by Ben Rehder
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE DRIVING LESSON
BEN REHDER
For Tristan & Hayden.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank the following people for making this a better book: Mary Summerall, Stacia Hernstrom, Becky Rehder, Helen Haught Fanick, Marsha Moyer, Tommy Blackwell, John Grace, Roxanne Tea, and Allan Kimball. And thanks to Laurence Parent for the cover photo.
Copyright © 2012 by Ben Rehder.
Cover art copyright © 2012 by Becky Rehder.
Cover photograph © Laurence Parent.
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
1
If, during the last week of my freshman year, you’d asked me what I was planning to do that summer, I can guarantee you that becoming a fugitive would not have made the list. Not even a really long list. Especially if you’d told me that I wouldn’t be alone, that it would be me and my grandfather — seriously, my Opa — together, on the run, the subject of a nationwide manhunt. Yeah, right, I would’ve said. Are you friggin’ nuts?
But, as we know now, that’s exactly what happened. Events sort of conspired, as Mr. Gardner, my English teacher, would say. And before the entire fiasco was over, we’d become an international phenomenon. The chaos would grow to include...
Cops across Texas asking the public for help in tracking us down.
Newspapers from Los Angeles to New York plastering our photos all over the front page, me with my baby face and blondish-white hair.
John Walsh talking about us on America’s Most Wanted, stressing that we were most likely unarmed. Most likely?
People tweeting about us, talking about us on Facebook, posting videos on YouTube that supposedly showed us eating breakfast at an Iowa truck stop or camping out at Big Bend National Park.
My parents, Glen and Sarah Dunbar, appearing on CNN, Mom pleading for God to deliver “her baby Charlie” home safely, while Dad sits there looking uncomfortable and the smoking hot newsbabe nods with sympathy.
So, yeah, you can kind of understand why I didn’t see any of this coming. Silly me, I thought the highlight of my summer would be getting my learner’s permit.
The last Saturday in May plays an important role in this story, because that’s when Matt, my best friend, talked me into doing something really dumb. Actually, two dumb things in a row, the second one worse than the first.
It was about thirty minutes before dark and we were walking to the bowling alley. Yeah, it sounds lame. Who bowls, right? But it’s something Matt has done since he was about five, and I’ve known Matt since third grade, so I usually tag along, and sometimes I bowl, too. My high score is 114. Matt’s is 223. So you can tell which one of us applies himself.
Anyway, we were walking past a home under construction on the edge of the neighborhood where we both live. There aren’t many empty lots left in our subdivision, but every so often, one of the remaining lots sells and a new home gets slapped up in a matter of a few months. We’re not talking high-dollar mansions, just tract homes that look like all the rest in the area. This particular home was nearly complete, and there was already a for-sale sign stuck in the freshly sodded yard. I’m gorgeous inside! the sign proclaimed. (My dad joked that that sounded like the title for a book designed to build self-esteem in teenage girls.)
That’s when Matt stopped walking and said, “Charlie, check it out.” He was looking at the house.
“What?”
“The front door is open.”
And it was. Wide open. Like somebody forgot to lock it and the wind had given it a shove. The construction workers were gone for the day. The place was quiet and still.
I stopped, too. So what if the door was open? Nothing good could come from going inside a home under construction, especially since we’d gotten into trouble less than a month ago for skipping an assembly at school. Under those circumstances, only an idiot would go inside this house.
Matt said, “Let’s go inside.”
“Forget it.”
“Just for a minute.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“It’s stupid.”
“I just want to look around.”
“Be my guest.”
“Come with me.”
“Nope.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“It’ll be trespassing.”
“Don’t be a pussy.”
And there it was. Matt’s trump card. Whenever he wanted to push my buttons, he’d call me a pussy. I hated it and he knew it. But, of course, my only option was to act like I didn’t care, or he’d still be calling me that name when we were living in a retirement home. So I said, “Whatever, dude.”
“Pussy.”
“Real mature.”
“Pussy.”
“Jeez, Matt, grow the hell up.”
“Pussy.”
“You might want to broaden your vocabulary.”
“Pussy.”
I knew from experience that it wouldn’t do any good to keep arguing with him. He can be a persistent little jerk. So, even though I wish I could go back and do that night over — use some common sense — instead, well, you can probably see where this is going.
We closed the front door behind us and stood there for a few seconds in the tiled entry hallway, which would be called a foyer in a larger home. I have to admit, my heart was pumping pretty good. We weren’t supposed to be in here, but we were, and it was exciting. Exhilarating, even.
“Come on,” Matt said, and he stepped slowly into the living room, onto the carpet, which was clean and perfect. The entire house was spotless. I could smell fresh paint.
