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Every idea was unbelievably stupid, but they had had fun just the same.
So, he could get off at the IGA, but he suspected it would be in a pretty populated area, and he would need to find a place to camp out. The bus wouldn’t arrive until about four; it was dark these days by seven — kind of late to begin walking south. Plus, he was tired from all the trips he’d already taken between Mrs. Olson’s farm and Bar Harbor.
The stop before the IGA was a campground called Narrows Too. Jack didn’t have money for a campsite, but he figured a campground would be closer to wilderness — wilderness where he could hide for the night. Decision made. He’d get off at Narrows Too.
Unfortunately, the campground wasn’t at all what Jack had imagined. It was on the main highway and wide-open — a place intended for RVs rather than small tents. It would be difficult to sneak into and even more difficult to hide in. He decided to walk up and down the road to see what else was in the surrounding area.
The smell of steamed lobster drew him toward the Trenton Bridge Lobster Pound. Outside were six wood-burning vats with steam rising from them. Oh, how he wished he could have a plate of steamed mussels or a lobster right now! He could taste the warm butter and tender meat. Or a roll! Even just a roll!
After pitching the potatoes into the woods on his walk back to Bar Harbor — he’d have had no way to cook them, and he didn’t think you could eat them raw — Jack had finished a green pepper and another cereal bar, but these didn’t satisfy him after so much walking and carrying. He wished he were a mangy dog right now that could crawl under one of the outdoor picnic tables and beg for scraps.
Maybe he should have kept the potatoes. He probably could have bartered for something. Would they have thought it cute if he’d offered to trade some homegrown potatoes for a lobster roll?
It seemed like every decision he made had good consequences (his bag was lighter) and bad (he had nothing to offer anyone else). He’d have to do a better job of thinking things through.
While standing there, taking in the torturous smells, Jack began reading the license plates of the cars parked off to the side. It was an old habit. Since his mom did so much driving, she played the license-plate game over and over again. She’d seen all fifty states three times now. Not many people could claim to have seen a Hawaiian plate three times. Well, OK, if you lived in Hawaii, you could. Jack’s favorite was the one from Tennessee — it had an elephant on it.
There wasn’t a single Maine plate in this parking lot. There were two cars from Connecticut, a minivan from New Jersey, and a pickup truck from Massachusetts.
Massachusetts? He looked around as if the faces of the people going in and out could reveal their state identity. What if the driver of the pickup was heading south? He could ride with them. He could be home tonight! He imagined the conversation in his head.
“Hey, are you on your way south? Me too! Would you mind giving me a ride?”
He was being stupid. No one was going to willingly transport a kid without his parents’ permission. They’d guess he was a runaway. They’d call DSS in a nanosecond. Still, it was an idea that was hard to let go of.
Jack went inside the lobster shack, allowing the screen door to slam behind him. It was a friendly place, with mint-green walls and bright-red benches. Fishing nets cradling colorful glass balls and starfish hung from the ceiling. There was a chips rack right next to the door — what Jack wouldn’t do for a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips — and he hung back by the rack to see if he could figure anything out.
In the dining room to his left was a couple, probably in their eighties, Jack guessed, seated at a table, waiting for their order. At the table next to theirs were an Asian mother and daughter, speaking a language Jack couldn’t understand.
A woman with curly gray hair was standing at the counter, placing an order, asking if they had a traditional lobster roll. A teenage girl with braces tried to answer politely, but she was clearly confused by what the woman meant.
“Ours is the traditional,” said another woman in an apron — probably the owner of the lobster pound. “Everyone ate lobster salad on bread before the hot-dog bun became so popular.”
Jack took a deep breath and walked over to the older couple like it was the most natural thing in the world and asked, “Excuse me, are you from Massachusetts?”
“What’s that?” asked the older man, squinting at Jack.
“Are you from Massachusetts? I noticed a truck outside with Mass. plates. I’m from Jamaica Plain,” Jack said.
“Melrose,” the woman said, leaning toward Jack.
“North of Boston,” said the man. “About four and a half hours from —”
“These for here?” the girl behind the counter interrupted.
“Come again?” asked the woman.
The girl repeated the question.
This time the woman understood. “Oh. No. We’re going to take them back with us,” she said, preparing to leave.
Take them back. They were going home. Home to Massachusetts. He had to think fast. “Have a good trip!” he called, and hurried outside. Vehicles had begun to park directly in front of the lobster pound, but he knew exactly which truck belonged to the older couple. It was the gray Silverado parked on the side. He brushed by a family with young children and went directly to the truck, acting as if it belonged to him, as if he had decided to wait for his parents, or his grandparents, outside.
The truck was fairly high off the ground and had one of those extended cabs with the little seats in the back. Could he hide back there?
Think, Jack. Don’t be too quick this time. They’d have lobsters. They’d put them behind their seats. They’d see him when they did. Besides, he could clearly see that the cab was locked.
The bed. He glanced at the other parked vehicles to make sure no one was seated inside and watching him. All were empty. Then he stepped right up on the truck’s bumper and took a good look in the back. There were lots of wood chips and a crumpled tarp. Could he hide beneath the tarp? Would they see him then? And what if they did?
