Real-Life American Pie

It's like this:
The gas station is dirty, and that's how we like it. We wear the uniform of the new Americana, we slog down Coke like it's our duty, we say prayers like it's our mission. The summer day is hot and the hammered metal body of the car is hotter, our young skin winces at the touch, we sit in the back anyways.

I have always believed that gas stations are the pinnacle of American innovation. Well, I don't know if the first gas station was in America, but even so. A million little stops along the highway of life to refuel, re-try. I feel like there's no judgment in gas stations. You can come in wearing your pajamas and buy a pack of hostess cupcakes and no one will look at you twice.

So, there we are: Five of us, in the back of a truck, whooping in the wind like kids should do in the summer. Some of us still sport chocolate on our lips and we hold empty wrappers in our hands. The stench of rubber's in the air. Jake's driving. He's not a good driver, but it's his truck so we put up with it. We're on our way somewhere, but I don'r know where. Rachel would know. She's the type that always knows what's going on, never drinks or smokes, always watching with these cool detached eyes. She's curled up against Melanie right now, and she's watching the way Melanie laughs. I wonder if she knows how Rachel feels about her. I wonder if Rachel knows herself.

         "Rachel," I say. She looks up. She's never startled, as if she was expecting you to say something.
         "Yeah?" I can never tell whether she likes me or not.
         "Do you know where we're going, what we're doing?" All of the sudden, she grins. She doesn't do that a lot, Rachel doesn't grin just like Mark doesn't swear and I don't cry.
         "Absolutely none." And then I'm laughing, and she's laughing. The whole bed of the truck is laughing, we shout into the dusty air that grabs our words and tears them from our throats. We are drowsy and confused, I swear at some point Jake comes out of the car and joins us in the back but no one takes his place and it must be goddamn Kerouac himself who's turning the steering wheel, because there we are rocketing down the Nevada road with spirits high, throats loud and only the beat of our hearts to guide us.