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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BY THE TIME THE TWO TEENS LEFT MCDONALD'S, the snow had started falling. Large, fluffy snowflakes had accumulated on the windshield of Steve's BMW and on the ground below, crunching beneath their feet.
Dylan took the sleeve of her parka, brushing the snow off the windows and as much as she could off the hood. Steve was too unprepared to do so, clad only in a light windbreaker. He hadn't headed the warning of snow.
"I can do it, you know," he insisted but Dylan shook her head. "I feel bad. You're gonna freeze!"
"I'm fine," she told him. "Get in the car and warm it up."
Steve did as she asked and by the time she entered the car, it was warm enough to heat up her shivering body. She glanced down at her hands, she hadn't worn gloves so they stung with the wet snow and were discoloured bright red.
Steve noticed them and frowned. He took her hands in his and rubbed them together, making warmth from the friction.
"God, they're freezing." He said, still continuing to squeeze her hands tightly and then tilting his head to blow on them. His hot breath tickled against her skin.
"Let's just go home before we're stuck here."
Steve pulled out of the McDonald's parking lot and headed back to the freeway. But a pick-up truck was blocking the lane back to Hawkin's. As they inched closer, Dylan was able to read the HIGHWAY ENFORCEMENT scrawled across the truck's side. Steve slowly pulled up to the officer.
At the sight of them, the burly officer inside reeled down his window. "Where you kids heading?"
"Hawkins," Steve answered. "We were only here to grab a bite, we were just gonna head home."
The officer, his badge read Cyril Mercer, shook his head. "Sorry, kids. Hawkins is getting the brunt of the storm. It's a complete whiteout out there. I've got orders to keep people off the road."
Steve looked at Dylan who was already looking back at him with a deep frown. "When do you think it'll let up?"
"Not 'til morning is my guess," Mercer said to them. "I'd find somewhere to hold up until then."
Dylan peeked out over Steve. "But we're just kids! Where the hell are we gonna stay?"
They officer sighed, glancing at the two teens sympathetically. "Look there's a motel not too far from here. Just turn around and take the left onto Anderson. Can't miss it. Tell the guy Cyril hooked you up — man still owes me from our last poker game."
Steve nodded. "Thanks, Officer," he said politely and rolled up the window.
Dylan slumped in her seat, not saying a word until they entered the motel.
"Moe's Motel," a scrawny guy at the front desk drawled out slowly. His eyes draped over Dylan, taking in her figure. Steve stepped in front of her and Dylan fumbled with her zipper, doing up her jacket. "What can I do for you?"
Trying to ignore the man's receding hairline and stained Beach Boys tee, Dylan smiled at the man warily. "We need a room. Cyril said you could hook us up with one."
"Cyril?" The middle-aged man before them groaned. "Fuck sakes, okay. Two beds or one?"
"Two." Dylan answered hastily.
The man laughed, a crackly, ear-splitting sound. "Two," he repeated, his laugher increasing. "Okay."
He slid a key over the counter and Steve grabbed it, twining it between his fingers. The piece of plastic at the top read 012.
"Go outside," the man instructed. "It'll be the second door to your right. Enjoy."
Dylan and Steve padded out of the office. Dylan felt dirtier than she had when she went in.
"I might need a shower after that encounter." Dylan stuck out her tongue.
"That guy was a total sleaze," Steve agreed. They reached door twelve and Steve unlocked the door, which took a couple tries due the rusted out door knob.
Dylan was relieved to find the room wasn't as terrible as she had been expecting and it was clean. Dylan picked the bed furthest from the door and flung herself on it, sprawling out.
"Why do you get first pick, huh?"
"Because you dragged me on this stupid adventure or whatever your idea was." She quipped and pulled herself into a sitting position.
Steve turned on the small television on top of the dresser and flicked through the channels, not finding anything worth stopping on.
"There is nothing on!" Dylan groaned.
"For once we agree on something." Steve took a seat on his bed. "You think there's a video store around here anywhere?"
"Not sure," she shrugged. "But you can go ask Moe. God knows I'm not talking to that guy again."
"While I do not want to talk to that guy, I might go do that," Steve shuddered at the mention of the motel receptionist-slash-owner. "If I go get movies, you grab some junk food from that vending machine outside?"
"Sounds like a plan."
Steve left and Dylan dumped all her change and loose bills onto the bed, counting it. She then gathered it up into her fist and headed out to the vending machine, hoping to avoid Moe. Thankfully, he was nowhere in sight.
She got as much food as she had money: twinkies, candy bars, chips and gathered them in her arms. She struggled to carry it all and reopen the room door but somehow managed—only losing a bag of chips along the way. She never stopped for it, figuring Steve would pick it up when he came back. She dropped her haul of food on Steve's bed and began watching a M*A*S*H rerun to pass the time.
Steve returned with a plastic bag full of soda and popcorn and a stack of movies tucked under his arm.
"What's with the food?" She frowned and gestured to the pile on his bed. "Thought I was in charge of that."
"Figured you wouldn't listen to me so I got back up but," he shrugged and tossed the movie tapes at her. "I'm impressed."
She skillfully caught them, surprising herself.
Footloose, Friday the Thirteenth, Ghostbusters, and Gremlins. Dylan quickly cast aside Ghostbusters and Friday the Thirteenth. She silently debated the other two options before tossing Footloose back to Steve and ordering him to put it in the VHS player.
He did it with only a subtle eye roll as protest.
The opening music rolled out of the staticky speakers and the two teens sat at polar sides of their small room, the junk food divided equally. Dylan tried to focus on the movie, she did love it, but found herself wrapped up in the tension between the two old friends. She was afraid to speak unsure of where they stood or even of where she wanted them to stand. Friends, frenemies, trapped acquaintances — she didn't know. But she did know she hated the awkwardness between them.
"Steve—"
"Dyl—"
They both looked at each other and laughed nervously.
"Come sit over here until we go to sleep," she said. "It's weird being so separated."
He didn't protest, taking the spot next to her.
They didn't watch all the movies, Dylan had no urge to watch a horror film, and coincidentally fell asleep before Steve could put Friday the Thirteenth in the VHS player. By Gremlins, the tension between the two teens had dissipated. By Ghostbusters, Dylan and Steve both fought sleep. Her head lay upon his chest and his head was leaned against hers, his stray hairs tickling at her forehead and his arm was thrown lazily underneath her. Slowly, the two fell asleep, eyes and hearts heavy—the credits to Ghostbusters playing softly in the background.
