Roadside Attraction

by M. G. Higgins

  “You have to give these new ones a chance. That’s what the doc said. You remember that, don’t you?”

  He doesn’t answer. Probably because he doesn’t remember.

  I carry our dishes to the kitchen.

  “I’ll clean up,” he says.

  “Okay. Thanks.” I grab the mail off the floor. Head to my room and close the door. Flop onto my bed. I hate that Seth is at baseball camp. Hate these summer nights with nothing to do. My mind wanders back to Brooke, but that’s a useless waste of brain space. I push her out of my head.

  I look through the mail. Junk ads. Electric bill. Phone bill. A letter from Mom. I stare at her neat handwriting. The return address sticker with her Tucson address.

  I open my desk drawer. Add it to the stack of other unopened letters and cards. Jump off my bed and go to the kitchen. Start the dishes.

  “I said I’d do them,” Dad says.

  “I know. I’m antsy.”

  I finish up and step into the living room. Dad’s watching TV. “Think I’ll go out for a little while. Do you mind?”

  “Where?” He gets a panicked look on his face.

  “A drive. Nowhere special.”

  He clenches his hands. “I don’t mind.”

  Of course he minds. But I can’t stay in the house another second. “I’ll call Grandma and Grandpa.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “I will anyway.”

  He shuts his eyes.

  I use the kitchen phone. Grandpa answers.

  “I’m going for a drive,” I tell him. “I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  “Want one of us to come over?”

  “No, he seems fine. I just wanted you to know. I’ll call when I get back.”

  “I still wish you’d take us up on our offer.”

  “I don’t need a vacation.”

  “Everyone needs a vacation now and then. Your mom—”

  “Talk to you later.” I hang up. Glance at the clock on the stove. Five thirty. I grab my wallet. Phone. Keys. Open my underwear drawer. Take some of the cash I’ve been saving.

  I pass Dad on the way out. “Go next door if you need anything, or call them. Okay?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Dad?”

  “I heard you.”

  “I’ll be back before bedtime.”

  I pull the pickup out of the driveway. Jethro gazes at me forlornly through the fence. Shoot. Stupid dog. I don’t spend enough time with him. I get out and open the gate. He hops in, tail wagging. Sits on the passenger seat and smiles.

  “Let’s go, doggie.”

  I pull onto the highway. Head east.

  CHAPTER 4

  It’s about two hours since I saw Brooke at the store. I’m not much of a walker. Don’t know how far a person can get in that amount of time. Especially if she stops to stick her thumb out.

  I figure a trucker’s picked her up by now. She’s short. Cute, in an every-young-teenage-girl-is-cute kind of way. I don’t know why, but I’m mostly worried about her skin. I got badly sunburned in fourth grade. Seth and I went to a swim party at Dimas Lake. Mom slathered me with sunscreen. Sent me on my way. But it must have been cheap stuff. Washed off while I swam. Next day I could barely move. I’d never felt anything so painful.

  Brooke’s skin looked like that. Red and raw.

  I’m on the road about twenty minutes. Drive under the speed limit. Even so, she can’t have walked this far. There’s an interchange up ahead. I take a breath, hoping she really can read people. Hope she found someone nice to give her a lift. A family. Straight-A student on his way home from college. Woman with motherly instincts.

  “Okay, doggie. Let’s go home.”

  He yawns.

  I pull off the freeway, and there she is. Walking up the off-ramp toward a truck stop. I idle on the shoulder in front of her. She walks by. Glances in at me.

  “Hi, Brooke.”

  She stops. Narrows her eyes. “What do you want?”

  “I thought about what you said. About giving you a lift.”

  She stares at me long and hard. Her face doesn’t look any redder than before. I smell coconut-scented sunscreen. “I need to use the restroom,” she says.

  “Hop in and I’ll drive you up there.”

  She thinks about it. Rounds the front of the pickup and gets in. Jethro hops onto the jumper seat, his usual spot. He knows he’s had it good until now.

  I drive. Park in front of the store. “Better not shoplift,” I warn her. “These are the big boys. They have cameras and a security detail. They won’t hesitate turning you in.”

  She glares at me. Slams the door and goes inside.

  “Was it something I said?” I ask Jethro.

  He watches the store, like he’s waiting for her.

  She comes back a few minutes later. Gets in but leaves the door open. “So how far can you drive me?”

  “San Bueno. It’s just the other side of the border in New Mexico, about an hour from here. Then I need to get home.”

  She looks over at all of the parked semi trucks.

  “Most of those drivers are eating dinner,” I tell her. “Or using the pay showers. Some are bedding down in their trucks for the night.”

  “But they can take me a lot farther.”

  “Probably.”

  She sighs.

  “There’s a Greyhound stop in San Bueno,” I say.

  “I don’t have money for a bus.”

  I act like I’m thinking about it. But the truth is I decided before I left home. “I’ll buy you a ticket.”

  She stares at me. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I work. Save my money. Don’t have anything to spend it on.” Then I add, “I don’t want anything in exchange, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  She sits there. Looks out at the trucks. “Okay.” She closes the door.

  I start the engine.

  “I forgot your name,” she says.

