by Una LaMarche
Which gives me the idea. Wiping my hands off on my gasoline-splattered jeans, I know how I’m going to completely school Tim.
We drive into northern Texas on a long, cracked stretch of Route 66 dotted with pawn shops and legitimate Mexican joints that make Taco Bell look like the Disney cartoon it is, their bright storefronts faded to lazy pastels by decades of unflinching sunshine.
“Jesus saves, ask Him!” Tim says as we pass an RV park, and it takes me a minute to realize he’s reading off a bumper sticker and not just suddenly professing his Christian mission.
We reach downtown Amarillo just as the sun starts to set, and while it’s mostly as low and sparse and beige as a Texas tumbleweed, it’s still a spring Friday night, so there are people milling around outside of a few busy-looking bars and restaurants. It’s too late to execute my master plan, which requires both natural light and local library Internet access, but I know Goldie’s death rattle will still be there tomorrow—and Tim doesn’t seem to be exactly off to a running start—so I try to enjoy the warm evening breeze and turn my mind to dinner. I park in front of a big old-school theater marquee adorning an otherwise nondescript office building. It must have been gutted to make dozens of tiny, soulless cubicles, but I guess it’s nice they left the sign up. It’s a beautiful scar.
“Want to scout for food?” I ask as I turn off Goldie’s engine, giving her rusty old bones a rest. “There’s probably not much here, but if we can find a coffee shop, they should at least give us a few cups of hot water to make noodles.”
“I think I need to check my messages,” Tim says, pulling out his phone. “That okay?” I nod. He hasn’t tried to turn it on once without asking since I laid down the law yesterday.
“I’ll stay with him,” Leah says.
“What about you?” I ask Cass and Denny. “Any important calls?”
“Haha,” Cass says.
“Can we call Mom?” Denny asks.
“No, buddy, calls only go one way where Mom is.” I haven’t turned my own phone on in over twenty-four hours, too afraid of what might be waiting for me.
“Can we find a bathroom then? One where I can stand up?” The great thing about being six is that talking to your absent mother and finding a urinal to practice on are basically equally exciting.
“Sure thing,” I say, and we trudge off into the dusk, just three disheveled minors out for an adventure pee in the Texas Panhandle.
Of course the first open place we see is a Taco Bell. I mean, of course it is. Even Cass starts laughing at the irony, and she hasn’t cracked a smile since Indiana. It’s on the other side of a big highway intersection, though, so we have to wait for about ten minutes for the light to change and then dash across like frightened deer because, since no one ever walks across highways, the walk light only flashes for about five seconds. I usher Denny into the men’s room with the best instructions I can guess at and then give Cass a few bucks to get a bean burrito and a soda, because she looks so pale she could pass for a Kardashian. “You need to eat,” I tell her, shoving the bills in her clammy hand. I’m hoping we can get some downtime in California, maybe even get a room at a motel with a pool if Buck’s parting gift comes through, and spend a day lying around in the sun before we have to figure out how to rejoin civilization.
While Cass is waiting in line, I finally bite the bullet and turn on my phone. And sure enough, the voicemail icon instantly lights up.
“Hi, Michy . . . it’s been a few days, baby, and I’m ready to come home as soon as you can get that money together. I’m doing good now—well, better, anyway—and I’m ready to change a lot of things. I hope you believe me. Even if you can’t post the bail yet, could you come and see me? It’s getting lonely in here, and I miss my babies. Take care of them, okay? I know you will. You always have. You’re all they got right now, though, till I come home.” There’s a long pause, which I let myself hope is some kind of period of existential reflection until I hear her blow her nose. I forgot about the runny nose. When Mom stops using, she leaks for days. “Sorry. Anyway, I put you on the visitor list, so come anytime.” By way of goodbye, she shouts, “I’m done now. Damn, relax!” presumably at someone waiting to use the phone.
Standing in a Taco Bell, listening to my mom’s excuses . . . 1,500 miles and I can’t seem to get anywhere I haven’t been before. I chew nervously on the insides of my cheeks as I delete the message and stuff my phone back in my pocket. She does sound better, at least—not that it means anything. She’s always better, until she’s not. In some ways it’s worse when she’s good, because then I’m just waiting for something to happen, wondering if this will be the day, or the next one, or the next one. I always find a reason to go in the house before Cass and Denny, just in case, so I can be the one to find her if she ODs. I’ve never found any tips for that scenario on the cover of a teen magazine.
Luckily, I can’t dwell on it for too long, because Denny barrels out of the bathroom with a big wet splotch on the front of his pants.
