Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 13

Moonage Daydream

Dash eyes me over his shoulder while stuffing at least one of everything from the hotel vending machine into his duffel bag. “Ready?”

I gape down at the assorted candy bars, bags of chips, and small packages of cream-filled cookies peeking out from inside, and snicker at his impressive snack haul. “Planning for the apocalypse?”

“Very funny. No hot Cheetos for you.” He zips his bag, hauls it over his shoulder, and turns toward the closest exit.

Before I can formulate a witty reply, my phone rings. Without even looking, I know it’s Damian . . . again . He’s been blowing up my phone every hour on the hour since I ended things.

Dash stops in his tracks. “You need to get that?”

“Nope.” I ignore the call, switch the phone to silent, and shove it deep into my pocket.

Damian can wait—until hell freezes over as far as I’m concerned. As much as I’d love to tell my ex exactly how relieved I am to be rid of him, that’s a conversation I’d rather not have in front of Dash. He already has more than enough evidence of how messed up my life is.

Dash raises an eyebrow and locks his probing gaze on me, digging for answers I’m not prepared to give. “You sure?”

“Positive.” Hiking my tote up my shoulder, I march to the exit and open the door. “You coming?”

Before hitting the highway, we swing by Mack’s so I can reclaim my backpack and grab my pillow from the Betty. And for the first time in days, I change into a clean pair of denim shorts, and the faded pink Fight Like a Girl cancer survivor T-shirt Mom wore until she’d basically accepted defeat. Then we hit the road.

On the long stretch of highway between Hicksville and Nashville, we pass a bright-yellow Volkswagen Beetle, and I punch Dash in the shoulder. “Punch buggy!”

“What the hell?” He gapes at me, shielding his arm from another attack. “What did I do?”

I burst out laughing at his horrified expression. “You’ve never played punch buggy?”

“No.” He rubs his shoulder. “But it seems a bit . . . violent.”

“Sorry.” I swallow a giggle. “What road-trip games did you play when you were a kid?”

“My parents didn’t really do the road trip thing. But if we had, I would’ve read a book.” He eyes me as if he’s afraid I might attack again. “Like a civilized person.”

I roll my eyes. “Boring.”

“Educational,” he insists with another sideways glare.

“ Extra boring.” I laugh, but my heart aches for the little dark-haired boy I imagine sitting in the back of a fancy limo, a brand-new copy of On the Road in his lap, and a stern nanny by his side. “No license plate game? No I spy? No twenty questions?”

“No.” His gaze darts my way. “But I’m up for a round of twenty questions if you’re game.”

“Only if you let me go first.” I bounce in my seat, unable to hide my excitement.

He nods but keeps his eyes on the road.

I grin, thinking of his curious habit of scribbling secrets on napkins. “What are you always writing—”

“Pass.” He tightens his grip on the wheel. “Pick something else.”

Stunned by his lightning-quick refusal, I revisit the question he’d dodged at the diner. “Fine. What color crayon would you be?”

He snorts out a laugh. “What is it with you and crayons?”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “Supposedly, the color you choose directly correlates to the sort of person you are.”

“Intriguing concept.” He bobs his head a few times before turning the question back on me. “What color would you be?”

My withering look promises we’ll be revisiting this subject later, but I let him off the hook . . . for now. “If you’d asked me a week ago, I probably would’ve chosen something sad . . . like gray.”

“But today?” Dash turns his mesmerizing eyes on me, and I lose myself in their depths.

“I’m leaning toward sapphire . . . with a swirl of warm brown.”

His brows draw together in a deep furrow. “What do those colors mean?”

“I-I don’t know,” I lie, as if I didn’t just describe his eyes to a T. “So, uh, what’s your favorite Bowie song?”

Dash presses a few buttons on the display, and “Golden Years” blasts through the speakers, effectively ending the conversation.

June 29

I shoplifted today. Mom and I were trying on sunglasses in a Quiki-Mart about an hour outside Nashville, when she whispered, “Put those in your bag.” At first, I thought she was kidding, then I saw her stuff a pair down her shirt. She distracted the guy behind the counter, flirting her butt off so I could pocket the pair in my hands. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. My hands shook so bad, I thought for sure the whole place knew what I was doing. But not a soul followed me as I walked out of there with my butt cheeks clenched as tight as steel doors. My heart raced so fast, I thought I was having a heart attack. I still can’t believe we didn’t get caught. Best. Rush. Ever.

June 30

We climbed into the dumpster behind a bakery just after they closed, like a pair of dirty trash bandits, scavenging for bags filled with bread, little white boxes with assorted cookies and cupcakes, and probably a whole bunch of creepy crawlies. Thank God for the adrenaline rush, or I would’ve gained like fifteen pounds. I smell like spoiled custard, but it was totally worth it.

