Page 63 of Chasing Stardust

“I can not pee in there.” I shudder, still clenching my toothbrush and toothpaste. “That place is practically a crime scene.”

“Seriously?” Dash lifts a brow. “What’s wrong with this one?”

I glare at the innocent-looking convenience store just beyond the front bumper as the horrifying, Jackson Pollock–esque images stitch themselves into the intricate quilt of my memories, where I’m certain they’ll fester for all eternity. “Trust me, you don’t wanna know.”

Exhaling an exasperated breath, Dash backs out of the space and heads toward the highway. “You should’ve gone before we—”

“I didn’t need to go in Lexington.” Oh, what a lying liar I am. But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I admit he’s right. I cross my legs, squeezing my knees together. Did he seriously expect me to waltz into a hotel, without a reservation, and ask to use their bathroom?

“I know you’re a camel—it’s almost impressive how long you can hold it—but this is getting ridiculous. Promise me I’m not gonna have another princess and the pee situation on my hands. Because I’m running out of clean underwear.”

I skewer him with a glare.

“Don’t give me that look.” One corner of his mouth tips up. “I’m only watching out for my leather seats.”

I roll my eyes. “Find me a clean bathroom, please?”

“You’ve got it, princess.” Dash hits the gas, heading east toward the next exit. He chews the inside of his cheek before speaking. “You know what you need?”

I still my bouncing legs and turn toward him. “No, but I suspect you’re about to tell me.”

“A GoGirl.”

“A go-what?”

“It’s a . . .” Flushing pink, Dash rakes a hand through his messy hair. “A funnel.”

“What kind of funnel?”

“The kind you—”

“Stop!” I point at a store up ahead, everything but my nagging bladder forgotten. “Let’s try this one!”

“The Quiki-Mart?”

“It looks clean. Cleaner, at least.”

“If you say so.” With a loud sigh, he pulls in and parks. “Third time’s the charm, right?”

“A girl can hope.” I hop out and bolt for the back of the store.

The restroom isn’t the nicest place I’ve ever peed, but it’s a huge step up from the last few places we stopped. After doing my business, I break out the toothbrush and toothpaste. Hopefully, fresh breath will be the good omen I need for the rest of the day.

July 3

New York. The Big Apple. The city that doesn’t sleep. I’ve never seen buildings so tall. The streets are still packed at eleven at night. In a shocking turn of events, Mom seems to know her way around the city. Our first night here, she dragged me to CBGB to see Sonic Youth, where she flashed her boobs . . . again, and we wrote our names on the bathroom wall in permanent marker. Mom said adding our names to decades of graffiti would make us part of something bigger than both of us. We’d be immortalized for all eternity. I’m not sure I’m cool with being immortalized on a bathroom wall for all eternity, but if Mom’s happy, I guess it’s worth it. The next day, after getting lost in Chinatown for over an hour, my erratic mom dragged me to the building where my alleged father lives and almost got us arrested for stalking. After the doorman chased us away, we headed into Central Park and carved my name in a tree directly across the street. Took us forever because Mom wanted it to be perfect. We had to climb the tree first, so my name would “stand out above the rest.” She said he might not realize it, but every time he looks out his window, he’ll see me there. Once I got over the creepiness of the whole thing, I decided it was really sort of sweet. Could she be telling the truth after all? Wouldn’t that be wild?

With her words still fresh in my mind, I pluck Mom’s photo from the diary. I barely recognize her with her blond hair curled and teased like a Cosmopolitan cover model. She’d posed on the sidewalk in front of a grungy redbrick building. And her black T-shirt bore the same four bold-red letters as the ones printed across the white awning above her.

“What the hell is CBGB?” I mutter under my breath. Using the picture as a bookmark, I snap the diary shut and turn to Dash behind the wheel. “Is that some New York hashtag thing?”

“Are you serious?” He does a double take, and his eyebrows nearly reach his hairline. “Holy shit, you are. I can’t believe you’ve never . . .” He huffs out a quiet laugh. “It’s only the birthplace of punk rock!”

“Then we definitely need to go there . . . and Central Park.”

“Central Park is no problem.” He releases a breath. “Unfortunately, CBGB is closed.”

“When do they open?” I tuck the diary into my tote.