For the first two hours of the drive, the energy pulsing between the two of us is absolutely tangible. I navigate and play DJ while Millie belts along to old Britney Spears, Destiny’s Child, and even a little Dolly Parton, which Millie swears helps her channel her bravest self.
Around hour three, we stop for gas and a few snacks, including one of those bouquets of Tootsie Pops. I’ve made this drive a few times with my family, so I know that there’s not much but flatness and a little bit of hill country just outside of Austin, but making this drive at night feels like we’re speeding through a velvety black hole. Out here there’s nothing but the random town every once in a while, and sporadic truckers making the long drive across Texas.
As we’re pulling back out onto the road, Millie reaches for the volume to turn the music back up, but I hit the power button. I don’t want to distract her from the task ahead, but I also have something to say.
“I shouldn’t have blown up at you the way I did,” I tell her.
“But I should’ve just told you. Early on. I could’ve gotten it out of the way.”
“I can see how you would be nervous to do that, though. I’m not what you would call easygoing.”
She laughs. “Well, yes. But that’s exactly what I like about you. You’re intense, and you don’t care if other people know it.”
I laugh. “I don’t know that most people would call those desirable qualities.”
Millie shakes her head resolutely. “Do you know how many people spend their whole lives pretending they don’t care? You’re not like that.”
I sigh. “Well, I do care a little bit, I guess. I just wish I hadn’t released that list of secrets.”
Millie’s lips turn downward. “Me too. I feel awful about that, I do.”
“It’s not like those girls didn’t screw me over. They let me take the blame for the whole team. But . . . I don’t know. What I did . . . was wrong.”
“Maybe you could make it up to them,” says Millie.
I laugh. “Like how? Become their water girl?”
“I do think you’d make a really cute water girl, but no, I mean something different. Like, it sucks that the gym had to drop its sponsorship and it sucks that y’all reacted the way you did, but neither of those things are the real problem.”
“Try telling Inga that,” I mutter.
“The real problem is that the school board budgets so much for the football team and all that’s left for everyone else is peanuts! The Shamrocks have the best competitive record of any team on campus. Y’all should have been way better funded. Frankly, it’s bull—”
“Shit!” I shout. “It’s bullshit!” She’s right. That is the real problem. I’ve been saying it for years. The whole team has. But no one would listen.
“Well, I was going to say bologna, but it is also bull doo-doo.”
“But what can I even do about that?”
“If there’s anything I’ve learned from watching local politics, it’s that decisions are made by those who show up.”
“Okay?”
“And no one shows up to school board meetings,” says Millie.
We spend the next few hours hashing out talking points if I do decide to speak in front of the school board. I’m doubtful, though. To them, I’m just the girl who trashed a local business. Why would they listen to me? When I change the subject and ask Millie about her mom, she goes quiet, which is entirely out of character, but I don’t push.
Soon we’re lowering our visors and reaching for sunglasses as we drive into the sunrise and closer to our destination.
The traffic in Austin is awful, and I’m not just saying that because I live in a town where the biggest traffic jams are caused by school zones and the rare busy drive-through lane overflowing into the street.
Mama says Austin was made to be a tiny-big city, but now it’s trying to be a big-big city in tiny-big-city pants, which actually makes some weird kind of sense.
Millie is the model driver, of course, and turns down the music. Both hands are wrapped so tightly around the wheel her knuckles are turning white.
When we finally do exit for the university, Millie and I both marvel at the size of the campus.
“I think this place is as big as all of Clover City,” I say.
“I think you might be right.”
We take a few wrong turns before finally finding the School of Journalism, but parking is another story. The nearest parking is almost a mile away from the actual building.
“Wow,” says Millie. “If having a car in college requires this much effort, I think I’ll ditch the van for a scooter.”
And for just a brief moment, I picture a future version of Millie zipping all over Austin on a baby-blue Vespa. “You’d be a vision,” I tell her.
She maneuvers the car into a parking spot and pulls the parking brake. “Well, before that happens, I have to make myself presentable.” She looks around the lot. “Keep an eye out while I change in the back?”
“What else are friends for?”
While she wrestles around in the back, I check my phone. There’s only one message.
MAMA: I read your note. We will talk when you get home. I spoke with Millie’s parents. Please be careful. This doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble.
I breathe a sigh of relief. That wasn’t so horrible. I’m definitely grounded again, but I can live with that.
“Okay!” Millie says. “Let’s do this.”
When she hops out of the van, Millie’s wearing Mama’s red lipstick and a black dress with daisies all over. “Wow,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in black.”
She nods seriously. “I wanted to go for something that said serious but fun.”
“Serious fun.”
“Precisely. And the daisies felt like the perfect amount of irony.” She takes a deep breath. “We gotta move before I lose my nerve.”
We walk through the campus and find our way back to the journalism building, and as we stand at the steps, unsuspecting students stream past us. They’re all so close in age to us, but somehow so much more grown-up.
I squeeze Millie’s hand.
She nods, and we walk in shoulder-to-shoulder, straight to the faculty offices.
We stop in front of the office of Dr. Michelle Coffinder.
Millie squares her shoulders and lands three solid knocks on the door.
After a moment, a younger, round Asian woman opens the door. She wears a black-and-white checkered pencil skirt and a pineapple-patterned neon-yellow blouse. Her curly, short turquoise-streaked hair frames her face, while managing to be unruly yet cool.
I watch as Millie’s face basically turns into the heart-eyes emoji. If this is Dr. Coffinder, she’s also Millie’s long-lost edgier twin.
“Dr. Coffinder?” Millie asks in confused wonder.
The woman lets out a full belly laugh. “Oh, hell no. I’m her TA.”
“Oh, right,” says Millie. “Of course. Well, I’m here to speak to Dr. Coffinder.”
The door swings open to reveal a tall, thin but muscular guy with sandy-blond hair. If this guy isn’t already on the news, he will be one day. “Do you have an appointment?” he asks.
“N-n-no,” says Millie, suddenly cowering.
“But it’s an emergency,” I interject.
The guy looks dryly from me to Millie. “What?” he asks. “Daddy’s gonna ground you all summer for failing mass comm?”
“Actually, we’re not students,” says Millie. “I’m here to speak to Dr. Coffinder about the summer broadcast journalism camp for high school students. She’s the head of the program.”
Something clicks for both of them, like they suddenly recognize her.
“Grant, Iris, I’m taking an early lunch,” a lofty voice void of any accent calls, before a petite woman with quintessentially Texas hair appears from an adjoining office. “Well, this is quite the traffic jam,” she says, motioning to the four of us in the doorway.
“Dr. Coffinder,” says the girl who I’m assuming is Iris. “These girls are here to see you, but they don’t have an appointment.”
Dr. Coffinder turns to us. The curls of her blond hair are so perfect I swear she must sleep with Coke cans in her hair. She wears a cream pencil skirt with a tulip hem, and a silk sleeveless burgundy blouse shows off her well-defined arms. Even I’m a little intimidated by how perfect she is.
“Girls,” she says, “I can’t do anything once grades are posted. I gave plenty of chances for makeup work. If you failed, you’ll just have to spend another semester with me.”
“No,” says Millie. “This is about the summer program you run for high school students. Please.” Her voice is even, yet urgent. “I just need a moment of your time.”
Dr. Coffinder. “And you?”
All eyes turn to me. “Emotional support.”
Dr. Coffinder thinks for a moment. “You’ll have to make it quick. There’s a taco truck calling my name, and when they run out of their barbacoa, that’s it. They close up shop for the day.”
Millie nods. “Yes, ma’am.”