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  Shooting Lights

  Summer Road Trip

  Written by Mary Victoria Johnson

  Copyright © 2018 by Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.

  Published by EPIC Press™

  PO Box 398166

  Minneapolis, MN 55439

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  International copyrights reserved in all countries.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without

  written permission from the publisher. EPIC Press™ is trademark

  and logo of Abdo Consulting Group, Inc.

  Cover design by Christina Doffing

  Images for cover art obtained from iStock

  Edited by Rue Moran

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Johnson, Mary Victoria, author.

  Title: Shooting lights/ by Mary Victoria Johnson

  Description: Minneapolis, MN : EPIC Press, 2018 | Series: Summer road trip

  Summary: Tree has always been content with her quiet village life. It’s her best friend, Jeanne, who keeps dragging her into trouble. When Jeanne “kidnaps” Tree in order to visit Stonehenge for the 1987 summer solstice, their paths tangle with two displaced army kids, and what starts out as a simple road trip quickly turns into something far more complicated.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016962617 | ISBN 9781680767254 (lib. bdg.)

  | ISBN 9781680767810 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Adventure stories—Fiction. | Travel—Fiction.

  | Runaway teenagers—Fiction. | Stonehenge (England)—Fiction | Young adult fiction.

  Classification: DDC [FIC]—dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016962617

  This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.

  For Mum,

  for the historical (yikes, sorry!) research help,

  endless support, and generally being

  an unstoppable inspiration

  “GET IN, GET IN!” JEANNE SCREECHED, COMING TO a sudden stop beside me and gesturing wildly. “Hurry, hurry!”

  I hopped into the back seat, barely having time to shut the door before we sped off again. “Where’s the body?” I asked.

  “Already taken care of,” Jeanne said, not skipping a beat, “but we gotta hightail it to the airport before Mum looks under my bed.”

  Judging by the speeds Jeanne was forcing her ’67 Morris Traveler to reach, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she really was involved with murder. She kept flicking nervous glances at me through the rearview mirror, muttering a mixture of curses and unintelligible words under her breath.

  Used to such behavior and deciding to just go with whatever mad scheme she’d cooked up now, I turned to the window and gazed out at the countryside speeding past us. Typical of Norfolk, there was nothing but fields in every direction, a patchwork of russet and emerald green, littered with the odd clump of trees or the crumbling remnants of a stone wall. Castle Acre village, where I was from, had a population of only a few hundred, and the roads were typically empty. I couldn’t think who—or what—Jeanne was trying to get away from.

  It wasn’t until we whizzed past her farmhouse, a good few miles outside the village, that an inkling of concern crept into my mind.

  “Come on then,” I said, leaning forward and tapping her on the shoulder. “What’s this about?”

  She ran her tongue across her lower lip, smearing lipstick as she did so. “Sit down, Tree. You’re going to cause an accident.”

  To prove that point, Jeanne took a corner at such speed my head smacked against the door . . . and a suspicious shuffling sound resulted from the boot.

  “Oi, out of my stuff!” she shouted, still watching me in the rearview mirror as I turned to have a look.

  Suitcases. One of them was mine, the name Teresa Swanson scrawled across the front in black felt-tip. Jeanne Wens and Random Junk were thrown in beside it. All three cases appeared stuffed to the brim, their zippers bursting along the seams.

  “What the heck?” I exclaimed, properly perturbed now. “Suitcases?”

  There was a pause. Then, without a hint of guilt, Jeanne attempted a wink and said, “I’m kidnapping you. Surprise.”

  Really, it wasn’t much of a surprise at all. Being best friends with Jeanne Wens was an occupational hazard, and it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Instance number one took place mere minutes after we’d first met.

  Hailing from Cardiff, Jeanne moved to Norfolk after her parents inherited a property just outside the village. She was cool without trying, probably helped in part by being an upper-middle-class stranger with a different accent in a village that hadn’t seen real change since its namesake castle was ruined hundreds of years ago. I, comparatively, was nothing more than another born-and-bred Castle Acre bumpkin. There was absolutely no reason whatsoever she should have picked me out at school, yet pick me out she did.

