Clean Getaway

by Nic Stone

  He guesses she’s got a point there.

  “Come on!”

  After a fifteen-minute wait—during which G’ma bounces on the balls of her tiny feet like she’s never been so excited in her life—they climb into the very front coaster car. (Oh boy.)

  Despite the fact that the thing squawks and groans like it’s complaining about having a bad back the moment Scoob and G’ma sit down, and the initial takeoff is so jerky that Scoob feels like his lunch is about to reappear in his trousers, once they’re fully in motion, the ride winds up being pretty fun. He’s sure it’s partially due to G’ma’s whoops and whees and squeals of glee from beside him, but by the time they get off, he’s feeling pretty exhilarated.

  “Let’s find a BIGGER one!” G’ma shouts, her pouf of white hair standing up all over her head like she stuck a butter knife in a toaster. (Scoob did that once. He doesn’t recommend it.)

  “A bigger what?”

  “COASTER!” And she throws her hands in the air.

  So they do.

  There’s the Shock Wave—Scoob has no idea what Gs are, but the ride promises five-point-nine of them, and based on how his heart flip-flops around inside his body, he’d say it delivers.

  And then the Joker—a strange one for sure. They spend more time upside down than right side up.

  The Titan’s massive drop makes Scoob feel like his brain got left back at the top of the metal hill.

  And on. And on.

  When he and G’ma step up to the Superman: Tower of Power—what they’ve decided will be their final ride—Scoob’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He has to tilt his head back as far as it’ll go to see the top of the thing.

  And the whole experience winds up being way worse than he expects: he’s pretty sure his lungs stay on the ground as they shoot thirty-two stories into the air, and he definitely dies for a few seconds during the drop.

  But once their feet are back on the ground?

  He hugs G’ma so tight she yelps. “Don’t break me, kiddo!”

  He lets go and looks her right in the eye. “G’ma?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  He hugs her again. “For making this the best day ever.”

  Within fifteen minutes of getting back on the road, exhaustion drops onto Scoob with so much weight, the thought of even lifting his arms seems outlandish. (Another Dad word. Guy’s taking over Scoob’s brain).

  He vaguely remembers G’ma saying, “Kiddo, I think we might have to park it for the night,” though how and when he winds up in his bunk—freshly showered, it seems—for the night, he’s not sure.

  When Scoob wakes, though, the RV is in motion. He peeks out his window, and the fog instantly clears from his brain: it’s pitch dark outside.

  “G’ma?” he says, not alert enough to get a lid on his panic.

  “Go back to sleep, kiddo.”

  “What time is it? Why are we driving at night?”

  “Sleep, child. Don’t you worry about all of that.”

  “But aren’t you tired, G’ma?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine. Grabbed a few of those 5-Hour ENERGY things when I checked us out of the campground. Go on to sleep now. That’s an order.”

  So he does.

  * * *

  The next time his eyes open, something feels…off.

  It’s too quiet.

  He startles, and his foot—missing a sock—strikes something hard and sharp-edged. He groans and instinctively rolls to his side.

  Almost falls right off the edge of the bunk.

  “Whoa!” he says, quickly shifting back and putting a hand over his chest to try and slow his breathing and heart rate down.

  Then he sees what he kicked: G’ma’s treasure chest. Which in this moment is giving him a serious case of the creeps.

  He shifts his bunk curtain and sees that the one around G’ma’s bed is closed. But he doesn’t hear her snoring.

  “G’ma? You asleep?”

  No reply.

  “Uhhh, G’ma?”

  Still nothing. Which he hopes doesn’t mean…

  He gulps and climbs down.

  When he pulls the very edge of her curtain back, he almost passes out.

  From relief.

  The bed is perfectly made. And perfectly empty.

  But where the heck is she? And (almost) more importantly: Where are they? Still in Texas?

  He looks out the dining booth window. Sun’s high in the sky and there’s a gas station a short distance away, but the lot where the RV is parked is otherwise abandoned.

  “Where’d you go, G’ma?”

  In the barely visible reflection from the window glass, Scoob notices a white rectangle on the fridge beneath the Six Flags over Texas magnet G’ma bought, and whips around. It’s got his name on it in that loopy scrawl of G’ma’s, though there are places where the edges of letters go jagged or flat, and even a place where she was pressing down so hard, she poked a hole in the paper.

  Strange.

  He pulls it off:

  My beloved William,

  Welcome to Abilene, TX!

  I ran out for some fresh air and to find us a new map. Failed to grab one during our last gas stop, and according to my old map, this is the last decent-sized city we’ll pass through for a while.

  I left the generator on, and there’s cereal in the cabinet and food in the fridge if you’re hungry. TV remote is in the top drawer below the cooktop.

  Love,

  G’ma Ruby Jean

  Scoob returns the note to the table and stares at the vast concrete wasteland surrounding the RV and sighs.

  * * *

  After three bowls of Corn Pops, two smoked turkey and manchego sandwiches (gotta love the fancy grandma cheese), and a bathroom break that required half a can of air freshener and three open windows, G’ma still hasn’t returned.

