Chasing Stardust: A Novel By Erica Lucke Dean - 5

Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide

Just over nine hours and three and a half stops for gas later—depleting nearly all the cash Jeanie slipped me in the driveway—major regret seeps in. Abandoning Mom’s piece-of-shit Explorer for G-Lo’s ancient Cutlass sounded like a solid plan at the time, but it probably wasn’t one of my best decisions. Being trapped in a rolling steel box without working AC on one of the hottest days of the year was not on my road trip bingo card.

After driving close to twenty miles under a clear blue sky, with a minivan of kids making faces at me while I slapped the hell out of the dash to keep the wipers going so the blower would work, I discovered that the air conditioner is actually broken. When G-Lo said the wipers had to be on for the blower to work, she failed to mention that the blower only serves up hot air. A layer of sweat formed over every inch of me, making my damp clothes cling to my skin and plastering my hair to my neck.

The temperature finally dipped below ninety after the sun went down, but somewhere west of Nashville, the sky opened up and pummeled the Betty with fat raindrops, forcing me to play Whac-A-Mole on the dashboard again to keep the wipers on.

The farther west I drive, the harder it rains until it’s hammering the car like tiny projectiles. Massive trucks whip past me doing more than eighty, and unless I keep hitting the dash every few minutes, I can’t see a damn thing. To make matters worse, the GPS on my phone lost signal before I remembered to plug in my next destination, so in the pitch-black of night, I have no idea where I am.

To top it all off, I officially hate the 8-track player. It’s been stuck on the same song for over four hours—no skipping the track, no ejecting the tape, and no lowering the volume. I swear on every one of Harry Styles’s tattoos, I’m going to lose my damn mind if I have to listen to “China Girl” one more time. If I didn’t need the crappy wipers to battle the downpour, I’d snap one off and use it to pry that sucker out.

At least the headlights on this hunk of junk still work. They’re the only things keeping me alive out here.

A massive eighteen-wheeler rolls up behind me, its high beams shining in the rearview completely blinding me. As it speeds past, a wall of water washes over the side of the Betty like a tsunami, and the road becomes a giant Slip ’N Slide. I should pull over, but the last sign I passed was for Bucksnort and Barren Hollow, so I’m pretty sure I’m literally in the middle of freaking nowhere. Jeanie’s threat of serial killers and rapists around every corner suddenly doesn’t seem so ridiculous. Even with David Bowie belting through the speakers, I can almost hear the rhythmic twang of dueling banjos playing in the distance.

I hit the autodial on Jeanie’s contact, hoping she’ll talk me off the ledge, but I don’t have service. “Damn it, Jeanie, why’d you let me do this?”

The first notes of “China Girl” play again, drawing my attention from the road for a split second as I vow revenge on that tape if I ever manage to evict it from the player.

I look up just in time to see a dark shape in the road ahead.

“What the hell is that!” My heart stops cold before racing to life again.

Staring straight at me from dead center in the lane ahead is what looks like a weaponized opossum, its armor glistening in the glow of the headlights.

“Holy shit!” A scream rips from my throat as the freaking battle ninja leaps into the air, connecting with the front of G-Lo’s car like a bag of wet cement.

Oh my God, I killed it! With no time to think, I slam both feet on the brakes. The Betty skids sideways, rising off the ground for the span of several heartbeats before slamming against the pavement with a horrible crunch. The tires squeal and my ears ring as the Cutlass does a full circle across both westbound lanes, finally coming to rest in the center divider, half in and half out of the ditch and facing oncoming traffic.

With my brain scrambled and my fingers locked in a death grip on the wheel, I peek over the dash and inspect the front of the car. The headlights look cross-eyed, casting shadows in the wrong direction, and an angry hiss of steam pours from under the hood. Never a good sign.

Now I’ve gone and done it. I killed the Betty, too!

After spending almost an hour in the ditch, polishing off the last of my Doritos and burning through my iPhone’s battery searching for a signal, I finally flag down a dairy truck. Or as Jeanie would likely insist, a refrigerated serial-killer-mobile. For all I know, the tank is filled with bodies, and I’m destined to be his next victim.

A bone-rattling shudder runs through me as I force the gruesome image from my brain and focus on the Betty’s mangled grill.

“I’ll be damned.” Ernie—according to the swirly script embroidered across the flap of his blue coveralls—scratches his gray-stubbled chin. “Ain’t never seen nothin’ like this a’fore.”

“What?” I peer around him into the wash of his flashlight, shivering in my ripped cutoffs and thoroughly drenched T-shirt.

Ernie taps a stiff back claw with a stubby finger. “Looks like it used to be an armor-diller, but it don’t belong in your radiator.”

Thanks, Ernie, now tell me something I don’t know.

“Can you, maybe . . .” I wince. “Pull it out?”

Ernie snickers like a twelve-year-old before wiping the grin from his chapped lips. I can almost hear him thinking, That’s what she said.

“I s’pose I could, but that won’t fix the radiator none.”

“Yeah, I was afraid you’d say that.” My spirit deflates. “I guess that means I’m stuck here for a while.”

