Paper Towns — Chapter no 30

The First Hour

It takes a little while for everyone to explain to their parents that 1. We’re

all going to miss graduation, and 2. We’re driving to New York, to 3. See a

town that may or may not technically exist, and hopefully 4. Intercept the

Omnictionary poster, who according to the Randomly capitalized Evidence

is 5. Margo Roth Spiegelman.

Radar is the last to get off the phone, and when he finally does, he says,

“I’d like to make an announcement. My parents are very annoyed that I’m

missing graduation. My girlfriend is also annoyed, because we were

scheduled to do something very special in about eight hours. I don’t want to

get into details about it, but this had better be one fun road trip.”

“Your ability to not lose your virginity is an inspiration to us all,” Ben

says next to me.

I glance at Radar through the rearview mirror. “WOOHOO ROAD

TRIP!” I tell him. In spite of himself, a smile creeps across his face. The

pleasure of leaving.

By now we are on I-4, and traffic is fairly light, which in and of itself is

borderline miraculous. I’m in the far left lane driving eight miles an hour

over the fifty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit, because I heard once that you

don’t get pulled over until you’re going nine miles an hour over the speed

limit.

Very quickly, we all settle into our roles.

In the wayback, Lacey is the provisioner. She lists aloud everything we

currently have for the trip: the half of a Snickers that Ben was eating when I

called about Margo; the 212 beers in the back; the directions I printed out;

and the following items from her purse: eight sticks of wintergreen gum, a

pencil, some tissue, three tampons, one pair of sunglasses, some ChapStick,

her house keys, a YMCA membership card, a library card, some receipts,

thirty-five dollars, and a BP card.

From the back, Lacey says, “This is exciting! We’re like under-

provisioned pioneers! I wish we had more money, though.”

“At least we have the BP card,” I say. “We can get gas and food.”

I look up into the rearview mirror and see Radar, wearing his graduation

gown, looking over into Lacey’s purse. The graduation gown has a bit of a

low-cut neck, so I can see some curled chest hairs. “You got any boxers in

there?” he asks.

“Seriously, we better be stopping at the Gap,” Ben adds.

Radar’s job, which he begins with the calculator on his handheld, is

Research and Calculations. He’s alone in the row of seats behind me, with

the directions and the minivan’s owner’s manual spread out next to him.

He’s figuring out how fast we need to travel in order to make it by noon

tomorrow, how many times we’ll need to stop in order to keep the car from

running out of gas, the locations of BP stations on our route and how long

each stop will be, and how much time we’ll lose in the process of slowing

down to exit.

“We gotta stop four times for gas. The stops will have to be very very

short. Six minutes at the most off-highway. We’re looking at three long

areas of construction, plus traffic in Jacksonville, Washington, D.C., and

Philadelphia, although it will help that we’re driving through D.C. around

three in the morning. According to my calculations, our average cruising

speed should be around seventy-two. How fast are you going?”

“Sixty-three,” I say. “The speed limit is fifty-five.”

“Go seventy-two,” he says.

“I can’t; it’s dangerous, and I’ll get a ticket.”

“Go seventy-two,” he says again. I press my foot down hard on the gas.

The difficulty is partly that I am hesitant to go seventy-two and partly that

the minivan itself is hesitant to go seventy-two. It begins to shake in a way

that implies it might fall apart. I stay in the far left lane, even though I’m

still not the fastest car on the road, and I feel bad that people are passing me

on the right, but I need clear road ahead, because unlike everyone else on

this road, I can’t slow down. And this is my role: my role is to drive, and to

be nervous. It occurs to me that I have played this role before.

And Ben? Ben’s role is to need to pee. At first it seems like his main

role is going to be complaining about how we don’t have any CDs and that

all the radio stations in Orlando suck except for the college radio station,

which is already out of range. But soon enough, he abandons that role for

his true and faithful calling: needing to pee.

“I need to pee,” he says at 3:06. We’ve been on the road for forty-three

minutes. We have approximately a day left in our drive.

“Well,” says Radar, “the good news is that we will be stopping. The bad

news is that it won’t be for another four hours and thirty minutes.”

“I think I can hold it,” Ben says. At 3:10, he announces, “Actually, I

really need to pee. Really.”