"Hey, I'm kinda hungry." I tried my best not to seem at all whiny.
"Ugh, me too. But the only thing I've seen around here is a Starbucks."
"Ugh."
Madison suddenly wrenched the steering wheel, sending the car speeding over three lanes as she announced, "Whatever! We're hungry, aren't we? And I think they have sandwiches or something, right?"
I couldn't help laughing a little after I'd caught my breath from being jerked around like Jamaican chicken. "Yes," I replied, "I'm fairly sure they do."
"Good." She pulled up to the drive-thru and ordered the food, even though I hadn't told her what I wanted: two "of those turkey and cheese croissant things", along with two cappuccinos.
Pulling up to the window and paying – and having coffee handed to us by a kind British man – was possibly the last moment of peace I'd remember for the next few hours.
As she leaned over to hand me my cappuccino, Madison spilled it – the coffee I hadn't even ordered, but she'd decided I would want– on me.
"Oooooops!" she singsonged, obviously not realizing what the hell she had just done. Meanwhile, I was screaming my ass off, as one does when their stepsister pours hot, hot coffee all over their bare legs and the only cute pair of shorts they own.
"WHAT THE HELL, MADISON?!" I screamed, angrily grabbing the three napkins they'd given us with our order and putting them, forcefully, on my lap. They soaked up about two-thirds of all the hot coffee, but now all I could see was the red burn marks that were bound to get puffier in a few minutes.
"Sorry, it was an accident!" she replied without emotion. "But hey. You'll smell really good," Madison replied without emotion, staring straight ahead at the road. While I appreciated her dedication to safe driving, I didn't think she was keeping her eyes on the road to drive safe; she just wanted to avoid eye contact with me.
"Smell really good? My shirt and shorts are ruined! You didn't even say sorry!" I walked, trying to rub the warm, light brown stains off my flowy tie-dye shorts.
"I did say sorry, and I'll say it again: sorry. And we can buy you new shorts. Italy's kind of, like, known for fashion? Not a big deal." She shrugged her shoulders. I could even see the faint lines of a smile around her mouth, but I could assure her that this was no laughing matter.
"Oh my God," I muttered. "You're hopeless."
"Well, I'm sorry," she retorted, "but I just don't apologize to people when they ask me to. Apologies come from the heart, Siena, and if I'm not sorry, I won't say I'm sorry. I spilled coffee. It was funny. It's not a big deal."
"Why not?!" I cried. "What'd I do to you?" I'd thought earlier today that we were at least close to burying the hatchet for real. This dumb spilled coffee could have the power to unravel all that.
"I thought we were on good terms. But then, you started being all dramatic and set everything in motion again. We were good! We were more than good! And then you were like 'how about YOU apologize?' and now I hate you again."
While she made a good argument, I wasn't done debating. "Whatever. I hope you know that you're a terrible person."
"I am NOT a terrible person just because I spilled coffee on you!" Her face was turning red, and it wasn't just because the car didn't have working air conditioner.
"And you didn't say sorry..." I simpered. "And I'm pretty sure you did it on purpose."
"You know what?" she finally shouted. "Here I am, thinking you'd changed into a better person. Taking risks and being funny and shit. You know, this morning, I actually woke up and was kind of resentful that Dad and Krystal were right about this trip and we'd finally gotten closer. But you're still the same little brat you were before this trip started, and I don't know how I've been so blind to that for so long."
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Madison, yesterday you accused me of hating you because I was judging you on your hair. I don't hate you because of your pink hair, I hate you because you are the devil, with pink hair as a cute edgy added bonus."
A long silence followed. Not just a short silence in which we were trying to think of comebacks, but a long one. Madison's words echoed through my mind over and over: You're the same little brat you were before this trip started, and I don't know how I've been blind to that for so long.
Then, I thought about the coffee on my lap. Would we both be fighting and screaming at each other if she hadn't spilled it on me? Maybe we both just had these pent-up feelings inside of us, and the coffee spill was the trigger. Or maybe we just, deep inside, hated each other, and there was nothing we (or our parents) could do about it.
It was actually a scary thought. What if we really WERE like oil and water, and we simply couldn't mix for the life of us? Or maybe we were more like baking soda and vinegar: you could put us together, but we'd explode every time. BOOM.
The same little bîtch you were before this trip started. Her words wouldn't stop bouncing around in my head, on constant loop in the rayPod of my brain. Like the record player that played the last theme in Slumber Party. Like an annoying kid who wouldn't stop asking "Why?" Almost like my conscience telling me to forgive Madison.
But if my conscience was telling me to forgive Madison, it wouldn't be repeating over and over the part where she called me a bìtch. If anything, my conscience wanted me to get revenge on Madison. And her cappuccino was sitting right there...
It all happened too fast as I quickly gripped her coffee cup and splashed it all over the new denim cutoffs she's just bought in Chicago. Instead of a freak-out, which is what I would have preferred, she just turned around, and, not flinching, asked, "Why, Siena?"
That was the new song on repeat, the new theme to Slumber Party, the new annoying kid. Was it strange that I never really heard Madison say my name? When she needed my attention, she just said "Hey." She never really called me by name, but I guess I didn't really call her by name, either.
Why, Siena?
All I could say was, "At least your spill had time to cool down instead of being fresh out of the pot."
But Madison had a better comeback. "I know who else needs to cool down."
It's so hard to argue with someone so witty. Did I just compliment her subconsciously? Maybe we weren't oil and water. Maybe we were like salt and water- kind of weird when you put them together, but it works.
We bantered like this for a few minutes, just having a quiet, passive-aggressive argument. "Is it you?" Weak comeback. Weak, Siena. Weak.
"No," she quietly replied. "It's you."
Another long silence followed, during which neither of us did anything. I could've started listening to music on my phone, or watching a movie. Of course, Madison couldn't do anything but drive, but neither of us wanted to break the silence in which we just stared at the red pickup in front of us.
I didn't want to disengage in the silence. We'd gone from a screaming fight to a quiet argument, and now we were having a silent battle. Whoever broke first showed a sign of weakness. Why couldn't we just park at a Walmart somewhere and have a good old fashioned fistfight?
Surely there were weirder things going on at a midwestern Walmart.
If thoughts made noise, my head would be whirring with endless sounds, and I'd certainly lose the quiet fight we'd been having. I seriously thought that a fistfight would end all of this fighting, get our anger out and then we'd back on the road as best friends.
I'd punch Madison right now, but she was driving. Knowing Madison, even if she was fine, she'd crash the car just to spite me.
Knowing Madison, she'd crash the car on her side, not mine, to keep me alive and make me feel extra guilty when she was dead.
Yeah, she was that stubborn. I definitely wasn't going to give her any ideas.