Paper Towns — Chapter no 33

bottle filled with pee (which looks astoundingly similar to Miller Lite). Ben

deposits the full bottle in the cup holder, grabs the new one from Radar, and

then sighs with relief.

The rest of us, meanwhile, are left to contemplate the pee in the cup

holder. The road is not particularly bumpy, but the shocks on the minivan

leave something to be desired, so the pee swishes back and forth at the top

of the bottle.

“Ben, if you get pee in my brand-new car, I am going to cut your balls

off.”

Still peeing, Ben looks over at me, smirking. “You’re gonna need a hell

of a big knife, bro.” And then finally I hear the stream slow. He’s soon

finished, and then in one swift motion he throws the new bottle out the

window. The full one follows.

Lacey is fake-gagging—or maybe really gagging. Radar says, “God, did

you wake up this morning and drink eighteen gallons of water?”

But Ben is beaming. He is holding his fists in the air, triumphant, and he

is shouting, “Not a drop on the seat! I’m Ben Starling. First clarinet, WPHS

Marching Band. Keg Stand Record Holder. Pee-in-the-car champion. I

shook up the world! I must be the greatest!”

Thirty-five minutes later, as our third hour comes to a close, he asks in a

small voice, “When are we stopping again?”

“One hour and three minutes, if Q keeps pace,” Radar answers.

“Okay,” Ben says. “Okay. Good. Because I have to pee.”

Hour Four

For the first time, Lacey asks, “Are we there yet?” We laugh.

We are, however, in Georgia, a state I love and adore for this reason and

this reason only: the speed limit here is seventy, which means I can up my

speed to seventy-seven. Aside from that, Georgia reminds me of Florida.

We spend the hour preparing for our first stop. This is an important stop,

because I am very, very, very, very hungry and dehydrated. For some

reason, talking about the food we’ll buy at the BP eases the pangs. Lacey

prepares a grocery list for each of us, written in small letters on the backs of

receipts she found in her purse. She makes Ben lean out the passenger-side

window to see which side the gas cap is on. She forces us to memorize our

grocery lists and then quizzes us. We talk through our visit to the gas station

several times; it needs to be as well-executed as a stock car pit stop.

“One more time,” Lacey says.

“I’m the gas man,” Radar says. “After I start the fill-up, I run inside

while the pump is pumping even though I’m supposed to stay near the

pump at all times, and I give you the card. Then I return to the gas.”

“I take the card to the guy behind the counter,” Lacey says.

“Or girl,” I add.

“Not relevant,” Lacey answers.

“I’m just saying—don’t be so sexist.”

“Oh whatever, Q. I take the card to the person behind the counter. I tell

her or him to ring up everything we bring. Then I pee.”

I add, “Meanwhile, I’m getting everything on my list and bringing it up

to the front.”

Ben says, “And I’m peeing. Then when I finish peeing, I’ll get the stuff

on my list.”

“Most importantly shirts,” Radar says. “People keep looking at me

funny.”

Lacey says, “I sign the receipt when I get out of the bathroom.”

“And then the moment the tank is full, I’m going to get in the minivan

and drive away, so y’all had better be in there. I will seriously leave your

asses. You have six minutes,” Radar says.

“Six minutes,” I say, nodding my head. And Lacey and Ben repeat it

also. “Six minutes.” “Six minutes.” At 5:35 P.M., with nine hundred miles

to go, Radar informs us that, according to his handheld, the next exit will

have a BP.

As I pull into the gas station, Lacey and Radar are crouched behind the

sliding door in the back. Ben, seat belt unbuckled, has one hand on the

passenger-door handle and the other on the dashboard. I maintain as much

speed as I can for as long as I can, and then slam on the brakes right in front

of the gas tank. The minivan jolts to a halt, and we fly out the doors. Radar

and I cross in front of the car; I toss him the keys and then run all out to the

food mart. Lacey and Ben have beaten me to the doors, but only just barely.

While Ben bolts for the bathroom, Lacey explains to the gray-haired woman

(it is a woman!) that we’re going to be buying a lot of stuff, and that we’re

in a huge hurry, and that she should just ring items up as we deliver them

and that it will all go on her BP card, and the woman seems a little

bewildered but agrees. Radar runs in, his robe aflutter, and hands Lacey the

card.

Meanwhile, I’m running through the aisles getting everything on my

list. Lacey’s on liquids; Ben’s on nonperishable supplies; I’m on food. I

sweep through the place like I’m a cheetah and the tortilla chips are injured

gazelles. I run an armful of chips and beef jerky and peanuts to the front

counter, then jog to the candy aisle. A handful of Mentos, a handful of

Snickers, and— Oh, it’s not on the list, but screw it, I love Nerds, so I add

three packages of Nerds. I run back and then head over to the “deli”

counter, which consists of ancient turkey sandwiches wherein the turkey

strongly resembles ham. I grab two of those. On my way back to the cash

register, I stop for a couple Starbursts, a package of Twinkies, and an

indeterminate number of GoFast nutrition bars. I run back. Ben’s standing

there in his graduation gown, handing the woman T-shirts and four-dollar

sunglasses. Lacey runs up with gallons of soda, energy drinks, and bottles

of water. Big bottles, the kind of bottles that even Ben’s pee can’t fill.

“ONE MINUTE!” Lacey shouts, and I panic. I’m turning in circles, my

eyes darting around the store, trying to remember what I’m forgetting. I

glance down at my list. I seem to have everything, but I feel like there’s

something important I’ve forgotten. Something. Come on, Jacobsen. Chips,

candy, turkey-that-looks-like-ham, pbj, and—what? What are the other food

groups? Meat, chips, candy, and, and, and, and cheese! “CRACKERS!” I

say, much too loud, and then I dart to the crackers, grabbing cheese crackers

and peanut butter crackers and some of Grandma’s peanut butter cookies for

good measure, and then I run back and toss them across the counter. The

woman has already bagged up four plastic bags of groceries. Almost a

hundred dollars total, not even counting gas; I’ll be paying back Lacey’s

parents all summer.