  So he takes her other sort-of-suggestion and turns on the TV.

  The antenna only picks up four channels. One is religious, if the cowboy-looking guy hopping around a purple carpeted stage and adding ah to every third word of what he’s saying is any indication: And I said-ah, the good Lord-ah, he is among us-ah.

  Then there’s a channel entirely in Spanish playing what is surely a sappy soap opera.

  The final two appear to be local channels There’s a television judge on one, going off on some bad roommate who ran up a water bill too high, and the other is playing a show where four ladies are sitting around a table, talking.

  He leaves it tuned there and goes to his backpack for the road map. Circle some spots on the route and draw in some doodles—cowboy hat, roller coaster, giant tower of death—just for something to do.

  He’s putting the finishing touches on the fifth of six flags when a loud and piercing BEEEEE­EEEEE­EEEEE­P sounds from the TV. The words AMBER ALERT begin scrolling across the bottom of the screen as the picture cuts to a newsroom. Curious, Scoob increases the volume as the somber-looking newscaster dude starts talking.

  “In breaking news, we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming with an emergency message. The City of Atlanta Police Department has issued a Multi-State Amber Alert for an eleven-year-old boy last seen entering a recreational vehicle outside his home this past Friday. The boy is believed to be with Ruby Jean Lamar, his seventy-six-year-old grandmother, who is currently under investigation in connection with a string of thefts involving jewelry stores in the Atlanta area.

  “The boy’s father said he last spoke to Ms. Lamar on Saturday, and that while he had no direct contact with the boy, he has reason to believe his son is in Ms. Lamar’s care. A cell phone formerly in Ms. Lamar’s possession was located at a campground in Monroe, Louisiana, shortly before authorities re
ceived an anonymous tip from two gas station employees in Shreveport. Based on recent surveillance video from a Subway store just outside Dallas, Texas, Ms. Lamar is believed to be headed west across the Lone Star State with her grandson in tow.”

  If not for the pictures that appear on the screen, Scoob would’ve assumed there was a second Ruby Jean Lamar out in the world somewhere. But there’s no denying the school photo Scoob took this past October, and an image of G’ma from a Fourth of July barbecue last year—which he knows because he took the picture.

  “If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of William Lamar and/or Ruby Jean Lamar, please call the number on the screen below.”

  The BEEEEE­EEEEE­EEEEE­EEP sounds again, and then the TV cuts back to the chatting ladies. Scoob stares at the center of the screen without actually seeing anything.

  He has to get some air.

  Now.

  He’s vaguely conscious of his weight shifting to his feet, and then the coolness against his palm from the metal of the door latch.

  Then there’s hot air smudged with cigarette smoke hitting his face.

  The moment Scoob’s foot touches down on the concrete, he hears a gasp.

  And there’s G’ma. Putting out a lit cigarette against the side of her new sweet ride. She’s got a whole pack in her other hand.

  They make eye contact and she freezes.

  Scoob stops breathing.

  “Oh boy,” G’ma says.

  Scoob couldn’t respond if he tried.

  “Guess I’m caught red-handed.”

  Smoking, is what she means.

  Scoob caught her smoking red-handed.

  “You can’t tell your dad, Scoob-a-doob,” she says as she turns the key to crank the Winnebago. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Okay.”

  In truth, Scoob couldn’t be more relieved about finding G’ma putting out what she confessed was her seventh cigarette. Gives a nice excuse for his silence.

  And he is dead silent. All he can think about is Multi-State Amber Alert and under investigation and string of thefts. Though he can’t seem to get the words swallowed and down into his belly where they’ll be properly digested and he can figure out what to do.

  The theft part is one thing. After everything he’s learned—and seen—he knows that part is definitely possible. String makes it sound like she went on some kinda spree, which seems like a stretch (she’s seventy-six years old, for goodness’ sake), but there’s no denying she almost walked out of that store in Meridian with a ring.

  He glances at her white hands on the steering wheel without turning his head. What if there really was a string? What’d she do with what she stole? Could it be here in the RV? Are they hauling contraband to Mexico?

  Well…contraband in addition to him. Because that’s the other thing: Scoob knows what Amber Alert means.

  A kid’s been kidnapped.

  Now he looks at his own hands. His brown ones. Which he’s learned from this trip means so much more than he knew. Scoob doesn’t feel kidnapped. Wouldn’t he be more scared for his life or something? Kidnappers are creepy dudes in old vans, not a kid’s favorite (only) grandma….

  His head turns toward her without his permission. She certainly looks like the sweet little lady who cleaned his boo-boos and cooked his favorite food and helped with his homework and let him do stuff Dad wouldn’t. The woman who’s always been his personal heroine.

  Kidnappers take kids without permission and hold them against their will. Scoob’s here because he wants to be.

  And he knows that if he asked her to take him home right this second, she would.

  Wouldn’t she?

  She turns to him then.

  Scoob expects her to speak but she doesn’t.

  He wants to say something but can’t.

  So they just…stare. And then she smiles. In a way that isn’t much of a smile at all.

