Rocky Road Read online

  Shawna takes the money and heads into the gas station’s convenience store.

  Shawna is woken up by loud voices. Rev and Cass are awake together, and alone, so she should have expected it. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes, not troubled and not processing any of the angry words being thrown back and forth. She notices that the radio is all static now. They must have passed out of the broadcast zone. She starts flipping through channels while Rev and Cass argue.

  Spanish station.

  Spanish station.

  Commercial.

  Country station.

  NPR.

  Classical music.

  “How could you have forgotten your guitar?”

  Commercial.

  Wait, what?

  SHAWNA TURNS AND SEES REV’S PANICKED EXPRESsion as she shuffles through everything they brought.

  “Tell me you didn’t,” Shawna says. This can’t be happening. This is their opportunity! They had a plan!

  Rev doesn’t look up, still digging through bags, even the ones too small for a guitar. “They have to be here . . . ”

  “‘They’? What else did you forget?” Cass asks.

  Rev looks up. “I . . . um . . . nothing . . . just the guitar . . . ” She pauses. “Maybe . . . maybe we can just go back?” She doesn’t sound as if she’s even managed to convince herself.

  “Go back? Go back?” Cass says, glaring at the road ahead. “We’ve been on the road for eight hours! Eight hours, Rev! You know what that means?”

  “E-eight hours back?” Rev says.

  “Yeah, eight hours back! You think we have that kind of time? That cuts a whole day out of our driving time! We’re only in Wisconsin! We’ll never make it! Not to mention that our parents are probably on our tail or have someone waiting at home. We’ll never get out of the house again! Ever!” She lets out a frustrated grunt, shakes the steering wheel, then beats the horn with her fist a few times. A car beside them honks in annoyed response.

  Cass rolls down the window. “Screw you, buddy!” she shouts.

  Shawna drags her back into the car. “Calm down!”

  “I am perfectly calm!” Cass shouts back at her.

  Shawna shoots her a warning look, then turns to look back at Rev. The poor girl is shaking and close to tears. Shawna reaches out and takes her hand. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll just . . . get a new one!” she says.

  “‘Get a new one,’ she says,” Cass says with a bitter laugh. “Do you even know how expensive guitars are?”

  “We don’t have a lot of options, here. Look,” Shawna places her other hand on Cass’s shoulder, “we can make it through this. It’s a minor setback. Really. All we have to do is find a music store or a second-hand shop, right? It’ll be fine.”

  Rev looks down. “M-maybe this is just a sign that we should turn back,” she says.

  Shawna squeezes her hand and is about to say something encouraging when Cass speaks up.

  “No way in hell. We’re finding a place to get you a guitar.” She takes a second to look Shawna in the eye. “I’m not lettin’ either of you chicken out on me.” She presses down on the gas and starts scanning signs for workable exits.

  Shawna continues to hold Rev’s hand and turns her phone back on for the first time since they left. The amount of messages and voicemails is staggering. Even as she swipes them away, more and more appear. She lets out a frustrated grunt, turns the ringtone and vibration off, and tries to focus all her attention on her browser app. She only needs it for a few minutes, and then the phone is banished to the glove compartment again.

  Music stores near me.

  “You want how much for that now?” Shawna says, staring at the sales associate in disbelief.

  “Two hundred and sixteen,” he says.

  “We don’t . . . we don’t have that kind of money!” she says.

  “That’s your problem, kid,” he says.

  “It’s a bust, Shawna,” Rev says, still staring at the guitar, hand hovering just above it. “Let’s just go.”

  No. No there has to be something. There has to be some way to bring the price down.

  “Isn’t there a student discount?” Shawna says.

  “No.”

  “Band discount?”

  “No.”

  Shawna glances over at Cass, who is twirling a drumstick in her hand, and decides to make one more last-ditch effort.

  “Disabled discount?”

  Cass’s back straightens and she turns to glare daggers at Shawna. Shawna mouths an apology in her direction.

  “If you kids aren’t going to buy anything, you have to leave,” the sales associate says.

