Free Zigzag by Ellen Wittlinger Page B

each had our own cup holder and our own volume control for our own speaker. The seude-covered seats both reclined and swiveled, and were as padded as easy chairs. Poor Rupert with his cracked upholstery—I hoped he wasn’t looking.
    I took the front passenger seat and put my shoulder bag at my feet. In it was one novel, a bottle of Poland Spring water, Mom’s old camera, two hundred dollars in traveler’s checks—which Dory assured Mom was more than I’d need because she’d pay foreverything—my driver’s license, and a pre-paid phone card. “Just in case you want to call me without telling Dory,” Mom said.
    She’d come into my room the night before while Dory and the kids were getting ready for bed. Or rather, while Dory was refereeing the fight over who would sleep where. “You think you’ll be okay?” Mom asked me. I was hoping she’d come in to say there was no way on earth she was letting me get into a car with such crazy people.
    â€œ I’ll be okay. The question is, will they ?”
    Mom sat down on my bed. “I’m sorry, Robin. Dory didn’t give me the whole story over the phone. I didn’t realize the kids were in such a state.” She tried to smile. “Once you’re on the road, seeing the country, I’m sure things will be better.”
    â€œThey couldn’t get much worse.”
    She leaned in and gave me a quick hug. “I hope this isn’t a disaster. I know the kids are annoying, but maybe you can find a way to like them, anyway. All three of them could probably use a friend right now, and you’re good at that kind of thing.”
    â€œWhat kind of thing?”
    â€œYou know. Helping people who feel kind of lost and alone. Scared.”
    â€œI’m good at that?”
    â€œSure you are. Just ask Franny.”
    By nine the next morning we’d had our pancakes—all of us but Iris, who selected a nonfat yogurt instead—and were arranging ourselves in the suddenly much too small vehicle we’d be calling home for a ridiculous amount of time. As we pulled out of our driveway with Dory at the wheel, Marshall yelled happily, “Now we’re really rolling!”
    â€œDon’t forget to send my letters!” I called back. Dory had given Mom a list of addresses where we could get mail; I didn’t want to miss a letter from Chris.
    She nodded. “I will!”
    I watched as my waving mother got smaller and smaller, willing myself not to cry. What was there to cry about, for heaven’s sake? Sure, it wasn’t my dream trip, but at least I was going somewhere. I guess I wished Mom was coming, too. As much as she got on my nerves sometimes, I’d never been away from her for more than a night or two, and never in the company of crazies like these.
    â€œSo, where are we going first?” Marshall asked as we turned onto Interstate 80.
    â€œWe’re going to Minnesota!” Dory announced.
    â€œMinnesota? That’s back up north!” Iris said.
    â€œYes, it is. I’m glad to see you know your geography.”
    â€œJesus Christ. It’ll take us a year to get to Los Angeles if we have to stop and see every stupid state in the country!”
    â€œIris, I told you, this is not a race. The purpose of the trip is the traveling itself, not arriving in California.”
    â€œThat doesn’t even make any sense,” Iris said. She pulled one of the big pillows into position against her window and punched it into shape. “Wake me when we get someplace interesting. I’ve seen enough cornfields to last me the rest of my life.”
    We weren’t quite out of the cornfields when Dory woke Iris up. In fact, we were in Farmer’s Paradise: the Iowa State Fair in Des Moines. I could hardly believe it when Dory turned the van into the parking lot. Neither could Marshall.
    â€œWhat are we stopping here for?” he asked