Can’t Sit Still W.M. Akers
Outside the window, Oscar saw a billboard that said: “When You Want Ham—Buy Stinson Ham!” Soon after, there was another billboard. It said: “Turn Left for Bronson’s Apple Orchard.” After that, there were several billboards about “Uncle Bucky’s Supreme Fireworks Shack.” A few hundred feet past that, he saw another one, advertising a hamburger restaurant called “Stuckey’s.” The hamburger on the sign had turned green. Oscar’s face turned green, too.
Oscar did not want ham. He didn’t want to go apple picking. And he certainly did not want a green hamburger. He did want some fireworks, but he doubted his parents would stop for that. You’re not allowed to have fireworks in the car; not on a road trip, anyway. That is because fireworks are tons of fun, and road trips are the most boring thing in the world.
There was something Oscar wanted to ask his dad. He wanted to ask it so bad, his stomach hurt—just like it would have if he had eaten that green hamburger. But he knew that no matter what, he couldn’t say the words. Oscar did not want to be a brat, and his dad had told him that this was a question that only brats asked.
The question was, “Are we there yet?”
His sister Georgia had asked that a few hundred billboards earlier. It did not go well.
“Are we there yet?” she asked. “Georgia…” said their mom. “But arrrrrrrrre we?” she asked again.
“If we were there,” said Dad, “do you think we’d still be driving?” This is what Dad considered a very witty remark. Oscar didn’t think it was funny at all, and neither did Georgia. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe?” That was the end of the conversation.
A few years later—or maybe it was just an hour—Georgia was asleep, and Oscar was about to explode. At least, that’s how it felt. He wondered if a kid could explode from boredom. It would certainly liven up the car ride.
He looked at his sister, curled up on the other side of the backseat. He didn’t know how anyone could sleep that way. Her arms were twisted like a pretzel. Her head was hanging to the side, and a piece of chewed‐up gum dangled out of her mouth. It moved a little, back and forth, every time she breathed. Oscar thought she looked like a marionette with its strings cut.
Georgia could sleep anywhere. On every road trip, she spent nearly the whole time passed out. Sometimes, she would stretch all the way across the backseat, and poke her toes into Oscar’s face. Oscar could never sleep in the car. He was doomed to suffer the whole way there—just him and a thousand billboards, all with pictures of green hamburgers.
Oscar noticed that his left leg was bouncing up and down. It was bouncing really fast, like a jackhammer. He did not know when it had started bouncing. He wasn’t sure he could make it stop.
“Uh, Dad,” he said.
“Not now, Oscar.”
Oscar was startled when his right hand twitched. It twitched again. It started to bounce a little bit on its own. Slowly, it rose above his leg. It began to flutter—just as fast as his left leg.
“Dad, I don’t think I can sit still any more.”
“Just a little farther, dear,” said Oscar’s mom.
Now his right leg was bouncing, even faster than his left. Up and down, up and down. Oscar was starting to feel like a ball attached to a Ping‐Pong paddle. Soon enough, his left hand started fluttering as well. His head began to shake back and forth. His hair flopped wildly, like a storm‐tossed boat.
“Daaaaaad!”
“What, Oscar?”
Oscar knew he had to stop himself from bouncing before he rattled himself apart. But there was only one way. It wouldn’t be easy, but he had to do it. He had to ask the question— no matter what the consequences were. “Dad?” he shouted.
“Are we there yet?!”