  The band members end up sitting on the curb, trying to think of other solutions.

  “Three stores. You’d think at least one of them would price match,” Shawna says.

  “You’d think you’d learn that there’s no such thing as a ‘disabled discount,’” Cass says with finger quotes and a dirty look.

  “I’m trying, okay!” Shawna says, matching Cass’s look with one of her own.

  They both hear a pathetic noise from Rev. She’s hugging her knees with her head buried in them. Shawna sighs and wraps her arms around her.

  “There’s still a few second-hand stores,” she says. “Maybe we’ll find something there.”

  “Yeah,” Cass says, putting a hand on Rev’s head, “like I said, I’m not lettin’ you guys chicken out on me.” Her tone is much less hostile than the first time she brought it up with Shawna. It’s almost fond, in fact. Shawna wonders at that, but doesn’t get much time to as Cass smacks Rev on the back.

  “Come on. Up you get,” Cass says. “We’re still on a time limit, and I need someone to help me over this curb.”

  THE SECOND-HAND STORE ISN’T A CHAIN LIKE THE Salvation Army, but a small, family-owned place called The Secret Lotus. At least, it seems small from the outside. Inside, it’s so packed with other people’s odds and ends and who-knows-whats that it feels bigger. Almost impossibly bigger. Looking around, Shawna feels like she could spend at least a week here.

  Old, worn books are stacked against the walls in piles taller than she is. A table piled high with games that haven’t been seen or played in the last two decades turns out to be a pool table. Hanging coats and sweaters and other fluffy clothing create hallways that lead to more items. Knickknacks and tchotchkes cover scuffed wooden shelves that are probably also for sale.

  “We should split up,” Shawna says once she’s over her initial awe.

  “You got it, Fred,” Cass says. She tries to roll forwards and bumps into one of the shelves, shaking some necklaces loose and into her path. She narrows her eyes at the offending objects.

  “Oh, you poor thing! Do you need some help there?” an older woman with a sweet smile asks. It’s hard to tell if she works here or if she’s just a regular. Her clothing and jewelry sure look like they were assembled from bits of other people’s outfits, an amalgamate of the less-than-fashionable.

  “I need you to shut up,” Cass says.

  At the woman’s offended look, Shawna jumps in.

  “She can handle herself. Thank you, though,” she says. From the look on the woman’s face, Shawna has at least halted her from giving Cass a lecture, which would not turn out well for any of them.

  As the woman shuffles to the door, proving that she’s only a customer, Cass manages to find a broom in an umbrella stand and starts to sweep stuff out of her way. “Take that you little—”

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t stick together?” Rev interrupts.

  “It’ll be fine,” Shawna says. She and Cass wander farther into the shop, Cass sweeping things away as she goes. Rev hesitates before nervously heading in another direction.

  The Secret Lotus has a second floor and Shawna only manages to stumble into it accidentally. She hasn’t seen anyone since that one older lady and she’s starting to wonder if anyone works here at all. She has, however, seen several wonderful, ridiculously patterned dr
esses, a sculpture she intends to set over her mantel when she has her own house, and a bulky, bedazzled bracelet she intends to buy whether they find a guitar for Rev or not.

  As she continues to explore the second floor, she passes by a mannequin in a rainbow paisley suit. A particularly life-like mannequin. As cliché as it sounds, she swears she can feel its eyes following her.

  “Not creepy at all,” she mutters to herself, trying to ignore it.

  “Good! That’s what I was going for,” the mannequin says. Shawna jumps and nearly topples what might be a vase or maybe a distorted porcelain head. She rights it before “you break it, you buy it” sets in, then turns back to the mannequin. It has changed position, leaning forward on a cane it didn’t have before, and it’s smiling at her.

  “Not creepy. More, eccentric!” the mannequin says with a wave of its hand. Shawna suddenly realizes—and she berates herself for taking so long to—that it’s not a mannequin at all, but a person. A woman, maybe thirty or forty, short-cropped hair slicked back and blending into her pale skin just enough that she still looks somewhat fake.

