by Ben Rehder
“I’ll take my own heat. This is my decision, not yours. I can handle it. Plus, as far as I’m concerned, they don’t have anything to be mad about.”
“Well, I am making you miss school.”
“Yesterday was the last day. I’m all done. And I bet I got good grades, too.”
Opa remained silent, thinking things through. I just sat there and let him do it.
Opa said, “We’ll need to let your parents know. I don’t want them to worry. They can be mad all they want, that’s fine, but it wouldn’t be fair to make them worry.” He glanced at the little credenza by the TV, where he’d placed his cell phone and car keys. He let out a sigh. “This is not going to go well.”
“Why don’t we text them?” I said. “I’ll do it. They’ll probably feel better if they hear from me directly.”
Opa nodded. “I think that’s probably true.”
I took my phone from my pocket. Mom or Dad? Dad, definitely. This is what I wrote:
Dad, im taking Opa to see a doctor, plz dont worry or be angry, everything is ok, having fun, will be gone several more days, will call later, love, Charlie
I showed the message to Opa.
“Looks good,” he said.
I took a breath, then hit send.
We sat there, just waiting. We both knew what would happen. And it did. Less than a minute after I sent the message, my phone rang. Incoming call from Dad. It was hard to just let it ring and go to voicemail, but that’s what I did. A tone let me know that he’d left a message. Then Opa’s phone rang on the credenza. Then silence. Then a tone indicated that Opa had a new voicemail.
Then my phone rang again. Four times. Followed by a new voicemail.
“You know what?” Opa said. “I think we’re gonna have to get us a couple of new phones.”
And that’s what we did.
Before we left Amarillo and visited the Cadillac Ranch, we stopped at a Best Buy and bought two new phones on a pay-as-you-go plan, then we went next door to an Academy and bought me a bunch of clothes, plus a cargo bag to carry it all. Now, less than two hours after seeing all those crazy upside-down Cadillacs, we were crossing the New Mexico state line and approaching a town called Tucumcari. Opa was driving, and doing a good job at it.
“I’ve heard of Tucumcari,” I said as we passed the city limits sign. Population: 5,989.
“Yeah?” Opa said.
“It’s in some song they play on Dad’s oldies station. I didn’t know where it was, though. That song is filled with a bunch of weird names.”
We passed the Pony Soldier Motel and several small, flat-roofed buildings that looked abandoned, with weeds growing in the parking lots. A lot of the signs and buildings had an Indian feel to them, and the landscape was quite a bit different here. More rugged and rocky, with mesas in the distance.
Opa began to sing. “I’ve been from Tucson to Tucumcari...Tehachapi to Tonapah.”
He looked at me and I laughed. His singing was horrible. “That’s the one, but you’re mangling it so bad I hardly recognize it. Can you sing solo?”
He frowned. “I was singing solo.”
“No, I mean so low I can’t hear you.”
“Ha. You’re just jealous that you didn’t inherit my golden pipes.”
“As if.”
We passed the Dickinson Implement Company, Tee Pee Curios, an RV park, and even more motels. We stopped at a red light next to a restaurant with a gigantic adobe sombrero — like ten feet tall — over the front entrance.
“Bet they’ve got some pretty good breakfast tacos,” Opa said. “Wanna give it a shot?”
I said that sounded good to me, so he pulled into the parking lot and we went inside. It wasn’t very crowded so we got a table right away. Our waitress — a short, dark-haired woman with a broad, flat nose — came quickly with menus and glasses of ice water, then she returned a few minutes later and took our order. I asked for three breakfast tacos with chorizo, eggs, and cheese, plus a Coke. Opa ordered one taco, with egg and potato, and iced tea.
When she left, I looked around the room. There was a lot of corny artwork, with coyotes and eagles and cacti and that sort of thing. There were colorful blankets on display, hanging from wooden rods. It all seemed very old, like nothing had changed in here for fifty years, except for the flat-screen TV mounted on one wall.
The waitress brought our drinks. After she left, I said, “I like this place. It’s different than the Mexican food restaurants back home. It’s got more Indian stuff.”
He said, “Usually they prefer ‘Native American’ or ‘American Indian.’”
“Aren’t I a native American?”
That made him grin, and I’m not sure why. “You sure are, Bud. Just not quite in the same way.”
I started to ask another question, but I saw the waitress already coming back with our tacos. She put Opa’s plate down first, then mine. Everything looked and smelled great, and I realized how hungry I was.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asked.
“I think we’re all set,” Opa said.
She smiled, then went to check on some other customers.
I picked up one of my tacos and took a bite. It tasted great. And it was humongous. No way would I be able to finish all three. Maybe I could take one with me and put it in the ice chest. I wouldn’t mind eating it cold in a few hours. I was about to take another bite when my eyes settled on the TV on the wall across the room.
And I froze with the taco halfway to my mouth.
At first, I was confused by what I was seeing. My mind just couldn’t process it, I guess. It was so totally unexpected, like when you suddenly catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror, except you didn’t know there was a mirror there, so you don’t understand for a second or two that the person you’re seeing is you.
