Day Two, 8:45 p.m.
I have never been so pissed off in my life. My heart is pumping at three million beats a second, and I’m consumed with rage.
And right now, I’m taking it out on the guy at the front desk of the Bellevue Motel who’s trying to tell me you can’t check in unless you have I.D. stating you’re eighteen.
“But I just told you,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “My I.D. was stolen. All I have is the cash I just happen to have in my pocket, which I can use to pay for the room.” I wave around the emergency money my dad gave me just in case something went wrong on the trip. If this doesn’t constitute something going wrong, I don’t know what does.
“I understand that, ma’am,” he says. “But it’s motel policy.”
“Well, that’s just great!” I screech like some kind of crazy person. “I’ll just sleep outside then, while I wait for my family to come get me. And while I’m out there, I’ll call up some local newspeople and tell them what kind of establishment you’re running here.” I glance at his name tag. “Sound good, Scott?”
He looks nervous for a second, probably not because of my threat to call the media, but because I think he’s getting the idea that I might be a bit unstable. He probably thinks I’m about two seconds away from coming back here and blowing the place up. “Let me see if there’s any way the computer can circumvent the I.D. check,” he says, tapping some buttons. Five minutes later, I’m on my way up to room 205.
I hate my dad, I hate Jordan, I even hate myself, because Jocelyn warned me he was bad news. I knew he was bad news. And I did it anyway. Which is so not like me. I don’t get caught up in the moment. I analyze everything to death. I play it safe. And the first time I take a risk, look what happens. I end up wandering around a college campus in North Carolina, brokenhearted and with nowhere to go.
I pull out my cell phone and delete past the screen that says I have eighteen missed calls. Most of them are from my dad, who I hung up on when he told me he’d been cheating on my mom for the past six months.
“I have something to tell you, Courtney,” he’d said, and I’d sat down on the bench, thinking maybe he was going to tell me he was sick, or my mom was sick, or that something bad happened to my grandma. Because he had that tone in his voice, the tone people get when they know they have to tell you something bad and they’re dreading it.
“What is it?” I said, my heart in my stomach and my stomach in my throat.
“I’m having an affair,” he’d said, and for a brief second, I thought he meant he was throwing a party or something. Like those people on that MTV show My Super Sweet 16. They’re always referring to birthday parties as affairs. So I thought maybe my dad was planning a party, or that maybe he was even throwing one for me. But then I remembered that I’d already had a graduation party, a pretty big one actually, and that if my dad was going to throw a party, he definitely wouldn’t sound so serious.
“An affair?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been cheating on your mother for the past six months.” I couldn’t believe the way he was saying it—it almost seemed kind of like a joke. He was using such horrible words. “Affair.” “Cheat.” It was like if it had been true, he would have tried to soften the blow a little bit.
“Okay,” I said, not sure what I was supposed to do with this information.
“I’m so sorry to be telling you this now,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “I didn’t want to have to burden you with this while you’re getting ready to start school.” He sighed. “I know it’s the last thing you should have to deal with, and I’m sorry for that, Courtney.”
“Why are you telling me now?” I asked.
“Because Jordan said he was going to tell you if I didn’t,” he said. “And I knew you had to hear it from me.” My heart skipped in my chest.
“How does Jordan know about it?” I asked, wondering when Jordan would have heard such a thing. How had he found out about this? We’d been on this trip for the past couple of days. Had he gotten a phone call from someone who found out?
“Jordan’s known for a while, Courtney,” my dad said. “He caught me with his mom a few months ago.”
“You’re having an affair with Jordan’s mom?” I’m surprised, because Jordan’s mom is so…I don’t know. She’s like this high-powered lawyer, totally the opposite of my mom, who’s more glam. But maybe that’s the problem.
“Yes,” my dad said, sighing. And then I hang up the phone. On my dad. I hit the red button on my phone, like I’d just had a normal conversation that ended with “See you soon, love ya!” or some other pleasant sign-off.
Have I mentioned I’m pissed? I’m pissed at my dad, for thinking he could keep something like this from us. I’m angry that he thought I couldn’t handle it, that he thought I would fall apart. I’m pissed that he was so selfish that he felt the need to keep things from me, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with me being pissed off or upset. But most of all, I’m mad at Jordan. I’m mad that he didn’t tell me what he knew, that he never felt he could be completely honest with me. I’m mad that he felt he needed to protect me, when I never gave him any indication I was weak.
I feel like I’m on that reality show Joe Schmo, where it turned out all the participants except one were paid actors. I feel like Joe Schmo. Courtney Schmo, whom everyone is lying to. I take a shower and change into my pajamas, then spend the next seven hours in my hotel room, watching celebrity countdowns on E! I’m starting to feel a little better, except for a moment during the countdown for the twenty-five hottest blondes, when I realize that some of the people featured on the countdown aren’t natural blondes. Which feels like they’re cheating. And being LIARS. CHEATING, LYING, BLONDES.