But something was strange. Sort of familiar. Then I figured it out. I whispered, “You know what? This place has the exact same floor plan as my house.”
And it did. Dining room over there. Three bedrooms down that hallway. Fireplace with a window on either side. Weird. It made me wonder how many other homes in the neighborhood were just like mine — except maybe with a different coat of paint on the outside, or bricks instead of plywood siding.
Matt didn’t say anything. He was just looking around with this odd little grin on his face. Enjoying the rush. The light was fading as the sun was beginning to set, but I noticed that his sneakers were leaving smudges on the carpet.
“Let’s go, Matt,” I said.
“Not yet.”
“There’s nothing to see in here. The place is empty.”
No response.
“Matt!”
He moved toward a swinging door on the other side of the living room. I knew that was the way to the kitchen, just like in my house. Matt went through the door, but I stayed behind, near one of the windows, so I could keep an eye on the street.
I was starting to get nervous. What if someone had seen us come in? It wasn’t like we were real sly about it, walking right up to the front door. Anyone watching would’ve known we didn’t belong in here. Which could mean the police might be on
their way right this very minute.
“Matt!”
If we got caught...I didn’t even want to think how my mom would respond.
Suddenly Matt, still in the kitchen, said, “Sweet!” And here he came through the door again, holding something. “Dude, look what I found.”
It was a cordless drill. My dad had one like it, but a different brand. Yellow instead of blue. I was with him at Home Depot when he bought it. Nearly two hundred bucks, which is a lot of money.
“Put it back,” I said.
“Somebody must’ve forgot it.”
“Quit screwing around.”
He pulled the trigger on the drill and it made a powerful whirring sound. It seemed awfully loud in the quiet house.
“Man, I could use this!” Matt said.
“For what?”
“Stuff.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
But he had that grin on his face again. Sometimes I hate that grin.
At this point, I should mention that I outweigh Matt by about thirty pounds. I’m nearly six feet tall, one of the biggest kids in the freshman class, and sometimes my size has its advantages. Like making nose guard on the football team. Or like right now. If I had to, I could wrestle the drill away from Matt and put it back in the kitchen. Then we’d leave. Sure, Matt would be pissed, but he’d get over it. Later, he’d realize how dumb it would’ve been to steal the drill. He’d realize that I’d actually done him a favor. So that was the plan, to try to talk him out of it, and if that didn’t work, to use my superior physical attributes to impose my will.
And that’s when we heard the car door out front.
Here’s what would happen if I got caught.
I’d get grounded, for sure — probably for at least a month, and maybe for the entire summer. No cell phone, no computer, no video games, no TV, no iPod. No hanging out at the mall, no riding my bike, no going to the movies, no having friends over to share in my misery. Guess what I’d be expected to do instead?
Read the Bible.
Seriously. My mom would insist on it. Didn’t matter that I’d already read it several times, cover to cover, in my nearly fifteen years. When I was younger, parts of it sort of freaked me out, especially in the Old Testament. I mean, come on — people think Mortal Kombat is gruesome? The Bible has this big long list of reasons to stone people to death. It’s got plagues, brought on by God, that wipe out entire cities, plus human and animal sacrifices, fathers having sex with their daughters, and a bunch of other bizarre events. Kind of disturbing when you’re a kid. Now that I’m older, frankly, it just bores me. But Sarah Dunbar — that’s my mother — is a firm believer that reading the Bible can cure all ills. The King James version, of course.
Any time I got in trouble, even for something relatively minor, like being tardy to class, she’d say something like, “I didn’t raise you to be a juvenile delinquent,” and then she’d pronounce my punishment. Could be a few verses, a couple of chapters, or even a full book. If she was really angry, I’d have to write a report about what I’d learned, assuming I’d had any luck deciphering what I’d read.
So maybe you can understand just how badly I didn’t want to get caught in that house.
Matt’s eyes got really big. I’m sure mine did, too.
I peeked out the window and saw a green Ford Explorer parked at the curb. A woman was coming around the front of the SUV, walking slowly, because she was in the middle of a conversation on her cell phone. She was about my parents’ age, dressed nicely in a skirt and high heels. Everything about her said real estate agent. She was in charge of selling this house. She probably had some clients coming to look at the place right now.
“Oh, crap,” I said, because I’m such a master of the English language. Now my heart was really pounding.
“Who is it?” Matt hissed. He hadn’t moved.
“Some lady. Maybe a realtor.”
“Is she coming in?”
“She...she...”
“She what?”
“She’s stopping at the for-sale sign. It has one of those little boxes for flyers. She’s checking to see if there are any flyers left.”
Matt came up behind me and peeked over my shoulder. I was beginning to feel sick. “This is your fault,” I said.
