3 CDs

It was just me, my mother, and the plastic Jesus that sat on the dashboard of our tan, 2004 Honda Accord. While we drove over rocks and roadkill, my mother would put on one of the only three CDs that were occupying our junk-filled glove compartment. It was Neil Young’s Harvest, Loretta Lynn’s Greatest Hits, and some unlabeled folk record that seemed like someone’s demo but was surprisingly good. She rarely let me play Neil Young ‘cause it reminded her of dad – reminded her how he left us and how he cared more about the shit on his shoes than his family. But sure mom, I’d just love to listen to Loretta sing about her husband “comin’ home a drinkin’” for the 12th time this car ride!

“Quinnie? You okay?” My name is Quinn but she’s been calling me Quinnie since I could remember. It’s infantilizing. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” I said without even looking away from the car window. The backroads of middle America aren’t all that pretty, but sometimes when the sun is setting and there isn’t a crappy 24-hour diner blocking your view, it’s not too bad. 

“Are you sure? You haven’t talked much today. You hungry for something?” The only thing I was hungry for was some personal space and to sleep in a bed instead of the backseat of a crowded car. 

“I’m fine ma, just tired, don’t worry about me,” I replied, this time looking at her face so she knew I meant it – even if I didn’t. 

“If you say so, baby. I’m gonna pull over anyway at one of these restaurants, just get something to go for later.” 

I didn’t acknowledge her. I just watched the car pull into the parking lot of a small diner. From the outside, it looked pretty janky, which wasn’t surprising out here. The blue paint on the building was chipping and bulbs in their neon “OPEN” signs were flickering. Surprisingly, there were a couple people inside, which led me to believe that the food couldn’t be too bad, even if the cooks were assisted by mice. As we got closer I noticed that the gang of people inside was a bunch of teenagers, something I, a teenager, never have seen at our pitstops. As we walked in, the door chime proudly announced it, ringing throughout the whole diner. I guess they were as surprised to see me as I was to see them because the second they heard that door open they cocked their heads 180 to get a look at my mom and me. I expected a slew of dirty looks, but they smiled and waved– most of them at least. 

“Y’all take a seat wherever you feel comfortable,”  yelled a warm female voice from behind the kitchen counter. I just followed my mom wherever she went as usual. We took our seats at a booth. The seats were baby blue and covered in tears with the fluff inside spilling out the seams. The checkerboard tile was due for a much-needed upgrade. The tables were wooden with 1 million memories etched into them. A faint M+L was carved into my side of the table and I let my fingers run over it. The only other things on the table were ketchup and a couple of pink packets of sugar. 

“Hey, ma I’ll be right back, I’m just gonna go to the bathroom real quick.” I grabbed my faded green canvas backpack and scooted down the booth seat and headed to the bathroom. It smelt like piss and meat from the kitchen smoke seeping in through the vents. As I went to flush, the toilet screamed at me and so did the sink when I went to go wash my hands. This was the ambiance my mother claims to love about Missouri. I was staring at my hands under the water while the soap squished between my fingers. The sound of the AC was like white noise and I completely zoned out until the sound of the bathroom door opening snapped me back to reality. A young girl, about my age, began washing her hands in the sink next to me. First, she had to stop and take off the stacks of silver and gold rings she was wearing. 

“Hey, I’m Bea,” she said in a sweet but confident voice. She had blonde hair to about right under her ears and a mousy face. She was taller than me and lanky. She smelt dirty and a little bit like cigarettes. As my eyes wandered her I noticed her clothing. She wore baggy pants about the same color as my bag with an “I HEART MISSOURI” pin on the left, front pocket. Her shirt was a ringer and had some vintage gas station logo on it. “What’s your name?” 

“Oh hi Bea, I’m Quinn. Uh, so all you out there, you live out here?”

“We don’t live anywhere. We are basically our own little family and just hop from state to state. We plan on seeing the whole country.” 

“I’m kind of in the same situation except my travel partner is my mom,” I said with a slight smile. I don’t hate my mom, but being locked in a car with her for hours every day can get pretty exhausting. 

“We were actually looking for more kids,” she replied, side-eyeing me, hinting at something. 

“Like, to come with you guys?” 

“Yeah, to come with us.” I averted my eyes back to the sink trying to convince myself  I wasn’t thinking about this. My mom needed me. She was an emotional disaster and my running away would only send her into a deeper spiral. The sound of the automatic paper towel dispenser filled the silence in between her proposition and my answer. 

“Cool,” I finally spat out. Dammit. Something in me was itching. This desire to do something I shouldn’t and live outside of the life my mother pre-planned for me 17 years ago. What’s funny is it never went the way she wanted it to anyways. Dad had left us, we’re dirt poor, we never really visited grandma before she died, and I’m a high school drop out. 

“Would you maybe want to come with us,” smirked Bea. It would just be one night. It’s not even a big deal and I bet she’ll be happy I’m making friends. Probably. Forgive me mom.

“Okay. Yeah I’ll come with you guys.” My hands were shaking. Bea gave me a big smile and turned around. She pushed open the heavy red door and stuck just the edge of her face out. I’m pretty sure she was signaling something to the others. Maybe something like, “We got one! Now feast.” Deep down, truly, I knew I shouldn’t be trusting a random group of unbathed teenagers, but I needed to do something that wasn’t under my mom’s constant supervision. The others shuffled in, three others to be exact. 

“Dude welcome, we’ve been looking for an addition to the pack for a while now,” a young boy boomed. What were they, werewolves? He had loc’d jet black hair and sunken eyes. Apparently Bea wasn’t the only one who was in desperate need of running water and soap. “I’m Sam.” 