“It’s from washing my hands!” he says, scowling, as I attempt to suppress my laughter. A big bald guy comes out of the men’s room and gives us a long, piercing look, but luckily Denny has his back turned. I wonder if he knows yet that he’s in for a lifetime of looks like that—and that the looks won’t be the worst of it. I glare at the bald man and pull Denny toward me.
“Whoa, D, you fall in or something?” Cass appears with her burrito, which bends limply over her fist in its foil sleeve.
“He washed his hands very thoroughly,” I say, planting a firm kiss on my brother’s forehead.
You’re all they got right now.
“Um, congrats?” Cass holds the burrito out to Denny, but I push it back.
“That’s for you,” I say. “Eat.”
Cass grimaces. “I feel like puking.”
“Just eat the wrap then.”
Cass groans in protest but leans against the wall and reluctantly begins to peel open the foil. Across the room, Baldy is sitting with a younger, bleached-blonde woman with sunburned shoulders. She’s talking to him, but he’s not looking at her. He’s still staring at us with narrowed eyes, like the very sight of us offends him to his core. He’s got an American Gothic face, kind of pruney and all kinds of mean. Instead of Family Circus, we must have stumbled into the Racist Rodeo hour. Lucky us.
“Hurry up,” I say to Cass, who is tearing off minuscule strips of the soft, damp tortilla and placing them on her tongue like Communion wafers.
“I’m done,” she says, looking peaked and pitiful under the fluorescent lights. I should give her some serious shit about her blood sugar, but we have to get back to the car and I’m not in the mood to force-feed a feral teenager, so I let Denny dispose of the evidence as I usher them both out the door, feeling the bald man’s eyes on my back the whole time.
• • •
When we make it back to the block where we parked, there’s a little crowd gathered, and my first chilling thought is that maybe Tim’s dad was just baiting him to call so he could trace our location, and that he already sent the cops straight to us. But as I get closer I hear clapping, and then I can see Tim standing under the theater marquee with a rolled-up paper bag at his feet, doing some sort of white boy shimmy as he sings an a cappella rendition of “San Antonio Rose.” His voice is smooth and sweet, like a dorkier Bruno Mars.
“Oh no,” Cass says, instant humiliation draining even more color from her face. She hangs back while Denny and I move in closer. Just as he’s finishing, I see Tim see me, and he smiles wide and wiggles his eyebrows, like, top this. That sneaky bastard. This was supposed to be a battle of wits, not American Idol.
After the last note, the onlookers clap and holler, and a few of them step forward to drop coins and dollar bills into the bag. Leah is leaning on Goldie’s hood, arms crossed tightly on her chest, looking reluctantly proud but sitting far away enough to
safely deny any association with him.
“Thank you so much,” Tim says. “This next one goes out to a girl I know.” Someone whistles, and he laughs. “No, it’s not like that. She once told me to buy a taco or step aside. But”—he pauses and winks, to the crowd’s delight—“I think I’m growing on her.” And then he launches into a song I haven’t heard in so long, it takes my breath away—“Michelle,” by the Beatles.
Buck used to sing that to me all the time when I was little. He doesn’t get too many points for creativity—it’s the only popular song with so much of my name in it—but I didn’t know it was a real song back then; I thought he made it up for just me, and it always made me feel special and safe. I find myself blinking back tears.
I want to meet Tim’s eyes, but I can’t. It’s too dangerous, what I’m feeling right now, this combustible concoction of new euphoria and old, aching rage. On the one hand, this is the first time a guy has ever sung to me—in public, no less—and it makes me feel dizzy and hot, like my plasma has been replaced with champagne bubbles. But then, the song also reminds me of the man who took away my trust, who’s at least half the reason I’ve spent the past decade avoiding getting close to anyone. Your parents are supposed to teach you how to love, so what the hell are you supposed to do if they leave you hanging? How are you supposed to know what to feel or even how to express it? I stare at the pavement sparkling under my shoes in the glow of the streetlamps and try to let whatever this is—this song, this boy, this moment—wash over me, and when he’s done I clap so hard my palms sting.
“Thanks,” I say when he comes back to the car clutching the bag filled with bills.
“Not bad, right?” He smiles nervously and searches my face for a reaction.
“Not bad.” I try to smile, but I’m afraid it looks too fake, like I don’t mean it.
“So what did you get?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I hold my hands out to prove it. “It’s all you. You win.”
“How much did you make?” Leah asks, grabbing at the bag. “Is it enough for sushi?”