“Maybe that’s all she came for, to check the flyers. Maybe she’ll drive away.”
The real-estate lady, still talking on her phone, let the metal lid slap shut on the rectangular box. Then she started up the driveway toward the house.
I turned quickly. “Follow me,” I said.
He did, too. Amazing how, all of a sudden, Matt was willing to listen to a pussy like me. He was too frozen with fear to realize that all we had to do was go out the back door, which we did, closing that door just as we heard the front door opening.
It wasn’t until we’d ducked through a gate in the privacy fence and started jogging down the street that I noticed Matt was still carrying the cordless drill.
I got home around nine-thirty, and I halfway expected my parents to be waiting for me, looking stern, ready to tear me a new one, because I just knew the cops had already solved the crime and had come to the house looking for me.
I’m a wimp that way, a total bundle of nerves when it comes to the possibility of getting in trouble — so much so that my mom can usually tell just from looking at my face that I’ve been up to something.
But that didn’t turn out to be a problem tonight, because my parents were nowhere to be seen when I came through the front door. Normally, one or both of them would be hanging out in the living room, watching TV or reading. Or Mom would be busy in the kitchen while Dad was in the study working or just goofing around on the computer.
Then I heard them, just a low murmuring from their bedroom. The lights were on in the hallway. I decided I’d just duck into their doorway, say a quick goodnight, and go to bed before my own behavior gave me away. Then I began to wonder if going to bed so quickly would be a giveaway in itself. Maybe it would be better to talk to them for longer than a few seconds. Sheesh.
I started down the hallway. Just act normal. Be yourself. Don’t be an idiot.
I was literally two steps from their bedroom door — and they still didn’t know I’d come home — when I heard my mother say, “Here? Honey, you know that won’t work. He’ll have to end up in hospice.”
Now she saw me in the doorway, and I saw them sitting on the edge of the bed, holding hands.
“Charlie,” she said. That, and nothing else. It was strange, the way she said my name, and the odd expression on her face. Like she was surprised to see me. No, that’s not exactly right. She looked like I’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t be doing, or maybe saying something she didn’t want me to hear.
“I’m home,” I announced. Well, duh.
My dad looked up and caught my eye, but only for a second. He was acting weird, too. Angry about something? Sad? Were his eyes red?
“How was bowling?” Mom asked.
“Okay.” Not really. I’d scored an 82, with three gutter balls. My mind had been on other things, like the fact that I’d taken part in a burglary.
Dad got up and went into the bathroom. Mom looked at me and gave a weak smile. “How is Matt?”
“Fine.” Despite being a felon in training.
“Are you hungry? There’s some pizza left in the fridge.”
She’s always trying to feed me — I’m a big guy and I burn a lot of calories — but I got the distinct impression she was making small talk to sort of gloss over the odd vibe in the air.
Had my parents been arguing about something? Or about somebody? And what in the heck was a hospice? I knew it had something to do with nurses or hospitals. Which meant there could only be one person they were talking about.
2
My phone chimed at 8:37 the next morning. A text message from Matt.
Any prblms?
I’d been awake for nearly an hour, but I was still in bed, ju
st thinking about things. About last night. Not so much about the stolen drill, but about “hospice care.” I’d looked it up on the Internet and was not happy with what I’d learned.
Yeah, there are problems, I thought.
That was made even more obvious by the fact that church started at nine and it appeared we weren’t going. Mom hadn’t even knocked on my door to get me up for breakfast. I didn’t smell bacon frying or coffee brewing. In fact, I didn’t hear any movement or talking at all in the house.
I lay there for several minutes, just feeling crummy. To be honest, I was kind of enjoying leaving Matt hanging. He was always doing stupid stuff and somehow getting me involved. Like this thing with the drill. So I texted him back.
Cops came this morning
His reply came within fifteen seconds:
Srius?
I could picture the panic he was feeling. Pretty funny.
I denied evrythng
Not funny
Not a joke
I put my phone on silent mode because I knew what he’d do next, and sure enough, it rang. I let it go to voicemail. Thirty seconds passed. Then he sent a text:
Where r u
Cant talk now
Im freaking out whats happening
Cops r chcking the nborhood door 2 door
U r lying
Wish i was
OMG 4 a stupid drill?
Doesnt mttr its stil theft
The door was open
Rmembr whn ur bike was stolen?
Now there was a long pause and I realized I had a huge smile on my face. I was getting him good. Last year, somebody had taken Matt’s mountain bike when he’d left it in front of a convenience store. His dad had been really pissed that he’d left it unlocked and wouldn’t buy him a new one. That’s why we walked everywhere now — Matt had no bike.
Finally he said: Shld we put it back?