by Jan Blazanin
I shake my head no, but she keeps ranting. “You could catch typhoid or cholera or E. coli or—”
“Laurel! I didn’t swallow any.” Which doesn’t rule out rampant infection from the bacteria-infested water seeping into the scratches on my arms and legs. “Just help me out of here.”
With mud sucking at our shoes, we wade out of the creek and fight through the brambles on the opposite bank. My legs feel like dead stumps weighted down with cement. I do my best to protect my face from the lashing branches, but when they snap against my skin they bring tears to my eyes.
Laurel and I plod forward in no particular direction except away from the barn. One thing we have going for us is the moon, which is faintly visible through the clouds. If we keep it in front of us, we’re not walking in circles. Are we?
Two flooded, nasty-smelling ditches later we slog onto a gravel road. We’re coated with mud from the waist down and scratched everywhere else. Mosquitoes the size of great horned owls attack our arms and legs, and gnats swarm around our faces. The last ditch swallowed my left sandal, and I couldn’t bring myself to feel around for it in the slime. Since then I’ve stepped on every thorn, stick, and pebble with my bare foot.
Laurel raises her arms in a victory salute. “Civilization at last!”
“If you say so.” My stomach is getting queasier with every step, and a lumberjack is pounding his axe into my skull. All I see in either direction are stretches of deserted road with fields on either side. No houses, no lights, no nothing. “Any idea which way is Cottonwood Creek?”
“How should I know? You were born here.” Laurel rubs the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving a long smear of mud. Her grimy shorts are barely hanging on her butt, and her halter top looks like she used it to mop the garage floor. I don’t want to know how I look.
I check the cloudy sky, hoping to see some reflected light from Cottonwood Creek’s courthouse or its three-block-long downtown district. It’s possible that the sky looks a little lighter to my right. But maybe not. I could think better if my head stopped spinning.
Something wet plops on my head. I look up, and rain splashes in my eye.
“Crap on toast!” Laurel throws a full-body tantrum, foot stomping and all. “Now it’s freaking raining!”
Standing here is getting us nowhere. “Town is this way.” I take a right and start limping down the road. Even if we go the wrong direction, we’ll find a house eventually.
After we’ve trudged through the rain for several minutes in dismal silence, Laurel says, “What do you think happened to Tessa and Wynter?”
I’m too miserable to care about anyone else, especially those two.
“They got caught; I know it,” Laurel continues without waiting for me to answer. Which I wasn’t going to do, anyway. “The police probably blocked in all the cars. Hey, I’ll bet Buttferk got caught, too.”
Even that thought doesn’t cheer me up.
The road in front of us gets lighter, but there’s nothing ahead. When I hear the growl of an engine, I realize a car is coming up behind us. My first instinct is to grab Laurel and dive into the ditch. But my pounding head, throbbing foot, and bubbling stomach veto that plan.
I turn toward the light.
The car or alien craft or whatever is creeping along at grandpa speed. Either a hundred-year-old woman is driving or it’s a pervert on the prowl. As long as it’s dry inside—and if it ever gets to us—I’m in. But I hold on to Laurel’s arm in case a chain saw swipes at us out the window and we have to run for it.
Manny starts yelling even before he pulls alongside us. “Aspen, that is you! What the hell are you doing out here?”
I have never, ever been so happy to hear my brother’s annoying voice. The car is still moving when I yank open the passenger door and vault inside.
And land sideways in Clay’s lap with a muddy splat.
He makes a huffing noise. I gasp. Then we sit in stunned silence while rainwater drips down my neck and the muck from my shorts oozes into his jeans.
The silence is short-lived.
“What have you been doing—mud wrestling?” Manny screeches. “Get your grimy ass out of my car!” He reaches across the seat and shoves me. Hard.
I brace my feet against the doorframe. “No way! it’s raining. And Laurel and I are freezing.”
“You can’t leave them out here,” Clay says. “We’re at least five miles from town.” But he doesn’t return my smile of thanks.
Uttering a string of curses, Manny climbs out of his car and pops the trunk. He lifts out an armful of blankets and dumps them onto the backseat. “Spread those out before you get in. And I’d better not see a single drop of mud on my clean seats.”