“Dumpster diving? Shoplifting?” I drop Mom’s diary with a shuddering breath. I have no idea who this person is, but she’s not the mom who danced around the kitchen singing old Bowie songs while flipping pancakes on Sunday mornings. I glare at the diary as if it has the power to destroy me. And maybe, in a million tiny ways I can’t begin to understand, it does. For the first time since I discovered the damn thing existed, I wonder if Jeanie was right to keep it from me. Maybe I’m not ready. “I’m not sure I want to keep reading this thing.”

“Why?” Dash’s brows furrow as he glances at the journal in my lap. “What’s wrong?”

How do I explain that I’m having a hard time reconciling Mom’s memories with my own . . . that with every word I read, my perception of her changes, dredging up emotions I can’t begin to understand. That I’m caught between this unquenchable desire to know everything about her past, and the fear of what I’ll discover if I spend too much time looking. What if I somehow lose the mom I knew? How many of my memories am I willing to risk?

I lift my gaze to his. “What if I find something really . . . bad ?”

“Zoey . . .” His eyes soften. “Whatever you find can’t hurt you now. It’s in—”

“Her past. I know, but . . .” My chest tightens as I struggle to find the words. “The rule-breaking girl who got drunk in Memphis and shoplifted a pair of sunglasses . . . I don’t know her. The mom I knew was always so . . .”

“Boring?” he offers, using my own word against me.

“Serious,” I say, choosing a more accurate description. “She was an assistant principal for god’s sake. When she wasn’t working, there was always some chore or school function that needed her attention.”

“You never did anything fun?”

“We did,” I assure him, as the memories come flooding back. “We went on vacations every summer. To the movies or bowling now and then. But her idea of getting wild was ordering pineapple on her pizza. She sure as hell never took us dumpster diving!”

“I get it.” He nods. “Reading about her past is rocking your present.”

“It really is.” I release a jagged breath. “But if I stop reading now, I know I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

Dash offers a sympathetic smile. “You never mention your dad. Was he not around when you were growing up?”

“My parents got divorced when I was ten. It was just Mom, Jeanie, and me after that.”

“Do you ever see him?”

My throat thickens, and I grab my pillow from the back seat. Hugging it to my chest like a shield, I stare out the window at the cows grazing in the distance. “He used to send cards—Christmases, birthdays, things like that. On the rare occasions he was in town, he’d take Jeanie and me to dinner. But other than the flowers he sent when Mom died, I haven’t heard from him in two years. I guess he figured his responsibility ended with my high school graduation.”

“What about your mom’s funeral? Did he—”

“No.” I shake my head, my eyes burning. “He sent a card saying he couldn’t make it.”

It wasn’t even in his own handwriting.

“That’s . . .” Dash frowns and faces the road, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten. “I’m sorry.”

I blink a few times and force a smile. “What about your family? Are your parents still—”

“Together?” He laughs. “No. Dad’s on wife number three. Mom never remarried. Once was more than enough for her. Plus, she’d lose that alimony if she did.”

“Your dad must have a good job.” I choke on an awkward laugh. “Sorry. That was kinda rude, but you said the car was a graduation gift—I assume from your dad.”

He nods.

“A Model X isn’t something you buy on a schoolteacher’s salary.”

He releases a slow breath. “He works in Washington.”

“What about your mom?”

“She’s a . . . writer .” He doesn’t seem sure of his word selection, but his eyes light up nevertheless. “That’s what I’d like to do. My dad has other plans for me.”

A chuckle escapes me. “Why don’t you tell him no? You’re an adult, he shouldn’t really get a choice in the matter.”

“It’s complicated.” He fiddles with the GPS. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

And just like that, the conversation grinds to a halt as we search for the closest place to eat.

“How can you hate ‘China Girl’?” Dash pulls his eyes off the road to gape at me. “It’s one of Bowie’s greatest hits.”

“You mean, besides the borderline racist undertones?”

He shakes his head and turns back to the deserted road. For close to fifty miles, it’s been nothing but pastures and trees out every window.

“I don’t think you can take anything he did at face value. I’ve read articles that said the song was a metaphor for exploitation, others claimed it was an allegory about drugs.” He grows more animated as he lays out his argument. “I don’t know what his true intentions were, but I do know Bowie spoke out against racism his whole career.”

Ignoring his theories, I arch an eyebrow and glare at his profile. “That doesn’t change the fact that I had to listen to it for more than four hours straight when it jammed in the 8-track.”

Dash grins and breaks into a bad rendition of the chorus.

“Noooo . . .” I press my hands over my ears, trying not to laugh. “You can just shut your mouth. If I never hear that song again, it’ll be too soon.”

“Aw, come on, Zoey.” He nudges my arm, giving me puppy dog eyes. “It’s a classic.”

A prickle of heat settles low in my stomach, and I look away, pretending his beautiful face didn’t strike the match. “I heard even he didn’t like playing it. There had to be a reason for that.”

Dash snickers. “Maybe it got jammed in his 8-track.”

