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Chapter Three

If I drew up a list of every smart decision I’ve ever made in my life, deciding to drive to California would not be on it. It would be nowhere near it. If that list were the Sun, driving to the West Coast was Pluto.

Do you know what is in between Indiana and California? Seven fucking states. Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, Utah, and Nevada. Let me tell you something else: Kansas makes Indiana look like a fucking paradise. Kansas is just like Indiana, only four times longer. That’s four times the corn, four times the flat, open highway, and four times the vast space of absolutely fucking nothing. I spent six hours of my life with my head pressed up against the window and taking in 417 miles of the Great Plains. The only joy I got was when I saw a lone, brown cow grazing in one of the many grassy fields we passed.

I would be lying if I said the trip wasn’t exciting, although I’m using the term “exciting” for lack of a better word. Just a few of the events we encountered along the way included:

1)      Hitting a skunk halfway through Missouri.

2)      A little rock hitting our windshield and causing a crack that gradually grew long the way.

3)      Avery and Britt getting in an argument over where to eat for lunch and almost driving us off the road.

4)       Avery and Britt getting in an argument with me over almost driving us off the road and, as punishment for me being reasonably concerned for our safety, proceeded to park on the shoulder and not move until I “realized how dramatic I was being.”

5)      Almost getting a ticket for parking on the shoulder.

6)       Reagan throwing up a strawberry pop tart in the back seat.

It took seven little pine tree air fresheners hanging on the rearview mirror and half a can of apple cinnamon Febreeze to get that smell out of the car.

But one day and eight agonizing hours later, we are finally in Los Angeles. We are also lost, mostly because:

“Avery, we just passed our turn!” Britt screeched.

“Well, why didn’t you fucking tell me it was there?” Avery yelled back.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you would have figured it out from the other three times that you missed it. But I suppose I seriously overestimated your use of basic intelligence, now did I?”

Well, shit.

“Excuse me? You’re the one who can’t tell left from right!”

“That was one time, you seriously can’t even go there.”

“Oh, really?”

I groaned and lifted my head. “Will you just shut up?”

Reagan frowned down at the directions. “It’s Ocean Avenue and San Vicente. You guys were looking at the wrong directions.”

“What?” Avery snapped.

“Look, Ocean Avenue. Turn right here. Our complex will be on the corner of Ocean Avenue and San Vicente.”

Avery jerked into the right lane, causing a scream from Britt and a honk from the car we just cut off. I looked out ahead of the windshield and was shocked to see the Pacific Ocean.

“Did you get a beach front apartment, Britt?” I asked.

“Yeah,” She shrugged as she turned off the radio.

“But how? They cost like millions of dollars.” Ave said as she stopped at the red light.

“This one was a foreclosure apparently, so it only cost a couple hundred thousand.”