Were never getting home, p.1
We're Never Getting Home, page 1
Dedication
For my Girlstrip friends
You can’t get rid of me that easily
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Tracy Badua
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
SATURDAY, APRIL 23
2 pm
I’ve never quite reached that high note of the Newcomers and Goers’ latest. I try anyway as I sweep on another coat of ultra-black waterproof mascara. My lips mold to the words, my pulse matches the beat of the drums. And this is just what a tinny online stream does to me. I may self-combust when I see my favorite band in person tonight, in all their eardrum-splitting, heart-stopping, latex-pantsed glory.
“Can you turn that down?” Mom’s voice cuts through the music.
The interruption makes me jump, and I smudge my carefully applied mascara. I bite back a curse word—not about to catch an earful of lecturing from Mom today, of all long-awaited days—and reach for the speaker on my dresser. I tap the volume down.
“Better?” I ask. I peer at her reflection in the dresser mirror. Mom leans against the doorframe and smiles at me. She’s in black leggings and a mid-thigh-length denim tunic, virtually the mom uniform in our suburban neighborhood.
“Much. That glitter eyeshadow is a nice touch,” she says, “but are you sure that’s safe? It won’t mess up your contact lenses?”
I try my best to repair the mascara damage with my pinkie, and it comes away dusted with the glitter eyeshadow Mom’s already skeptical of. “I’ll only be at the Orchards for a couple hours. I’ll be home with plenty of time to wipe all this off, put on my nice, safe glasses, and pick up Dad.”
Mom sighs knowingly. She was the one who fought for me to be able to go to the Orchards Music Festival out in the San Bernardino foothills, nearly two hours away. A year ago, a car accident landed her in the hospital for a week, and though she’s mostly recovered, it shifted her perspective on life; losing 40 percent of your blood leaves room for something fresh, I guess. After she was discharged, she became all about eating dessert before dinner, filling the gas tank without worrying about prices, and generally enjoying our time on this planet responsibly.
That “responsibly” is where Dad swooped in. To their combined “yes,” he added, “Fine, but you’re coming home right after the set.” To which I countered with staying a little later—I didn’t want to be racing from the stage to the parking lot the second the music ended—in exchange for picking him up from his work retreat.
And this was after I proved I could come up with the two hundred dollars for the one-day ticket myself.
With a card-shark-like flip of her hand, Mom reveals a small stack of ten-dollar bills. “Buy yourself a band T-shirt or some overpriced bottled waters at least.”
I open my mouth to graciously protest but she silences me with a shush.
She reaches for my tan leather mini-backpack. “No arguments. It’s my money; I get to decide what to do with it. You think I fought with our health insurance for fun? I earned this hundred bucks.” She stuffs the cash in the front pocket. “Consider it compensation for you picking up my last-minute refills from the doctor last week during rush hour.”
I’ve performed my one requisite protest, so I’m not going to turn down her offer again.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome, Jana. I know how hard you worked for this.” Her smile wavers, no doubt at the memory of my extra late-night and weekend shifts behind the cash register at Callaway Drug. I had to cram in school, homework, extracurriculars, and—somewhere between all of that—sleep too. I needed to scrape up every last penny for this Orchards ticket though.
Mom shifting to part-time remote teaching was the best move for her health; she couldn’t do the long drives to her full-time job in the city anymore. But according to Dad, this was perhaps not the best move for our family finances. The money for any “fun” stuff, from this festival to any of the paid events the Samuels High Associated Student Body set up for graduation to even the drops of gas that exceed my to-school-and-work-and-back commute, comes out of my pocket. But it was worth it for a chance to see our favorite band.
My chest tightens. I mean my favorite band. Our would imply that I’m still going with my usually best friend, Maddy, but she’s going with her boyfriend, Tyler, instead. We’ve been off-balance since our fight earlier this week.
“What time is Nathan picking you up?” Mom asks.
Maddy was supposed to be my ride, until our plans crumbled. I refuse to let this ticket go to waste, so I hitched a ride with Nathan Clark, my friend from church. I didn’t fill Mom in on the reason for the switch, but she knows the Clarks well enough that she convinced Dad it was fine for us to have a night out—within those responsible limits, of course.
“Any time now,” I say, zipping up my backpack. “You’re tutoring tonight, right?”
Mom nods. “A three-hour Business English immersion class for a couple execs in Indonesia. Don’t worry about me—I’ve got some leftover pizza and a FaceTime date with your sister later. And you’re sure you’re all set to pick up your dad from his work retreat?”
“Ah, the glamorous life of an accountant: a whole Saturday in a conference room, a forced awards dinner, then your teenage daughter as your designated driver.” I’d meant my words to come off lighthearted, but Mom frowns, so I add, “Yes, I’ll be home in time to grab the car and pick him up.”
Mom hasn’t driven late at night since the car accident, and it’s a sore enough spot that none of us have wanted to press her on it. It’s easier for me to haul myself back from the concert and make the forty-minute trek to the conference resort than it is for us to make Mom claw through the fear that’s set into her bones.
My phone buzzes on top of my dresser. “That must be Nathan.”
