Page 37 of Fun at Parties
In the car, we don’t meet daylight until we’re crossing over the northwest corner of Arizona. I’m grateful for the timing, both because the road around the Virgin River Gorge is full of knuckle-clenching curves and because the views are stunning.
It was easy to tell Nate I was fine with giving up another piece of the trip I envisioned when we were so far removed from it in Vegas. It’s harder to contemplate here, with a fiery gold seam tearing open on the horizon andthe rock formations on either side of the road turning from black outlines to dreamy purple blurs before fully revealing themselves. Towering cliffs and layers of gray stone shot through with orange and pink. And us, in this tiny car on this threadlike road, winding through it all.
Nate stirs as we round a gnarly curve with massive slopes of rock looming overhead, but he doesn’t wake up.
Look how small we are,I tell myself. And my problems are even smaller. It was once somebody’s job to figure out how to build a highway through this place, how to carve through centuries of stone and manage changing elevations and, presumably, the gorge’s namesake river itself.
If they could do that, I can deal with Caleb and Tracy. He’s annoying, and she’s pushing me too hard, but neither of them issedimentary.Maybe if I keep that in mind, I won’t get a stomachache the next time I see one of Tracy’s reminders to keep posting, which are now landing in my inbox twice a day.
“Everything okay?” Nate asks, startling me out of my thoughts. His voice is hoarse with sleep. “We can switch, if you want.”
“I’m good. Just wondering about the logistics of how they built this road.”
“Wow.” He stifles a yawn. “Okay, Dad. It is beautiful, though.”
“You missed the best part,” I say. “I thought about waking you up for sunrise, but you looked too comfortable.”
“Bullshit. You wanted it all for yourself.”
I let out a surprised laugh, because he might be right. “I won’t lie, it was nice.”
“Feels like I’m never going to be able to sit up straight again,” he grumbles, rolling his neck.
I poke out my bottom lip. “Poor baby. Having to rest while I forge onward in the wee hours of the morning.”
“I’ll read you Dad Facts about this road to make it up to you.”
And he does, cribbing them from both the Department of Transportation website and un-fact-checked travel blogs. He tells me how this was one of the most expensive rural interstates ever constructed, about the types of rock that make up the gorge, the local flora and fauna.
“You know what’s funny?” I say. “Neither of us has the kind of dad who would be into Dad Facts. I’m imagining, like, Johnny Rose.”
“Johnny Rose,” he repeats.
“You know who Johnny Rose is. You’ve seen the first scene of every episode ofSchitt’s Creek.”
“Ah, right. Of course.”
I shake my head. “My dad’s not interested in anything other than the card games he plays on his iPad or saying the minimum number of words required to get my mom to be quiet. And yours…”
“Wouldn’t be on a cross-country road trip with me in any iteration of the universe? He might be into Dad Facts if they were exclusively about recreational boating.” He pauses, then deadpans, “You’re right, it is hilarious.”
When I snort, his mouth curves. Outside the car, rock formation after rock formation jut dramatically into the cloud-marbled sky.
“What about Mom Facts?” he asks. “Mine would be,like, ‘Remember the elementary school secretary, Miss Peg? She had that big hair and a picture of her shih tzu on her desk? She didn’t work there until after you graduated, but I’msureyou remember her. Well, she died.’ ”
“Mine would just be ‘I need money.’ ” It’s not something I’d normally say out loud. At first, it feels good to get the words out, to put them somewhere other than my head.
His laugh is so faint he doesn’t bother to hide it with his hand. “And then she asks you to give it to her?”
Ah, here comes the guilt, a bitter aftertaste that sneaks up on me. “Usually. I don’t mind.” I want to be one of those people who don’t hesitate to help family. My mom did her best. She made mistakes like everyone else, but she learned her lesson; since Jolee went bust, she’s always worked a regular job. But it’s impossible to eradicate the resentment.
Nate is watching me like my thoughts are projected onto my forehead in clear-as-day Times New Roman. “Don’tgive me that look,” I warn.
He raises his hands in surrender. “Hmm.” A beat passes. “I have a challenge for you.”
“A challenge?” I recall the one he issued at the gas station by the clown motel.Let’s see if you can complain until the tank is full.“What kind?”
“I want you to complain again. This time until we see…” He cranes his neck to glance in the rearview mirror. “A red car.”
