The Van Pact

35: Valerie

We stopped at the Wawa to get gas. It's not the Sheetz, but Wawa's okay. Personally, I like it better than the fancy shit anyway. It's very Linden Valley. Very 2007. It reminds me of my childhood. The good parts of it, at least.

I set the gas pump in my Jeep. It'd been unseasonably warm for October this year, and I'm a lazy son of a bitch, so I hadn't put up the soft top yet. I was surprised Stevie wasn't complaining. Then again, we were coming off the biggest, stupidest fight we've ever had. Give it a couple more days, and you can set your clocks to the 'I'm cold, the wind hurts my ears' moaning. I'm positive.

"So you got the Wrangler back for good?" Stevie leaned across the driver's seat.

"I'm on probation." That was what Mom termed it. I fished in my jacket's big interior pocket. I pulled my debit card out from underneath the blue rubber band which it kept snug against my driver's license and school ID. "If I make one mistake," I ran my debit card across my neck and slurped on my spit, "it's done and over. Gone for the rest of the year."

"What would you drive then?" Stevie asked, and the full tank sensors kicked off the gas pump.

"Gus, I guess?" I stuck my debit card in the reader.

"You'd probably need to replace his battery before that happens," Stevie said as I hung up the gas pump.

"Yeah, or," I indulged an impulse to run my hand along my Jeep's hood, "not make more mistakes." Now that I had my baby back, I didn't want to drive Gus any longer. Sure, he's cute, but my Jeep is mine. Not having her for an entire month made me miss her. I hopped up into the driver's seat. "So," I squeezed my leather steering wheel, "free Friday night. Where to next?"

"I dunno," Stevie looked dead straight into the Wawa's front windows. "I'm hungry."

***

Ladies and gentlemen, dearly beloved, my sweet babies:

Satan better put his big coat on, because hell has officially frozen over. Stevie Corrigan O'Shaughnessy sat in the front passenger side of my Jeep and ate gas station food. A cheese quesadilla, with salsa and sour cream, to be one hundred percent accurate. Hand-made by intrepid Wawa customer service associates.

"Not bad?" I watched a glob of sour cream dangle from the tortilla.

Stevie nodded. Her mouth was full. I set a napkin on her lap. The glob of sour cream fell, but Stevie didn't notice. I felt proud, in a weird way, that I protected her yoga pants from a dairy splatter. Laundering yoga pants is a pain. It's better to hand wash them, because machines can ruin the nylon. Valerie DiPaolo, defender of the Lululemons. I smiled about that as I finished my meatball sub.

"Jesse wants to be a doctor," Stevie licked sour cream off her fingers.

"Yeah?" I was apprehensive about talking about Jesse. Stevie seemed fine about it, but she probably wasn't completely. Though she should be, because Jesse's a doofus. I wondered what the kid saw in me over her. Don't misquote me, I got some nice features, but my thighs are chunky and my nose is my dad's. It's Roman. I mean, I don't mind. It gets the job done, but it doesn't look all that pretty while it's doing it.

"Doctors are dickheads," I said. Partially because I believed it and partially because I wanted to give Stevie an opportunity to talk about something other than Jesse.