  “Logan.” I back out of the parking lot. Head east on the highway.

  Brooke fiddles with the radio. The only stations with reception are country western. She turns it off.

  “Hey, leave it on.”

  “You like that crap?”

  “Something’s not crap just because you don’t like it.”

  She turns the radio back on. Looks over her shoulder at Jethro and cringes. “Your dog stinks.”

  “Jethro’s mostly an outdoor dog. Doesn’t get washed very often.”

  “Jethro. That’s a redneck name. Are you guys rednecks?” She pats his head. He licks her fingers. “Ew.” She wipes them on her shorts.

  “No, we’re not rednecks. You haven’t spent much time around dogs, have you?”

  “My dad’s allergic.”

  “He’s allergic to dogs?”

  “Animal dander.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that was a thing.”

  “It is. Big-time. A bunch of my friends are too.”

  “Is that why you’re running away from home? You want a pet and can’t have one?”

  She squints at me.

  “I’m kidding.”

  “You’re prying. Who says I’m running away?”

  “Well, you are, aren’t you?”

  She folds her arms over her chest. Stares out the passenger window.

  “It’s a big decision to leave home,” I say. “Especially the way you’re doing it.”

  “You sound like a therapist.”

  “I don’t know what a therapist sounds like.”

  “They act like they care. But they don’t. Not really. They just want you to open up and spill your guts. So they feel good about themselves. Like they’ve accomplished something.”

  “I’m not like that.”

  She shrugs. Unzips her backpack and pulls out a cell phone. Presses a button. Throws it back.

  “Dead battery?”

  She nods.

  “You can use mine.”

  She crosses her a
rms again. Turns her head. Presses her forehead against the window.

  The sun is getting low. The landscape is flat and barren. Nothing to look at except a dust devil. A long freight train in the distance is keeping pace with us.

  “What was with that guy in your store?” she asks. “The one who freaked out when the car backfired?”

  “That’s my dad.”

  “Really? What’s wrong with him?”

  “He was in an accident four years ago. Got a concussion. His brain is damaged. He has anxiety, panic attacks, memory problems. I take care of him.”

  “Where’s your mom?”

  I grip the steering wheel. “Now who’s prying?”

  “I don’t care. You don’t have to tell me.”

  Jethro snakes his nose between the seats. Rests his chin on my thigh. I pet him. “How about I tell you about my mom and you tell me about yours?”

  “How about we don’t.”

  “My mom left us three years ago,” I start. “Eight months after Dad’s accident. She couldn’t put up with him. Or where we lived. Or me.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t know. There must be something. She gave up on us.”

  “That sucks.”

  I look over at her. “Your turn.”

  She fidgets. Winces.

  “Your sunburn hurt?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It will be worse tomorrow.”

  “Great. Good to know. So, my mom is a drunk. And my dad abused me.”

  “Abused you? How?”

  “Does it matter? He abused me.” She tucks her feet under her. Curls into a ball.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Can we shut up now? I want to sleep.” She leans her head against the window.

  I watch her for a moment. Reach behind the seat and grab the hoodie I always keep back there. “Here.”

  She opens her eyes. Glares at the sweatshirt. “I’m not cold.”

  “Pillow.”

  She balls it up. Sticks it under her head.

  CHAPTER 5

  Brooke sleeps the rest of the way to San Bueno. Or at least she pretends to. I pull into town. The bus station is at the Stop ’n’ Save on Main Street. I’ve never taken a bus from here or anywhere. But I work on this highway, which means I answer a lot of questions. Learn about transportation options.

  I park next to the store. It’s almost seven thirty. The sun is sinking below the horizon. Jethro gets to his feet. Wags his tail.

  “We’re here,” I tell both of them.

  Brooke raises her head. Looks around. “A convenience store?” She stretches her legs.

  “And bus stop. They sell tickets inside.” I open my door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To buy your ticket.”

  “I can do it. I know you need to get home.”

  “Except I don’t know how much it costs. So I don’t know how much to give you.”

  She sighs. “Fine.” She gets out. Drags her backpack with her. “Bye, Jethro.” She slams the door.

  The cashier eyes us as we enter. I know that look. He’s guessing our threat level. If the two of us came into my store, I’d rate us a seven out of ten. Strangers. Teens. At night. Good chance one of us might cause a distraction while the other nabs something. He glances outside, wondering if we have accomplices.

  “I’d like a bus ticket,” I say.

  His shoulders drop. Gaze softens. I guess people who buy bus tickets aren’t troublemakers. “Where to?” he asks.

  “Oklahoma City.”

  He opens a laptop and taps on it. “When?”

  “Soonest you got.”

  “The next eastbound bus comes through at eight fifty. Fourteen-hour ride. One transfer. Gets to the main station in Oklahoma City at eleven fifteen tomorrow. One hundred ninety-eight dollars.”

  That’s a lot of money. But I’m not going to back out now. “Okay.” I count out ten twenties.

  The cashier looks out into the store. “Hey, you,” he calls. “Girl with the backpack. Either you or your backpack needs to stay up here where I can watch you.”

  Brooke’s in the candy aisle. She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to steal anything.”