What would he do?
He’d run. Certainly, he could outrun this couple. He’d be gone and hiding before the police arrived.
Before anyone else pulled into the lot, Jack jumped into the back of the truck, scurried under the tarp, and lay there facedown. He could flatten himself fairly well but realized his backpack must be bulging. He slowly and quietly pulled his backpack off and tucked it under him, hoping to compress it as best he could. He thought of pulling his sleeping bag out, but that would make running away, if he had to, harder.
Jack’s heart was beating so loudly, he was thankful the couple was hard of hearing. Certainly, anyone else could hear the bang, bang, bang coming from his chest, or his breathing, which sounded as if he’d just run a marathon.
Voices. There was some good-natured shouting and laughing; he was pretty sure it was the Massachusetts couple. He heard the cab open, the front seat snap as it lurched forward (presumably so they could put the lobsters in the back of the cab), and then the engine start up.
He had done it. He hadn’t been seen. He didn’t know if the couple had glanced in the back of the truck, but he did know that he was undiscovered. He’d be back in his own state in four hours. Of course, he wouldn’t be in Jamaica Plain, but he would sure be a whole lot closer.
His stomach rumbled, and he realized then that he’d left his bag of vegetables under the picnic table, but it didn’t matter. He’d be home, having a can of ravioli, before the night was over. He hadn’t found his mom, but this was the next-best thing.
Jack knew that the truck would travel for some time on smaller, busy roads and that then eventually they’d be on the Maine Turnpike. Speeding along on the highway at si
xty-five miles per hour would be cold. At that point, Jack told himself, he could take his sleeping bag out and wrap himself up in it. It wasn’t likely they’d hear him then.
So he was surprised when the truck seemed to be driving on a very bumpy road. Maybe it just feels bumpier when you’re in the back, he thought. Or maybe they knew a shortcut, which would be cool.
The truck came to a stop.
Were they at a gas station? Were they picking up other supplies or souvenirs before heading back? He listened to both doors opening and shutting. Then he heard the slamming of a screen door — twice. He made himself stay still for a moment or two more. When he was certain the couple was out of sight, Jack slowly lifted his head and peeked out from under the tarp.
All he could see were trees.
He sat up farther.
Ahead of him was a cottage — clearly a summer home. Because the little house was shaded, and because sunset was not far off, lights snapped on. Jack could see the couple moving around in the kitchen, preparing to eat their lobsters.
No!
It couldn’t be.
He crawled out of the truck and looked around. There was nothing. No streetlights, no shops, no major roads — hardly any neighbors.
“We’ll take them back” had not meant “We’ll take them back to Massachusetts.” It had meant “We’ll take them back to our summer place, our place in the boondocks here in Maine.”
Jack felt like he might throw up. He crouched to keep his stomach from revolting. He was certainly way off track now. He figured they’d been driving for twenty minutes — that would take at least three hours to walk! He had no idea where he was, no idea how to get back. He doubted there was a library or an Internet connection for miles. He supposed he could just start walking, but he was tired and hungry — and he’d left the vegetables behind!
He sat down and ripped open a cereal bar, trying to think of what to do next. Tears ran down his cheeks. He couldn’t help it. He was trying so hard to be smart, to figure things out. He remembered something his mom had said on their way up to Maine: “I can’t do everything for you, Jack. I know you didn’t get the mother of your dreams. So what? That’s why you have to be smarter than most boys. More independent.”
They’d been arguing. She had gotten increasingly agitated. Jack couldn’t think about it now. He got up and took a look around. He’d make something up if the couple saw him — how he’d come to borrow a cup of sugar or something.
There were no outbuildings near this cottage. No barn or garage or shack. If he slept here, he’d have to sleep under the stars — just him and his sleeping bag. The ground would be cold. He wished it were the old days and he could just knock on the door and ask if they had a bed he could sleep in.
A bed. That was it. He’d sleep in the truck bed tonight. He’d have to wake early and hide, though. Maybe hide back under the tarp and hope the couple drove back to Trenton, or Ellsworth, or some other town on Jack’s route.
A back door to the cottage opened, and Jack froze. He was standing under a tall pine, hoping he was well hidden in the evening shadows.
There was the unmistakable sound of a tin trash-can lid being lifted and then slamming. The remains of the couple’s lobster dinner were no doubt in that can. Jack wondered if they’d left any parts in the shell. Imagining the taste of sweet lobster meat got the best of his judgment. As soon as the back door banged shut, Jack made his way to the trash can.
Lifting the lid off without making noise was a slow but rewarding process. He didn’t think about how gross it was to be eating someone else’s food — food from a trash bin. He flicked a piece of lettuce off half a buttered roll and stuffed it into his mouth. He used his dirty fingernails to break away the stubborn, remaining shell of a lobster claw and popped the leftover meat in his mouth, too. Slow down, he told himself. This is lobster. Taste it. Then he broke off one of the spindly legs from a lobster’s discarded body and sucked the juice from it.