  * * *

  By the time they stop again—“for the night,” G’ma says, and it gives Scoob a chill, but he doesn’t argue—he still hasn’t figured out what to say. Or do.

  It’s been almost four hours.

  They park and get hooked up. The campsite is full of sand dunes and seems to be in the middle of a desert; no major city within a hundred miles, so Scoob doesn’t need the Green Book to tell him this would not have been a safe place for someone like him during G’ma’s first trip.

  Not that it matters. If you let the Amber Alert people tell it, Scoob’s in danger no matter where he is right now.

  “Have a sit-down, Scoob-a-doob,” G’ma says. “I’ll make you a hot chocolate.”

  There’s no way Scoob can stomach one of G’ma’s super-rich hot chocolates now, but he sits down anyway because what else is he supposed to do?

  As she rotates away from him, Scoob can’t help but look around for all the places it might be possible to stash stolen jewelry. He didn’t find anything suspicious back when searching high and low for G’ma’s phone, but still. So many drawers and cabinets, nooks and crannies. He’s pretty sure there’s even a storage space beneath the booth bench he’s sitting on.

  When his gaze locks in on the TV, he remembers the money hidden behind it. Is that stolen too?

  No clue how long he sits staring at the darkened screen, but soon G’ma’s setting a steaming mug down in front of him. She slides onto the bench opposite and clasps her wrinkly hands around a cup of water. She smiles, but her eyeballs are shiny…

  Scoob drops his eyes to her glass and clears his throat. “No cocoa for you?”

  “Nah,” she says. “Just thought you could use a reminder of home.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know I’ve said it plenty, but I need to say it one final time,” she continues while he burns a hole in the table with his laser stare. “I’m thankful you’re here with me, Scoob-a-doob. It means the whole world to me. Wouldn’t’ve gotten this far without you. I mean it.”

  Scoob forces his gaze up. She’s staring out the window with her shoulders so stooped, he wonders if she’ll ever sit straight and tall again.

  And maybe it’s the sorrow Scoob can imagine making the lines in her face look deeper. Or the twitch in her hands that makes her water quake in her cup. Or the fact that her head is hanging so heavily, Scoob’s afraid her neck won’t support it for much longer.

  Maybe it’s all of those things taken together.

  “I’m gonna hit the hay,” she says, slowly rising and placing her half-empty glass of water on the kitchenette counter. Then she ambles to her sleeping corner and vanishes behind the curtain.

  That’s when Scoob knows: there’s something very wrong with his G’ma.

  * * *

  He wakes soaked in sweat.

  “Jimmy?”

  Scoob pushes up onto an elbow and slides his curtain open. G’ma’s is closed, though he can hear her shifting around behind it.

  He lets his head fall back onto his pillow.

  G’ma calls out again: “I’ve got a bad feeling, Jimmy.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Scoob says under his breath.

  Before going to bed himself, Scoob went outside and took inventory of their surroundings. They’re parked in Monahans Sandhills State Park, and while the two sites adjacent to theirs were empty when he checked, there was a tour bus–sized RV parked on the other side of the nearest dune.

  He flips to look out the window and make sure it’s still there.

  “Jimmy? Jimmy, where are ya? We have to go now.”

  Her voice is louder this time. Scoob’s tempted to put the pillow over his head but—

  “Jimmy?”

  —her voice is getting closer.

  “No. No, no! It’s all my fault! He didn’t do—” There’s a thump, followed by the sound of breaking glass, then,
“Oh!”

  Scoob throws the bunk curtain aside and clambers down. “G’ma!”

  She’s swaying with a hand on her forehead.

  He knows he’s in trouble when he takes a final step and a feeling like lightning shoots up his leg, but he catches her just as she collapses.

  * * *

  G’pop hadn’t stolen any of the jewelry the police found when they raided his and G’ma’s house in 1968.

  G’ma had.

  That’s what she tells Scoob between sobs once she’s able to talk. “I was so stupid,” she says. “We’d been home over a month with no trouble, so I thought we were in the clear.”

  She’s sitting on her bed, her back supported by the wall, with Scoob perched beside her, his hand clutched between her thin, trembly ones. He flinches as she squeezes his a little harder than he knew possible.

  “I started stealing jewelry when I was twelve, and for the most part, I got away with it. Your grandfather had been secreting away money he was stealing from that filling station he worked at, as well as a couple other odd jobs of his, but he didn’t know I’d been doing some work of my own. When I suggested we run away to Mexico, he thought it was solely because of what he’d been taking.” She shakes her head.

  “I should’ve gotten rid of it all before we even turned around, but…well, I don’t know what I was thinking. Certainly didn’t want to part with my spoils. I was an angry young woman, Scoob—my daddy left, and my mama passed away, and people were so awful to one another, especially white folks to blacks—and the stealing…” She pauses to take a breath. “Well, it was my way of gettin’ back at the world. Just the thought of all the things I’d taken—silly trinkets I knew folks valued more than they did other human beings—it made me feel powerful. Felt good to do bad. And no one suspected the pretty blond girl with the ‘megawatt smile’ of being a professional jewel thief.”