That’s what was happening now, because there, on the TV screen, was a photo of me in my football uniform.
8
I didn’t know this — again, this is something Matt told me later — but right about the time I was staring at the TV in disbelief, Matt was finally confessing that I’d been with him when he stole the drill. This was after he’d spent the night in jail. No, really. He spent the entire night, all by himself, in a holding cell at the police station.
What had happened was, Cathy Abbott’s semi-Neanderthal boyfriend called the cops, so a patrolman came and questioned Matt, and then the cop called Matt’s parents, who drove right over. Then there was a private discussion between Cathy Abbott, the cop, and Matt’s parents, who were furious. Matt couldn’t hear any of it, but he knew they were figuring out what to do with him.
Then the cop took Matt aside and said, “Miss Abbott doesn’t want to press charges, but it’s really not up to her, it’s up to the guy who owns the drill. I’ll talk to him later. But right now, I need to know something else. She says she saw someone with you at the house. Who was it?”
“Nobody. It was just me.”
Honorable, I guess, but stupid.
The cop shook his head. “Come on, now. A tall, blond kid. I already have a name, but I want to hear it from you.”
“I swear, I was all alone.”
The cop sighed. “Let me tell you something. Your dad is mad enough to let you spend the night in jail. You don’t come clean, that’s probably where you’re headed. I’d rather just get this cleared up right now, you know? We all know that your friend Charlie was with you. Miss Abbott went and talked to his parents yesterday morning.”
Of course, Matt already knew that, and he knew that I’d denied everything, so he didn’t want to make me out to be a liar. So he stuck to his story, that he was all alone. Brave, right? Well, he was, until the next morning. That’s when a different cop — probably an investigator, because he was wearing regular clothes — told Matt they’d spoken to the man who owned the drill. Like Cathy Abbott, that man didn’t want to press charges either — on one condition: Matt had to reveal who was with him that night.
�
��See, he wants your pal’s parents to know what he did, so they can punish him,” the cop said. “That seems fair enough, right? Letting the parents handle it? But if you don’t give us the name, he’s pressing charges. Against the both of you.”
So Matt decided it was time to tell the truth.
It was my official player photo, the one they use for the programs they hand out at the football games. You know the type of photo I’m talking about — where the player kneels on one knee, with one hand resting on his helmet, which is on the grass next to him. So there I was, except they’d cropped in tight and all you could see was my face and the upper part of my jersey. Beneath the photo were two words: MISSING CHILD. The sound was down, so I couldn’t hear what the announcer was saying.
I finally gathered my wits enough to put my taco down and say something.
“Opa.” I was leaning across the table toward him.
“Hm?” His mouth was full.
“Opa, look.”
“Look where?”
“Look at the TV.” I was practically hissing.
He twisted and looked over his left shoulder. The photo was on the screen for just a few more seconds — long enough for Opa to know that I wasn’t imagining things. Then it was gone, replaced by a commercial for a carpet-cleaning company.
Opa turned back around very slowly.
“Well,” he said. Very calm about the situation.
“Did you see it?”
“I did.”
“That was me!”
“I know it was, Bud. It appears your parents are, uh — ”
“Overreacting?”
“Well, yeah, I’d say so. Was there a photo of me, too?”
“If there was, I didn’t see it.”
He glanced casually around the room at all of the other customers. “I don’t think anybody here was paying attention.”
I was getting past the initial surprise, and now I was getting angry. “It was my mom,” I said. “It had to’ve been my mom. This is the sort of thing she’d do. She’s a drama queen.”
Opa didn’t respond, but I could tell by the look on his face that he agreed with me.
“What’re we gonna do?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Opa said. “But for the moment, I’m going to sit right here and finish this taco.”
I took over the driving duties when we left the restaurant. Opa had me stop at an ATM before we left Tucumcari. Then, once we were back on the interstate, he opened the glove compartment and took out a map of the western United States.
“There are several different ways to get to Seattle,” Opa said. “And that works in our favor. They may think we’re going through Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and over into Washington. Or we could be going New Mexico, Utah, Idaho, Washington. Or even New Mexico, Arizona, California, Oregon, Washington.”
It was close to noon and the sunlight was pouring in at a steep angle through the windshield. Not a cloud in the sky. Traffic on the interstate was light. Opa had tuned the radio to an AM talk station coming from Albuquerque, thinking we might hear a news report about me. Or us. So far, it was just some guy ranting about the sorry state of our country, and how our liberties were being stripped away from us one by one. I didn’t know what the heck he was talking about, but it sounded like he was about to have a nervous breakdown.
“Which way are we gonna go?” I asked.
“I was thinking we’d just wing it. Make it up as we go along. How does that sound?”
“Pretty good, actually.”
He started folding the map. “In fact, the more unpredictable our route, the better.”
“Because they’ll be looking for us, huh?”