“Maddy’s meeting you there then?”
I lower my gaze to my phone so she doesn’t see the slight frown that flits across my face at the mention of Maddy. Mom and I don’t have that kind of made-for-TV-movie relationship where I dish to her every bit of drama about friends, love interests, or bodily changes. Before my sister, Jackie, went off to college, she and I used to scoff together at movie scenes where the gorgeous teen and her mother have a heart-to-heart about having sex for the first time (a topic that would be mortifying for us to detail to our mom) all while sitting on their perfectly made beds with their gross shoes on (equally mortifying).
“Yeah, she’ll be at the Orchards. With Tyler.” The truth, even if it paints an incomplete picture.
I do wonder whether Mom somehow knows something’s up between me and my best friend lately. She might’ve noticed that Maddy hasn’t shown up at our house for snacks—Mom always feeds her—and homework help as often. But that was true even before this latest fight. All that free time belongs to the boyfriend now.
Something rumbles into our driveway, and I know it’s time to leave. Sheer energy shoots through me at the prospect of kicking off the best night of my life.
With one last stop at my dresser mirror bordered by band photos and reminder sticky notes, I swipe a stray dot of glitter off my cheek and test my orchid-pink long-lasting lipstick. I tug down my denim cutoffs to hide where my dark brown tan shifts abruptly into sunless beige, then rearrange the straps of my loose white-and-turquoise tank. Mom hands me my backpack and a satiny fuchsia bomber jacket as she follows me to the front door.
“I put the phone numbers for Nathan’s cell and his mom’s cell on the fridge,” I say. No way my parents could ever say I didn’t fulfill the conditions of my release tonight. Our household is built on rules—the only way for us to sort through the chaos of Jackie’s mid-semester return and departure, Dad’s ever-expanding work hours, and Mom’s health—and I’m not giving my parents any reason to question their teenage daughter’s excursion to one of the biggest music festivals in Southern California. “CoGo is on at eight, and their set’s about an hour long.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “CoGo?”
“You know, the Newcomers and Goers? CoGo?”
Mom tips her chin up, suppressing a smile. “Ah, of course. Sorry I’m not as cool as you.”
My phone buzzes again. I yell a “I’ll be right there!” toward the front door before offering a few more reassurances to Mom that yes, I have my wallet and my cell phone.
“And midnight, okay, CinderJana?” Mom says, adjusting the strap of my tank top.
I nod. “I know. I’ll be home on time to get Dad so he doesn’t panic and assume he has yet another rebel daughter who’ll threaten to live at home forever.”
Mom shakes her head. “Don’t pick on your sister. She was going through a lot at school.”
I bite my tongue. Honestly, who isn’t going through a lot at any given time? As if anyone’s existence these days is worry-free and daffodil-filled. But whatever Jackie went through in her first tumultuous year at college somehow led her to leave halfway through the first semester this academic year. This meant her moving back home into the shared room that was supposed to be finally all mine. Her posters and photos of high school friends had been long gone by the time she’d dropped her duffel next to the closet. This also meant extra pressure for me to stay the remaining “good” daughter, hardworking and focused always.
“You two need to get along,” she continues. “You’re sisters.”
The issue isn’t Jackie and me getting along. It’s that I’m now scrutinized through the same cracked lenses they judge Jackie’s every move with, even though I haven’t done anything to warrant that.
With Nathan idling in our driveway, I don’t have time for a deep conversation or, more accurately, a monologue from me on all the reasons why my sister can sometimes be the worst. She’s not even physically around—she moved back to campus to start afresh at the beginning of this semester—so this is a battle I can delay.
Instead, I spout out another assurance I’ll be home on time and remind Mom to call her pharmacist back—that sticky note has been next to the landline phone for a week. Then I double-check my backpack, drape my jacket over my arm, and practically leap out the front door.
To my horror, the promised ride to the Orchards in our driveway is a gray minivan with cloudy headlights, dirt-crusted dark-tinted windows, and a rust-dotted bumper held up with duct tape. The whole thing looks like it could fall apart at any minute.
When Nathan told me he’d also gotten tickets to CoGo and could drive me, I’d jumped at the possibility that my own Orchards ticket wouldn’t go to waste. Never mind that CoGo has been the soundtrack of my and Maddy’s friendship ever since the band’s music drifted into our ears one carpool ride home in junior high. Music doesn’t belong to anyone. It’s as much mine as it is Maddy’s and Nathan’s, even if it speaks to us in different ways.
But now I’m going to spend the next eight to ten hours with a guy from my confirmation class at church, whose mom is in a book club with mine, in a sad minivan that seems one too-fast speed bump away from petering out. If I’d known that there was more of a chance of me pushing this vehicle than riding in it, I would’ve reconsidered.
I stalk toward the minivan. Nathan has his driver’s-side window open and is trying to reshape the short faux-hawk he’s tried to mold his flat brown hair into.
“Hey, Mrs. Rubio!” he shouts to my mom. He has a palm-tree-print tank top on, and the muscles in his shoulders and arms pop from all those club sports hours as he waves.