  “Ever been to McDonald’s? Yes, you. Shorty with the big hair. Ever been?”

  I remember shaking my head, trying not to stare. Next thing I knew, we were sitting in the new restaurant munching on the most delicious chips I’d ever tasted, and Jeanne was cheerfully telling me she had no money so she sure hoped I did. But that was how it worked with Jeanne; she’d bring the adventure, and I had to deal with the more practical details.

  “I hope this is a temporary kidnapping,” I said. “Some of us have jobs now school’s done.”

  Jeanne winked at me. “Sorted. Apparently I sound like your mother—or at least your boss thought so when I phoned you in sick.”

  I maintained my scowl as I wound down the window, letting a manure-scented breeze filter in. “You gonna pay my lost wages, then?”

  One hand on the wheel, she reached into her glove box and threw a handful of loose change at me.

  “I hate you,” I muttered, pocketing the change all the same.

  Jeanne had slowed down now we were properly clear of town. Starship’s “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” warbled from the cassette player she’d wedged in the passenger seat, and I found myself humming along like we were simply out for a joyride. Almost reluctantly, after several more minutes, I asked, “So where are we going? Seaside? Club?”

  Jeanne’s thumb was tapping the wheel in time to the beat. “Stonehenge, actually.”

  I thought perhaps I’d misheard. “You what?”

  “Stonehenge. Remember, the really old rocks that all the tourists—”

  “Yeah yeah, but why are we going there?”

  Jeanne grinned widely. “The summer solstice is in three days, Tree. We’re going to see the summer solstice at Stonehenge.”

  My face fell into my hands. “This is more of your hippie rubbish, isn’t it? Genie, you can’t keep doing this to me. First Greenham Common, then that weird concert, now Stonehenge? Do my parents know?”

  Her face fell. “Sure they do. And for the record . . . ”

  She launched into a rant about how awesome it was going to be and how thankful I should be that she was helping me push my boundaries, and how maybe that concert was a disaster but this wouldn’t be, et cetera, et cetera.

  Now, Jeanne was the embodiment of everything I aspired to be. She wasn’t attractive in the conventional way, with a plain face characterized by an unfortunately crooked nose and a gap-toothed smile, but she carried herself with a surety that seemed to convince everyone—especially the boys—that she was, without question, beautiful. She was tall and long-legged, always dressing to the nines in clothes that emphasized every curve and owning her body with a fierce pride. Red lipstick and bold, perfect eye-makeup, confident and charismatic . . . yet the irony was that Jeanne wanted to be someth
ing else entirely. She’d recently traded her jeans for flowy skirts, her band T-shirts for peasant blouses, and let her hair grow out into natural waves. Posters of pop stars were replaced with Greenpeace slogans, and her square-wheeled Allegro was replaced with a barely functional Morris Traveler.

  Don’t get me wrong, I had nothing against all that folksy stuff. What irritated me was how hard Jeanne was trying to be something she obviously wasn’t, when she was so very good at being herself. It was something I’d never brought up, but if I had to take a guess, it was all a backlash against the normalcy of her small-town life. She didn’t want to conform; she wanted to stand out, and this was her way of ensuring she did.

  “Fine,” I said wearily, “go celebrate the solstice. Just drop me off at home first.”

  She gaped at me like I’d suggested we drown a litter of kittens. “Nuh-uh, Tree, you have to come with me! Road trips are no fun alone.” She shook her head forlornly to emphasize her point. “No fun at all. Come on, please? Pretty, pretty please?”

  My head began to pound, throwing itself behind Team Go-Home with vengeance. My country roots reviled the idea of large crowds, and I could only imagine how packed Stonehenge would be in three days’ time. Jeanne’s driving was subpar at best—she’d received her license less than a month ago, after failing four times before—and it was a fifty-fifty shot whether or not her car would make it without falling to bits. Knowing Jeanne, the suitcases in the back were stuffed with everything except what we actually needed, and she probably had no idea where she was going . . .