“We should probably head out before your mom comes looking for you,” insisted one of the other kids. He had long brunette hair tucked behind his ears and wore a gold pendant shaped like a plant of some sort. He extended his hand, “Dylan.” 

“She’ll probably just think you’re taking a massive dump,” giggled another girl. Bea laughed too. She wore an outfit similar to Bea’s. “I’m Scarlett.” 

Bea chimed back in, “Gross, Scarlett. Dylan’s right, though. You see that window?” She pointed to a window about the size of a dog door. “It leads straight to the back and your mom won’t be able to see anything. Last car we stole broke down, so for now we gotta get around by foot.” Before she even finished talking the others were already standing on the porcelain toilets attempting to pry the window open. It wasn’t long until a pop and hiss of wind was heard. Sam passed his bag to Dylan who threw it out the window and then squeezed out after it. Soon everyone was outside and it was my turn. I stepped up onto the lid of the toilet and peered down at the strangers I was running away with. I was nervous, but it was almost a good feeling. I tossed my bag and shoved my body through the window, if you even wanna call it that. 

“So, where to exactly,” Sam asked. 

“Gas Guzzler. We need snacks,” Bea replied. 

“And initiation supplies,” Scarlett said. Initiation? I followed them because I honestly had no clue where I was going. I was fiddling with my backpack straps looking down at the floor attempting to not throw up. As we got farther from the diner I could feel the panic dripping down my back. Initiation? 

“My name is Quinn by the way. I just realized I never mentioned that to the rest of you.” 

“Our bad for never asking,” Dylan said. After walking for about 35 minutes I could begin to see the outlines of a huge purple and red neon sign reading, “Gas Guzzler.” It was spinning in circles, practically begging for customers. I guessed they all must come here pretty often because the cashier smiled and waved as we walked through the door. He even greeted Bea by name. Once we were inside I split off from them and roamed the isle of teeth rotting candy and magazines of naked women. The fluorescent lights above flickered repeatedly and the floor was filled with mystery stains.  A clear spinning display caught the corner of my eye. Walking towards it I noticed it was a bunch of CDs. I saw some classics I recognized. I spun the case around looking it up and down while, quite frankly, thinking of my mother. There was one CD at the bottom of the rack. The cover looked familiar and as I got closer tears welled up in my eyes. Picking it up in my hands I read the album name. It was Townes Van Zandt’s first album. The album that possessed the same song my mother would sing to me every night when I was a small child. It’s called “I’ll Be Here in the Morning”. 

“Quinn? Hurry over, we gotta show you something,” I heard Bea call from behind me. I quickly shucked the Cd into my bag and wiped the tears from my face before I turned around. I followed her over and when we got to the others they were all huddled around looking at something. As the circle opened up I shoved myself between Bea and Sam to get a look. Scarlett was holding a bottle of 7 dollar Skol vodka. Initiation. I backed up and as I did everyone’s eyes drifted up from the bottle to me which confirmed my fears. They wanted me to drink an entire bottle of alcohol to “initiate me.”  

“Dude, I weigh like 100 pounds. I’d die trying.” 

“Relax Quinn, we’ve all done it and we were fine,” said Bea. Fine? They have like 20 brain cells combined. The smell burned my nostrils and made my stomach churn.  My dad left because he was struggling with alcoholism. Sometimes, when he’d drink too much he got mean and would say things to my mom and me that just weren’t right. One day he snapped and slapped my mother. He is evil for that, but it’s also why he had left. He didn’t want to hurt us anymore and I guess the only way he could do that was by leaving. I don‘t know if the addiction gene runs strong, but I don’t want it to. I won’t ever be him, I won’t ever hurt my mom, and I will never touch alcohol. 

“I mean I guess, can I just go piss real quick? I feel like I’m gonna explode.”

“Go ahead, we’ll be waiting,” said Scarlett. I found my feet picking up pace as I headed to the front doors and before I was even off Gas Guzzler property I was running right back in the direction of the diner. What was I thinking? Why did I do this? My feet were kicking up gravel and dust behind me. The sun was just about finished setting and the empty space between point a and point b was getting darker. My hair was tossed and pulled in all directions and tears drenched my cheeks, trailing down my neck. I don’t think I had ever ran this fast in my life. It wasn’t too long until I could see the diner and thankfully, my mother’s 2004 tan Honda Accord. She was leaning against it with her face in her hands. When she lifted her face to take a breath we made eye contact and she began running too. We met just a couple feet from the diner and collided so hard it felt like my chest was gonna collapse. It was either that or the fact I’d been running for the past mile. Her hands ran up my head and into my hair, pulling my head down onto her heaving chest. 

“Oh my god. Baby. What the hell?” 

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I misunderstood my emotions. I was being impulsive. I don’t want to hurt you okay?”

“And I don’t want you to get hurt. Get in the car.” She held me at my side until we got in. Once we were, she looked at me for a long time with her cheeks still stained from crying. She didn’t say anything. I didn’t feel like we had to say anything. 

“If you ever need space, just let me know, Quinnie.” 

“I don’t think I ever want to not be in the same space as you again.” She smiled at me. Remembering what I had, I reached into my bag to pull out the Townes CD. I peeled the plastic off and let it fall to the floor, joining all the other pieces of trash. I popped it into the CD player and it made the whirring sound I love. As it began to play, my mother backed out of the parking lot with her hand on my shoulder. 

“Where to now baby?” 

“Kansas.” 

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