“She sounds fun,” I say.
Camryn looks thoughtful. “She was.”
I study her quietly. She’s lost in some memory, poking her fork at the last piece of chicken in her salad. My fork clinks against the plate as I make a decision and set it down. I wipe my face with my napkin and slide out of the booth.
“Where are you going?” She looks up at me.
I just grin and walk away toward the jukebox by the window. I slip the money in and scan the titles, finally choosing one song and pressing the buttons. Raisins In My Toast starts to play as I make my way back.
All three of the waitresses and the cook eyeball me with glaring, unforgiving looks. I just smile.
Camryn’s whole body has locked up on the seat. Her back is rigid, the whites of her eyes blaring at me and then when I start mouthing the words to the fifties-sounding song, she slinks way down onto the seat, her face redder than I have ever seen it.
I slide back into my seat, moving my hips all the way down.
“Oh God, Andrew, please don’t sing it!”
I’m trying my damnedest not to laugh, but I just sing along to the lyrics with a giant grin plastered all over my face. She buries her face in her hands, her little shoulders, covered by a thin white shirt bounce up and down as she suppresses her laughter. I snap my fingers in tune with the music as if my hair is greased back and when the high-pitched voice comes on, I mimic it, my face all scrunched up with exaggerated emotion. And I hit the deeper notes, too, dropping my chin toward my chest and looking all serious. I never stop snapping my fingers. The further into the song I go, I start to put a little more emotion into it. And by the middle, Camryn can’t contain herself any longer. She laughs so hard under her breath that her eyes water-up.
She’s let herself fall so far down onto the seat by now that her chin is almost level with the table’s edge.
When the song ends—to the relief of the employees—I get one pair of hands clapping for me from the old lady sitting in the booth behind Camryn. Nobody else cares, but by the look on Camryn’s face, you’d think everyone in the restaurant was watching and laughing at us. Hilarious. And she’s so cute when she’s embarrassed.
I prop my elbows on the table and lay my arms across it, folding my hands together.
“Ah, it wasn’t that bad was it?” I smirk.
She slides the edge of her finger underneath each of her eyes to wipe off that tiny streak of black that she instinctively knows is there. A few more laughs still rattle through her calming chest.
“You have no shame, either,” she says, laughing one more time.
“It was embarrassing, but I think I needed that.” Camryn kicks off her shoes and pulls her bare feet onto the front seat in the car.
We’re back on the road again, and taking direction only from Camryn’s pointing finger. Heading east on 44; looks like we’re going to be passing through the bottom half of Missouri.
“Glad I could oblige.”
I reach out and press the power on the CD player.
“Oh no,” she teases, “I wonder how far back into the seventies we’ll go this time.”
I tilt my head over and smirk at her.
“This is a good song,” I say, reaching out to turn the volume up a little and then tapping my thumbs on the steering wheel.
“Yeah, I’ve heard it before,” she says, laying her head against the seat. “Wayward Son.”
“Close,” I say, “Carry On Wayward Son.”
“Yeah, close enough you didn’t need to correct me.” She pretends to be offended, but isn’t doing a very good job.
“And what band is it?” I test her.
She makes a face at me. “I don’t know!”
“Kansas,” I say with an intellectually raised brow. “One of my favorites.”
“You say that about all of them.” She purses her lips and flutters her eyes.
“Maybe I do,” I relent, “but really, Kansas songs have a lot of emotion. Dust in the Wind, for example; can’t think of a more fitting piece of music for death. It has a way of stripping your fear of it.”
“Stripping your fear of death?” she says, not convinced.
“Well yeah, I guess so. It’s like Steve Walsh is the reaper and he’s just telling you that there’s nothing to be afraid of. Shit, if I could choose a song to die to, that one would be at the top of my playlist.”
She looks discouraged.
“That’s a little too morbid for my blood.”
“If you look at it that way, I guess so.”
She’s fully facing me now with both legs pulled onto the seat, knees drawn up, and her shoulder and head lying on the back of the seat. That golden braid of hers which makes her look that much softer always draped over her right shoulder.
“Hotel California,” she says. “The Eagles.”
I look at her. I’m impressed.
“That’s one classic song that I like.”
That makes me smile “Really? That’s a great one; very chilling—kind of makes me feel like I’m in one of those old black and white horror films—Good choice.”
I’m actually really impressed.
I tap my thumbs some more on the steering wheel to Carry On Wayward Son and then I hear a loud pop! and a constant flap-flap-flap-flap-flunk-flap-flunk until I veer slowly off the side of the freeway and pull onto the shoulder.
Camryn has already dropped her bare feet back onto the floorboard and is looking all around the car trying to figure out the direction of the noise.
“Do we have a flat?” she asks, though it’s more like: “Oh great, we have a flat!”
“Yep,” I say putting the car in park and turning the engine off. “Good thing I have a spare in the trunk.”
“Is it one of those ugly mini tires?”
I laugh.
“No, I have a life-sized tire in there with a rim and everything and I promise it’ll match the other three.”
She looks slightly relieved, until she realizes I was making fun of her and she sticks her tongue out at me and crosses her eyes. Not sure why that made me want to do her in the backseat, but to each his own, I guess.
I put my hand on the door handle and she pulls her legs back onto the seat.