  “Actually,” Jeanne said, “I forgot this was an abduction. And you, as the abductee, have no say in the matter.”

  I groaned. “Do I ever?”

  “Rarely,” she agreed.

  I turned my attention to the window again. We’d entered another village, a collection of flint cottages and red-bricked new builds that mimicked the exact type of houses you’d find in Castle Acre. It was the type of scenery I’d grown up with. In fact, come to think of it, the farthest I’d ever strayed from this area was a school trip to London in primary school. Stonehenge was practically on another planet in comparison.

  “Whoops,” Jeanne winced, reaching over a manicured nail to turn the cassette player off as it began making strange noises. “I think I forgot to bring more—”

  “—batteries?” I suggested, pulling a new pack out of my handbag. “I always keep some for an emergency.”

  “And this is definitely an emergency.” She laughed. “See, Tree, I need you. Think of how bad you’ll feel if you abandon me and I never return.” She laid a hand across her forehead in mock distress. “Imagine the headlines! ‘Gorgeous Eighteen-Year-Old Perishes after Best Friend Bails out of Road Trip: Authorities Believe a Lack of Common Sense Was Involved.’”

  Despite myself, I laughed too. “Sounds pretty likely.”

  “So you’re okay with it? Stonehenge Solstice ’87?” asked Jeanne, hopefully.

  I rolled my eyes and focused on the window. “Fine.”

  Jeanne whooped, nearly straying onto the wrong side of the road and head-butting an oncoming lorry. Then, like it had never happened, she began chattering on about all the things we were going to do and, again, how fantastic it would all be.

  I zoned out, writing a mental diary entry:

  June 18th, 1987. Weather, a balmy twenty-one degrees and mostly clear.

  My name is Teresa—but you can call me Tree—and I think I’m being kidnapped. I say think because I’m not sure if it counts when the kidnapper is your best friend and you know exactly where she’s taking you . . .

  ALTHOUGH I GAVE IN TO JEANNE’S PLAN, I MANAGED to convince her that taping five hours of Top of the Pops didn’t count as preparation and we needed to stop and properly plot our route. We stopped in Swaffham, a nearby market town, purchased a motorway map from the newsagent’s, and sat down under a rotunda in the square.

  “Two nights, I’m thinking,” Jeanne said, popping a sweet into her mouth and looking anywhere but the map. “I’ve got five pairs of undies, anyway.”

  I glanced at her car, parked in front of an antique shop a little way away. It was cream colored with garish wooden accents around the rear and back wheels. Getting on to be twenty years old, the exterior was remarkably polished, but in terms of functionality, it could barely make it to the next village without threatening to die. Technically, we could have driven to Stonehenge in around four hours in one go. It was more the car than anything that required we drag the journey into a multi-day road trip.

  “Where are we going to sleep?” I asked, hoping to God the answer wasn’t “the car.”

  “The car.” Jeanne shrugged. At my expression, she added, “Or wherever. I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” I sighed. “Well . . . I have relatives in Newmarket, which is, what, an hour away? We could crash with them.”

  Jeanne nodded, tearing her attention away from a group of boys walking past and finally focusing on the map. “And I’ve got mates in London. Sorted.”

  I dragged a highlighter down a motorway connecting us with Stonehenge, thinking how weird it was that Jeanne had friends outside of Norfolk. Barely anyone else I knew had a life involving anything not directly connected to our village.

  But now I will.

  I smiled a little, relishing the idea. Now that the initial surprise had worn off, studying our route, I felt a rush of excitement. How cool would it be to say I’d visited Stonehenge? And via a road trip—without parents—at that.

  I relayed this to Jeanne, who gave me a tight hug. Her eyes sparkled as she said, “See? I didn’t want to have to actually kidnap you, so I’m glad you’re on board.”

