. “Totally blew
it.”

She has a point, but I’m not sure what
business it is of hers. I wiggle sideways, stutter-step around Opal
and lurch for the exit. If my housekeeper is going to berate me, at
least she can do it in the privacy of Ian’s van. But I hope she
knows that, if push comes to shove, I will dredge up the subject of
George’s hoodie, which she so callously destroyed (and I’m not
nearly done being sore over).

The sound of feet slapping pavement
competes with the folk music drooling out of the Love Machine’s
passenger window. “Can you believe this?” I shoot at Ian, who’s
mellowing out behind the wheel, my hand slicing through the air at
Haley and company. When I try the door handle, my wrist balks (this
van is so old its internal whatchamacallits and thingamajigs are
decaying). Ian leans over and unlatches the door from the inside. I
get one foot on the floor before there’s a tug on George’s
hoodie.

It’s Rosie again. “Where on Earth are
you going?”

Has she gotten supremely, undeniably,
out-of-control pushy, or what? “You read the note,” I say. “Figure
it out.” I heave myself into the passenger seat, shoo her out of
the way and slam the door (in my defense, though, that’s the only
way the thing will close).

It finally dawns on Ian to ask,
“What’s going on?”

I give a frustrated shrug.
“I have no idea. Apparently, my sister and”—how can I refer to Opal
and Rosie without coming off as an über jerk?—“her
friends
think they’re my
babysitters. You’d better watch out. They’ll be after you
next.”

Rosie’s head pops into the window
frame (is she balancing on the van’s holey running board?). “Oh,
hey Ian,” she says nonchalantly.

Ian beams the first true smile (other
than the one he dusted off for Jeanette at graduation) to hit his
face in a year. Maybe more. “Hey.”

This might not warrant
explaining at the moment given the current annoying circumstances,
but here it is: Ian has a thing for Rosie. Or at least he did, last
I knew. And who could blame him? She’s gorgeous, smart, friendly,
and spirited. Heck,
I’m
even considering falling for her. “C’mon, Cassie,”
she says, reaching inside the van and touching my arm. “We’ve gotta
get back to Milbridge before . . . well, before your
parents do.” She sighs. “Okay?”

We’ve come too far to give up now. And
I can’t let George down, regardless of the trouble this little
jaunt may cause. But before I can argue
further . . . “We’re kind of in the middle of
something,” Ian explains cryptically. “Sorry.”

Rosie pulls a mock-sad
face, leaving me convinced Ian will crumble before Bob Dylan
finishes crooning about Maggie’s farm (excuse the hippie song
reference; the only entertainment we’ve got on this trip are Ian’s
dad’s fossilized cassette tapes). “Just tell me what you’re doing,”
prods Rosie. From the peanut gallery comes a chorus of
yeah
s. “Maybe I can
help.”

From anyone else, I’d assume this was
a trap. But Rosie is too sincere for such shenanigans. Ian studies
me and waits, leaving the decision to spill (or not to spill) the
beans in my court. “Fine,” I say. I motion at the door behind me.
“Get in.”

* * *

I guess everyone is a sucker for a
mystery (or an act of love, depending on your view of Ian’s and my
quest), because after five minutes of explanation through a freaky
cop-cage grate (was the Love Machine a paddy wagon in a former
life?), Rosie has not only agreed to let us continue the search for
George’s biological parents, she’s also volunteered to help—oh, and
to cover for us with Mom and Dad.

The result? Now instead of a low-key
pilgrimage to George’s birthplace by a couple of caring friends,
we’ve got an all-out road-trip adventure.

To give Opal and Rosie some breathing
room, my sister has become our third wheel. “I’ve gotta pee,” she
complains from the cargo area. “Just so you know.”

“
You’ll have to hold it,” I
tell her.

“
Ian?
” she cries. “
Come
on.
”

He shoots a glance at the GPS. “Gimme
twenty miles. You can last that long, right?”

Haley makes an exaggerated huff. “I
hope so, for your sake.”