Mom waves back, but her slightly pinched face looks as nervous about this jalopy as mine must look. “Hi, Nathan. Tell your mom I said hello,” she calls out. “And drive safe, all right? You’ve got precious cargo there.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Rubio. This thing doesn’t really go past seventy anyway,” Nathan answers.
He likely means that to be reassuring, but that little fact about this dilapidated van only makes me more worried about hopping inside.
“And home by midnight, Jana,” Mom calls after me, as if I need reminding. As if I’m not the one who plasters gently nagging sticky notes all over the house for everyone.
Once I’m close enough to the driver’s side, I ask in a low voice, “What—what is this? I thought you had one of those new Priuses. I could’ve sworn you’d pulled up next to us in the church parking lot in that supersilent hybrid dozens of times.”
Nathan shrugs casually as if he didn’t just perform a huge bait and switch. “Parents needed it this weekend, but luckily we’ve got this beauty.” He slaps a hand on the driver’s-side door, and I swear it creaks like the metal’s about to give way. I nearly jump back, lest the side mirror pop off and crash on the concrete at my feet. “Hop in!”
It’s fine, I tell myself. I’m going to see my favorite band ever, at the epic Orchards Music Festival, no less: a once-in-a-lifetime experience. If Nathan is confident this minivan will get us there and back, then I’m happy for the ride. I’m not going to let this one minor surprise dampen my good mood.
I round the front of the van toward the front passenger seat, but someone is already sitting there.
“Everett?” I say. Another unwelcome surprise: Nathan’s fifteen-year-old brother, who usually waits outside our confirmation class doing his homework, taking selfies, or live streaming his skateboard tricks. “What are you doing here?”
Everett pushes a button to slide down the window a little more. He’s a lankier version of Nathan, with a messy mop of curly hair instead of Nathan’s straighter strands. He’s in a red long-sleeved plaid shirt that I’ve seen sported by a dozen social media influencers in the past week. “Um, did Nathan not tell you I’m coming? My parents wouldn’t let him take Stampy the minivan here unless he took me too.”
My jaw drops. We’re going to be stuck babysitting his little brother. At a wild, possibly drug-scattered music festival. With a dilapidated minivan they’ve affectionately nicknamed Stampy.
My stomach gurgles with preemptive stress. This is not the beginning of the grand adventure I expected, but I tamp down the anger that’s starting to bubble up. I’d planned all this out, down to the penny. Mom’s cash was a good surprise, but everything since then is decidedly not.
I force my shoulders to relax. Sure, I’m not happy to have a minor tagging along, but I’m not letting this get in the way of what’s sure to be the concert of my life. I can deal with this. Or at least I have to pretend to, because Mom is watching me and I really don’t want to give anyone reasons for me not to go, not after how hard I fought to go to the Orchards at all.
I beam a wide smile at Everett, exaggerating a show for Mom so she and Dad won’t worry about me tonight. “Great. That means I’ll have the whole back to stretch out then.”
Nathan nods. “Well, you’ll have to share with—”
I heave open the sliding door behind Everett’s seat. My heart sputters to a halt in my chest.
“Us,” Maddy finishes from the back seat.
I actually tilt my head like a confused cocker spaniel. This I didn’t expect whatsoever. My hitching a ride with Nathan is evidence of me going to extraordinary lengths to put a little cooling-off time and distance between Maddy and me. I’d even hoped to avoid her all day at the Orchards: it’s that big of a festival.
She still hasn’t apologized for ruining last weekend or for any of the other times she’s second-placed me. We hadn’t even spoken since our blowup a few days ago.
So how Maddy and Tyler managed to squeeze into this particular carpool with Nathan, of the hundreds of cars trekking to the San Bernardino foothills today, is beyond me.
“Oh, embarrassing,” Maddy says before forcing a laugh. She moves to brush her hair away from her face like she always does when she’s feeling nervous. Except that she’s got her blond hair pulled back in a fishtail braid and her fingers graze nothing.
From her words, I’m hopeful she’s admitting how awkward this is. Maybe she’s ready to apologize and this forced hangout won’t be totally tense.
Next to her, Tyler, his brown eyes hidden behind orange-lensed reflective sunglasses that match his neon orange T-shirt, laughs and points at me in a way that seems shallower than what had been going through my own mind. “Whoa, Jana! You and Mads have the same shirt!”
I peer down and, sure enough, we sport the same exact white-and-turquoise tank. Where mine is loose and billowy at my hips, she has the bottom hem of hers tied in a knot, exposing a sliver of pale pink-peach midriff above her wide-legged jeans. Peeking out of her waistband is the faded scar on her hip from when we rode—and crashed—shopping carts in the drugstore parking lot after hours last summer. As we patched up the nasty scratch with a decade-old first aid travel kit, CoGo’s surprise album release blared out of the speakers of Maddy’s white Civic, the same car that I assumed she was going to drive to the Orchards today.
Shock and sheer annoyance root me to the driveway. I painstakingly arranged everything to avoid going to the CoGo concert with Maddy, and now I have to spend the whole day with her, in matching outfits?
