Andrew Jackson Will Protect You

Part Two

11:00 a.m. Day Four. St. Louis, Missouri. The Arch. I'm wrapped up in Casey's blanket, sleeping in late. We're parked in downtown St. Louis. They're about to go inside the Arch. Casey reaches up and pats my leg. It's her way of saying bye, see you in a few hours.

I listen to the door close. Wild horses couldn't drag me up into the Arch. I hate heights. I doze in and out, thinking of my parents. I wonder how Andrew Jackson would approach them, if he could. What would he tell them? I try to remember if I've ever told them exactly how I feel.

I get up and grab a Pepsi from the mini-fridge. Maybe I'll walk around and find some breakfast somewhere.

8:10 p.m. On the road, somewhere in rural Arkansas. Casey and I are wearing head-lamps, she on her sketchbook, me buried in my novel. Her dad wants to drive south and see the campus of Ole Miss; her mom wants to drive east and see the childhood home of Helen Keller. "My parents and their history," she whispers, rolling her eyes. With a purple colored pencil, she's sketching the Arch. It looks good.

1:13 p.m. Day Five. Tupelo, MISSISSIPPI. Her parents compromised. We're headed to the Helen Keller site but have stopped at the Elvis Presley Memorial, since it's on the way. Her dad is an enormous Elvis fan. He went inside to the museum but Casey's mom wanted to take a nap. She's exhausted from all the driving, she says. From the back, we eat Cheetos and listen to her soft breaths.

Do you think Elvis ever went up in the Arch, Casey asks. We giggle, softly. Do you think Lincoln peed in the bushes? Back there in that neighborhood? We almost lose it on that one. And then I ask the big one. Do you think that Andrew Jackson really would tell my parents . . .? Exactly how I feel?

Scarlett? she says. I don't know why you're waiting for Andrew Jackson. You've got to tell them.

I don't think Casey knows just how hard my parents can be to talk to. They are loud and direct. And intimidating.

But I've also never thought of my parents as immature. And maybe she's right about that. She goes on. I know that they're difficult. But still . . . maybe they need to hear you say it.

2:01 p.m. A highway rest stop. We're parked by the picnic tables, and Casey's father is stretching his legs. But her mother is chewing her out, since Casey has just told her she was going to get a D in math. At least it wasn't in history, I smirk to myself. I lie on my perch, looking out the back window at them. Her mother is shaking her head in disappointment. My grades are never super but I never have difficulty telling my parents what to expect. It's summertime but the leaves on the ground are green and gold; a big gust of wind kicks them across the sidewalk, sweeps them by the feet of Casey's dad. We're supposed to be home in a day or two.

10:00 a.m. Day Six. Muscle Shoals, ALABAMA. I've never heard of this place but it's apparently a legendary music studio. Everyone recorded here, Casey's dad was saying earlier. The Stones. The Eagles. Many, many more. Casey is napping so her parents locked the camper and went inside.

It's time for me to stretch my legs. I quietly slip out the door and walk around outside. The studio is simple and almost retro-looking; it's a little building, and it looks more like a dentist office than a music studio. The wind blows an old McDonald's cup across the asphalt, just past a telephone booth. The cup's golden M is faded, some bass player's vanilla shake from 1980. It rolls away, into the next lifetime.

And I step inside the telephone booth, holding a handful of quarters. Andrew Jackson is right beside me, depositing the quarters for me. My hands are shaking a little. It's true: my parents can be as immature as hell. But I also know we've all got to pay the piper for what we've done. My fourth grade teacher used to say this. We've all got to answer for the choices we make.

And we've all got to be honest about every part of our lives. Especially the parts that are important to us. Like family. I think Andrew Jackson would like that. I'm not happy at all with my parents. At times it hurts. But I need to try to begin to make this right, right now. I can at least do that. I can do my part.

I smile as President Jackson helps me push the shiny silver buttons. I'm still trembling. But I hope that he will help me form the right words.