  “Regardless.” He crooks his finger.

  She slowly steps up to the counter. “Fourteen hours is a long time on a bus.”

  “They’re comfortable seats,” he says. “You can sleep most of the way.”

  She frowns. Bites her bottom lip.

  “Do you still have that tuna sandwich?” I ask.

  She nods. A printer churns behind the counter. I give her a twenty. “Use this for snacks and breakfast.” I pull out my phone. “Call your grandma. Tell her you’re coming.”

  Brooke hesitates. Carries the phone outside. The door closes behind her.

  The ticket finishes printing. The cashier slides it across the counter. “She should be out front fifteen minutes before departure. We’re a small stop. The driver doesn’t wait long.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks.” I take the ticket and leave the store. The sky is darker now. Temp a little cooler, but still hot. I look around for Brooke. Don’t see her. “Brooke?”

  She steps around the side of the building, gripping the phone.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” She’s biting her lip again.

  “Get in touch with your grandma?”

  She nods.

  “And she can pick you up tomorrow?”

  “God, you’re worse than my mother!”

  “Okay, relax. I’m invested in you now. I just want to make sure you’ll be okay.” I give her the bus ticket.

  She stares at it. Turns it over.

  “I hope everything works out.” I’m not sure what else to say. So I just say, “See ya.”

  “Right. See ya.”

  I walk to the pickup and open the door. I forgot to mention about not being late. I turn to tell her, but she’s gone. “Brooke?”

  No sign of her. I push down the urge to search. Figure she went back into the store to buy water or something. If I don’t hurry, I’ll miss Dad’s bedtime. He’ll fall asleep on the couch. Wake up wondering where he is. Where I am. Mess up his routine. He needs his routine.

  I call Grandma and Grandpa just to be safe.

  Grandpa answers with, “Everything okay, Logan?”

  “Yeah. I’m in San Bueno. Drove farther than I should have. Can you—”

  “Sure. I’ll head over there right now.”

  “I should be home before his bedtime. But just in case, I put his pj’s in the hamper this morning. He’ll need clean ones. And he needs to take his meds—”

  “I’ve got it. Don’t worry. Just drive carefully.”

  “Make sure he uses the toothpaste for sensitive teeth. The regular is mine—”

  “Logan? I’ve got it. Goodbye.” He hangs up.

  I end the call. Close the pickup door. Pat the passenger seat. “Come on, doggie.”

  Jethro scrambles up front.

  I start the engine. Pull out of the parking lot.

  Jethro whines and squirms.

  “Need to pee?”

  He yips.

  I park at the edge of the Stop ’n’ Save next to a used car lot. I clip on the leash I keep in the glove box. Walk him along the dirt shoulder.

  Someone comes out of the store. It’s Brooke. She’s carrying a bulging plastic bag. She stops. Looks over to where I’d parked the pickup before. Then walks to the sidewalk. Turns away from Jethro and me. Toward the highway.

  What the hell?

  “Hey!” I call.

  She looks over her shoulder. Her body sags at the sight of me.

  I trot over with Jethro. “Where are you going?”

  She shrugs. “Nowhere. For a walk.”

  “The bus will be here soon.”

  “I’ll be back in time.”

  I glance at the bag she’s carrying. I know how much twenty doll
ars buys. Not as much as what’s in that bag. “What did you buy?”

  “Snacks, like you said.”

  I pull the bag out of her hand.

  “Hey!” she says, grabbing for it.

  I swing it out of reach and look inside. Several caffeine drinks. A pile of candy bars. Bags of chips. Even a T-shirt.

  She takes it back from me.

  “Show me the bus ticket,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Show me the bus ticket!”

  She shakes her head.

  I stick my hand out. “Then give me the rest of the money.”

  “What money?”

  “The money you got for cashing in the ticket.”

  She stares at me. Takes a deep breath and reaches into her pocket. Pulls out some bills and hands them to me.

  “Eighty dollars?” I ask.

  “There was a cancellation fee.”

  I clench my jaw. Try not to blow up. “So what’s your plan? Going back to the highway? Hitching again?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you know how dangerous that is at night?”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Because you can read people? That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Do you have a death wish?”

  She shrugs.

  “I can’t let you do this.”

  “It’s a free country. I can do what I want.” Then she says, “I really don’t get why you give a crap.”

  I think about it. “Say I drive off right now. And something terrible happens to you when I could have helped but didn’t. I couldn’t live with that.”

  “You are so weird.”

  “It’s what people do. They help each other.”

  “Not on my planet.”

  “Well, you’re on my planet now.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Come on,” I tell Brooke. I head with Jethro back toward the Stop ’n’ Save.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To buy you a bus ticket to Oklahoma City. Then I’m going to wait with you until it gets here.”

  She trots next to me. “I don’t believe this.”

  We reach the store. I hand her Jethro’s leash. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “What do I do with your dog?”

  “Nothing. Just stand there.”

  I glance at her when I get in line at the counter. She’s leaning against a DVD vending machine.

  The clerk finishes with the customer ahead of me. “I want that bus ticket to Oklahoma City.” I set two hundred dollars in front of him.