tractor-trailers idling, picnic tables, square building in the middle.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?”
“Welcome center.”
“Florida?”
“North Carolina.”
Other student vehicles arrived. Vermont. Rhode Island. Football stickers. Greek letters.
The rest of the station wagon’s occupants returned from rest-rooms and vending machines. Doritos, coffee. They switched drivers and pulled back onto the highway. Radio low.
“
The signs began. Every few minutes. SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, 112 M ILES… 105 M ILES… 98…
“Aren’t we going to find a motel?” asked Andy.
“Absolutely not,” said Joey.
“It’s spring break,” said Doogie.
“And?”
“You have to drive straight through all the way or it doesn’t count.”
SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, 53 M ILES… K EEP Y ELLING, K IDS. T HEY’LL S TOP.
“When do you think we’ll get there?”
“Three A.M., maybe four,” said Spooge, the just-relieved driver snuggling against a backseat door with a bunched-up beach towel.
Andy opened a borrowed phone. “I’m going to try my dad again.”
“You’ve called a dozen times now.”
“I’ll eventually catch him.” He dialed.
“Gimme that.” Spooge snatched the phone away.
“
The phone folded shut.
“What’d you do that for?” asked Andy.
“We’re on spring break. Chill out.”
A thousand miles north, Agent Oswalt looked at the unfamiliar number of the disconnected call. He hit call.
“New rule,” said Spooge, reaching for a switch on the commandeered cell. “All phones off.”
South Carolina line.
SOUTH OF THE B ORDER, I M ILE.
Andy stared out the window at a giant, lighted sombrero marking the historic kitschy rest stop. “I got Mexican jumping beans there when I was a kid.”
“What did you say?”
“Just talking to myself.”
He lay back and closed his eyes. Snoring…
A wild cheer went up in the station wagon.
Andy shook his groggy head. “What is it?”
The driver pointed at a passing sign:
WELCOME TO F LORIDA.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Two states.” A traffic citation ripped in half. “I just need to stay out of Georgia for seven years.”
They still had a good ways down to the gulf coast. But finally, twenty-nine hours after leaving their New England tundra, the students arrived in the hot, sticky Panama City night.
“There’s our hotel.”
The pasty foursome stared up at a flickering neon sign of a smiling alligator standing on its hind legs. It was one of those older, animated jobs from the sixties. Every other second, the gator pumped its reptilian claws up and down like a go-go dancer.
The station wagon pulled into the parking lot. Students rolled baggage toward the office, past a newspaper box with a photo of Andy’s father on the front page.
Next to the box, two students in orange-and-blue T-shirts sat sullenly on the curb, chins in hands.
Andy stopped rolling luggage. “You guys okay?”
“We didn’t make reservations,” said Melvin Davenport.
“That’s crazy,” said Spooge. “The whole city’s sold out. You do realize you’re not going to find anything.”
Melvin gave Cody a look.
“I got an idea,” said Spooge. “It’s a budget motel, but it’s still beach priced.”
“We
“And sleeping bags,” said Cody.
“But then we’re up to six,” said Andy. “It’s over the room limit.”
“That’s practically empty compared to our other trips,” said Doogie.
“Room limits are just suggestions,” said Spooge.
“I’ll go check in,” said Joey. “You two wait here so they don’t see you.”
The others walked the rest of the way across the lot and pushed open the lobby door of the Alligator Arms.
ALLIGATOR ARMS, ROOM 534
Loud knocking on the door.
Serge opened up. “Welcome to hell.”
Two women entered with duffel bag straps over shoulders. Country began coughing. “What’s all that smoke?”
City fanned the air in front of her face, staring at the dozen students toking up around Coleman. “Who are all these people?”
“Coleman likes to bring home strays.” Serge reached for Country’s bag. “Let me help you. Any trouble with the landlord?”
“Doesn’t know yet.”
“Smart thinking.” Serge threw the duffel in a corner. “Skipping out on rent always prevents those sentimental farewells.”
“It sucks.”
From across the room: “City! Country!” yelled Coleman. “Welcome to Party Central!”
The students were agog at the sight-“They’re gorgeous!” “I’m in heaven!”-and even more stunned when the women took seats on the couch next to them and grabbed joints.
“Coleman,” asked one of the students, “you actually know them?”
“We go way back. Very close friends.” He turned to the sofa. “Aren’t we?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Serge waved for Country to come over. She handed the number to City and met him by the kitchenette. “What is it?”
“Let me give you the grand tour.” He led her inside the suite’s bedroom and locked the door.
Soon, the rest of the unit was silent, everyone listening to ecstatic female shrieking through the wall.
“
Students gulped.
The bedroom door opened and a bare-chested Serge stuck his head out, wearing a Gatorland baseball cap.
