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There was no particular reason for it that Maka could think of. It was a standard enough mission— a slasher-type sighting in Cape Charles, Virginia, not dangerous enough to warrant a three-star pair but enough so that their motley group was entrusted to slay it. So when Kid proposed the idea of a road trip over lunch, two weeks before the ten-month anniversary of Asura’s defeat, it came as a pleasant surprise to everyone. The others had jumped on the idea with so much enthusiasm that Maka didn’t have the heart to tell them she absolutely despised the open road.
That wasn’t entirely true. She enjoyed its long stretches on Soul’s motorbike, going so fast the scenery was but a watercolor smear in her periphery. No, what was unbearable was lingering longer than you needed to. Maka was restless and impatient. She was accustomed to traveling long distances by air, the freedom of flight belying a brutal kind of efficiency. The American highway system, however, was a different beast altogether, one that yawned and meandered like summer daylight, tamable only by those that can outspeed its endlessly unfurling asphalt tongue. During the weeks leading up to the trip, she had scoured and studied guidebooks and maps as if for an exam. It wasn’t until the night before, while presenting her painstakingly crafted itinerary to Soul, did she realize that the references she had used were over a decade old.
“We could use the vacation, you know.” Soul slid his guitar case into the trunk of the rental minivan, leaning its neck against the glass. In less than an hour, it will be packed to the brim with other colorful cargo: luggage and ice coolers with 12-pack sodas and ham sandwiches, then raucous laughter and discordant Bon Jovi sing-alongs that would gradually erode Maka’s residual apprehension. But for now, it was empty and quiet, timidly inviting in the early Death City dawn.
“It’s just so slow ,” she whined, shoving her duffle into the trunk. “ The pre-kishin—
“—is only active during the last week of every month,” Soul interrupted. “And Stein’s already working on trying to triangulate its location or whatever. We have more than enough time.”
“I just don’t see why we couldn’t have taken the plane. It’s not like you’re the only one with a license.”
“And leave Liz to drive 2,600 miles by herself?”
“She could’ve handled it,” she muttered. He leaned towards her and flicked her nose.
“Listen,” he continued, ignoring her scowl, “you’re stubborn and impatient and your sense of direction makes Black Star look like freakin’ Google Maps. But believe me when I say that nobody can resist the charm of the highway strip. My Gran taught me that during our horrible family vacations. I bet once we reach the state border, you won’t even remember why you’re so wound up in the first place.”
“And if you’re wrong?” she challenged.
“Then you can have the fries from my Big Mac meal later.” Maka took one last look at their apartment complex as he stretched, concrete cleaving the encroaching summer sunlight.
“Fine,” she said, “but I want a McFlurry to go with that too. And be sure to make it a large this time.”
Soul was right. However, it wasn’t the scenery that alleviated her anxiety like she thought he’d implied, her desert home mutating into mountains and forests with tarry shadows, hues of turquoise, bruise, and sorbet weeping in the sky above. No— just by being themselves, it was her friends that kept her restlessness at bay as they crossed state lines. It was highway karaokes and hyper-competitive games of License Plate Bingo that threatened to upturn the vehicle in excitement. It was heads resting on another’s shoulder and secrets whispered in drowsy lulls, the familiar hum of their souls filling the space even in quiet.
That wasn’t to say that their trip was without turbulence; they persistently struck each other’s last nerve with precision honed by years of practice. Arguments broke out over trivial matters, and when the tension reached its boiling point, a thick and sudden silence would swallow the atmosphere. The world outside the window became even more alien and desolate, their van a tin pimple gliding within its immensity. Unsettled, someone would start a game of I-Spy, and all would be forgotten until the next inevitable point of contention.
There was a quiet and ineffable sort of insanity that paved the open road, they learned, one that displaces the soul and reminds it of its own brevity. Luckily for them, all that was needed to best its thrall was the endearing distraction of friendship, greasy road food, and a well-tailored Journey mixtape or two.