Since Laurel and I know how Manny feels about his precious car, we do what he says, even though rain is pelting our backs. We’re so filthy that the rain can only help.
By the time we crawl into the backseat, we’re soaked from head to toe and our teeth are chattering. Manny tosses a towel onto Laurel’s lap, and I notice that Clay is using another towel to blot his jeans. It would be just my luck that I ruined his clothes.
“So, Manny, why are you guys driving around out here?” Laurel, who is much braver than I am, asks.
Manny snarls something unintelligible before he says, “Clay and I were on our way to check out a barn party when I got a text that the cops raided it. Since we missed the excitement, we decided to cruise around for people who are trying to get back to town.”
He sneers at me in the rearview mirror. “And look who turned up on the idiot meter.”
It’s bad enough that Clay is seeing me like this without my brother making things worse. “Hey, we were smart enough not to get caught.” Like I had anything to do with us getting away.
“How’d you get out there—by riding double on Aspen’s bike?”
Running through muddy ditches must have soured Laurel’s mood because she gives Manny the finger behind the seat back as she says, “Tessa and Wynter invited us, so we caught a ride with them.”
I try to catch Clay’s reaction to Wynter’s name in the rearview mirror, but I can’t see his face in the dark. So I’m no closer to knowing if he’s the “farmer boy” Tessa was talking about.
At least Laurel’s name-dropping shuts Manny up for the time being. Or maybe it’s a coincidence, because right about then the sky opens up and throws rain at the car in fifty-gallon barrels.
While Manny steers down gravel roads that the pounding rain has turned into mud soup, Laurel and I take turns drying our hair with the towel he threw at us. He has enough towels and blankets in his trunk to open his own motel. Which leads to thoughts about my brother and his serial girlfriends that I’ll need decades of therapy to erase.
Meanwhile, Manny has his hands full keeping his car on the road. Whenever he accelerates above a snail’s pace, the back end swerves and shoots plumes of muddy water at the windows. The wipers thrash back and forth at top speed and smear long streaks of mud on the windshield. Manny is hunched over the steering wheel like an old man, but I can’t imagine either of my grandpas using the words coming out of his mouth.
The deafening rain is crushing my skull, and the rocking seats and stagnant air are agitating the nasty brew in my stomach. I haven’t been carsick since I was ten, but it’s all coming back to me now. If I don’t get some fresh air—
I manage to gasp, “Manny, stop the car! I’m going to throw up!” before I have to clamp both hands over my mouth.
“You puke and you die!” Manny jams on the brakes, throwing the car into a skid. Laurel and I bounce like Ping-Pong balls. And the gallon of punch I chugged rises like the tide.
As we lurch to a crosswise stop, I shove the door open and thrust my head and shoulders into the blinding rain. Spasms seize my insides, and the jungle juice—no longer fruity and delicious—burns my throat on its way out…and out…and out. Between heaves, I gasp for breath, but the air stinks like booze-laced vomit, twisting my stomach into mor
e spasms.
After what seems like an hour of emptying my stomach, I draw a shuddering breath. Inch by Inch I straighten up, pushing my sweat-and-rain-soaked hair out of my eyes. I try a few more breaths and decide I’m not going to throw up any more.
I’m wrong.
When I’ve finished puking again, I sink my butt onto the car floor and keep my head and feet out in the rain. My rib muscles throb, and my skull feels like it’s cracking into a hundred pieces.
The light blinds me.
It’s supposed to be a peaceful, soothing light that draws me in. Not true. It’s a nasty, glaring light that burns into my eye sockets even when my eyes are closed. I can’t see anyone beckoning me, which can’t be right because my hamster, Mr. Puggles, definitely went to heaven.
“This is the Cottonwood Creek police! Get out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them!”
Okay, so it’s possible I’m not dying after all. But this scenario may be worse.
Until Clay reaches down to help me up, I don’t realize he’s gotten out of the car. “Stand up, Aspen. You can lean on me.”