  She went on to explain how she’d planned the trip (Jeanne made plans?) after reading about the solstice celebrations in some new-age magazine of hers. After running the idea by both of our parents, she’d packed and decided to pick me up on the way so that I’d be more likely to stay with her. Hence the crazy speed—the farther away from Castle Acre we were before I discovered her plan, the better.

  “So how long would you have left it before telling me?” I asked, folding up the map and following her out of the rotunda.

  “Until we were out of the county. Maybe longer.”

  I scowled.

  We wasted about another hour in Swaffham, with me picking up all the supplies Jeanne had forgotten, and Jeanne browsing the local boutiques. The town wasn’t known for being high-fashion, but Jeanne’s new style involved the avant-garde rather than the trendy. As she rummaged through the racks at the back of a thrift shop, I began to wonder whether or not I should invest in more solstice-appropriate clothes. I was still a jeans-and-tee kind of girl.

  Jeanne finished up with her purchases, we grabbed a couple of colas for the road, and climbed back into the car.

  “I think it needs a name. The car, I mean,” she said, running her hands over the vinyl seats thoughtfully. “Any car with character worth a penny has a name, right?”

  “The Magic Lamp,” I suggested. When Jeanne frowned at me like I was crazy, I explained, “Your nickname. Genie. Aladdin and the magical lamp the genie lives in.”

  “I don’t like having a nickname,” she scoffed.

  “You call me Tree.”

  “Morris,” she said as though she hadn’t heard me. “Because it’s a Morris Traveler.”

  “Wow.” I rolled my eyes. “Your originality never ceases to amaze me.”

  “Shut up.” She started the engine, cringing alongside me as an unhealthy wheezing sound accompanied the gesture. “I think it’s cute.”

  “I think it’s clichéd.”

  Jeanne winked, reversing out of the parking space without a backward glance. “You still haven’t got the memo, eh Tree? I don’t care what you think. Never have.”

  The car—I refused to refer to it as “Morris”—was remarkably comfortable as we drove southward into Suffolk, a county as full of farmland and quaint parishes a
s Norfolk. Well, except for a spell where my window got stuck right when the sun was beating down on my side of the car, causing my legs to practically melt into the vinyl. Plunging into the shade of Thetford Forest was a welcome change. Thick, green foliage blocked out the sky, houses and churchyards were replaced with abandoned campsites experiencing a brief period of vacancy before summer holidays. Half of me wanted to ask Jeanne to stop and simply camp out here for three days, playing “it” in the trees like we all used to as kids.

  The forest bled out into more farmland. Yellow fields of oilseed, muddy fields filled with pigs, green fields filled with cows. Nitro Deluxe booming from the cassette player. A windmill, signs indicating a nearby historic property. Frankie Goes to Hollywood and George Michael blared on the cassette player.

  We cruised down the motorway with relative ease, still too early to experience the full summer rush. I folded up the map and closed my eyes, tapping my foot along to the beat of the music. Then, what felt like seconds later, I was wrenched back into reality by the sound of Jeanne swearing. Traffic had begun to queue approaching a small town, and when trying to slow, her gears had become stuck. When she had been able to slow down, she’d done it so violently that the car behind her screeched to a stop and started honking. Without consulting me, Jeanne found the next exit and turned in the opposite direction of the traffic.

  “What’s this road called?” I asked, craning my neck to try and catch a glimpse of any signs. “I’m losing us on the map.”

  That, and I was beginning to feel queasy. Navigation on-the-go had never been my strong suit. At least following main roads was simple.

  “Um . . . we just passed Mildenhall.”

  I fought back the urge to snap, “Obviously.” Mildenhall was a massive air force base populated completely with Americans serving their overseas posting. Apparently they threw good parties that had a huge imbalance of guys to girls, but I’d never managed to snag an invite. It was absolutely colossal, impossible to miss.

  “Badlingham!” Jeanne crowed, pointing at the sign as she turned down an ever-narrowing lane. “Badlingham Road. Got it?”