Page 6 of Road Queens
“You’ve changed, man.” Amanda shook her head. “You’ve chaaaaanged.”
“I’ve been driving minivans for the better part of a decade, you twit. Starting our senior year, when I gave you a ride home pretty much every day. And you own your own business, for God’s sake! You pay taxes! Don’t deny it.”
“Oh, right. Taxes. I forgot. But if we’re driving longer than fifteen minutes, I’ve gotta change,” she said, pointing to her “Motorcycles and Mascara” T-shirt. “And we should stop for gas and cream puffs. Those errands don’t need to be in that order.”
Forty-five minutes and two cream puffs later, they were on the road, and the ride from Prescott, Wisconsin, to Minneapolis, Minnesota, was quick. Thirty miles in July heat—delicious! Or at least not entirely miserable. Amanda could countenance nearly all weather conditions except for extreme heat, which would kill her immediately, or so her mother (a redhead prone to heat exhaustion) warned her. She’d ride in rain before she’d ride through humidity; that was how God engineered her.
She wasn’t in leather today; she’d only planned to motor two miles between her home and the grocery store, so her SPIDIs (which looked like leggings but were armored at the knees and hips) and a light jacket were sufficient.
Speaking of sufficient, riding for half an hour behind Sidney’s minivan ... wasn’t. Nothing against Sidney. Or minivans. But it was impossible to shake the feeling that one of them was missing, possibly because one of themwasmissing, and had been for years.
Never mind! Amanda would focus on the joy, allllll the joy. She’d live in the moment, because she wasn’t missing the old days at all, and shedefinitelywasn’t wishing there were three of them, headed for a park or the Mall of America or the river or nowhere. Ah, nowhere. Those were the best rides, the ones with no fixed destination.
It had taken her a while to reclaim her joy after ... after all that had happened. So Amanda was always happy to find more.
All that to say it was a quick thirty minutes, including parking time and a smidge of angst.
“Now that we’re here, I’m wondering why both of us should go,” Sidney said. “I don’t know if it’s at all like Stillwater. Maybe they won’t let us see her.”
“Why wouldn’t they? Also, moot!” Amanda declared. “It’s a team vibe. Did Carrie go anywhere without Samantha, Charlotte, or what’s-her-face?”
“Pretty sure she did. The show ran for half a dozen seasons, y’know. They weren’talwaystalking about banging while gobbling goat cheese pizza in various high-end restaurants before going home to their implausibly pricey apartments.”
“It’s gross that you know how many seasons there were before the revamp,” Amanda replied.
“Almost as gross as you knowing there was a revamp.”
“And who knew a weekly freelance column netted seven figures? Or at least, high sixes ... not that she needed to worry about dinero once she landed Big. Again, I mean. She had to land him at least twice, right?”
“Why is it that whenever more than two and fewer than five women get together,Sex in the Citycomparisons come up?”
“Sexandthe City,” Amanda replied. “Did you use ‘why is it’ ironically?”
“No. My point is the relevance. And how terrible they all were. Carrie was a self-absorbed shithead, Charlotte never grew a pair, Miranda was a bitch to the one guy who worshipped her, and Samantha was too good for all of them.”
Amanda laughed. “Your point? Samantha should’ve gotten her own show?”
“Who the fuckcares? That’s always my point. Though if Samantha had a spin-off, I would’ve watched. Now come on.”
“What’s the rush? Are you afraid I’ll change my mind and—yeek! Jeez, I’m coming ... my legs work, y’know. There’s no need to keep hauling me around—ow!”
CHAPTER THREE
The cop shop (Precinct 2, City of Minneapolis) was as welcoming as such a place could be: low brick building, trees, the Eastside Guardian statues (two policemen, one from the early twentieth century and one from 2009, and a girl-child looking up imploringly at both).
“What does it say about us,” Amanda speculated as they mounted the steps, “that we know exactly what to do and where to go when a friend gets arrested? And if that friend got arrested in Seattle or Moscow or Luxembourg, we’dstillknow? Well, maybe not Luxembourg.”
Sidney shrugged. “That we’re living interesting or illegal lives.”
“Or both,” Amanda replied, flashing her dimples at the officer, who saw them and obligingly held the door open.
They had unconsciously fallen into the formation they’d used since they were fourteen: Sidney marching ahead, Amanda not quite abreast. And Cassandra would be bringing up the rear soon enough.
Or not. That would be fine too.
“I’m not leaving anytime soon.”
“Cassandra, you haven’t even been arraigned yet,” Amanda protested.
