“You take advice from an insane alcoholic?” Miles’s face is dead serious now.
Be completely honest, I hear the voice in my head. I exhale and brace myself. “He was my oracle,” I respond. “And he told me to go with you. Therefore, whether or not you are dangerous or psycho—which I don’t think you are—”
“Thanks,” Miles interjects drily.
“—you are driving me.”
“How does this Crazy Frankie even know who I am?”
“He doesn’t,” I respond. “He told me to go with the person whose name will take me far.”
Miles stares at me, all semblance of coolness gone. He looks scared.
“You are psychotic,” Miles says, eyes wide. Tearing his gaze from mine, he sits for an entire minute staring straight ahead at the parking lot. He needs you as much as you need him, Frankie had said. I wait.
Finally, shaking his head in despair, Miles turns the key in the ignition. “Okay. I’ll take you at least part of the way on your crazy road trip.” He reaches for something on the dashboard. “But first I have to make a call.”
I get to the contraption first. “Is this your cellular phone?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
Clasping it in my hand, I close my eyes and contact the Yara. I’ve been waiting for a week for this to happen. I’m ready. A little spark flies out the side of the phone, and its screen goes dead.
“What the—” Miles yells.
“Frankie also told me not to let you use your phone,” I reply. “Now let’s go.”
20
MILES
MY BRAIN HURTS. I AM SO FAR OUT OF MY COMFORT zone that I might as well be in the Amazon, swimming with piranhas. This girl somehow just broke my phone and now she’s telling me to drive her to Mount Rainier. And I’m actually arguing with her over directions, like we’re some geriatric married couple.
“You pointed south a minute ago. The mountain is due east,” I say, stopping the car at the edge of the parking lot. “You have no idea where you’re going, do you?”
She wraps her arms around her chest and says defiantly, “Actually, I pointed southeast. Our destination is in that direction.”
“And you know that because Crazy Frankie told you,” I state incredulously.
“I don’t think he’s actually crazy,” she says.
Oh my God, I’m driving a psychopath. “So if the wino told you to go southeast, why are we heading due east?”
“Because. As I said, we have to go to that mountain first,” she insists, nodding in the direction of Mount Rainier.
I just sit and stare at her for a minute until I remember how valuable this girl is to Dad and the fact that my name is, at this very moment, written in his bad books in bold capital letters. The last thing I want is for her to get out of my car and find someone else named Taxi or Greyhound Bus and ditch me.
“You are taking me,” she says, as if I have no choice in the matter. Man, does she have me pegged: I need her as much as she needs me.
“Seat belt,” I say. She looks confused. “If I’m taking you, you have to wear your seat belt.” Still no reaction. I yank on mine, demonstrating what a seat belt is, and she fiddles with hers until she finally gets it attached.
I mash my foot on the accelerator and go. We drive in silence for a few minutes, which is good, because I have to get my bearings. I search for road signs, finally see one for MOUNT RAINIER NATIONAL PARK, and follow it east out of town.
We drive over long bridges spanning large bodies of water, and past ugly urban sprawl until mountains appear in the distance, one capped with snow. We’ve been on the road a good twenty minutes before I notice that the girl is holding on to the dashboard with both hands.
“What?” I ask.
“What, what?” she responds.
“What are you doing? Why are you pushing on the dashboard like that?”
“You’re going kind of fast,” she says, in an accusatory voice.
“Fast? I’m only going fifty. That’s not even the speed limit!”
“It feels fast to me,” she mutters.
“Listen, if you’re going to criticize my driving,” I begin, and then I remember . . . I’m arguing with a crazy person. “Just stop doing that,” I say, glancing at her death grip on the glove compartment. “It’s making me nervous.”