Soul still gave Maka his fries, neither of them bitter in the slightest at the result of their wager.
The first red flag was that Black Star and Patti— a duo that, in the interest of public safety, should never be left unsupervised— were the last ones to exit the 7-Eleven mini-mart. The second was that instead of bulk cases of Red Bull and XXL Slurpees, each carried a pair of massive paper bags in their arms, tops folded over and stapled shut like lunches packed by a doting mother.
Soul glanced around him, confirming that the others were already settled inside of the van and tearing into their snacks as he refilled the tank alone. The LED numbers by his head ticked higher as he watched Black Star pop open the trunk and cram their contraband between their luggage.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Soul started cautiously, “but what’s with the bags?”
“Sorry, broski,” Black Star said, slamming the trunk closed. “That’s top-secret information.”
Anybody who knew Black Star for longer than a fortnight knew that ‘secret’ was the most dangerous word that could come out of his mouth, second only perhaps to ‘idea,’ and ‘trust me.’ Those things were said in succession more often than not, not unlike how most bad things tended to come in threes.
Soul sighed. “Please at the very least say it’s not anything illegal.”
Black Star leaned in and covered one side of his face in conspiracy. “Depends on what state we’re in. Here? Perfectly fine. In about 500 miles? Not so much.”
“Don’t worry, Soul!” Patti chirped. “Sis is driving, and she’s really good at giving the pigs the slip. She’s probably even better than Thelma and Louise!”
“You do know how they ended up, right?” Soul said, grimacing.
Their conversation was interrupted by the discordant braying of a car horn. Inside the van, Maka had her palm flat on the steering wheel, reaching over from the passenger side. Preoccupied with a tube of Pringles, Liz only watched from the driver’s seat, amused.
“Hurry up!” Maka shouted, slamming the horn again. “We only have four hours until the Museum of Independent Telephony closes, and if I die before touching an authentic 19th-century rotary, I will haunt you to your graves!”
“It’s true,” Kid said flatly. “She can do that.”
The three outside groaned. Black Star patted Soul roughly on the back, cementing his slide from mostly innocent bystander to very begrudging accomplice. “Just trust me on this one,” he whispered, winking. “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”
He clamored into the backmost seat, Patti tailing closely behind. As the door slid shut, she dragged the length of her finger across her throat before pointing it directly at Soul, face hard, the consequences of snitching conveyed loud and clear.
Ghost stories lose their edge when you’ve taken down madness incarnate, even Liz developing somewhat of an immunity against fictional ghouls and goblins. So they took turns reminiscing instead, spinning combat stories into tall tales the same way fishermen did with white whales or the ones that got away. Any horrors that the memories had once harbored were lost between mouthfuls of warm marshmallow and chocolate graham, their words coated with sticky-sweet nostalgia.
As Maka relived her encounter with the carnivorous Baronet of Longbourn, Soul swore that it had a hundred— no, a thousand teeth— leaning in so that the campfire illuminated his own jagged maw. The Thompsons, well-versed in the art of oral storytelling from trading anecdotes for street cred in the past, performed extravagant swashbuckling reenactments with firewood swords and soda pop pistols. Kid interrupted to correct the facts until he was ultimately mollified by thrown cans and chorusing boos. Surprisingly, Black Star’s stories gained some semblance of credibility when Tsubaki sprinkled in her own supporting details. However, if his Hollywood-inspired exaggerations didn’t already expose his dishonesty, then her poorly hidden laughter did, cracking finally when he began describing a training montage with a mysterious elder in the Swiss Alps.
When they ran out of stories to tell, they sang. Accompanied by the snapping campfire and Soul’s clumsy guitar strumming, they belted out beloved classics and pop tunes alike. Their unfortunate audience in the surrounding woods squawked and howled in protesting harmony.
