“Freaking dirty hippies,” he said to Margo when she brought him extra gravy. “From the looks of them, there isn’t a shower in the whole damn city.”
“Amazing anything gets done,” he said when I cleared his dessert plate, wiping his hands on his jeans even though he had an unused napkin right there on the counter. “They’re all wacked out on weed and oh, Peace, dude-man.” He flashed me a finger vee and an exaggerated goofy grin, curling his bottom lip under to look like he had buckteeth. “And the cops ride around on bicycles with flashing lights on their asses.” He laughed hard and his face turned red. He was always too intense. “I guess if you want to rob a bank, do it in Ithaca.”
So I feel like the sign for Ithaca is fate or something close to it. I don’t have plans to rob a bank, but I did steal a car, and I’m pretty sure I can get away from a cop on a bike if I need to. Plus, if Gary hates Ithaca, I’m thinking I’ll like it.
I follow the sign and make the turn. I was too nervous to pass anyone on the interstate, so I got stuck behind this truck going fifty for what seemed like forever. The road to Ithaca is full of curves and I can’t see too far ahead because it’s dark. I’m still only going fifty, but it feels fast. And since I have a destination, I’m not as antsy.
* * *
On the phone, Margo said that Dad and Irene hadn’t quite put two and two together yet. Dad stopped by the motorhome after the boy’s recital to make me apologize to Irene. He was so freaked when he found it trashed that he actually went inside the diner to ask Margo if she knew where I was, even though it’s been seven years since the breakup and they hadn’t said two polite words to each other that whole time.
When I called, Margo promised she’d talk to him. Tell him that he needed to let me go. That the car should be mine anyway and I’ve been taking care of myself for practically forever and sixteen and a half is almost eighteen and I just needed out and he owes me. She promised, and Margo doesn’t make promises lightly. “I may be a lot of things,” she told me once, when I asked her if I really looked okay in the homecoming dress I found at the rummage sale, “but I’m nothing if I’m not honest, girlie. I just don’t see the point of telling it any way other than how it is.”
* * *
I didn’t think forty-one miles would be all that long, but following the twisting road makes me tired. I watch the miles tick by on the dashboard like it’ll tell me something, but I didn’t think to look when I started, so all I know is that I’m five miles farther than I was the last time I looked. My eyelids are heavy. I want to let them drop. Rest my eyes for a second. I give in once and instantly feel like they’re glued shut. When I finally get them open, I’m all the way on the other side of the double yellow line. I yank the car back and almost go off the road. I have no problem keeping my eyes wide after that.
* * *
A sign says it’s five miles to Ithaca, and then a few minutes later there’s a campground. I’m too tired and broke to look for another option. I pull over at a hut by the entrance, but it’s closed up and the lights are off. There’s a sign on the door. I can’t see what it says. When I get out to look, someone yells “Hey!” and I practically jump out of my boots.
In the moonlight, I can see a tall figure crossing the main road. “Too late for check-in,” he says. His voice is deep and rough. I picture tobacco-stained sandpaper hands. The green glow of his watch shines suddenly, but not bright enough to see him any clearer. “Past midnight.”
Behind him, there’s a small cabin, lit up and warm. I hadn’t noticed it when I pulled in. I wonder if he was sleeping. Maybe those lights weren’t on before.
“Sorry.” My voice is thin. “Is there someplace else I can go?”
“This is the last campground open,” he says, getting closer. I can see the outline of his face now. Long beard, furry hat. He turns to look behind him and I catch his profile—beak of a nose. “And we close for the season on Thursday.”
“Please, is there any place I can go?”
“Ah, stay here.” He yawns, belting out an arching sigh, stretching his arms in the air. “Bathrooms are open. Showers are coin-op. Any campsite. No one’s here anyway. We can settle up tomorrow.” He turns and walks toward the cabin without fanfare.
“Thank you!” I yell after him.
“Sleep tight,” he yells back.
By the time I get in the car, the lights across the road have gone dark and I can only see the edges of the cabin because I know it’s there.