American Vacanza

ethan and the dragon breath • siena

The Naomi we had just dropped off at home was nothing like the Naomi I knew. We had been best friends once, but it was stupid of me to think that would carry over. I hadn't told this to Madison and Ethan, but that whole story about her parents being overprotective? Completely made up.

In eighth grade, Naomi had brought home three C's on her report card. I was at her house when the cards were mailed out, and her mom got mad - but eventually smiled, warm and broad as the California sun, and told Naomi that as long as she was trying, it was okay.

But in the car today, Naomi said her parents would kill her if she even got a 97. On a test. Something didn't quite add up. She had always been nervous when it came to trying new things, and I knew she was just being scared when she said her parents wouldn't approve.

Whatever. I didn't want to spend the trip with a complainer anyway. But that meant I had no choice but to talk to - and maybe even spend time with-  Madison. And maybe even (ew) Ethan.

"I'm hungry," Ethan complained for, honestly, the 6438th time. "Can you pull over so we can eat?"

It made me mad that we had been hovering around Palmsville for an hour and a half, going in and out of Naomi's house. We might even be in another state right now if she hadn't made us turn around.

"All right. I'll look for a place." We had literally just gotten on the highway, and now we had to stop again for Ethan. So far, nothing good had come from the guests in our car. Well, neither had Madison, though, to be fair.

I leaned my head against the window, which was scorching hot from the sun outside. I couldn't help but notice that every single car, rushing past us on the interstate, was better than this death trap. An RV rumbled past, a big bus that probably could have carted twenty people. Why didn't Mom and Dad get us an RV, instead? Then, I could space myself out from these losers.

I bet none of the cars that rushed by were driving to New York. Who drove from California to New York, anyway? Nobody would be crazy enough to. Any sane person with a decent salary would buy a plane ticket. Actually, when you added up gas costs and hotel bills and stuff, driving couldn't be that much cheaper than flying. I'd do the math, but my phone was dead, so I leaned over and shut my eyes.

I was deep into my yoga breaths when the car came to a halt. "Linda's Diner. Doesn't it look charming?" announced Madison, gesturing to the restaurant that sat before us. It was built with brick, next to an alley, and about as big as my bedroom (but, to be fair, my bedroom was pretty big).

Upon entrance, my eyes fell upon the ripped leather cushions in the booths, the cork-tile walls, covered with everything from napkins to vintage record covers, and the shiny vinyl seats at the counter.

It was the stereotypical American diner, and I couldn't imagine a more stereotypical road-trip lunch. The place was a living, breathing work of art, from its faded neon sign that read "Linda's Diner" to the striped blue awning above the door. The waitress, upon seeing us outside, scowled.

We stepped inside, ringing the bell that hung above the doorway. "Welcome to Linda's Diner," the waitress, her chestnut hair up in a messy, pen-filled bun, twanged. "Please, have a seat."

I could tell Madison was about to make some sort of trademark sarcastic remark, so I cut in, not wanting to anger the woman who would probably be cooking our food. "Thank you!" I chirped, and we sat down in the best-looking booth they had; half of the booths had worn leather and ripped backings.

She grabbed some menus from the counter and threw them down on our table. The establishment didn't serve anything special; coleslaw, fries, seven different types of club sandwiches. Something called the Dragon Breath Challenge caught my eye at the bottom. I didn't know what it was, and based on the context, I had no intent on finding out.