Road to Paradise. Paullina Simons

      “I’m exasperating?” He went back to sketching.

      “How much money will I need? Do I bring more than I need? Or just enough? And what if I run out? How will I get more? I have no credit card, and who’d give me one anyway? I have no job.”

      Marc got up and handed me his drawing. “I’m going home,” he said, wearily. “I’m glad I’m broke, and can’t go, and don’t have your problems.”

      After he left, I wished he could come with us. He’d drawn me like a brown flurry in the middle of a messy room, with greenbacks flying in the air. I taped it to my wall, as I figured things out.

      By my estimation we would be gone fifteen days and fourteen nights. We needed gas for 6000 miles. But what if it was 6500? And what if on uphill slopes, the Mustang’s gas mileage dipped from twenty-three miles per gallon to twenty?

      “So?” said Marc when I called to discuss the imponderables. “On downhill slopes, mileage will be twenty-six. You better hope it’ll all even out.”

      But that’s the whole thing right there. What if it didn’t even out? What if Gina twisted my arm and I had to drive her 480 miles to Bakersfield, go north to Mendocino and then head back south again to pick her up? Pas possible! How did I calculate for that kind of unknown?

      The hotel room. Fifteen nights. But what if it turned out to be sixteen? What if it took me a few extra days to locate the woman who gave birth to me? What if Gina wanted to spend a few extra days in Eddie’s stellar company?

      “So? Sleep in the car,” Marc said, in a “Freebird” voice that said it would be the height of adventure to sleep in the car because you ran out of money.

      I calculated fifty dollars a night for a motel for sixteen nights. But what if it was sixty dollars? And what about room tax?

      “Yes, room tax is different in every state,” Marc said. “And parking? And what if you lose your room key and have to pay ten bucks for a new one? I don’t think you’re planning enough, Sloane.”

      I agreed. Food. Did we have to eat three times a day? Plus water for the drive. Maybe an adult beverage, once, twice, in a bar somewhere?

      “Yes, good, plan for a drunken binge,” said Marc. “But what about a cover charge?”

      The car will need an oil change.

      “Every 3000 miles. Your car, maybe more often. And incidentals?”

      “I budgeted for them. Like what?”

      “Well, I don’t know. That’s why they’re called incidentals.”

      I thought about it. “You mean like nail polish?”

      “Yes, that’s exactly what came to my mind. And acetone. And aspirin.”

      “Forget it. I’ll live with a headache.” I bit my nails to eschew the incidentals.

      “A flat tire?”

      “Okay, I’ll bring an extra forty dollars.”

      “What if you hit a deer and get another flat tire?”

      “Why would I hit a deer?”

      “Sloane, I don’t know why you do many of the things you do.”

      “Shut up.”

      I calculated. Hotel: seventeen days at sixty bucks a day. Gas: 7000 miles at twenty miles a gallon at a buck twenty-five. I factored in three cans of oil, another pair of windshield wipers, jumper cables, a tire jack, a poncho. Plus: enough cash for three daily squares, ice cream seven times, two daily Cokes, a daily coffee. Also: six adult beverages, forty bucks for a flat tire, another fifty bucks for just in case, and twenty dollars for a gift for Emma. I added it up. I divided by me and Gina.

      It came out to $1700. Each. Plus a gift for Emma, so my share was $1720!!!

      Perhaps it was a blessing Gina was coming with me. When I told her how much her share was, she didn’t pause, didn’t blink. “That’s all? Hmm. I thought it was going to be more. But I’m going to bring an extra hundred for clothes, because I love clothes, and another hundred just to be on the safe side.” She sounded almost like a morning person. So clear-headed. I applauded her cautiousness and followed her example. Gina said she worked in a Dairy Barn for two years, saved a little. She was a saver, too! Was I wrong about her?

      I took all my money out of the bank—or what was left of it after new running shoes and a prom dress and paying for a quarter of the prom limo I was sharing with my friends Marc, Cindy, and Jessica.

      Emma offered me an extra $300.

      “No, Em. You already did plenty.” I tried to think of what she’d done. “You got me a car!” I said brightly, hoping she’d notice.

      She didn’t. “Take it,” she said sensibly, and then—non-sensically, “Believe me, you’ll need it.”

      More? Less?

      “No, no, I’ll be fine. I planned it all out.” Then I remembered. What about shampoo, conditioner?

      “Hotels give you that.” Emma paused. “Maybe not conditioner.” She paused again. “Maybe not motels.”

      “Maybe not motels what? Not give you shampoo or conditioner?”

      “Either.”

      “Oh.”

      Hotels were going to be too expensive. Which led me back to my question: how much shampoo, how much conditioner? A bottle of “Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific” usually lasted a month. I decided to bring two of each, just to be on the safe side. Emma paid for those.

      Gina and I didn’t get together for an inventory before we left. We should have, and wanted to, but I was busy, and she was busy. I went to four parties, there was a graduation, a senior picnic, a prom, packing, planning. We didn’t have time. We didn’t make time.

      I did make some time for Tony Bergamino, though. Rather, he made time for me. He came up to me after the prom, told me he thought I looked good and danced well. “Gee, thanks.” If I were a peacock, I would’ve opened up my tail.

      “I heard you were driving to California.”

      “How’d you hear?”

      “What d’you mean? Everybody heard.”

      I tried not to smile. Tony Bergamino heard I was going to California! I was a ten-inch red balloon with twelve inches’ worth of helium under his unprecedented attention.

      “You taking Gina with you?”

      “I’m not taking her with me. We’re going together. We’re sharing the costs.”

      “Of course. She’s a firecracker. I didn’t know you two were friends.”

      “Yeah, used to be … friends.”

      “Must have been a long time ago.” He glanced at me funny, like he knew things.

      “It was.”

      He shuffled his feet. Someone called for him (perhaps his lover, Gazelle?).

      “Well, good luck. Have a great trip.”

      “Thanks. You too.” Oh, idiot! And he smiled at me like I was an idiot.

      And then, because he was a peacock, he opened up his tail. “Feel like getting together before you go? There’s this great place down the coast, in Newport. We could drive.” He hemmed. “Maybe I could drive?” he asked sheepishly, shining down at me his football-jocky, legs-apart smile.

      Hallelujah!

      Hallelujah, hallelujah!

      “Yeah, sure, you can drive. If you want to. When would we go?”

      We went overnight, right before the end. Newport