  “Wha—why were you standing there like that?” Shawna asks.

  “Were you not listening to a word I was saying, child?” the woman responds, tapping her on the head with her cane. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but Shawna feels like her personal space has been violated. She rubs the top of her head, still confused.

  Another realization strikes: she’s alone in a room with a weirdo in a paisley suit who had just been staring at her in silence. Had she been following her around the store? She tries to cover the wave of discomfort she feels with a smile, wishing she could just astral project outside of her “suspicious” skin tone. They’re in a hurry. She doesn’t need some kind of weird racial profiling right now.

  “Well, Ms. ‘Eccentric,’” Shawna says, using air quotes and what she hopes is a casual tone, “I’m kinda busy right now, so I’m just gonna . . . ” She points towards the stairs and starts heading towards them with a little added speed in her step.

  The woman thrusts her cane into her path. “If it’s something you’re looking for, I’m the person to ask,” she says with a little bow.

  “Do you . . . work here?” Shawna asks, eyes glancing between her and the stairs.

  The woman grabs a hat from a shelf, places it on her own head, then tips it and bows. “Owner and proprietor of this fine establishment, Alexandra Patton, at your service,” she says.

  Shawna watches her with confused amusement. The eccentricities and straight up ridiculousness of this woman seem to match the surroundings, but she never thought that someone like this existed. Besides, if she actually approached Shawna with the intent to help her rather than help her out of the store, then maybe she’ll be able to find what Rev needs that much more quickly.

  “Actually—” she begins, but Alexandra cuts her off with a swish of her cane.

  “Wait!” Alexandra says. “Don’t tell me. I know exactly what you want.” She weaves through the room without touching a single item or shelf, reaches into a cluster of hanging clothes, and pulls out a dress. Shawna’s eyes widen and her hand subconsciously makes its way up to cover her mouth.

  It looks like it was ripped out of the fifties by force. The top is faded pink, the skirt is black with white polka dots, and it’s torn in several places. It’s torn just right, in fact, to display the blood-red fabric underneath. The sleeves have been cut off, leaving a jagged edge, and a big puff of red tulle fabric explodes from the back of the skirt.

  It’s perfect, perfect, perfect and exactly the kind of aesthetic she’s been wanting to showcase with the band. Shawna lets out a small squeal to show how much she needs it. The squeal dies when she realizes that money is a thing that she doesn’t have very much of right now.

  “Yeah,” Alexandra says, glancing at the dress, “the woman who dropped this off didn’t seem to value it very much. And look! It’s practically torn to shreds. I’d say about three Washingtons would cover it.”

  Shawna has to take a moment to process this. Three dollars? For that? She tries not to look as excited as she is, lest Alexandra decide to jack the price up on her.

  Alexandra holds the dress out on a finger to Shawna. “There’s changing rooms just over there.” She gestures with her cane in the direction of a half-hidden doorway just beside a lamppost.

  Shawna takes the dress, a huge smile on her face as she skips towards the room.

  A floor below and several feet to the right, Rev is searching the overcrowded walls for anything that might be useful. In the realm of musical instruments, she’s found a snare drum, a tarnished flute being held up by a stone angel, and several different flavors of maracas, but no guitars or even anything in the same family.

  She’s beginning to consider calling this a failure and reporting back to Shawna and Cass when she hears it: a song she’s never heard before being strummed out on an acoustic guitar. It’s beautiful. She follows her ears to a room half-concealed by ponchos, bumping into a bookshelf and a mannequin on the way. She apologizes to both and pulls back the rough cloth of a poncho to reveal the person playing the guitar.

  It’s a woman in a blue paisley suit. She has pale skin and short-cropped, slicked-back hair, and her eyes are closed as if she’s feeling the music she’s playing. Rev stands in the doorway for a moment, enchanted, before the woman looks up at her.

  “Do you play?” the woman asks without pausing her own playing.

