So. Somehow I find myself, sitting in a car. On an American road. With three kids. They're not even my kids.
Now I sound like I steal children for fun. I'm not like like that. I actually really dislike kids but my sister had somehow convinced me into taking her children on a road trip across America, so they could see their grandma. But she failed to take into account that this is my first time in America since Jess moved from Ireland. And I was supposed to be looking for a summer job, not being a chauffeur to three under 12s. Not my cup of tea.
"Where are we going, Auntie?" yells T, the eldest of the three. The only boy out of the three, T had the misfortune of being called Tyrannous, and anyone who has any sense, realising that Tyrannous is an awful name for an eleven-year-old, calls him T. His blonde hair stands up in unruly spikes as he rakes he fingers through it, as if being in a car with me is a stressful situation.
"Don't call me that. Auntie makes me sound old. Call me Miranda. Or even better, Mir. Miranda is a stuffy "aunt" name," I tell him, looking in the rear view mirror so I can look him directly in the eyes. He only rolls his eyes in response. Ungrateful. "And as for where we're going, I haven't the slightest clue. I was given sparse instructions, an old map and this shitty truck."
The other two kids in the back suddenly zone in, their matching hazel eyes widen in shock, because of my swear. "Sorry," I mutter under my breath.
But to be fair, the truck is far from luxury. Apart bought in 'ninety-two, I have absolutely no idea how this piece of junk is still chugging along, more than thirty years later. Apparently it's Wayne's, my sister's husband, pride and joy and I was specifically warned not to let any damage come upon it. I've been driving for a while, I assured them, but I failed to take into account that old trucks are uncomfortable, very hot and American ones cater for left-sided drivers. I feel very uneasy about driving on the other side of the road and I can't help but swerve everytime another car comes close. Not that that happens often because I'm driving on some obscure road and no one else appears to be as foolish as me to be driving on such an awful road.
The car journey is mainly silent. I try banging on the radio, but unlike the rest of the truck, it appears to have given up on life and only splutters a few notes of Perry Como's In the Mood. Deciding that now is not the time for some light-hearted jazz, I switch it off.
"I'm dead with the heat. How about you?" I casually ask the kids, wiping my brow and praying for more than a one word answer.
No such luck. "Okay," Julie, the second oldest says. Her name is spelled Julie, but you have to take care in emphasising the "ie" or else she gets annoyed and storms off to her "sulking corner". This is what I have observed from the three days I have spent with these kids.
"Jesus, it's hot!" I exclaim, desperately trying to liven up the awkward silence.
"You shouldn't curse in the Lord's name," Julie says sagely.
"I don't think the Lord would mind in this heat." I check the dash of the truck, which surprisingly does have a thermometer. 107. In Fahrenheit. "Curse these Fahrenheit things. I haven't the slightest clue what 107 supposed to mean! And there's no air conditioning in the god-damned car."
"You did it again," Julie speak up. T punches her lightly in the arm as a warning to shut up. I feel deeply grateful to T right now.
I can feel my skin starting to crisp. Pale Irish skin is not in anyway suited to the hot Nebraskan heat. Why on earth did Jess choose to locate here, just outside Omaha. It has an awful climate. Hot and humid in the summer. Freezing in the winter. And worst of all, I'm trying to get from Omaha to Richmond, which is in Virginia according to Google Maps and twenty-one hours away, according to my research. In this sweltering heat. I can't tell the temperature but I know if it gets any hotter, I'll simply be a puddle of Mir.
