Page 18 of Anywhere with You
We kept driving.
We were quiet, with the music still playing softly in the background, but it wasn’t Beyoncé anymore, and as the first rap song on my list started, Cara looked at the stereo with a dubious expression.
It was close enough to our usual time to switch drivers, so I told her to pull over.
“Are you kicking me out?” she asked. “I didn’t say a word about your music.”
“It’s your car, you…very nice person,” I said.
“You were just about to insult me, weren’t you? It’s okay. I can take it.”
I looked right into her eyes. “Your taste in music isn’t optimal. But you’re still very pretty. Now listen.”
While she pulled us back onto the road, I scrolled to a rap song I was sure she’d like. Dessa’s familiar voice filled the car. I turned up the volume.
We listened to “Fighting Fish” on repeat until we could get through the whole thing, Cara singing the chorus, and me rapping the verses.
We were loud and terrible, and it reminded me of high school lunches after the latest Britney Spears album dropped. Our table kept the whole cafeteria entertained, and I’d adored every moment. Maybe I needed to start up a Strings & Things choir club.
“I really admire that she can rhymebitchandfishand pull it off,” Cara said. “That’s a rare talent.”
“She has kind of an obsession with dice and luck, too. Listen to this one.” I started “5 Out of 6,” which Cara liked even more, and followed that with every other Dessa song I’d downloaded, including her song onThe Hamilton Mixtape.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Cara said. We had to listen to that one several times. “This song always makes me wish I had a sister.”
“Same,” I said. “Though I don’t think I’m enough like Angelica to be so devoted or enough like Eliza to deserve it.”
Cara glanced at me. “I don’t know about that. I saw you with Bridget. You were very Angelica. And I definitely think you deserve Eliza-level devotion.”
Her voice had that tone to it that women in my life always seemed to take when they were encouraging each other, the Girl Power or Womanly Solidarity tone, theno bullshit quirky friend teaching the main character to respect herselftone.
“You underappreciate yourself,” she said. “You deserve every good thing, Honey.”
“A billion dollars?”
Cara sighed and said, “Yeah,” but it was theyeahof the defeated. She knew I was being an ass.
“Cake?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“What about one of those T. rex skulls for decoration, the kind they put glass on so it also works as a side table?”
“God, no. I take it back.”
I laughed, then played “Fighting Fish” again. We sang until we reached White Sands.
* * *
We parked at the visitors’ center for maps, restroom breaks, and a sled that Cara took one look at and said, “Nope.”
“Come on,” I said. “It’s bright orange. You love bright orange.”
“I also like my bones unbroken.”
I ignored her. The sled, more of a shallow bowl in shape than what I’d normally call a sled, barely fit on top of our luggage and my guitar case in the back seat.
There was one other car in the parking area near the dunes, a minivan with sunburned, windswept children piling inside to leave. We really did have the place to ourselves. I changed into shorts that showed off my awesome guitar tattoo with watercolor-style rainbow strings and an olive green T-shirt. It clashed with my purple hair, but I loved the fit. I’d been wearing my hair loose, but now I braided it tightly.
