“Did you know that the reason God burned down Sodom wasn’t because everyone was gay, but because of a lack of hospitality?” Aisha asks as she sips her soda.
“Um. I did not know that.”
“And of course the Clancys are religious. The husband’s a pastor. That’s very ‘love your neighbor,’ right?”
I realize getting turned away by the Clancys is bothering her more than I thought. More than that, she’s right. Whatever their reasons for not letting us stay with them, the Clancys knew we were two teenagers alone in Salt Lake City. They had to know that if they didn’t take us in, we’d have no place to be overnight. “Some people suck,” I say.
She stares down at the last remnants of her bun. “The last person to turn me away was Kayla,” she says, and I can tell from her tone that what she’s saying is painful. “It’s hard to find out someone you thought you might … love … doesn’t love you back. At least not enough to give you a roof over your head when you don’t have one.”
Instinctively I reach across the table and intertwine my pinky with hers. She curls hers around mine, and I have to close my eyes because all I can think is, I gave you a roof. Why can’t you feel that way about me? I’d do anything for you. I would never, ever let you sleep in the goddamn zoo.
After dinner, we drive the streets of Salt Lake City, which are completely impossible. N 200 W intersects with W 500 N, and you have to be just about a genius to know where you are in this town.
When the clock says nine thirty and there’s been no beep, Aisha pulls into a Big Lots parking lot and checks her email anyway.
“Nada on surfingsofas.com. Oh well.”
“Oh well.”
“I think it’s hotel time,” Aisha says, and I know she’s right, but I still wince. Right now my mom thinks we’re staying with friends. How the hell am I going to explain a hotel charge to her? She says yes to just about everything, but I’m beginning to wonder if we’re reaching the limit of “reasonable” expenses.
The cheapest hotel she can find online is a Days Inn for fifty-four dollars. That seems reasonable-ish, so we drive there. I’m feeling fried, so I know Aisha must be feeling even more so, since she’s driven the whole way. She invited me to drive part of it, but the truth is, I don’t even have a license yet. We who grew up with a crosstown bus don’t have a lot of incentive to pass a driving test.
At the Days Inn, the guy behind the counter doesn’t trust us from the start. He raises one eyebrow as we walk in, and his eyes dart back and forth like he thinks this is some sort of hookup. If only. He starts filling out a form anyway, and then he asks for our license and credit card.
I give my card to him, hoping we can do this without a license, or with Aisha’s. He runs it through the machine and waits, looking at the screen. Then he shakes his head and flips the card back to me. “Declined,” he says.
“What?” I say. “No. It can’t be.”
He frowns. “Declined.”
I look in my wallet. Thirty-six dollars. We don’t have any other way to pay. Should I ask Aisha what she has? I can’t. So we leave, out of ideas.
We sit in the car and try to figure out what’s next. Aisha’s eyes look like they’re beginning to close.
“Looks like we’re sleeping here,” she says, and I look around. There’s the backseat, where the Porcupine is currently lying on her side next to a shiny, satiny lavender pillowcase, and there are the two front seats. The backseat could possibly be comfortable for one.
She offers me the backseat but I insist she take it, and we compromise on each getting it half the night. Before we close our eyes, Aisha checks surfingsofas.com and finds that both of our requests were viewed and not responded to. Yes, people do suck. In a last-gasp effort, even though it’s almost eleven p.m., Aisha posts a message on the surfingsofas.com Salt Lake City bulletin board.
My friend and I are sleeping in my car because our credit card wasn’t accepted at a hotel. We’re good people and we’re just here overnight. Anyone willing to put us up? We would clean your house if you’d take us in. Seriously. Call or text me at 406-555-2355.
Aisha curls up in the backseat, her head resting on the lavender pillow, and I recline the passenger seat back as far as it will go, so my head is inches away from her knees. I turn my head left and she’s lying on her side, looking at me. She smiles, and I smile back.
“There’s something kind of peaceful about this, isn’t there?” she says.
“Yeah.”
“The first night after my dad kicked me out, I slept like this and it felt like I was the only person in the world.”
I imagine being alone in a car, and then alone in the world, parentless, on my own. It’s an exhilarating and horrifying idea, and I have to close my eyes.
“Sometimes at home,” I say, “I sit on the radiator in my room and stare out the window into other windows across the way. All the blinds are closed, so I’m not, like, a perv. I just sit and think what it would be like to be in another life completely. Like, not in mine.”
Aisha nods. “What hurts you so bad, Carson Smith?” she asks.
I look away, out the front windshield at the mostly empty parking lot. Someone’s parked a U-Haul truck that takes up two spaces. Whose truck is that? What does their life feel like? Where are they running off to? I think of sitting on my radiator at home, and all the times in my life I’ve fantasized about taking off. I want to believe these people are going someplace better, someplace warmer, maybe. Happier. I have to believe that. Because if I don’t believe that, maybe life isn’t worth living.
I hear Aisha sit up. I keep looking out the window at the empty parked cars, and then she hugs me from the side, around the seat. I hold my breath and start to count, and then I stop counting and try to just let the hug happen.
What is it that those people have that I never have?
Oh. This.
I’ve never had this. I’ve had lots of things, but never this sort of connection. Aisha’s left arm falls across my chest, and a warm feeling radiates down my spine. I breathe a little bit into the hug.
When she releases the hug, I want to cut the tension with a joke, and I have three pulling at my tongue. Instead, I say, “Kayla had no idea what she was missing. And you’re not the only person in the world.”
She lets the words float there for a bit.
“Neither are you,” she says.
I reach back with my hand, and at the same moment, she reaches her hand forward, and we hold each other’s hands that way until we fall asleep.
In the middle of the night, I find I don’t sleep so well sitting up. Aisha is softly snoring in the back, and I am suddenly wide-awake. I feel around down near my feet and find my grandpa’s journal. It’s like we’re having an ongoing conversation, and even if it’s one-way, I want it to continue. I read by the light of the moon.
And then, underneath, in shaky handwriting:
I feel numb. It’s like my grandfather lives inside my chest. I’m not a drunk, but I know that exact feeling, like, Screw the world, nobody loves me. It’s immature, but I’ve had that thought tons of times. Is that a Smith thing?
Do you grow out of it?
I think of my dad. He hasn’t grown out of it. He acts like the world has screwed him. I get that, but I don’t want to live my life feeling that way.