Afflicted

Chapter One

My best friend is finally eighteen, so she and I are finally going on our road trip.

'Mikaella' pops up on the screen of my phone as the cheesy jazz ringtone she'd picked for herself starts playing.

"Hey, chica," I answer, scrambling around my bedroom. My giant lime-green duffel is almost full; I just have a few things left.

"Are you almost ready? Sondra keeps shouting at me." Sondra is Mikaella's mother and for eighteen years, the two have gone around and around at each other. So Mikkey calls her Sondra, and Sondra calls Mikkey 'Mikaella Jane.' It's a shame, too, because, put together, it makes for a pretty name. Mikkey hates to hear it together, though; she cringes.

"Yeah, just come on over," I tell her, because I know that's what she wants.

"Thanks, Lex. You're a saint."

"Mm-hmm," I say, rounding up the last of my things.

Mikkey hangs up because we're best friends and there's nothing else to be said, and I dash into the bathroom. My hair's still wet. I groan, and run to dig my hair dryer and surf spray out of my duffel.

It takes the same amount of time to dry as it takes for Mikkey to get here.

"Fixing my hair!" I shout through the door.

"What are you going to wear?" she asks, loudly enough for me to hear.

I smile at the fact that she knows I never get dressed before I do my hair. She swears it's because it kills two birds with one stone: my hair, and admiring my own body. Maybe that's half true.

"The outfit on the bed," I yell back. It's a pair of denim shorts and a tanktop that's colored somewhere between lemon and banana. I blush a little, because my little yellow thong and lacy bra are there on display, too.

"Very cute, Lex," Mikkey says, not fazed in the slightest.

I come out of the bathroom then, hair fixed to look like I've been playing on the beach all day, and I don't care that Mikkey sees me naked, because we grew up taking baths together, playing dress-up together, and as we got older, we started the 'you show me yours, I'll show you mine' game--just to compare progress of our development. I dress quickly, taking note of what Mikkey's wearing: a short, strapless, green sundress and sandy-colored wedge heels; she's all legs. Bronze legs.

It shows off the white tattoo of a cupcake on her shoulder, and the fact that she has no tan lines.

Neither of us do, really, because when the straps, sleeves, and necklines of your clothes vary all the time, tan lines look ridiculous. Just the honest truth.

Mikkey checks me for hanger straps and I'm good, so I grab my purse (a Kathy Van Zeeland, and it's my favorite ever) and the duffel. I slide my feet into tall flipflops and Mikkey fastens my necklace around my neck.

"Thanks, dear," I say. she nods. It's a locket my dad gave me a few years ago after my break-up with my first real boyfriend. It's shiny silver, shaped like a star. My name is cared delicately on the front, and it was done with a diamond, so even the tiny engraved crevices sparkle. Inside in a tiny version of the picture taken the first time my dad held me--to remind me that my dad will always be the man I can count on, no matter what. And it's true.

Although Mikkey and I raised a lot of money for this trip on our own, we still had a lot of help from my dad. He helped us trace our route and plotted places for us to stay overnight--hotels, that is--and he made reservations and payments ahead of time.

Now, when I say that all my dad did was pay for places for us to bed down, don't assume he didn't do much. He got us very nice rooms, and our hotel fees were the most expensive part of the whole trip. And, as he helped plot hotels, he also figured in where we'll need to stop for fuel, and so those places are marked on our map as well.

As Mikkey and I walk down the stairs with my stuff, Dad comes up to us. He hugs Mikkey first, kissing the top of her head. He takes my duffel from her and sets it down, then pulls me close to him.

"Be safe, Alexii," he says, with quite a bit of emotion in his voice.

"I will," I say.

Dad pulls away and gives me a look.

"Promise," I add.

"Atta girl! You, too, Mikkey. Please don't forget to call your mother."

"I won't," Mikkey replies, laughing.

"I love you both. Be careful."

"We will; love you too," Mikkey and I chorus.

We both kiss my cat, Chessnip, goodbye as she saunters up to us, mewing. Her bushy tail waves excitedly.

"I'll take good care of her," Dad promises.

"Thanks." I smile and kiss Chessnip one more time before setting her down. Dad kisses my forehead, and then follows Mikkey and me to my BMW station wagon (people knock me for the 'station wagon' thing, but I'll have you know--it's not all that different from a regular BMW sedan).

Dad puts my duffel in the back--it takes up half the room--and then helps Mikkey transfer her stuff from her little Mazda Miada. As my dad quickly checks over my car's vitals, Mikkey parks the Miada in my usual garage spot, and leaves the keys with my dad.

Just as we're about to leave, Dad says for us to wait and runs inside. When he comes out, he's got two little black gift bags. He hands one to each of us, and we open them. We each have a pocket knife and some pepper spray. The knife is sizeable, big enough to seriously injure someone, easily--each one has our respective names engraved in the casing.

"Thank you, Daddy," I say, hugging him.

At the same time, Mikkey throws her arms around him and exclaims, "Thank you so much, Donnie!"

"Ahh, don't thank me girls. Your safety is top priority. Love you, girls. Now, don't you have to meet up with Gabbye and Holly?"

"Oh!" Mikkey and I shout. We'd almost forgotten.

Gabbye Lewis and Holly Barlowe are going on their own roadtrip, but we've all agreed to meet up in a few places, because summer wouldn't be the same without The Four. The Four is all of us: Gabbye and Holly, me and Mikkey.

So Mikkey and I get in the Beamer, and wave bye to my dad, and we drive away to meet Gabbye and Holly at our favoirte cafe in town.

***

"Mee-kayy-ellaaaa!" Holly yells as soon as she sees Mikkey. She hugs her and then turns to me as Gabbye lovingly rolls her eyes at her best friend. "Ahh-lexxxx-iii," Holly says, drawing the 'x' out for an eternity. It's this thing she has with names--loves saying them with extreme drama.

Mikkey has moved on to Gabbye, who kisses her on the cheek--both cheeks. Gabbye's French, even though her name is American and she doesn't really look French. She's just blonde and completely gorgeous, equipped with loads of French customs, plus an amazing fluency in the language and a sexy accent.

When Holly finally releases me, I go to Gabbye and return her 'Gabbye sugar' as Mikkey once dubbed it.

We're all smiling as we head inside, laughing as Mikkey imitates Sondra's parting words: "Leave the boys alone, Mikaella Jane! If you come home pregnant, IswearI will disown you!"

"She's a southern belle soccer mom; she can't help sounding like that," Holly jokes.

We all laugh and then order our usuals: Mikkey the hot brown panini/strawberry fields salad combo, me the philly wrap/potato soup combo, Gabbye the turkey club with kettle chips, and Holly the chicken sandwich/caesar salad combo.