I grab Clay’s hands and wobble to my feet on jelly legs. The sky and ground are spinning in opposite directions, which makes it hard to keep my balance. Holding their hands in the air, Manny and Laurel get out on the other side of the car. Clay lets go of my hands and raises his, too. Rain drips off the end of his nose. Without his support, I sway a little before I get my balance.
As a luminous green figure approaches Manny, the same voice, though not nearly as loud or deep, asks for his license and registration. While Manny ducks back in the car to retrieve them, the glowing green person says, “So, tell me, what are you kids doing out here?”
Laurel peers at the face under the plastic-covered hat. “Officer Sierra?” Her hair is flattened against her skull, and her nipples are poking through her sopping halter top. She must realize it, too, because she crosses her arms over her chest.
He turns, and I recognize his broad face above the florescent green slicker he’s wearing. “I am. Wait, you’re Laurel, the wisecracker.” Manny hands over his documents, and Officer Sierra looks at them—and us. “Sure, I remember all of you now. Which brings me back to my original question: ‘What are all of you doing out here?’”
Manny clears his throat, and he and Clay exchange a look over the roof of the car. “Just riding around in the country. You know, for something to do.”
Officer Sierra tips his hat to one side, and water pours off it. “Now, Manny, that’s kind of hard for me to believe. You see, an hour or so ago we raided a keg party in an old barn a mile and a half from here. We rounded up most of the kids, but some of them slipped out the back door.”
The officer’s stare takes in Laurel’s muddy legs. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Laurel? Because you look pretty rough for a girl who’s been riding in a car all night.”
Laurel swallows and wipes the rain off her face.
Officer Sierra saunters over to where Clay and I are standing. I’m doing my best to stand up straight, but my brain is taking a roller-coaster ride and my stomach is roiling like angry surf. “Aspen, isn’t it? You look like death warmed over.” He eyes the nasty puddle at my feet. Then he leans toward my face and sniffs. “Good Lord! You smell like rot-gut booze.”
I clutch my stomach and spew jungle juice all over his shiny black shoes.
fourteen
THE LAWNMOWER ROARS INTO MY ACHING HEAD LIKE A chain saw. The vibrations plow up my trembling hands and through my ruined nervous system to what’s left of my brain. The inside of my mouth is permanently coated with foul-tasting paste, and it’s likely that my stomach has given up on food forever.
Mom and Dad dragged me out of bed at the butt crack of dawn and practically chained me to the lawnmower. If I survive this torture, I’m supposed to weed Mom’s tomatoes. And the chores go on and on until I drop dead or the sun sets, whichever comes first.
A hand clamps onto my shoulder, and I drop the mower handle and spin around. The engine stops abruptly, and blessed silence ensues.
“Hey, you missed a spot back there,” Manny says. He’s dressed for work in khaki shorts and a white polo shirt. In addition to his golf clothes, he’s wearing an obnoxious smirk. If I had the energy, I’d punch him.
“You don’t look so good, Sis. Feeling a little rough around the edges?”
“Shut up.” I wipe my sweaty face with the tail of my T-shirt. My skin, my clothes, even my hair, smell like recycled alcohol. When I finish today’s indentured servitude, I’m going to stand in the shower until we run out of water.
“Being hungover sucks, doesn’t it?” Manny’s smirk grows into a full-fledged grin. “You know the saying, ‘If you’re gonna play, you gotta pay.’” He hands me an insulated cup. “Drink some of this. Sometimes it helps.”
I sniff it suspiciously. “What’s in it?”
“Traditional hangover cure.” He shades his eyes with his hand. “Tomato juice, Tabasco, salt and pepper, raw egg. Same ingredients as the omelet you made for me, but without the Tums and Pepto. Go on, try it.”
For once, my brother looks and sounds sincere. My first sip barely wets my tongue. The spicy saltiness tastes good, and I take a real drink. “Thanks.” I stand perfectly still while the liquid slides into my stomach. “Of course, the true test is if it stays down.” My insides gurgle to let me know they haven’t decided yet.
Manny pulls a baseball cap out of his back pocket and puts it on. “So how long are you grounded?”
“Mom said six months, but Dad won’t let her stick to it.” I hope. “She’s really pissed about having to come to the police station to pick me up.”
