Guyaholic by Carolyn Mackler

the hell I am. It’s getting dark and I’m surrounded by hulking hills and I know I had everyone convinced I’m this experienced driver, but the truth is that when I went to Syracuse for a show last December, I smoked too much weed in the parking lot and this other kid had to drive my car home.
    Plus, I just saw this warning sign about black bears, so every time I spot a tree, I think it’s an animal and I swerve into oncoming traffic. Luckily, there’s no oncoming traffic. That’s the upside of wandering this web of unmarked roads with barely any shoulder to pull onto and look at my map. Even if I did, I’m so lost, I’d have no idea where to begin. Also, there’s the black-bear factor. It’s not like
they
have signs saying, PLEASE DON’T ATTACK THE PEOPLE .
    I think I got lost somewhere near Swain. I was distracted thinking about Sam and took a left instead of going straight and then —
    Shit!
    I see what appears to be a bear on the side of the road and jerk the wheel, but this time there’s a pair of headlights coming toward me. The other car honks, swerves hard onto the gravel, and then continues by. I keep driving, too, but my heart is racing and I’m biting so hard on my lower lip, I think I can taste blood.
    I pull out my phone to call Aimee or Mara or even the twins, just to hear a familiar voice. Of course, there’s no cell-phone reception, which means if I get mutilated by a bear, I can’t even dial for help.
    I see a motel coming up, so I slow down a little. There aren’t any cars out front, but I notice a faint light at the far end, near a sign labeled office. I steer into the parking lot, scan for bears, and then hurry through the door.
    I step inside a small room that reeks of stale cigars. It’s covered floor to ceiling in dusty bundles of newspapers, and there’s an ancient guy hunched over a scratched desk, so motionless that for a second I wonder if he’s dead. But then he pushes his glasses down his fleshy nose and growls, “Whaddya want?”
    I chew on my thumbnail. “Uhhh . . . a room?”
    He scrounges around in a drawer, tosses me a rusty key, and barks, “Room seven.”
    Then he shoves his glasses up on his nose and goes back to his newspaper.
    “Don’t you want me to pay?” I ask.
    “You planning to run off?”
    “No.”
    “Well, then.”
    “Can I ask you . . .” I pause. “Could you tell me where we are? I got a little lost on my way to Buffalo.”
    “From where?”
    “Brockport.”
    He stares up at me, his eyes milky with cataracts, and then launches into this phlegmy laugh. “Honey, you’re in Steuben County.”
    “Where?”
    “Southern Tier, near the Pennsylvania border,” he says. “You sure did get lost.”
    I rush down the dark walkway until I reach a door labeled
7.
I fit the key into the lock, turn the knob, and reach for a switch.
    Nothing.
    I hesitate for a second before fumbling along the wall until I get to the bathroom, where I find a functioning light.
    I turn and look around. There’s a lopsided bed, a wobbly nightstand, and a small table sagging under the weight of the television. I attempt to turn on the lamp next to the bed, but it doesn’t work. I hurry over and close the front door. As I’m rotating the lock, I can’t help but notice that it’s just a dinky sliver of metal, easily kick-through-able, if someone were so inclined.
    I sit on the edge of the bed. It’s so quiet my ears are ringing. As I run my palms over my knees, I suddenly remember that, oh yeah, I hate being alone. No, I don’t just hate it. It freaks me out. My brain starts racing fast while the rest of my body is moving in slow motion. It’s scary, almost like I can’t control my thoughts.
    I cross the dark room and press the power button on the television. Of course, it doesn’t work, so I dig in my bag for my headphones, but then I remember that I left my iPod in the car. I check my phone one more time. Still no reception. My breath is coming in short, panicky