Page 5 of Road Trip

“Yeah,” I said, because he was right. “It’s gonna be a blast!”

“Was Layla cool when you told her?” he asked me, and oh…

You ever been on a roller coaster? You know that feeling, on that first drop, when you’re hurtling downward at a million miles an hour, but somehow you left your stomach behind you?

Yeah.

I was feeling that right now.

Oh shit.

CHAPTER

TWO

MATT

2728 miles to go

Cape Charles, VA

The morning of the road trip, I packed everything that would fit into my bags, tucked my sketchbook and pencils in my backpack, left a note for Mom, and then walked out of the Seaview Mobile Home Park without looking back. The name was a misnomer. You couldn’t see the ocean from here. All you could see was a collection of shitty mobile homes that the park owner never fixed when he said he would. But I guess the Crap View Mobile Home Park just didn’t have the potential to bring in those sweet tourist dollars. Mom tried to keep our place nice, and it was probably the least suckful double-wide in the place, but it was a mobile home park, so the bar was set pretty low.

We hadn’t always lived here. We used to rent a place on Sunnyside Road in Cheriton that was nicer, but the landlord sold it and the new owner raised the rent, so for the past three years we’d been in the park instead. Three years ago was right about the time I stopped inviting friends home, except for Jacob. Like, I stopped inviting him too, but he just kept turning up anyway. I was more grateful for it than I wanted to admit.

The walk to Jacob’s place in Cape Charles took about a halfhour, but I was used to making it. I normally just jammed my earbuds in and wished myself out of this fucking town.

When I got to Jacob’s place, I went around the back and climbed the porch stairs to the kitchen door, my shoulders sagging under the weight of my bags.

Mrs. Mercer was in the kitchen, wearing her robe over her pajamas. Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she was cracking eggs into a bowl.

I knocked on the screen door.

“Jesus Christ!” She did a crazy ninja move with the wooden spoon and then glared at me. “Stop sneaking up on people, Matt! You scared the crap out of me.”

I didn’t point out that I’d knocked. Instead, I opened the screen door and stepped inside. “Sorry.”

I’d spent more time in the Mercers’ house in the last decade than I had in my own place probably. Even when Mom and I had lived in a half-decent place, I’d still preferred it here.

If this was a sitcom, I would have been the quirky but endearing neighbor’s kid who had his own laugh track, was a fan favorite, and went on to star in his own wildly successful spin-off. But this was real life. I’d never been accused of being quirkyorendearing, and I sure as hell wasn’t anyone’s favorite. I was just kind of…around. Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Mercer looked at me like they were wondering what the hell I was doing here again and if I’d ever go home. But a few sideways looks were still better than sitting in an empty house or, worse, listening to Zeke butchering “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on the electric guitar. He had nine guitars and plans to start a band. Zeke also had zero talent, but he didn’t let that deter him. Besides, Jacob ran interference with his folks, so I didn’t cross paths with them too often.

“Is Jacob in?” I asked, which was a dumb question because of course he was. I just wanted an excuse to get out of Mrs. Mercer’s way.

Luke bounced into the kitchen. “Oh, you don’t want to go up there, trust me.”

But I was already heading toward the stairs.

I was about halfway up them when I met Layla coming the other way, her pretty face screwed up into a scowl and murder in her eyes.

“—because this isourlast summer too, Jacob!” she yelled, and her scowl contorted into something even angrier when she spotted me. “I bet this was all your idea, wasn’t it!”

Layla had never truly liked me, even though she’d tried. She was like one of those prey animals in a wildlife documentary that froze when they sensed danger. Couldn’t see it yet, couldn’t even smell it, but they knew something was wrong. I saw it every time her smile faltered when her gaze fell on me or when she forced herself to laugh at a joke I told. Maybe she didn’t know, not consciously, but it was there in her subconscious, setting off warning bells she’d never figured out how to hear:Careful. He wants what you have.

A part of her knew, even if Jacob didn’t.

I shrugged.

“Fuckingasshole,” she said, shouldering past me, and I didn’t know if she meant Jacob or me. Probably both of us.

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