Friday, 2:40 PM
“SHOTGUN!” I SHOUT AS MRS. MCELROY PULLS UP TO THE CURB.
Through some mysterious magic known only to her, Mrs. McElroy has been able to wheedle use of a school-district vehicle this weekend. Normally only the athletic teams—we theater kids lump them together as “sports ball”—get that kind of support. So we’ll be traveling to the theater competition at the state capital in style.
That is, if your idea of style is a tan minivan.
“No fair, Mom!” Raven pouts. The nickname got started last fall after I brought in treats to make the week prior to opening night (better known as Hell Week) more bearable.
“Hey, the adults always sit in the front seat,” Adam says, opening the back gate. All five of us try to jam our suitcases into the small luggage space, until he takes charge.
As Adam fits all the suitcases together like puzzle pieces, something soft and cold dots the tip of my nose. I look up. Flakes are falling from the concrete-gray sky.
With a grin, my best friend, Min, tips her head back and sticks out her tongue to catch one.
Maybe I look anxious, because Adam says, “Don’t worry, Nell,” as he slots a backpack into a gap. “It won’t stick. The forecast says just a few flurries.”
We haven’t gotten much snow this winter, at least by Midwest standards. My family moved here from Los Angeles a little over a year ago, so the snow is still sort of a novelty. I had imagined pristine drifts, snowmen, and snowball fights. The reality has been a lot less picturesque. In the corner of the parking lot, just like all parking lots around here, there’s a head-high, dingy gray pile. With each passing week, it gets a little dirtier and a little smaller. Now it’s spring, at least on paper.
Beep! Beep! Mrs. McElroy honks the horn to hurry us up. Adam slides open the side door and then scrambles in, contorting his long legs to sit in the far corner. Everyone else follows. I pull the door shut and then take my seat in the front.
Min starts immediately playing the Hamilton soundtrack on her phone. While she has by far the best singing voice, we all sing along at full volume and with dramatic gestures. Everyone’s excited about competing and even about the trip to the capital. To them, it’s a big city. The nearest actual big city is Chicago, and that’s the better part of a day’s drive away. As Mrs. McElroy pulls out of the parking lot, we ignore the stares from the kids waiting for their parents or the bus.
Or maybe we don’t. All of us love an audience. It’s kind of a given if you’re an actor.
“I’m not sure one minivan can contain all this energy,” Mrs. McElroy says in a pause
between songs. But she’s grinning when she says it.
We all live, sleep, and breathe theater. For many of us, theater is our truest family, sometimes our only family. Theater is the place where being weird is embraced, not shunned. We know what we’re like when we’re stripped of everything, both literally and figuratively—and yet we still love one another.
Six hours later, it’s become clear that the forecast was wrong.
As the hours have passed and the snow kept falling, the minivan has gotten quiet. The weather app said something about the polar vortex shifting unexpectedly.
And then we lost service.
By that time we were surrounded by acres of flat farmland, halfway between home and the capital and with no good choices. But we had already come so far. And the snow wasn’t falling that hard. We decided to continue.
Which was clearly a mistake.
For the millionth time, I check my phone. No service. Knowing theoretically that some areas don’t have cell service is way different than experiencing it yourself.
We’re already over six hours into what was supposed to be a four-hour drive and still have at least a hundred miles to go. Mrs. McElroy is holding the steering wheel so tightly that her gnarled fingers are nearly as white as the world outside the windows.
White, dancing flakes falling through the darkness. White snow-covered empty fields stretching endlessly on either side of us. The headlights barely illuminate the faint black ruts in the white that are the only sign we’re still on the highway.
A half hour ago, the semi we’d followed for miles turned off. Now we’re all alone, a tiny boat in the middle of a vast ocean.
A yellow light flickers in the sky ahead of us. As we drive underneath an overpass, I tip back my head to read the flashing sign. BLIZZARD WARNING. BLIZZARD WARNING. BLIZZARD WARNING. It wasn’t until I moved here that I learned that a blizzard isn’t just snow—you also need at least thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds.
I turn to look behind me. Instead of everyone staring tensely out the windows, they all seem to be asleep. Asleep!
Min is the only one awake. She’s in the back seat next to Adam, playing a game on her phone. Back when we still had service and the snow was light, she was on Yelp, checking out coffee shops along our route. But even then Mrs. McElroy insisted there would be no detours
or delays.
In the middle row of seats, Raven sleeps with her head against Jermaine’s broad shoulder. It’s odd to see her still. Normally, Raven puts the drama in drama club.
Jermaine’s new to acting. On a whim, he tried out for a part in the winter play. A wide receiver, acting? But he’s been good, as natural as he is on the field. He likes the behind-the-scenes stuff, too, like the lingo and the little tricks we use to make things look real. Plus having half the football team in the audience on opening night was a nice bonus.
A certain tension in the lines of Raven’s and Jermaine’s bodies makes me think they’re both pretending to be dozing. It gives their current cuddling a certain plausible deniability. For weeks, Raven’s been angling to get Jermaine to notice her. Now one of her hands is even resting on his thigh.
Mrs. McElroy’s low voice interrupts my thoughts. “It’s getting harder and harder to see.” Her shoulders are hunched, her head jutting forward like a turtle’s. The fear in her voice unsettles me even more than the snow. Mrs. McElroy isn’t afraid of anything.
“Maybe try the brights?” I touch the gold tragedy/comedy-mask necklace my moms gave me on my sixteenth birthday. It feels like it brings me luck, so onstage, I tuck it in a pocket or my bra. And right now, we could use a little luck.
When Mrs. McElroy flicks the switch, the road totally disappears. All we can see is a swarm of flakes rushing at us. With a gasp, she quickly switches the lights back to the regular setting.
Suddenly, there’s a sickening, sliding sensation as our back wheels lose purchase. Startled awake, Raven shrieks. Just when I think we’re going to crash, the minivan straightens out.
“Sorry, everybody.” Mrs. McElroy takes a deep breath. “I’ve got to remember to be very gentle with the brakes.”
“In driver’s ed,” Adam says from the back, “they tell us to look where you want to go, not at what you’re afraid of. I guess you subconsciously drive toward whatever you are focused on.”
Raven’s voice trembles. “If it were me driving right now, the only way that idea would work would be if I closed my eyes!” She clutches Jermaine.
“Shh, babe.” His voice is soft. “It’ll be okay.”
“I can’t keep driving in this,” Mrs. McElroy says. “Everyone keep an eye out. As soon as we see any kind of hotel or town, I’m getting off this road.”
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