  “O-oh, um, well, yeah. Sort of. I mean, not really on acoustic. Electric, usually,” Rev says, looking anywhere but directly at her. She’d always liked acoustic guitars, though. Even better than electric, but Shawna had always said they wouldn’t work on stage.

  The woman pulls a padded wooden chair out from behind the folding chair that she occupies. She pats the seat as if asking Rev to come and sit next to her.

  “Oh! N-no, no!” Rev says with a nervous smile. “I couldn’t. I’m . . . I’m actually looking for something right now, so . . . ”

  “Then you’ve come to the right person!” The woman stands, leaning the guitar against the chair, places one hand on her chest, tucks the other behind her back, and takes a bow. “Owner and proprietor of this fine establishment, Alexandra Patton, at your service.”

  “Oh,” Rev says, leaning back a little from the display, “well. That’s . . . lucky.”

  “You want to know what I think you’re looking for?” Alexandra asks with a wink.

  “Well, uh . . . I, uh . . . ” Rev takes a small step back. There’s something kind of weird about all of this, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. Maybe the odd surroundings are warping her perspective of the odd behavior of the owner.

  “I think you’re looking for exactly what you found,” Alexandra says.

  Rev pauses her slow retreat simply because that made no sense. She’s about to tell her what she’s actually looking for when Alexandra takes a step to the side and, with a flourish, indicates the acoustic guitar.

  “Huh? Oh. N-no, no. Like I said, I-I don’t usually play . . . ”

  “But the way you stopped to listen, dear. Oh! That’s what’s important. It called for you and you came. See how it shines in your presence?”

  Granted, Rev didn’t take a good moment to look at it. She only listened. It was producing a truly beautiful sound, though whether that was due to the guitar or the musician was still unclear.

  She takes a moment to look at it now. The wood has a reddish tinge to it, a shine, like Alexandra said. Someone had clearly loved and cared for this guitar because it is not new. Not only is it sitting in a second-hand shop, but Rev can see a slight difference in color where some of the strings were switched out for better ones. It has a small, swirling, red-and-black design of a bird painted onto the front of it. Its aesthetic matches its sound: beautiful. She wonders if, perhaps, acoustic and electric guitars aren’t that different after all. Maybe Shawna is wrong.

  Suddenly, Alexandra is behind her, hands
on Rev’s shoulders. When had she moved? How long had Rev been staring at the guitar?

  “Go on,” Alexandra says in a low voice, “go answer the call.” She gives Rev a gentle nudge in the direction of the guitar, but Rev doesn’t need much nudging. She sits down in the chair Alexandra had previously pulled up for her and picks up the guitar. Oh! It fits into her arms perfectly! Like she imagines a mother feels when first given her newborn child. She begins to strum something that had been playing softly in the background of her mind for a year or so. Her eyes close, a small, serene smile graces her lips, and she loses herself in the music.

  Much closer to the front door, Cass is not having such a good time. The broom she picked up only does so much to widen the narrow hallways of junk she’s forced to traverse, looking high and low for a stupid electric guitar. She mumbles most of the curses she knows under her breath. The rest she says above it. She feels like a grizzled, bitter sailor, fighting her way through the ocean swells, looking for the elusive, magical object promised on an ancient map.

  She decides to stop feeling like this. Playing pretend has never made annoying situations easier to bear.

  As she comes to an armoire leaned against something she can’t quite see, the image of a coffin comes into her mind. How creepy would that be? A coffin in a second-hand shop. As she attempts to pass the armoire, the coffin connection she just made becomes horrifying for a second as the door bursts open. She jumps and brandishes her broom, her fight instinct winning out as flight is nearly impossible. What steps out and farther into her way, however, is not a zombie or a vampire or anything like that, but a woman in a gold and black paisley suit.

  Cass takes a deep, annoyed breath, though whether she is annoyed with the woman or herself is unclear. She decides that she is annoyed with the woman. It makes things easier.

  “Who the hell are you? What the hell were you doin’ in there?” Cass asks, glaring at the woman.