“Looks like it.” He bobs his head, scratching under his hat. “I can radio for a tow, but at this hour, in this storm, I don’t s’pect it’ll get here none too soon.”

Just my luck.

“Or . . .” Ernie gives me a once-over before glancing toward his eighteen-wheeler. “I s’pose I could give ya a ride to town.”

“I don’t . . .” My gut clenches so hard my belly button hits my spine. The words oh, hell no clog my throat as a blinding flash of lightning zigzags above us, followed closely by a clap of thunder that practically cracks the sky in two. It would seem the cosmos— or maybe Mom —has other ideas. The storm that had all but passed us by rages back with a vengeance. “H-How far is town?”

“Fifteen . . . maybe twenty miles.”

“Okay.” Bottom lip clamped firmly between my teeth, I nod. “I guess I’ll be safer with you than out here alone. I, uh, need to grab my stuff.”

Ernie pulls off his hat and palms his bald head. “Ain’t got a lotta room in the cab.”

“Oh, I don’t have much.” I reach into the back seat for my overstuffed backpack before grabbing my tote and Mom’s ashes from the front. I lock the car and yank my yellow Penn State hoodie over my head before beaming at Ernie, hoping he won’t notice I’m scared shitless. “See? Hardly anything, really.”

We both jump at another boom of thunder.

Ernie side-eyes my stuff. “Guess we’d better be on our way.”

I follow him from the muddy ditch to the truck, where he takes my backpack and tosses it inside. Then he sweeps a pile of debris from the passenger seat and helps me climb in.

Balancing Mom’s ashes in my lap, I tug the seatbelt around me and settle in.

The inside of the truck looks like an episode of Hoarders . Stacks of empty gas station coffee cups and chip bags litter the floor. A half-empty jar of generic peanut butter, a dirty plastic spoon, and a sleeve of Ritz crackers take up the cup holders. Multiple cords snake from the outlets to various electronic devices. A collection of Christmas tree air fresheners in assorted colors dangles from the radio knobs, and a faded-purple rabbit’s foot swings from the rearview mirror.

Ernie hops into the driver’s seat and turns the key, making the truck roar to life. “She ain’t clean, but she’s my home away from home.”

Though I’m all too aware I’m living the opening scene to almost every horror movie I’ve ever seen, once Ernie cranks the heat and I start to warm up, keeping my eyes open becomes a struggle. He doesn’t look like he wants to kill me and make a suit from my skin, but what do I know? I’ve been awake for close to twenty-four hours, and I didn’t exactly get a great night’s sleep before beginning this fool’s mission, so I drift in and out of consciousness while Ernie rattles off his riveting life story.

“We’re here.” Ernie pokes my damp shoulder. “Sorry, but this here’s the only place in town open all night.”

I startle awake, blinking up at the sign for BB’s All-Night Diner. A ginormous neon guitar juts from the roof, flickering off and on like the fluorescent bulb above our kitchen sink, almost as if sending out a secret code: That wasn’t chicken.

I swallow a laugh and clear the cobwebs from my throat. “What time is it?”

“Almost three.”

“In the morning?”

“Yup.”

Wiping the drool from my chin, I dig for my iPhone. The battery is deep in the red zone, but at least I have a signal. “I guess I should call someone to get my grandma’s car.”

“I radioed the wrecker on the way here. They’ll pick her up at first light and bring her to Mack’s garage on Sixth.”

Relief rushes through me. “Thank you.”

“Need to be on my way now. Gotta make Memphis a’fore morning, but if you’re hungry, BB’s makes the best damn chili this side of the Mississippi and all the coffee you can drink. Steer clear of the tuna . . . unless ya got a death wish.” He looks down his nose at me as if questioning my sanity.

Mister, I’m way ahead of you!

“Good to know.” I shove Mom’s ashes into my tote and sling the strap over one shoulder before sliding down from the passenger seat, hanging on to the door handle until my soggy Skechers hit the cracked pavement.

The truck growls as Ernie throws it into gear. “Mack’s opens at nine. Good luck to ya, miss.”

“Thank you.” I slam the door and back away as memories from the last few days flicker before my eyes. This trip was supposed to take two weeks—three at most. Now, who knows if I’ll even be able to finish what I started.

As Ernie’s taillights disappear into the distance, I glance down at the mud caked on nearly every visible inch of me. What I wouldn’t give for a shower and a clean pair of—

“My backpack!” I scream into the darkness.

My thoughts scramble, trying to decide who to call first. I don’t know Ernie’s last name, or even if his name is really Ernie. For all I know, he bought the overalls with the name already on them. And even if the dairy company could locate him based on his description, I doubt they’d pick up the phone at three a.m.

The only thing saving me from total meltdown is Mom’s ashes, still safely tucked in my tote with her diary and my wallet.

BB’s giant neon guitar flashes another secret message: Time to admit defeat.

I’m all for that idea. I gave it my best. I don’t control the weather . . . or suicidal armadillos. And I sure as hell can’t be held responsible for the Betty and her death wish.

As I fish my phone out of my pocket, the battery gasps its last breath and dies in my hand.