Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

For the Ghost

Collin

The hum of the highway filled the cab of the truck, a steady backdrop to the chaos unraveling in my chest. The sun was sinking low, throwing amber streaks across the cracked windshield, and every few miles the radio would cut out into static before returning with some fuzzy '70s track that made my palms sweat even more.

My hands were glued to the wheel, white knuckled. I could feel the tremble in my wrists every time I blinked too hard or hit a bump in the road. I'd never driven three hours and still felt like I hadn't moved at all.

Erin was in the passenger seat, using the sun visor mirror to smudge out her eyeliner like her life depended on it. She already looked like a dream - no, a threat - dark red lipstick, fishnet gloves, and an oversized plaid jacket hanging off her shoulder. She was half Robert Smith, half vampire bride, and all confidence.

Meanwhile, I was holding it together with an uneven heartbeat and way too much hairspray.

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," I said.

Erin didn't look away from her reflection. "If you do, aim for the glove compartment. Not my bag."

"I'm serious."

"So am I," she said, dragging her lip liner with precision. "That's where my snacks are."

I groaned and gripped the wheel tighter. "What if this is the dumbest thing I've ever done?"

Erin finally turned to look at me. "Collin. You've already done the dumb thing. That was falling for a rockstar. This?" She gestured to the open road. "This is the fun part."

I didn't answer right away. Just stared ahead at the highway, letting the hum of the tires do the thinking for me.

She was right. Of course she was.

My overnight bag was tucked behind my seat - stuffed with a few changes of clothes, my ghost costume, a toothbrush, and way too many hopes I didn't want to admit I'd packed too.

Billie had said "a few days." But what he meant, what I heard, was "come see what my world feels like when you're in it."

And I was terrified of how much I wanted to.

"We'll stop at the next truck stop," Erin said, reaching into her bag for mascara. "Change into our outfits, fix our hair, do your makeup, maybe flirt with someone selling beef jerky, y'know, get in the mood."

I nodded absently, stomach flipping. I had on cutoffs and a faded tank top, my ghost costume buried under it all like a secret waiting to breathe.

Erin leaned back and clicked her tongue. "Hey. You're allowed to be excited."

"I am excited," I said, trying not to sound like I was holding my breath. "I just... don't know what I'm walking into."

Erin smirked, capping her eyeliner. "Yeah, well, neither do they."

We kept driving. The sky turned cotton candy pink, and the sign for the next exit glowed green in the distance. A cluster of gas stations and diners, the kind that smelled like motor oil and disappointment.

The kind that felt like the start of something.

"Next exit, we're stopping," Erin said, snapping her compact shut like she meant business. "I see a truck stop sign up ahead. Mile marker 172. Pull in, babe. Time to transform."

I shot her a look. "I thought we were just going to change clothes."

Erin raised a brow. "Excuse me? We are stepping into the rockstar underworld for the week. You are not showing up looking like you just stocked aisle four."