Page 8 of Beautiful Distraction

Apparently, the fact that they’re wearing black carnivalmasks (and not much else) and no one knows their real identities makes themeven hotter—or so Mandy says. She doesn’t just have the band’s entirerepertoire, which I swear consists of all of five songs that seem to run onreplay across all stations nationwide (you can’t escape them anywhere); she’sactually not even ashamed to admit she’s into them.

Talk about turning into a groupie and reliving her teens.

Imagine my dismay when my car license registration won twoconcert tickets in a big radio swoop. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but outof all the great prizes (think a new iPhone and a makeover with a celebrityhairstylist), I had the misfortune to win the tickets when I’m probably theonly female in the world who wouldn’t know who they were if it weren’t for Mandy’seclectic taste in music.

The moment I won the tickets, someone must have also bashedme over the head because I was stupid enough to tell Mandy about the winandreveal that I was consideringselling them on eBay. Mandy almost blew a gasket and basically dragged me intothe car to head for Madison Creek.

The fight was lost before it even began.

Which is why I’m here—God knows where—with theenthusiasm of a turtle at the outlook of putting my poor ears through thetorture that’s about to befall Montana.

Poor Montana, too.

Forget the band.

Fortunately, the tickets come with a ‘one-week all expensespaid hotel stay for two.’ That’s the only upside of my prize, at least in myopinion, and the main reason I agreed to keep it.

I desperately need the one-week vacation before the boringwork routine engulfs me once again.

I’ve no idea where we are, only that we’re hours away fromNew York City, when I unplug Mandy’s iPhone in favor of some local radiostation’s playlist of Sheryl Crow and David McGray songs. We’re halfway throughthe second song when the news comes through.

“Storm Janet is picking up speed as she makes her way acrosswestern Montana. Residents are advised to stay indoors as severe, rare stormforce winds with heavy rain are expected across some parts of…” Mandy switchesoff the radio.

Suddenly the gray clouds gain an ominous new meaning and mythroat chokes up.

“A hurricane? Are you fucking kidding me?” I yell at Mandy,who’s speeding along an unpaved country road, past green pastures and untouchednature.

“Relax. It’s just a bit of wind, Ava,” Mandy says. “Besides,we’re almost there. Relax and enjoy the scenery.”

Relax?

I cringe and bite my tongue hard so I won’t say something Imay come to regret later. Mandy isn’t exactly irresponsible; she’s justeasygoing, to put it mildly.

Maybe even a bit reckless, which is what I usually adoreabout her.

When I met her in kindergarten, we found our friendshipbased on opposites:

I loved to collect coins and shells; she amassed clothes forher impressive doll collection.

I collected novels; she collected the phone numbers of hotguys.

Today, I’m a journalist; she’s an environmentalist lawyer workingfor a non-profit organization and needs to work as a club hostess on the sideto make ends meet.

I’m a worrier; she reminds me of the positive things inlife.

While I have a list for everything, including the contentsof my wardrobe, she would get bored halfway throughwritinga list and always ridicules me for being overlyconscientious, which she lovingly calls obsessive-compulsive.

“You should have told me we’d be facing bad weather. Wecould have waited until tomorrow. We didn’t have to depart today.” I shoot hera venomous look, even though she can’t see me because her eyes are fixed on theroad, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on her thigh.

“And risk missing a day in a free five-star hotel? Maybe.”She shrugs. “But the thing is, if I had told you just how bad the weather mightbe, you wouldn’t have trudged along to see Mile High. We’ve wanted this forages.”

As in,she’swantedthis for ages and sort of insisted that I come along.

I set my jaw and let her continue her little monologue.

A heavy gust of wind rocks the car. I wiggle in my seatnervously. “Are you sure the hurricane’s not heading our way?”

“Relax,” Mandy repeats. I swear she’s turning into a walkingmantra. “Hurricanes can only form over water. Montana is far too inland to behit by one. “

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