Free The Disenchantments by Nina Lacour

an arm around her.
    I watch Bev act as though she doesn’t notice Alexa’s gesture, and think,
Who is this girl?
And at the same time, under that, is the beginning of a memory. I feel like there was something, once, that happened. Something that she tried to tell me, or almost told me, but never did.
    “It’s okay,” Alexa says. “You can pass.”
    Meg stops pushing but cuts the consoling short.
    “Question three is for Colby. ‘Colby, if you could make out with any of us, who would you choose?’”
    She smiles brightly at me. I lock eyes with her and force myself to smile back.
    “You, of course,” I say. “I’m going to go outside now and imagine it.”
    I grab my music and my headphones and go out onto the balcony. I lie down on top of Alexa’s sleeping bag andlook at the stars. Even through the closed glass door I can hear them giggling, reading my question, saying, “Bev, it’s pretty clear that one’s from Colby.” I listen for Bev’s voice but I don’t hear it.
    I call Uncle Pete.
    “Hey-it’s-me-everything’s-fine,” I say, which is what I’ve said since I was a kid and my mom’s voice was panicked when I would call her from a friend’s house. I’d be calling to know what time she was getting me or if I should wait to eat dinner, and she’d respond by saying something like,
Thank God, I thought you might have been hurt
.
    “How’s Melinda?” Pete asks.
    “She’s running great,” I say. “No problems yet.”
    “Don’t say ‘yet.’ Why would you say ‘yet’?”
    “Did I say that? What I meant was she’s running so smoothly that I have no worries at all.”
    “Better,” he says. “Have you been checking her oil?”
    “No, should I be?”
    “Do it in the morning. Just to be safe. There’s extra oil under the driver’s seat if you need it. Fill her up with that, not any other kind.”
    “Okay.”
    He goes on for a while, asking me more questions about the bus and how it’s running, and even though he’s worried over nothing it’s sort of calming to answer his questions and to say yes to all of his requests.
    “What are you doing?” I ask him once he seems less worried.
    “I was looking through some things from the old days. Tour stuff. You’ve got me feeling nostalgic.”
    “What kind of tour stuff?”
    “Some snapshots. Jesus, I was a good-looking kid. I had almost forgotten. Also, business cards from every place we played a show. Sometimes we played at people’s houses. They didn’t have business cards so we’d have them write their names and addresses on scratch paper to go in the tour journal.”
    “I want to see the pictures.”
    “Yeah, there are some great ones. I found one of the night your mom and dad met.”
    He says this and, for a moment, I feel like I’m sinking. There is a question I need to ask, but I don’t know how to ask it. An uneasy feeling that’s been getting stronger the longer Ma has stayed away.
    “Have you heard from her?” I say.
    “We talked a few nights ago. I had to keep reminding her that I don’t know French.”
    “What did you talk about?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Paris, her classes, your trip.”
    The sinking gives way to nausea.
    “How she’s so proud of you for making your own decisions,” Pete continues. “Living your own life. You know,she was worried at first about you not going straight to college, but we talked about it together. I told her she raised the best kind of person: an independent thinker.”
    Pete
, I want to say.
Something happened.
    “Because, like me, you’re a traveler. But unlike me, you have a plan. And unlike your mother, you know what it is you really want. You aren’t going to squander your opportunities.”
    “Uh-huh,” I mutter.
    “It’s inspiring, you know that? Knowing you’re out there now and soon you’ll be country-hopping with Bev, spending time on those islands you’re crazy about. Your dad and I were talking last night about hitting the road in Melinda for a couple