“I think I want to wear it,” I say once we’re back in the car and I start to peel off my tank top.
“K. J.,” Becka squeals, eyes flashing toward two guys walking past my window.
I continue with my shirt swap anyway. “It’s just a sports bra. And it’s not like we’ll ever see them again.”
But one guy keeps staring even after I’m fully clothed. I stick out my tongue at him, and he looks away. Becka and I are still cracking up about it as we merge back onto the highway.
CHAPTER 20BECKA
THE KEYS AREN’T WHAT I EXPECTED, BUT IN THE very best way. With the windows rolled down, K. J. and I cruise along the two-lane highway, nothing but ocean surrounding us. The sight of so much blue is surreal, and at times, a little unnerving. But it’s all good. Salt water and sunlight fill my nostrils, and right now it’s the most wonderful smell in the world.
“This is so badass,” K. J. says for probably the tenth time. She holds one hand out the window, fingers splayed against the rushing wind as she drives. We’ve left Marathon behind, and according to Google Maps, the next island will be Big Pine Key.
“How on earth did they build this highway?” I ask, awestruck.
K. J. draws her hand back inside the car, curling her fingers around the top of the steering wheel. “I’m not sure. I’m gonna have to look that up later.”
“So you’ve really never been outside Oklahoma or Arkansas? Until these trips, anyway?”
“We went to a feed mill in Kansas on a field trip one time,” she says with a shrug.
I’m not exactly a world traveler, but I feel a little guilty as I count up all the states I’ve traveled to for soccer tournaments or family vacations—six at least. “I think maybe Grandpa saved the best place for last,” I admit, because I think we’re both falling in love with the Keys already. How could we not? And snuba diving sounds like a lot of fun.
“You might be right about that,” K. J. says.
I glance over at her in the driver’s seat with her cropped hair waving in the breeze and her face the picture of contentment. Over twenty hours in the car together and not only are we both still sane, but maybe even happy. And the funny thing is, I’m not really sure how we arrived to this point.
It’s early afternoon by the time we make it to our final destination: Key West. The island hums with people, but no one seems to be in a hurry to get where they’re going. Even inside the car, I can sense the unique energy all around me, like tropical paradise meets small town quaintness. It’s definitely unlike any place I’ve ever been, that’s for sure. As we drive down the main drag, I point out a Willie Nelson lookalike walking down the sidewalk with a parrot on his shoulder.
K. J. does a double take and laughs. “This place is amazing.”
We find our hotel, a retro-looking two-story building called Senna’s Place, and after driving around the same block three times, finally spot a place to park on a narrow side street. Lugging our suitcases to the front desk, we’re greeted by an overly made-up receptionist with a beehive hairdo and fake nails so long they look uncomfortable. She checks us in and points the way to our room.
“I think Grandpa would have liked this place,” I say, gazing around at the decor in the hotel hallway. It’s a combination of tropical and flamboyant, the walls lined with paintings of golden pineapples and colorful fish, as well as neon abstract art. Hot pink and electric blue draperies adorn the windows. It’s definitely eccentric.
“Probably so,” K. J. says, pausing to look at a picture of a bright turquoise fish.
We stash our things in the room and decide to have a look around. After all, this isn’t the kind of place where you hang out at your hotel.
“I heard that Ernest Hemingway lived here,” I say as we pass back by the front desk. “I think his home is a museum now.”
K. J. gives me a puzzled look. “Who’s that?”
“You’re kidding, right? You don’t know who Ernest Hemingway is? A Farewell to Arms was probably my favorite novel from senior English.”
K. J. finally cracks a smile. “I’m just jackin’ with you. He had the six-toed cats, right?”
That’s not exactly what he’s best known for, but of course K. J. would know this piece of information. “I think so. Wanna go check it out?”
“Sure, I’m game.”
We stop for a late lunch at a sidewalk café and soon learn that half the fun of being here is the people-watching. We see every kind of outfit imaginable—from leather pants to elegant floral sundresses. Several people wear full-fledged costumes, and there’s even a demented-looking clown. Two guys Rollerblade past in nothing but skimpy Speedos, and a woman in a bikini top and purple tutu performs some kind of interpretive dance on the street corner.
“Are we even in America right now?” K. J. asks after finishing off her sandwich. “I’ve never seen anything like this place.”
“Can you imagine living here?” I ask as two people in formal frilly dresses sashay past. “It would be so fun. Like a permanent vacation.”
But K. J.’s attention has already been diverted. “Oh my god,” she says. “Chickens!”
Sure enough, there they are, strutting along the sidewalk, right in front of us.
“What in the world? You think maybe they got loose from a farm or something?” Even as I say this, I can’t imagine there being any farms around here—at least not like the ones in Arkansas. This island is way too small and crowded.
K. J. doesn’t respond but instead jumps up from her seat to follow them. She attempts to reach down and catch one, but the chicken isn’t having it. It darts across the street