They sang until their throats were hoarse and their mismatched melodies chased away the array of stars, replaced by timid freckles of daylight weaving between evergreen. The moon’s crooked grin slipped unnoticed beneath the horizon, eagerly awaiting the teens’ next show-stopping performance— wherever that may be.
Maka sighed. “That was somehow even more underwhelming than I thought it’d be.”
“What’d you expect? Disney World?” Soul idly spun the rack of bumper stickers in the gift shop of The Befuddling Hole. It was a “Museum of Wonders” that had caught their attention, located in the heart of the West Virginian woods. The charismatic owner had enticed them into opening their wallets for a tour of the exhibits littered throughout the shack: dubious displays of cryptid “evidence” in the surrounding wilderness, and taxidermy chimeras with dead bulging eyes, fur matted where one animal ended and another began.
Soul pointed at a particularly garish sticker, I Stop for Sasquatch! printed in bold letters. “Dare me to stick this on Kid’s back and see how long it takes for him to notice?”
“Do what you want,” Maka said. “I’m not giving this place any more of our money for cheap optical illusions.”
“Your face is a cheap optical illusion!” Black Star jeered from the neighboring shelf. Predictably, he had eaten up every word the tour guide had said. A souvenir cap was on his head and keychains dangled on the end of each finger, plastic clinking together like wind chimes. Tsubaki followed him with her own modest pile of souvenirs in a wooden basket.
“Not you too, Tsubaki,” Maka groaned. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
Tsubaki shook her head and grabbed Maka’s hands in hers, eyes alight with amazement. Maka swallowed back a laugh as her friend whispered passionately, “You saw it too, didn’t you? Even Asura didn’t have that many eyes!”
Tsubaki fanned out the landscapes in her hands like playing cards. Each photo had a glossy finish, transforming from mountainous to arboraceous as they traveled further eastwards, 2,000 miles of vivid Americana splayed at her fingertips.
“Tsubaki, these are incredible,” Kid whispered. They were in the backseat of the van as Liz drove down Route 64. It was quiet, the white noise of rubber gliding across asphalt lulling the other passengers to either sleep or silence. Balanced on Tsubaki’s lap was her graduation present from the rest of them: a digital Kodak housed safely in its black travel bag, now decorated with souvenir pins and charms from each state.
“They’d be better if I knew when to switch lenses,” she said, pointing to a shot of a Colorado mesa. “See? I probably should’ve used a 35 here instead of an 85.”
“Regardless, your composition is already stellar.” The flat-topped formations framed the sunset on both sides, mirrored shadows digging deeply into the auburn sand. He sighed. “Isn’t it incredible how even nature herself bows her humble head to symmetry?”
The second batch of photos featured shots of all seven of them, mostly candid, capturing scenes like Maka and Patti comparing tongue colors while eating shaved ice at Six Flags, or Liz cursing as she struggled to change a flat on the side of I-70. At the bottom of the stack was the oldest picture in the collection, and one of the only ones where they all were in the frame. They were posing goofily in front of a large green road sign that boasted: Now Entering Death City: Home of the Death Weapon Meister Academy. The Mojave shimmered and melted around them.
Despite being taken only a few days prior, the photo made Kid deeply nostalgic, as if physical distance had become inexplicably bound to temporal distance, the minutes stretching into years the farther they got from his hometown. His soul twinged with something akin to protectiveness and longing.
Tsubaki gently nudged him out of his reverie. “You can keep that one, if you’d like.”
He shook his head and handed the stack back to her. “Thanks, but they’re yours.”
She looked as if she was about to argue before hesitating. “I’ll make copies for everyone when we get back,” she promised instead, carefully tucking the slips into her purse.
“I’m sure we’d all really appreciate that.” Kid smiled, fully and brightly as he had in the photo, aware that she could see every detail of it.