My gaze snaps to the alert flashing across the car display.

Stay below 55 mph to reach your destination.

I straighten in my seat and point at the screen. “What does that mean?”

He blinks, as if trying to decide how to respond. “Battery’s getting a little low. But we should be fine.”

The red, glowing battery icon calls him a big fat liar.

“Five percent? You call that fine?” I take a deep breath and stare into the dense thicket lining the road on both sides. “How far are we from the next charging station?”

“Maybe twenty miles to the supercharger in Cookeville. But don’t worry.” He flashes a reassuring smile. “I’ve cut it closer than this.”

As we crest the top of the hill, Dash’s smile slips, and he curses under his breath.

The Tesla slows to a crawl as we approach a line of state police cruisers with lights flashing and an overturned tractor trailer blocking the road ahead. The trooper directing traffic from the middle of the road detours the line of vehicles off the highway.

Another alert pops up as we turn onto a rural road, following an old minivan and a newer pickup filled with trash bags.

I look up from the display and meet his gaze. “Are we going to make it?”

“We’ll be okay,” he mutters, as if trying to convince himself as much as me.

A mile or so down the road, the minivan turns onto a gravel drive, but Dash sticks with the pickup, following it up a winding hill for several more miles—and several more alerts.

The truck pulls into a church parking lot, then whips around and heads back the way we came. My stomach plummets. In the twenty minutes since we left the highway, we’ve passed three churches but not a single gas station, convenience store, or any other signs of civilization.

“Should we . . .” I gnaw on my bottom lip.

“It’s too late to turn around.” Dash points at a winding line on the navigation panel. “This road should circle back to the highway at some point.”

My fingers drift to a loose string on my shorts. “If you say so.”

We pass a small barn, where an old man loads a wire crate onto a rickety trailer hitched to a faded-green pickup. Several yards past that, with nothing but open road and rolling hills as far as the eye can see, Dash slows to a stop on the gravel shoulder.

I jerk my head around. Other than the old man with the green truck, the road is deserted. “What happened? Why are we stopping?”

Dash drops his head to the steering wheel with a dull thud and points at the battery icon.

The little red triangle winks, mocking me.

“It died ?” My heart jumps into my throat. “But you said—”

“I know what I said.” He bangs his forehead against the wheel. “I was wrong.”

“You were wrong ?” I gape at him. “Well, don’t just sit there! Do something!”

“Do what?” He lifts his head and glares at me. “Give it CPR?”

I refuse to dignify his snarky comment with a response. Maybe he’s content castigating himself all day, but I can’t sit and do nothing.

I rifle through the clutter in my tote. “Jeanie’s Triple A card is in here somewhere. A good jump should buy us a few more miles, right?”

“Triple A doesn’t service Tesla batteries.” He fixes his gaze on me. “But they could tow it to the supercharger.” He grabs his phone from the console and flips it open, then stares at the tiny screen for the longest time.

“What?” I uncurl my fingers from my palms, itching to shake the answer out of him.

“No service,” he croaks.

I check mine for a signal. Not only do I have no service, but my battery is almost dead. “Okay, so we go with plan B.”

This is where he’s supposed to come up with a brilliant, rich-college-graduate contingency plan. Where he reaches into his black bag of tricks and MacGyvers us out of our current situation, saving the day yet again. Right?

Wrong.

He throws his phone into the cup holder and drops his head to the wheel again, defeated. “I didn’t think I’d need a plan B.”

This is bad. Armadillo-in-the-radiator bad. But sitting here staring at the dead battery icon on my phone won’t solve anything.

With a loud huff, I shove Mom’s diary into my tote, unbuckle my seat belt, and throw open the door.

Dash jerks his head up, gaping at me. “Where are you going?”

“Unlike you, I’m actually going to do something.” I climb out of the car, ignoring the stench of manure wafting through the air. “One of us has to.”

“Zoey, wait!”

Tuning him out, I march toward the man in the green truck. Dash catches up to me halfway there, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust.

“Oh, so now you want to rescue me.” I cross my arms. “Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you’re not actually Superman.” I jab a finger into his chest. “And I don’t need to be rescued.”

He flinches. “I wasn’t trying to rescue you, I . . .” He glances toward the old man and lowers his voice. “Were you really planning on leaving without me?”

Was I?

I frown, unwilling to consider the idea. “You’re here now, so come on.”

Dash and I walk the rest of the way together. The farmer has his back to us, fiddling with the chicken cages in his rickety trailer when we approach.

I clear my throat. “Excuse me, sir?”

The man lifts his gray head, his gaze alternating between Dash and me. “Y’all need something?”

“Actually, yes.” I release a relieved breath. “Our—well his —car broke down, and we’d—”

Dash steps in front of me. “We really just need to call a tow truck.”

I dial up my smile and elbow Dash out of my way. “But a ride to town would be great, if you’re going that way.”