“What do we do now?” Agnes asks when we’re back in the car. “We can’t rent a hotel room—I think the twenty-one thing might actually be the law.”
“Then we’ll find a place that’ll break the law.” I know there must be places that’ll rent to just about anybody. Too many girls get pregnant on prom night, and I know they ain’t doing it at their parents’ house. There’s gotta be somewhere that’ll let teenagers in.
We ain’t driven five minutes when I see a place. Big red lights above the door read MOT L—the E is burned out. The place looks run-down and dirty, even on the outside. The sorta place I’m sure a lot of drug deals have gone down in—many of them probably involving people in my family. If any place is gonna let two teenage girls rent a room, it’s this one.
Beggars can’t be choosers. Ain’t that what they say? And me and Agnes aren’t exactly on vacation. A shitty motel won’t be the worst thing that’s happened to us.
Well, not to me.
“Does this seem like a good place to try?” Agnes asks.
I’m glad she can’t see the graffitied brick walls or the trash-covered parking lot.
“Good ain’t the word,” I say. “But this is where we’re staying. Come on.”
Like I suspect, the man at the front desk don’t give a damn about our age. Just as long as we pay in cash. Agnes takes some money out of her backpack, and we get a key to a room at the far end of the parking lot. He don’t even ask about the dog. But when I unlock the door, I can see why. Utah can’t make this place any worse than it already is.
The carpet ain’t been vacuumed in years, and there are some mysterious stains on the wall I don’t even wanna know about.
Agnes can’t see none of it. She might be able to make everything out a little better if one of the lamps—the one on the desk—wasn’t broken. I try to see the place through her eyes. Just a bed and a TV, with all the dirty details smoothed over.
“We should sleep,” she says. “My parents will be up at seven thirty to get ready for church. I wanna be long gone before they come looking for me.”
“Or the police do.”
“They won’t call the police. I left a note. They’ll know it was me who took the car. They’ll know it’s not stolen. But they will come looking.”
I set the alarm for seven. Just three short hours away. Somehow, the thought of waking up that soon makes me feel even more tired than I already am.
“I need to use the bathroom first.” She starts heading toward the bathroom, her arms outstretched, looking for the wall.
I don’t help her. I know she can do it herself. But I do give her some advice. “Hey, Agnes? Don’t sit on the toilet, okay?”
“What?”
“Squat when you pee. Don’t sit down.”
The look on her face makes me wonder if she’s ever had to squat over a toilet in her life. Probably not.
But she don’t argue.
While she’s in the bathroom, I pull back the blanket. The sheets look all right, even though I’m sure nobody’s washed them in days. Or weeks. I don’t bother opening my backpack. I just slip off my cutoffs and climb into bed, wearing my T-shirt as pajamas. Utah jumps on the bed and walks in a circle until she’s made herself comfortable—right on top of my feet.
I grab the remote from the nightstand and switch on the TV. Most of the channels are just white fuzz, but eventually I find an infomercial on. Some old model advertising antiaging face cream. That’s as good as it gets this late at night. It’s better than sleeping in the quiet.
Agnes comes out a second later. “I squatted,” she says, like she’s proud of herself.
“Good job.”
The queen-size bed is pushed up against the wall, so she’s gotta climb over me to get to her side. “You’re gonna let the dog sleep in the bed?”
“Yeah. Why? She sleeps in my bed every night at home.”
“I don’t know … Won’t she get the blankets dirty?”
“No dirtier than they already are.”
I don’t think she knows what to say to that.
“Bo,” she says after a minute. “What are we doing?”
For a second, I’m scared, thinking she’s changed her mind, thinking she might not wanna do this no more. Part of me wants that—wants to take her home, wants to keep her out of my mess—but another part of me, a bigger part, can’t do this without her. I need her.
“I mean, what’s our plan? Where are we going in the morning?”
I hold back a sigh of relief. Swallow it down a throat that’s suddenly way too dry.
“Well … I thought … Maybe we could find my dad.”
“Your dad? How come?”
I sit up and switch off the lamp, so now neither of us can see. “Money,” I say. “He owes a shit ton of child support. Maybe I can get him to give me some money.”
“I guess that’s not a bad idea. We’ll need money if we’re gonna make this work … This sure isn’t how I imagined us getting out of Mursey.”