Disoriented by the liminality of the American interstate, the teens measured distance not by miles or hours, but by memories given tangible form: the growing number of fast-food wrappers and losing scratch-off tickets shoved between seat cushions, or the texture of the steering wheel as its felt cover wore beneath their sweat-slick palms. Glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the van’s roof and dashboard flashed neon through every underpass after absorbing sunlight like chlorophyll, brighter and closer than any constellation ever could. At dusk, herds of headlights pierce the dark where the moonlight doesn’t, artificially illuminating the blacktop to the nearest motor inn or campground.
They knew in their hearts that no matter how far they drive, they never would have left Death City, not entirely. Its desert sand had long ago burrowed into the grooves of their shoe soles, underneath their nails and behind their ears, into their very blood and bones. The individual grains built the dunes that composed the heart of their friendship, making it so that as long as they were together, the unmistakable feeling of home was right alongside them.
Beach sand, Liz noted, was softer than desert sand, sediment beaten fine by the ocean’s caress rather than arid heat and dust storms. She all but collapsed onto it after climbing out of the driver’s seat, stretching her stiff limbs and pillowing her head with her palms. The gentle rhythm of the waves was inaudible over the sound of adolescent exhilaration and the sharp squeal of fireworks slicing the air. Neon sparks grazed the moon before trickling downward, looking as if the stars themselves were falling to decorate the earth.
The bags of fireworks Black Star and Patti had bought in Kansas were half-empty when Maka joined Liz’s side. She grabbed two lukewarm Capri-Suns from the cooler and sat beside her, tossing one to the weapon.
“Aren’t you going to join in the fun?” Maka asked, punching the straw into her pouch. She sounded slightly out of breath.
“In a bit,” Liz said. She sat up and shook the sand from her hair. “Patti knows to save a few Roman candles for me.”
Maka hummed in acknowledgment, a comfortable quiet settling between them as they drank. Soul, Patti, and Black Star dove into the sand as they launched bottle rockets at each other, trails of corkscrewing sparks briefly illuminating their silhouettes before dissolving into ash. Occasionally, a flash of light would puncture the scene from a distance as Tsubaki taught Kid how to use the disposable camera he bought at the hotel gift shop, the meister contorting his body to capture the perfect angle.
Liz remembered when she and Patti had watched Times Square bring in the New Year, perched atop a rusty fire escape that threatened to crumble with every resounding cheer and bang. Yet even with its lack of spectacle, the same feeling of hope bloomed in her soul as she watched her friends play on the Virginian coast, bringing with it the snake-shedding of the uneasy past and promises of a better future.
“You know,” Maka started, “I wasn’t sure about this trip at first.” She laughed shyly. “I guess Soul’s grandma was right after all.”
“About what?”
“‘The charm of the highway strip.’ Something about how nobody can resist having fun on a road trip, no matter how much they thought they’d hate it.”
Liz nodded. She didn’t tell her that that was actually the name of a 90’s indie album she had once recommended to Soul, or that he had hated almost every track on it, calling it a ‘pretentious synthpop Johnny Cash knock-off.’ Instead, she leaned her juice pouch towards Maka’s, dusk hiding her wry smile.
“To Grandma Evans, then.” Laughing, they lightly tapped the silver bags together.
“To Grandma Evans,” Maka parroted. “And to us. For making it this far.”
A stray bottle rocket whizzed past Maka’s ear, sending her into a choking fit. Black Star and Patti droned an accusatory ‘ooh’ as Soul struggled to hide evidence of his misfire. His eyes met with his partner’s, and he barely had enough time to gain his footing before Maka and Liz shot towards them in a race for retribution, loudly swearing vengeance. Kid and Tsubaki abandoned their cameras and joined in the chaos, the latter desperately trying to invoke a ceasefire amidst the smoke and sand.
In a week, the teenagers would be engaged in a different kind of combat, one of life-and-death against a Kishin egg on the balmy edge of the Chesapeake. But for now, they were free, tripping over firework shells and their own growing limbs, laughter carried towards the summer’s end by the warm sea breeze.