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and he falls asleep.

The Colors Were So Real
    Later on Saturday evening, Rory is driving me down the streets of Franklin, giving me the grand tour.
    “We have three Shell gas stations, but each has a different nickname. There’s the Social Shell , where almost everybody goes to get gas. I always see somebody I know there. Then there’s the Secret Shell , which no one notices, because it’s not on one of the main highways. And the last is called the Soviet Shell , because it’s usually out of gas and the snack shelves inside are always empty.”
    “Wow,” I say with a laugh.
    “Franklin was named after the Benjamin Franklin,” Rory says.
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Yeah. He also discovered electricity and invented the carriage odometer and he’s on the hundred dollar bill.”
    “I bet Benjamin Franklin never had to take the bitch seat in a carriage.” Rory brought his Irish setter, Ava, along tonight and apparently she always gets the passenger seat so she can hang her head out the window. “I mean, isn’t it ironic that I’m sitting in the bitch seat while the dog gets the best spot?” I say, making Rory laugh. “My mom would’ve liked your tour. She was real big into history.”
    “Where is she?”
    “She died,” I say quietly, and Rory gives me a sad look. I tell him about the cancer and how much I miss everything from her macaroni lasagna to the way she braided my hair to how she said I love you every night.
    “That macaroni lasagna sounds amazing,” he says, grinning.
    “Oh, my mom kicked Martha Stewart’s ass for sure.” I tune the radio from rap to the hard rock station. “Ror, who is Abby Winchester?”
    “I dunno.” He smacks my hand away from the tuner and flips it back to the rap station.
    I pick at a piece of duct tape holding the truck’s upholstery together. “Mr. Goodwin sure seemed serious about Jack returning Abby’s phone calls today. She’s practically stalking him.”
    “Maybe Mr. Goodwin’s doing some special business with her or something? I don’t know her. She doesn’t go to our school, unless she’s a freshman.”
    “I see.”
    “Why do you care?”
    I tell Rory everything: how Jack didn’t know who I was and how he offered me a private tour.
    Rory gives me a worried look. “Jack’s a good boss…but you shouldn’t get your hopes up about him—he never has serious relationships. Well, except for this one girl—Senator Lukens’s daughter. They dated last year. It didn’t end well apparently.” Rory pauses to drum his hands on the steering wheel. “So he wanted to take you on a private tour?”
    “Yep. I bet he wouldn’t make me take the bitch seat either,” I taunt.
    “Hush.”
    I scratch Ava’s ears. “So my dating prospects are pretty bad so far. I mean, you’re out because you might break your neck trying to kiss me. And Bryant Townsend is a real dick—”
    “I’d rather you date just about anybody besides Douchey McDoucherson.”
    I howl laughing at Bryant’s nickname. “Even, like, that guy who rules North Korea who wears pajamas all the time? You’d be okay with me dating him?”
    Rory stops at a traffic light. “That sounds like a great idea for my next script.” He pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket and the pen from behind his ear. He rips the cap off with his teeth and starts jotting down notes: Hot teen girl kidnapped by ruthless commie bastard/she falls for him/he brainwashes her by impressing her with his knife collection!!!
    During the rest of my driving tour of Franklin, Rory tells me about how he wants to be a famous screenwriter one day. But I can’t figure out what genre Rory writes. What movies have eight million explosions, twice as many deaths, and loads of gratuitous sex scenes?
    We pull into the lot of a place called Tennessee Ballers and park next to a Mercedes convertible. Two pretty girls, a guy, and Jack are climbing out of the car as we speak.
    Crap. Of course Jack would be here, haunting me. I swivel to face Rory.