Kids These Days

Chapter 5: Finn

Three days.

That's how long it takes us to drive from Beauville, Indiana to the middle of nowhere Southern California. Dusty Valley is about as far off the map as you can get-- seriously, when my mom tried asking for directions at a gas station in Arizona they thought it was one of those "Operation Teapot" ghost towns-- but that didn't stop my family from piling into our dented-up Winnebago and hitting the road. The first twenty-four hours weren't terrible, but after we crossed the Oklahoma state line things went downhill fast.

Long story short, Sarah and mom are no longer on speaking terms, the Twins set my last pair of clean underwear on fire with the cigarette lighter, and I hate British Henry. When he's not busy complaining about his sunburns, he's eating Marmite on toast, listening to the weather station for fun, or doing something equally disgusting. He's also the world's worst driver, and I don't think it's because he's used to driving on the opposite side of the road. British Henry is conspiring to kill my family and I'm ready to let him. There is nothing enjoyable about a three-day road trip. Nothing at all. Also, anybody who thinks car bingo is fun should be committed to a mental hospital.

Fifteen minutes away from the Super 8 we're staying at for the rest of the summer, the Winnebago exhales gently and dies a peaceful death. Mom sighs, crosses herself, and slams her palm against the horn. It lets out a feeble blep.

"Oh my gawd," Sarah says, rolling her eyes like she's trying out for the role of Linda Blair. (I assume this means she's speaking to us again. Although I wasn't opposed to the silent treatment.) "We're in the middle of the desert and it's a million degrees, and this is when the piece of crap RV decides to break down? Really?"

"Well, maybe you should've married an auto mechanic," says mom.

"I can't believe you're saying this is my fault. How is this my fault?"

"That's not what I said. I said you should've married an auto mechanic."

"Sorry, was a Rhodes scholar not good enough for you?"

This catches Henry's attention, but for the complete wrong reason. "My dad was an auto mechanic for a few years," he exclaims. "Want me to go check on the engine?"

"No," mom and Sarah say in unison.

Henry deflates like a sad party balloon. "Probably for the best," he mutters. "Dad always drank on the job. And packed the used transmissions with sawdust."

Sarah pats him sympathetically on the shoulder. "I know, sweetie."

Something about the way she says sweetie makes me want to barf. Before she left for Oxford, Sarah was the least romantic person I knew. She averted her eyes during kissing scenes. She hated Sixteen Candles. While the rest of her friends went boy-crazy, Sarah stayed happily single. Boys would ask her out. She would turn them down.

Now, she's married. And uses pet names. Unironically.

I guess I don't know my sister as well as I thought I did.

The Twins start singing "It's The End Of The World" by R.E.M., word for word, which would be impressive if it wasn't so annoying. "I'll run to town," I blurt out. "I can call Uncle Floyd from the payphone. He'll know what to do."

Mom purses her lips in concern. "Are you sure, honey? It's hot outside."

"It was cold in Alaska," I point out, which doesn't really make sense because a) it wasn't that cold in Alaska and b) running in the Yukon and running in the Mojave Desert aren't the same, like, at all. My mother, of course, is blissfully unaware of these things, and melts like a pat of butter in the sun.