Clean Getaway

by Nic Stone

  “Yeah, son?”

  Scoob forces himself to look Dad in the eye. Then he puts a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you lost your mom.”

  At first Dad doesn’t reply. Just nods. More tears run down his face.

  Then, “I’m sorry too, William.”

  They drive back home in silence, but soon they’re in the driveway. Dad cuts the engine. But he takes the type of deep breath that makes it clear to Scoob that he shouldn’t get out yet.

  “So I’ve been thinking,” Dad says, and he doesn’t have to say a single other word for Scoob to know exactly what he’s been thinking about.

  Scoob’s been thinking too. A lot. And he already knows what he’s going to say before Dad even asks the question Scoob knows is coming.

  “I know I don’t talk about your mother much—frankly, she’s a…painful topic for me. Which I know is neither here nor there for you, but—”

  He stops. Clenches his jaw.

  Relaxes.

  Resumes: “Point being, she is your mother. And she’s been asking to see you, so if you’d like to meet her—”

  “That’s okay, Dad,” Scoob says.

  Dad’s head whips right faster than Scoob can blink.

  Scoob looks out the window. “Prolly sounds weird, but…I don’t think I’m ready.”

  It’s the truest thing he’s said in days.

  When there’s no response, Scoob checks to make sure Dad heard him—and on Dad’s face is a look of surprise more pleasant than Scoob expected. But oddly enough, Scoob thinks he gets it: Dad’s not the only one in the car who knows something about a mom the other guy doesn’t.

  “Well, all right then,” Dad says. “You’ll let me know when you’re ready, I presume?”

  For the first time in days, Scoob really smiles. Feels good, this being-on-the-same-page thing. “Yeah, Dad,” he says. “I will.”

  * * *

  Scoob has no idea what prompts him to open G’ma’s treasure chest and reexamine the contents three days later, but he’s got everything spread out on the floor in his bedroom, and he’s going through it all piece by piece.

  He unfolds the Mexico map—which he hadn’t done before—and is shocked to discover there’s a second circle in addition to the one around Juárez. A city called Guaymas on the Gulf of California.

  Puts it down and checks the Green Book again—Playa de Cortés is underlined beneath Guaymas. Scoob has no idea how he missed it.

  His eyes rove over everything else on the floor and hook onto the necklace with the key charm. Scoob smiles: he laid it out the exact way G’ma did in Mississippi.

  He carefully picks up the thin gold chain. Turns it over. Rubs a thumb over the key, then holds it up to the light; squints at it.

  His eyes drop to the treasure box.

  Laying the necklace back down, Scoob picks up the wooden chest and takes it over to his desk so he can get a better look at it under the light of his lamp. Despite feeling like he’s desecrating a holy relic, he flips it over and runs a hand along the bottom. Feels all the grooves and edges. Looks more closely at the sides. Holds it close to his ear and gives it a shake.

  Nothing.

  Still, though…

  He sets it down and lifts the lid. Traces his fingers over the velvet interior, sides, back, bottom—

  There’s a bump—a tab, it seems—against the front interior wall, just behind where the latch sits on the outside.

  Scoob wedges a fingernail behind it and tugs until a little flap pops open.

  Revealing a small hole beneath.

  Scoob looks over his shoulder at the gaping entrance to his bedroom. Dad’s loosened up a bit since they got back home, but the No Closed Doors policy still stands. Hopefully the guy doesn’t decide to come upstairs in the next couple minutes….

  Because Scoob grabs the necklace and pushes the little key down into the exposed hole in the box.

  Perfect fit.

  He turns it—

  And the bottom of the box *pops* open, revealing a folded sheet of white paper with William Armando “Scoob-a-doob” Lamar scribbled on the outside.

  And when Scoob takes that out, he uncovers enough shiny, sparkly, glittery stuff to surely pay for college, buy him a car, and maybe get him a decent-sized house, too.

  There are necklaces, bracelets, earrings—a pair of pink diamonds included—brutches or broochets or whatever the heck those weird bedazzly things with the safety pins on the back are called. All strapped down and/or tucked into weird cushioned crevasses.

  He unfolds the note.

  You’re a good egg, Scoob-a-doob. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different. Thank you for your impeccable wingman service to this old lady on her final adventure.

  Love you forever.

  G’ma

  Quick as he can, Scoob shuts the hidden compartment, locks it, conceals the keyhole, and runs from his room.

  “Dad!” he says, practically throwing himself down the stairs. He skids around the corner and into the living room.

  “Whoa, son, where’s the fire?”

  “Dad, we gotta go on a trip!”

  One of Dad’s thick eyebrows shoots up, and Scoob looks at the urn on the mantel.

  Dad follows his focus.

  They hold this position for who knows how long—Dad sitting in his chair, Scoob standing beside it, both staring at what remains of Ruby Jean Lamar, mother, grandmother, wife, pilferer of jewels—then look back at each other.

  Dad nods. “I’ll book us a flight.”

  But Scoob shakes his head.

  “No?” Dad says.

  Scoob doesn’t reply. He knows there’s no need to.

  Dad returns his gaze to the urn and sighs.

  Smiles sadly.

  “Guess we’re going for a drive.”

  Dad’s a good sport.