After I barfed on Officer Sierra’s shoes, he made each of us blow into his drunk-detector gadget. Since Manny and Clay hadn’t been drinking, they passed with flying colors. Laurel’s breath registered below the legal limit, which didn’t mean squat because she’s still underage. My level was so high that Officer Sierra considered calling an ambulance, but I convinced him that I’d barfed most of the alcohol out of my system.
He bundled Laurel and me into the back of his squad car. In case I wasn’t humiliated enough, he made me carry an evil-smelling yellow plastic pail to catch any future offerings. With Manny and Clay following, he drove us to the station and called our parents. At the police station Laurel and I sat wrapped in towels on a hard wooden bench outside Officer Sierra’s office. He told Manny and Clay they could go home if they wanted, but Manny said they’d stay until our parents got there. He and Clay sat on an identical bench across the hall, facing Laurel and me. Every now and then Manny looked over at me and shook his head. Clay just stared at the gray tiled floor.
Laurel’s dad, who was the first to get to the station, seemed more sleepy than angry. He kept yawning while Officer Sierra explained where Laurel and I had been and why he picked us up. After Laurel said she’d only drunk part of one beer, I could tell her dad didn’t think it was anything to get excited about. Mostly I got the feeling he wanted to get out of the police station before any of his bank customers came in for some reason and saw him there. I knew Laurel wanted to stay and see what my parents were going to do, but her dad dragged her off before they blew in.
Two minutes later, Mom stormed into the police station with wild-looking bed hair and wilder-looking eyes. There’s nothing she hates more than to be embarrassed in public. And having your daughter hurl on a policeman’s shoes ranks pretty high in embarrassing moments. The more Officer Sierra described what happened, the madder she got. Since my blood alcohol level was off the charts, I couldn’t lie and say I’d had only half a drink. Mom yelled and lectured and threatened while I died of humiliation, knowing Clay was hearing every word. Dad sat beside Manny and let Mom rant for both of them. I think Dad felt kind of sorry for me, but he values his life too much to say anything.
The ride home was endless. Mom had moved beyond ranting to silent, seething rage. After asking me if
I was okay, Dad kept quiet, too. I was a sick, soggy lump of misery shivering in the backseat. The minute we got home, Mom turned her back on me and stomped upstairs.
Dad waited until their bedroom door slammed shut. He patted my damp shoulder. “Take a hot shower, drink a big glass of water, and try to get some sleep. Your mom is pretty mad right now, but she’ll calm down in a couple of days. Maybe I can talk to her about getting your sentence reduced.” He rubbed his eyes. “But I’d strongly suggest that you avoid any parties for a good, long time.”
Manny tucks his shirttail into his shorts. “Yeah, Mom and Dad look the other way about my partying, but it’s different with you. And the police station thing was the icing on the cake, especially for Mom.”
My stomach does a pirouette. “Don’t mention food!”
“Been there.” Manny gives me a knowing nod. “Is Mom going to make you quit your job?”
I sip some more of Manny’s hangover cure. “No. She thinks working will keep me out of trouble. And I still have to walk Miss Simmons’s sk—stupid cat.”
“Yeah, Mom and Dad are heavy into the work ethic.” He unhooks the sunglasses from the front of his shirt and slips them on. “Listen, Aspen, I’m in no position to lecture you about drinking. But that jungle juice is lethal. It’s laced with Everclear, which will knock you on your ass.” Manny clears his throat. “And guys make it taste good to get girls drunk and…well, you know.”
I almost choke. “Thanks for the brotherly concern, Manny, but I’m the last girl anybody wants to hit on.”
“My buddy Clay seems kind of interested.” Manny scratches his head. “I can’t imagine why.”
My heart gives a happy jump, which dies immediately. “Last night took care of that.”
Manny shrugs. “Guys generally aren’t turned on by projectile vomiting, but you never know.” He looks back at the house. “Uh-oh. A certain mother who shall remain nameless is giving us the death look. You’d better get back to it.”
“I guess.” As he starts across the lawn to his car, I add, “Hey, thanks for the magic potion.”