On that appetizing note, I crank the
music up, lean back and shut my eyes. And think of George. What
nobody knows, what I haven’t told another living soul, is that
George and I were in the middle of a fight—our most serious
ever—when he crossed that center line, clipped a charter bus and
careened off the road into a monster oak tree. The doctors claimed
he was knocked unconscious on impact, meaning he suffered little or
no pain. But the way his body clung to life—needles and gauze,
tubes and medical tape—pretending he was with us when he was
already gone, left me more unsettled than assured.

I don’t mean to doze off
(and I probably shouldn’t, on the chance Ian needs me to splash
cold water on his face or scream in his ear). But somehow I’ve
drifted into dreamland, and that’s where I stay until someone—or
some
thing
—taps my
thigh. “Hmm?” I manage to purr, the fuzziness of the netherworld
still enveloping me.

I hear a symphony of doors opening and
closing, followed by warm pressure on my knee (a hand?). “Wake up.
We’re here.”

My eyelids feel as if they’re made of
granite. “George?”

A voice (Haley?) whispers, “Oh, no.
She’s doing it again.”

I feel a tug of alertness, force my
eyes open and focus on Ian and Haley, who are hovering over me like
protective mama birds. After a lick of my parched lips, I murmur,
“Where are we?” Through the water-splotched windshield, I notice
Opal and Rosie loitering by what looks like the entrance of a fast
food restaurant.

“
Surprise!” squeals Haley
in a sarcastic tone.

I lean toward the window, narrow my
eyes and study the logo on the restaurant door. “White
Castle?”

Ian chuckles. “You can thank me
later.”

chapter 9

The White Castle stop was useful in
multiple ways: Haley got a crack at the restroom; I crossed mini
hamburgers off my bucket list; Rosie put a call in to Mom and Dad,
claiming a sleepover that would keep Haley and me away from home
until tomorrow evening, at least; Ian studied a street-level map of
NYC (where did he get that? I’ve got to start keeping better tabs
on him!) for the best route to 66th Drive; and Opal?—well, as
usual, she spent the break blending into the woodwork. (For the
record, though, methinks the quiet ones are the ones to watch. It
wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to learn that Opal Madden is
a mousy Goth-in-training by day, kick-ass superheroine by
night.)

* * *

“
That’s it, I think,” I say
as we prowl 66th Drive in search of number 77-21 1/2. We pass the
building in question, a two-story row house mere inches from its
neighbors. In the side-view mirror, I see the Bunny Mobile slowing
behind us. “Pull over,” I suggest. “There’s a spot up
ahead.”

Ian gives an agreeable grunt,
navigates the van into a space more suited for a compact car. Once
we’re snuggled against the curb, I let out the tense breath I’ve
been holding. “You think it’s too late?” I ask, referring to the
fact that the sun is about to slip below the horizon. “I bet it’s
too late.”

“
What?” He shakes his head.
“Now that we’re here, you’re chickening out?”

I ponder the block in front of us,
where Rosie is pulling back into the street after a failed attempt
at tucking the Bunny Mobile between two SUVs. “Well, I
mean . . .” He’s right, of course: I’m not too warm
and fuzzy over the idea of confronting a stranger and grilling her
(assuming she even exists) about personal events of nearly two
decades ago. Plus, if she does exist, we’re going to have to tell
her that her son is dead. “It’s just that . . . it’s like
eight o’clock. She’s probably getting ready for bed or something.
We can’t just spring this on her out of nowhere.”

“
Should’ve thought of that
six hours ago, don’t you think?” He kills the headlights and shuts
the van down; meanwhile, Rosie and Opal shuffle along the sidewalk
in our direction. I wave them toward the door behind me, which
Haley could bother opening if she weren’t semicomatose. (Seriously,
she’s snoring so loudly I’m thinking of reporting her to Mom, who
will no doubt schedule an immediate sleep study.)

“
What’re you gonna say?” I
ask Ian.

“
Me?”

Rosie and Opal pile into the cargo
hold. “Looks like we found it,” Rosie comments, sounding
surprised.

“
Yeah,” I reply to Ian.
“Don’t you want to rehearse or something?”

His face morphs into an
incredulous scowl. “
Me?
”

This is not going as planned. “You’re
the adult,” I try. “It’d sound better coming from you.”