Maria pulls out my phone and searches for her on social media.
“See?”
“I’m driving,” I say, trying to glance at the phone. “She’s all right, I guess.” I try to sound indifferent, though the memory of her smile is more vivid than I want it to be. “But she’s also a life ruiner, so there’s that.”
Maria snorts and continues to scroll through her phone. I keep my eyes fixed on the road, willing myself not to ask to look at the photo of Valentina again, even though curiosity gnaws at me.
Suddenly, we hear a sputter in the engine of my car. A noise I’ve become accustomed to. Maria? Not so much.
“I seriously hate your car,” Maria whines.
“What? Why? What’s wrong with Miss Piggy?”
“Whatisn’twrong with Miss Piggy?” She snorts.
Miss Piggy is the name I so endearingly have given to my old 2000 Volkswagen Beetle. It was a high school graduation gift from my father. He even took it to my cousin to paint it pink since that’s my favorite color.
“This will take you to college and back for years and years, mija,” he insisted, despite the car being over a decade old and already having over 170,000 miles on it at that time. That was six years ago. The poorly done paint job has been chipping off like my toenail polish—slowly and painfully.
“Don’t dis the pig,” I say. “She’s doing great!”
I pat her on the dashboard a few times.
“You’re joking, right? You had to jumpstart her before we even left the restaurant.”
I swerve to the right lane, finally getting ready to merge off the highway.
“Don’t you ever need a jumpstart in the morning after a deep sleep? She’s a badass. Look how far she’s gone with no issues.”
The dashboard looks like a light show, with nearly every symbol turned on, alerting me that something is wrong. Most of them have been on for years. I survive off my measly restaurant salary. I can’t afford to get her fixed, and I certainly can’t afford another car. Plus, it’s Miss Piggy. She’s going to the grave with me.
“As long as we don’t crash and die, I guess we’ll be all right,” Maria whimpers.
“We won’t crash. Miss Piggy wouldn’t allow it,” I reply confidently.
Miss Piggy can’t let us die. I literally cannot afford to die. Not only will we not make it to the wedding, but the restaurant will undoubtedly close. Oh, and we’d be dead. We drive past a green highway sign that reads, “Entering Lee.” After another painstaking stretch of gravel, we finally make it to the exit and into town.
“We’reheeeere,” Maria says in a sing-songy voice. “Take it all in, Isa. It’s super cute, isn’t it?”
It really is cute. Driving into the Berkshires feels like you’re stepping into a different world. One you’d only see on a show likeGilmore Girls, where everyone is super kind and they host random festivals in the town square. I suddenly start to feel the excitement I have been bottling in since yesterday, when Maria told me about the opportunity. I’ve been so worried about the restaurant and ensuring everything is perfect that I haven’t even thought about how I’m finally fulfilling my childhood dream of going to summer camp, albeit as a twenty-five-year-old adult woman. Plus, I finally get to see my cousin again after ten years.
I lower the window and allow the cool breeze to touch my cheeks as we pass through a line of colonial houses. Finally, we turn the corner and reach the main street. I take in every single detail. There are lampposts every several feet marking the way down the road. I can already picture them covered with green garlands during the holiday season and feel the urge to book a return trip just to see the Christmas lights everywhere. To my right is a small park with a few gazebos to relax in.
Local shops are on each side of the road, nestled close together, leaving no room for error. People are walking on the sidewalks, shopping, eating, and enjoying the last few days of summer. We continue driving past.
“So,” Maria says, breaking the silence. “Are you going to tell me what was in that letter you had yesterday?”
Miss Piggy sputters briefly, jerking us forward slightly, but chugs along.
“Come on, girl. We’re so close,” I tell my car. “It’s a letter from my father,” I finally say to Maria, trying not to let Miss Piggy’s inevitable demise distract me. But, unfortunately, I recognize these signs all too well.
“Another puzzle? No fucking way. You have to show me!”
“Shit. Shit. Shit!” I shout as I bang on the steering wheel.
Miss Piggy begins to slow down just enough for me to get into the breakdown lane. We’re not too far from the campsite; I can’t believe she’d give up on me now.
“What’s going on?” Maria asks.
