Somebody Everybody Listens To by Suzanne Supplee Page B

scared.
    I pulled off to the side of the road and studied the new map again. It was wrinkled now and covered with palm sweat. Best I could tell, I was in Belle Meade, just southwest of downtown. Clearly, I wasn’t going to find a Howard Johnson’s or a Motel 6 around here.
    Just as I was about to take off again, my cell phone rang. “Hello,” I said, trying to sound calm and casual, like things in Nashville were going great.
    â€œAre you a big star yet?” Brenda teased. She sounded a million miles away.
    â€œNot yet,” I replied, and shut off the engine (no wasting gas). I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned against the headrest. My neck and shoulders were stiff with tension, and I thought of Bobby McGee’s big hands suddenly, how good they’d feel on my tired, stressed-out shoulders right about now. Tercell was always bragging about Bobby’s expert massages. Brenda said something, but I wasn’t paying attention. “What?”
    â€œI said, ‘Did you find a motel?’ It was all over the news tonight about the Country Music Festival, and I wondered if you’d have a hard time finding a place to stay.”
    â€œWell, not—” I glanced in the rearview mirror, and a cop car was pulling up behind me. My stomach dropped to my knees; guiltily, I pushed the bag of books off the seat and onto the floorboard. He let out one of those obnoxious siren bleeps.
    â€œYou’ll have to move your car!” he said through the loudspeaker.
    â€œWho’s that ?” asked Brenda.
    He was burly and frowning and pressing my way. “Call you back,” I said, and snapped the phone shut.
    â€œIs there some sort of problem, miss?” he asked, looming in the driver’s-side window.
    â€œNo, sir. I’m just a little lost,” I replied, and held up the map.
    â€œWell, I suggest you find your way out of Belle Meade. This is a private, residential area. No trespassing. No soliciting. No loitering. No driving in the left lane between the hours of six A.M. and nine A.M. or between four P.M. and six P.M. Joggers,” he explained. “Didn’t you read the signs?”
    I thought about mentioning the fact that I had 20/20 vision, yet I still couldn’t read the signs, but decided against it. Maybe they were just a formality anyway; people who truly belonged here didn’t need to read them. “I wasn’t trying to bother anybody. I’m sorry,” I said, and started Goggy’s car.
    As I pulled away, the officer yelled, “Buckle up! It’s the law!” The cell phone rang again—Brenda, I knew. I steered with my knee, buckled the belt with one hand, and reached for the phone with the other. Lightly, I tapped the brake.
    Except it wasn’t the brake.
    Â 
    After a humiliating sobriety test—which I passed with flying colors, of course—I waited in the dark for the tow truck. According to the gruff-sounding man who’d answered the phone, it would cost $115 to haul Goggy’s car to his nearby auto shop and an unspecified amount to fix whatever it was I had busted—on the car, that is. I was fine, and luckily, the stupid stone wall I’d hit was just fine, although why anybody would put a stone wall right next to the road was beyond me. Besides that, it was so low you couldn’t even see it until your car was right on top of it. The cell phone rang, and since the policeman was gone, I answered it.
    â€œHey, Brenda,” I said.
    â€œWhy’d you hang up, Retta? And who was that?”
    â€œOh, nobody. Don’t worry. I’m fine,” I said. Later I would tell her the whole story, but right now I was too tired. The line was silent for a minute. “Brenda?”
    â€œYeah?” she asked.
    I hesitated and tried to steady my voice. “I miss you,” I said, feeling so lonesome I could cry, “and just so you know, it’s not any easier to be the one