“Yep. Having second thoughts about this little expedition?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“You can tell me if you are. I won’t be mad.”
“I would, but I’m not.”
We drove without speaking for a couple of miles. The guy on the radio was still ranting, so Opa tuned it to a different station.
Something occurred to me. “Hey, how will they know we’re going to Seattle?
“It might take them some time to figure out we’re going to Seattle, but they’ll know we’re going to the northwest. Remember what I told you in the motel room?”
Assisted suicide is legal in only two states — Oregon and Washington.
“Yeah.”
“Plus, they’ll know we went through Amarillo.”
“Mom and Dad will know?”
“No, the police.”
“How?”
“I used my credit card for the motel room.”
“How quick — ”
“And at Best Buy. And at Academy. And at the convenience store in Lubbock. We’re leaving an electronic trail. That’s why we stopped at the ATM. We needed some cash, and now we’ve got plenty. I withdrew the max with my debit card, then took out some more with my credit card. We’ll pay cash from here on out.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Opa was pretty slick.
I asked, “How quickly can they figure out where you used your credit card?”
“I have no idea.”
“On TV shows, they know that kind of stuff in just a couple of hours. And your phone records, too. They know who you called, and when, and where you were when you called them. You think they can get it done that fast in real life?”
“I just don’t know, Bud. I hope not, but maybe.”
I checked the rearview mirror, halfway expecting to see a police car zooming up behind us. But there was nobody back there.
I wish I’d been able to hear the news report at the restaurant. Were the police telling everybody where we were headed and which cities we’d already passed through? Did we need to ditch the interstates and start using smaller roads? We needed more information. My iPhone was in my cargo bag, along with my new clothes, but we couldn’t use it. Not now. My new phone — the one from Best Buy — didn’t allow Internet access. I thought about calling Matt and getting the scoop from him, but that would be risky. What if the cops were tracing his calls? Would they go that far?
Then I had a better idea.
The Moise Memorial Library in Santa Rosa was a small, one-story building made of brown brick. There were several parking spaces right in front, but I chose one to the far left, so the people inside couldn’t see our car through the double glass doors. I’d bought a baseball cap at Academy; I put it on now to make my blond hair a little less noticeable.
“If they start asking questions, you get out of there,” Opa said.
“I will.”
“Try not to let anyone get a good look at your face.”
I nodded.
“And don’t hang out in there too long.”
“Okay.” He seemed to be done, so I said, “Be right back,” and got out of the car. I realized I was having that feeling again — the one I had when Matt and I snuck into that empty house. On edge, but a little excited. Maybe even lightheaded. Like I was doing something I shouldn’t, but there was a thrill to it.
I stepped inside and immediately saw several computers in carrels in the back of the room. Perfect. But first I had to get past the reception desk, which was occupied by a woman about my mother’s age. She looked up from a book as I came through the door. No chance of slipping past her and sneaking onto one of the computers, because there wasn’t a single other person in the library. Not one. So much for not letting anyone get a good look at my face.
“Morning,” the woman said. She looked excited to see somebody. Anybody.
“Hi.”
“Can I help you with something?”
“Yeah, uh, yes, ma’am. I was hoping to use one of the computers.”
“Sorry, they’re all taken.”
I didn’t know what to say.
She laughed. “I’m just kidding. As you can see, you can have your pick. Kind of quiet around here this morning. I’ll just need your library card.”
I had assumed she’d ask
that, because that’s the way they do it at the library back home.
“Actually, I don’t have one. I’m not from Santa Rosa. We’re just driving through and I thought I’d stop in and check my email real quick. My phone quit working.”
“Oh. Okay. Let’s see.”
She didn’t know what to do, and she briefly looked around on her desk, as if there might be a form or manual somewhere that provided the answer. This was outside the normal procedures. I stood there.
She gave up looking. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Not yet. I’m only fourteen.”
“Do you at least live here in Guadalupe County?”
“No, ma’am.”
I had a name ready, in case she asked for one. Dylan. I had always thought that was a cool name. So much better than Charlie.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“St. Petersburg, Florida,” I said, without missing a beat. Where in the world did that come from? I had no idea. But it wouldn’t be smart to tell her I was from Abilene, in case she’d heard about a missing boy.
“Oh, I’ve been there!” she said. “What a lovely little town.”
Just great. This was turning into small talk.
She continued, saying, “I loved that pier — the one with the building shaped like an inverted pyramid? What’s that place called?”
“We just call it the pier.”
“Well, that makes sense. We fed the pelicans. There were dozens of them!”
“They do like to be fed.”
“One even climbed on top of our car.”
“I hope it didn’t scratch the paint.”
“Well, with our car, you wouldn’t even notice. Where are you headed?”
“Phoenix, Arizona. To see my aunt. She’s having her spleen removed.” I was really laying it on thick. It occurred to me that I was quickly developing the ability to lie effectively.
Now the librarian looked concerned. “They can do that?”
“Do what?”
“Remove your spleen?”
“Yeah, you can get by without it.” I hoped that was true.