Notes From the Backseat by Jody Gehrman Page A

ask them to put the damn top up. What was this, some kind of naturalists’ boot camp?
    I was just leaning forward to make my request when two things happened at once. Coop turned his head slightly and said, “You cold, kitten?” The words weren’t even out of his mouth when the engine coughed a few times, sputtered briefly and died.
    Coop guided it onto the crumbling, almost nonexistent shoulder and stared at the dash. “That’s weird,” he said. “Sounded like we ran out of gas, but the gauge says we’re still half full.”
    There was a pause.
    Dannika broke the silence. “Actually, the gauge is sort of…broken.”
    I leaned back and sighed.
    Coop just looked at her. “You’re kidding me.”
    â€œNo,” she said. “It’s busted. It hasn’t worked for months.”
    He ran a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you mention this before we got all the way out here?”
    â€œI thought you knew!”
    His voice turned incredulous. “How would I know this, Danni?” I didn’t like the nickname, but I relished the tone of their conversation. They were bickering and if they kept it up the exchange would escalate into a proper fight. Usually I hate violence, but in this case, I thought I could make an exception.
    â€œJesus, I’m sorry, okay?” Her voice didn’t sound very apologetic. “I forgot you haven’t driven my car in a while.” The subtext was complicated but clear: I forgot you’ve been so wrapped up with the little bitch in the backseat that you’ve neglected me and my precious car for months.
    Coop backed off. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Who’s got a cell phone?” We all looked at each other blankly. “Dammit,” he said, slapping the steering wheel, but he was laughing a little now. “A couple of technophobes and a retro purist. Why couldn’t we have one normal, mainstream American on board?”
    It was kind of funny. I laughed with him.
    Dannika didn’t even crack a smile. “Great. So what now?”
    â€œYou have a map?” he asked.
    She shook her head, no.
    â€œShit.” Coop wasn’t laughing this time.
    â€œIt’s a straight shot up the coast,” she told him. “Why would I need a map? ” She was whining now, and I thought, careful, girl, your Donna Horney’s showing.
    We all looked around at the sloping hills turning rapidly darker. There were a few stars out, now. The stretch of highway disappeared around curves both ahead and behind. There were scraggly coastal trees, bent over like old people from all those years of wind. We were truly out in the sticks. The air smelled of cypress and salt—clean and cold. In the distance, I could hear seals barking.
    I closed my eyes and visualized where we were on a map. Remember how you used to call me Navigation Girl? You always said it was my superpower. This time it was easy, since you and I used to drive this stretch a lot in high school, although usually we’d head south at Point Reyes Station so we could sit on the beach in Bolinas and watch the hippies surf, scanning the waters for sharks. We were maybe four miles north of Point Reyes Station now; the stretch ahead was pretty desolate.
    â€œOur best bet is to backtrack to the last town we passed,” I said.
    They both looked at me in surprise, as if they’d forgotten I was back there.
    â€œWe haven’t passed anything for miles,” Dannika snapped.
    â€œYeah, we did,” I said. “Point Reyes Station. It’s easy to miss, but I’m pretty sure they have a gas station.”
    â€œI would have noticed,” she said.
    Coop smiled at me in the lengthening shadows. “That’s right. You grew up around here, didn’t you?”
    I nodded reluctantly. “Yeah.”
    I know you’re proud of being a Sonoma County girl, but for me it’s a lot more