  He lets Scoob navigate the whole trip from his map, and they make the same stops so Dad can see all Scoob and G’ma got up to on their adventuring.

  Dad doesn’t ask questions when Scoob leads him to a jewelry store in Mississippi so Scoob can “give something to a guy named Todd.” Nor does he bat an eyelash when Scoob requests a gas station stop in Shreveport to deliver hand-drawn cards to a pair of workers that say Thanks for the Anonymous Tip.

  They don’t make any stops at all on the almost-four-hour stretch between Monahans, Texas—where Scoob and G’ma’s trip ended—and Ciudad Juárez in Chihuahua, Mexico. But it takes another half day for them to reach Guaymas.

  Dad doesn’t say a word as Scoob grabs his backpack and heads down the beach toward the water. Just stares into the campfire he and Scoob built together from scratch. The RV is parked back at Hotel Playa de Cortés—which Scoob was relieved to find had been renovated since G’ma and G’pop tried to get to it in 1968—and he knows Dad is tired from all the driving, so he wants to make this part quick.

  After finding a little cove beneath a small rock formation that juts out over the water, Scoob looks around to make sure no one’s watching him, then drops to his hands and knees and gets to work.

  Once the hole is wide and deep enough, Scoob pulls G’ma’s treasure box—wrapped in about twenty-seven layers of plastic wrap and full of everything that was already in there, plus the Green Book and Scoob’s map, which he added as soon as they parked—out of his backpack, and before he can think too much about it, he sets it down in the hole and shoves the dirt back over it.

  “Finally made it, G’ma,” he says.

  Then after a quick swipe at his eyes, Scoob stands.

  And he smiles.

  “You made a clean getaway.”

  Acknowledgments

  For such a short book, this one was truly a labor of love. Thanks to the following people for helping me bring it to life:

>   My beloved Nigel, your commitment to my dreams—as evidenced by the care you give our sons and our home while I’m off in a Starbucks typing away or on the road talking about the stuff I typed—is genuinely the only reason I’m able to do any of this. I intend to eventually buy you a jet similar to the one Beyoncé got for Jay-Z. That way you can fly as far away from children and laundry as possible when the mood strikes you.

  Phoebe Yeh. Editor, yes, but also mom and guide and encourager and caretaker and Book-Nana and friend. Your belief in me and my abilities makes me want to prove you right.

  Jason Reynolds is the person who was originally like “Yo, you can do middle-grade. Don’t overthink it. It’s writing about kids preparing for the stuff they’ll face in YA novels.” For that little push—and every single one before and since—I am forever grateful and indebted. (Also: lemme hold $20.)

  Dhonielle Clayton: there would be no Green Book in this novel without you mentioning it that one time we were at RT and going to Jenny Han’s room. Thank you for the introduction to the thing that literally gave this book a central theme.

  William Armando Lamar Sr., cousin extraordinaire: ’preciate you letting me borrow that most excellent name of yours. And same to Ms. Ruby Jean Truman (and her mom, Joanna Truman). You, dear pup, have officially been immortalized in human form.

  To my children, Kiran and Milo, who sometimes let me work and who thank me for all the toys I buy them as a result. I love you little turkeys.

  Thanks also to my parents (Big Mil and TB) and siblings (Marc and Brina) and all the sweet baby children I’ve had the privilege of interacting with on school visits that inspired this novel and helped me with lingo. To Rena Rossner for believing in this book (and SELLING IT). And to my ever-supportive friends who listened to me complain while I worked on it: Octavia, Tiffany, Ashley, Angie, Brittany, Tanya, Dede, Vera, Matt, Chisom, Joey, Lamar, Jeff, and Greg.

  My Random House honey bunnies: Elizabeth, Kathy, Barbara, Felicia, John (nemesis!), Dominique, Judith, Jules, Sydney, Adrienne, Lisa, and K-Schizzle.

  And to my most favoritest middle school teacher loves and librarians: Adrian Stallings, Adrian Pickworth, Sarah Bonner, Drew Shilhanek, Olukemi Kamson, Korey Collins, Anna Bernstein, Wyatt Oroke, Toni Rose Deanon, Ashleigh Rose, Mary Thomas, Kelli Monedero, and Travis Crowder. Thank you for all that you infuse into the next generation. Your students are #blessed (and so am I to know you!).

  Lastly, to my own granny, Glenda Alexander: You might not be an international jewel thief, but you’re still the truest OG.

  About the Author

  NIC STONE is an Atlanta native and a Spelman College graduate. After working extensively in teen mentoring and living in Israel for several years, she returned to the United States to write full-time. Nic’s debut novel for young adults, Dear Martin, was a New York Times bestseller and William C. Morris Award finalist. She is also the author of the teen titles Odd One Out, a novel about discovering oneself and who it is okay to love, which was an NPR Best Book of the Year and a Rainbow Book List Top Ten selection, and Jackpot, a love-ish story that takes a searing look at economic inequality.

  Clean Getaway, Nic’s first middle-grade novel, deals with coming to grips with the pain of the past and facing the humanity of our heroes. She lives in Atlanta with her adorable little family.

  nicstone.info

  What’s next on

  your reading list?

  Discover your next

  great read!

  Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.

  Sign up now.