Page 13 of Born to be Wilder

“Careful!” Alice scolded. “This isn’t a freaking race, Mario Andretti!”

“Calm down. I got ’er under control.” She swerved around a pothole, and the motion sent something sliding in one of the overhead compartments. There was a thump, and Doris flinched.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Probably just stuff settling,” Marge said.

Another thump.

Doris furrowed her brow. “It’s our suitcases in the overhead storage. Are you sure they’re safe up there? I don’t want them to fall on our heads.”

“It’s fine,” Marge said. “I checked the latches myself. You can trust me.”

A third thump, and then the overhead compartment above the dining booth swung open and Doris’s suitcase—the one with the knitted cover—dropped directly onto the table in front of her with a crash that sent its contents flying.

Silence.

“So, what was that about trusting you?” Alice asked flatly.

Marge didn’t answer, instead reaching over and cranking up the radio, belting out the chorus to “Born to Be Wild” but adding “wilder” at the end instead.

We all shared a look. Then I shrugged and bellowed the “born to be wilder” chorus with her.

“Well, when in Rome,” Alice said, then sang too, and Doris joined just after.

Marge hit the horn again, which played its little melody out into the gray winter morning, and with the four of us singing our theme song, Bertha rolled on south toward New Orleans.

That was if Marge could get us there alive.

Chapter Four

“Marge!” Alice grabbed the armrest as Bertha lurched into the left lane. “Signal before you change lanes! There are rules of the road!”

“I signaled.”

“Well, then signal us! Our first stop on this trip will be the emergency room when you’ve given us all whiplash.”

“Sorry. Bertha’s got smooth handling. It’s not my fault she maneuvers like the Millennium Falcon.”

“I don’t even know what that means, but what I do know is you need to slow down!”

I clung tightly to my seat belt in the passenger seat, nodding along with Alice. “It’s been five hours and you still haven’t gotten the hang of this thing, Marge. You said you could drive it.”

Marge scoffed, gesturing a hand to the open highway before us. “I am driving it. Look at us go! We’re making killer time.”

“Killer is the operative word here, Marge.” Alice squeezed her temples.

“I’m going to be sick,” Doris whispered from behind us.

The RV jerked as Marge spun to look back.

“Eyes on the road!” Alice and I shouted in unison.

“Sorry,” Marge grumbled. “Just don’t let her puke on the furniture. I don’t want to lose my security deposit if I bring this thing back smelling like a college dorm room.”

“Well, driving like a madman is a sure way to make us all puke, Marge.”

She eased up on the gas, Bertha’s engine quieting as we slowed down. “Fine, ya bunch of ninnies.”