At four in the morning, I call Jordan’s phone.
“Hello?” he says, sounding wide awake. I hear the sound of the TV in the background, so I know he’s not sleeping in his car. I try to think of the worst place possible that would have a TV. Jail? A serial killer’s basement? I try to wish him there.
“Oh, hello,” I say, as if it’s perfectly normal for me to be calling him at four in the morning.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” he says. I’ve just turned my phone on, and as he’s saying it, I hear the notification of my missed calls beeping in my ear. Fifty-six missed calls from Jordan. Ten from my dad. Six from Jocelyn None from Lloyd. What an asshole. Although I’m not sure what’s worse. Not calling at all, or calling fifty-six times.
“Really?” I say. “I must not have heard my phone.”
“Courtney, where are you? Let me come and get you. We need to talk about this.”
“I’m not telling you, and we don’t need to talk about it,” I say, trying to sound like a bitch. “I was just calling to make sure you still plan on driving the rest of the way to school with me tomorrow.” I’ve thought about this a little bit, and I’ve decided I have two options:
Drive to school with Jordan, getting there on time. Once at school, follow previous plan of ignoring him and meeting fabulous college boyfriend.
Don’t tell Jordan where I am, and find other way from North Carolina to Boston, which would most likely entail calling my dad to find out how I can get a plane ticket or a train or something. This actually might not be that bad, except I have a bad feeling my dad might hightail it to North Carolina and insist on escorting me to Boston himself. Either way, I would be late to school. And I have not gone through all of this to be late to orientation.
“Courtney, stop,” Jordan says. “You’re acting like a crazy person. Now tell me where you are, I’ll come and get you, and we can talk. We can even start driving again, if you want.”
“I’m not acting like a crazy person,” I say, even though I totally am. Although I guess it’s all relative. Finding out your dad is cheating on your mom with your ex-boyfriend’s mother, and that your ex-boyfriend knew about it and didn’t want to tell you so bad that he made up a MySpace girl is pretty traumatic. So calling someone at four in the morning probably isn’t the worst thing I could be doing to deal with it. “And besides,” I say. “Why would we start driving at four in the morning?” Jordan’s driving is questionable at best on a good day, one where the sun is shining and there’s no traffic.
“Because I know you’re worried about getting there on time,” he says, sounding like it’s obvious.
“We’re still going to get there on time,” I say, a panicky feeling starting in my stomach. “We only have twelve hours to go.”
“I know,” he agrees. “We will still get there on time, but I just thought it might make you feel better if we left now. Since we’re behind schedule.”
“But we’re not behind schedule,” I say, exasperated. “We planned on staying in North Carolina until tomorrow.” I glance at the clock. “Well, technically today, since it’s four in the morning.”
“Oh,” he says.
“Which you would have known if you’d read the damn itinerary I gave you.”
“I lost it,” he says.
“Of course you did,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said! That I’m not surprised you lost the itinerary, since you had no interest in any kind of schedule for this trip!”
“Well, maybe now I do,” he says, sounding indignant.
“Maybe now you do what?” I ask. He’s watching ESPN in the background. I can hear the SportsCenter music through the phone. I wonder if serial killers have cable. Probably. Lots of serial killers are totally normal people, with jobs and friends and all the pay channels.
“Maybe now I care about the schedule for the trip,” he says, his voice sounding firm.
“Well, whatever,” I say breezily. “Listen, I didn’t call to fight with you.” Which is kind of a lie. I did kind of call to fight with him. Or at least to wake him up, which obviously didn’t work, since he was up at four in the morning like some kind of psychopath. Although I’m up at four in the morning as well, so I guess if I’m using that argument, I’m a psychopath, too. But we already knew that.
“So then why did you call?”
“I called,” I say, sighing, “to make sure that you’re still going to give me a ride to school tomorrow.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Because there have been some weird events going on today, and so I thought if you’d decided to kick me off this trip, it would behoove you to let me know, so that I can make alternate arrangements.” I just used the word “behoove” in a sentence. This is definitely not good. I’m finally cracking up.
“I’m not kicking you off the trip,” he says.
“Good.”
“In fact, I’d like to get back started on the trip right now,” he says. “So tell me where you are and I’ll come pick you up, and we’ll get back on the road.”
“No,” I say. “I’m tired. And if you had your trip itinerary, you’d know that we’re not scheduled to leave until eight o’clock. And it’s only four. So we have four more hours of sleep.”
“But we’re not sleeping,” he points out.
“Well, I would be,” I say, “if you would let me off the phone.” Which is obviously a lie.
“Fine,” he says.
“Fine,” I say.
“Wait!”
“What now?!”
“Court?”
I don’t say anything.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” I say. “What is it?”
“I love you.” And then he hangs up the phone.
