Page 67 of Here We Go Again
Logan punches her fist toward the sky. “Fuck yes! To Mississippi.”
“You girls want someTuesdays with Morrieadvice?” Joe says when they’re all back in the car. “Here it is. Take more nudes while you’re young.”
Albuquerque, New Mexico to Ocean Springs, MississippiChapter Twenty
LOGAN
There is the small matter of Mississippi being three states and one thousand miles away.
Logan expects Rosemary to panic, or at the very least, pull out her printer and diligently remake the itinerary at this abrupt change in plans. But when they stop at the Four Winds Travel Center for gas and snacks, Logan pulls Rosemary aside to check-in on how she’s feeling and is mystified by her apparent calm.
“You’re sure this detour is okay?” Logan asks softly, bartering for Rosemary’s truth.
But Rosemary looks determined. “Wehaveto go to Mississippi. For Joe. Besides, it is, technically, getting us closer to Maine.”
Logan doesn’t argue with her logic. She just gets in the Gay Mobile and drives.
A little before noon, they cross the border into Texas. And western Texas kind of sucks.
It’s all flat fields and giant billboards with statements that are either aggressively pro-Jesus or anti-teacher. She didn’t know anti-teacher billboards were a thing, but apparently everythingisbigger in Texas, including hatred.
The other drivers on I-40 East do not seem to like the Gay Mobile,and they make this known with car horns and middle fingers. A woman at a gas station waits outside the bathroom to corner Logan to tell her that the homosexuals stole the rainbow from Jesus.
“Time for gay shit,” Logan says when they get back in the car.
“Let’s not be any gayer than is strictly necessary,” Rosemary squeaks from behind the wheel. They’re all feeling on edge.
“It’s my playlist. Called ‘Gay Shit.’?”
She plugs her phone into the aux and presses shuffle. The first song to come on is “Mamma Mia”—the film version beautifully sung by Meryl, obviously. When Logan was a tween, Antonio would put on his original ABBA records, and they would all dance around the kitchen to this song. Rosemary would dance, too, swaying her arms and bobbing her head.
Logan glances over at her in the driver’s seat. No swaying. No head bob. Just Rigid Rosemary, clearly wishing Texas wasn’t sure a big state.
“Have you ever wondered why this song is such a bop when the lyrics are actually a major bummer?” Logan asks the car.
“Lyrical dissonance,” Rosemary answers.
“Huh?”
“When the lyrics don’t match the music, that’s what it’s called,” she explains with her back erect over the wheel. “On the surface, the song sounds happy, but if you listen closely, it’s actually heartbreaking.”
“Comedy and tragedy always go together,” Joe says during the dance-break. “Prickly pears, Logan. Prickly pears!”
Logan shakes her head. “I think all songs should be bops.”
Hale turns her head just enough to side-eye her. “I like lyrical dissonance. Some people are really good at acting like everything is fine even when they’re falling apart inside.”
With that pointed comment, Logan cranks the volume on the song until it’s so loud, they can’t even hear the honking, and both her and Joe sing at the top of their lungs.
For the first time since they crossed the border, Logan noticesthe impossible blue of the northern Texas sky, the way it stretches on forever over the undulating fields of brown. There is immense beauty here, despite everything else.
They stop in Amarillo for lunch. It’s a cute, Western town on Route 66. But the real draw is a place called the Big Texan steakhouse: an enormous yellow building with an ox statue and a sign that says, “Yes Everything’s Bigger ’n Texas.”
“No,” Rosemary says, eyeing the kitschy monstrosity through the windshield.
“Yes!”
“We just ate a huge breakfast!”