The blaring of a TV inside reminded Jack that the couple could not hear well. Heck, he could probably let himself in and fix himself a meal in the kitchen, and they wouldn’t even know it. He stood for a moment at the back door, listening to a news report about a robbery at a grocery store in Bangor — and then to another report. A story about a missing boy. A boy who might be on Mount Desert Island. People were encouraged to get in touch with the police if they knew anything about him.
For a brief moment, relief washed over Jack. They were looking for him! They knew he needed help! He could stop running and turn himself in! But then his head cleared, and a terrible sinking feeling filled his near-empty stomach. Something didn’t add up. His mother wouldn’t have gone to the police. She’d have known they’d take him from her. Maybe she was so worried about him that she’d risk it. But she’d never worried before. . . .
Who else? The woman from the bookstore? Had she reported the theft? But how would she know he was a missing person and not just some local kid or a tourist? Maybe Big Jack had put things together. Jack didn’t think he’d given that much away, though.
They hadn’t given any particulars about the boy, had they? It might not be him. He’d read about a missing girl on his first day on the island. Maybe this was something that happened frequently on an island — an island that had a national park.
And even if his mother had initiated the search, would she realize what she’d done? Would she realize how much trouble this would mean for the two of them? (If she was spinning, she might not be thinking straight. She might have gone back to the campground, seen that Jack was gone, and thought someone had kidnapped him. That was what the spinning times where like. She lost all sense of the order of things.)
He’d have to find out more. He’d look online tomorrow. There were lots of ways to figure out who started the search. If the reports didn’t mention his finger, it was probably his mother. If they did mention his finger, it was someone else — someone who had put the pieces together.
Jack had to be smart. He had to protect them both. For now, he would continue on his own, continue to lie low.
He’d been having wild dreams when he woke, wild, chasing dreams. The truck bed was cold, and worse, it was raining. Big, heavy drops were beating down on the tarp. Fortunately, Jack had crawled under it last night, preferring to be hidden from sight rather than out in the fresh air.
He slipped on the extra shirt and his Windbreaker and pulled a cereal bar from his backpack. He ate as slowly as he could, hoping it would feel as if he’d had a full meal by the time he finished. Also, by concentrating on every bite, he didn’t have to think about what came next. He sort of wished the What next? would take care of itself. Like, maybe the couple would come out, throw their suitcases in the back, and say, “OK, we’d better get going if we want to get back to Melrose in time to see the Red Sox game.”
Of course, if they lifted up the tarp to cover their suitcases, there would be major problems. It might be better if he figured a few things out for himself. He crawled out from under the tarp and, keeping his head down, jogged toward the cottage. The rain made him brave. He scooted onto the front porch and crouched beside a wicker chair. The chair was under a window, and although the window was closed, the couple spoke loudly enough to be heard.
They were playing Scrabble. First thing in the morning. Like they didn’t have a care in the world other than how to get a triple-word score. Jack slid down, sitting on the porch with his back against the wall of the house, and listened. There was no planning, no talk of a schedule, no clues about when they might get into their truck and drive out of here. It definitely didn’t look as if they were getting ready to go anywhere.
Way too impatient to sit around on a porch all day, he decided to pack up his things and start walking. Heck, a little bit of rain never hurt anyone.
There seemed to be only one main road, and he could see from time to time that the ocean was on his left. Both of these facts reassured him: he couldn’t take a wrong turn, and he had to b
e heading south. After walking for forty-five minutes in the pelting rain, making sure to turn left at a fork, Jack ducked under the extended roofline of a school. A plaque told him that it was the Lamoine Consolidated School, which probably meant that he was in the town of Lamoine — wherever that was! He was drenched.
“Are you going in, sir?” asked a woman who had rushed up and was now closing her umbrella. She said it in that voice teachers use when you’re temporarily out to lunch.
“No — no, I don’t go to school here. I was just getting out of the rain.”
“Where do you go to school, if you don’t go here?”
“I go to school in —” He started to say Massachusetts but stopped himself. What if she had seen another news story about the missing boy? What if they had said the boy was from Massachusetts? (He’d already told the librarian as much, he remembered.) “I mean, I used to go to school, but now I’m homeschooled.”
“Then what are you doing here, soaked like a washrag?”
His left hand folded around the little elephant in his pocket. It gave him comfort. It gave him courage. “I returned some supplies we borrowed,” he said, and then, for effect, pointed to his backpack. Wow, he should be a spy or something when he grew up. He was becoming a professional liar.
“Well, you’d better get on home, then. This rain isn’t going to stop anytime soon.” She entered the school.
Jack nodded — though the woman hadn’t even waited for a response — and headed back down the road.
He was pleased to have stumbled upon the perfect excuse for being out of school on a Wednesday. But it didn’t exactly come out of nowhere. When he was nine, his mother was asked to attend a meeting at school — a meeting because the school guidance counselor had concerns. After the meeting, she told Jack she was thinking of yanking him out. “You won’t be homeschooled, Jack. You’ll be unschooled. You’ll learn the ways of the world through experience, without all these silly adults, with their silly rules and their silly concerns, breathing down our necks.”
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