“Yeah, got your fishing pole?” He laughs, holding it over her head. His arm brushes my waist, and I jump back like he’s on fire.
“We should probably get back on the road,” I say. “I want to make it into New Mexico before we camp.” Tim nods but doesn’t say anything. Now he’s the one staring at the ground.
You’re great, I think. I’m sorry. I’m just no good at this. But my telepathy only works on Cass . . . and maybe not even on her anymore.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing his hand. I notice that each nail has a perfect half-moon beneath it, not waxing or waning—just constant. Tim looks up, and our eyes meet. My heart beats in my ears like a snare drum.
But the words, whatever they are, die in my throat as I see the bald man emerge from the crowd and make a beeline for Leah. He’s broad-shouldered and over six feet tall but must be pushing sixty-five and moves like he doesn’t have all of his original parts. I could outrun him, I think wildly.
“Hey!” Now I’m yelling it. I drop Tim’s hand, push past him, and instinctively step in front of Leah and Cass, who are pawing through the crumpled ones and piles of quarters like winos. “Get in the car, let’s go,” I say. But physics fail me this time; he’s in motion and we’re standing still, and he closes the distance before the last word is out of my mouth.
“Excuse me.” His voice is raspy and thin like a rusted-over flute.
“What?” I ask, a little too sharply. He frowns in my direction but doesn’t seem to see me; he’s looking back and forth between Tim and Leah, finally settling on Tim.
“Can I speak to you for a moment, son?” he asks.
Tim looks confused but offers up a tentative half-smile. “I guess so. What about?”
“Maybe he wants to give you a record deal,” Leah quips.
“No, nothing like that, I’m afraid.” Baldy smiles, but his eyes are steely. I feel Denny’s hand close around my wrist. “I was just wondering . . . is your car an old beige station wagon?”
Tim looks at me and furrows his brow. “Yeah,” he says. “Why?” I can see Goldie about fifty feet down the block, slumped against the curb. Apart from her general appearance nothing seems amiss.
“I thought so,” Baldy says.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“You tell me.” He sounds angry now. The glare is back with a vengeance.
“Hey, man,” Tim says. “There’s no need to talk to her like that, she didn’t do anything to you.”
Baldy ignores him and turns to Leah. “Where are your parents?” he asks.
“Um, none of your business?” she shoots back.
“I think it’s time for us to leave,” I say as calmly as I can manage. For once I’m going to follow Buck’s sole contribution to the Devereaux Rule Book: When it starts to get bad, walk away.
“Where you headed?” He won’t let it go.
“Home,” I say.
“Do you live nearby? I couldn’t help but notice your car had out-of-state—”
“Dad!” The blonde he was sitting with at Taco Bell appears behind him, looking pissed. She’s got a thin, angular, aggressively tanned face, but there’s a softness to her eyes that seems to defy her genetics. “Jesus, Daddy, I told you to leave them alone.”
“Stay out of it, Natalie,” Baldy says. “I know it’s them.” A chill runs up my spine, but I try to channel Cass and keep my face bored and blank.
“I’m sorry,” Natalie says. “Please forgive him; he’s just a music teacher who wishes he was a private detective.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“We just—well, we heard something on the radio earlier,” she says. “An AMBER alert about some missing kids. Two white ones and three, um—” She looks at me apologetically. “African American.”
Radio. AMBER alert. For a second I wonder if I’m dreaming, or in some weird exhausted fugue state where I’m hearing things that aren’t there. But then I see Tim’s face, slack with disbelief. He heard it, too. This is happening.
“Not missing,” Baldy interrupts. “Kidnapped. And the car exactly matches the description. Exactly! It’s even got Maryland plates!”
My heart threatens to burst out of my chest, Alien-style. They know about Goldie. And about the three of us. Not even Tim’s dad knows we’re involved. The only place anyone could trace us to is—
“You’re wrong,” Tim says softly.
—the hotel. The parking lot. Shit. Of course they had cameras. So much for identifying my obstacles.
“I’m not wrong, you said so yourself!” Baldy sputters. “A beige station wagon, you said!”
“With New Mexico plates,” Tim says calmly. “We just came over from Santa Fe for the day.”
“Spring break!” Leah chirps with a big smile.
“I don’t want to go to Mexico!” Denny whines, but luckily his voice is muffled by my back.
“See, Daddy?” Natalie says, tugging on his arm. “I told you, it’s not them. They’re probably looking for three big black guys, anyway, not a couple of girls and a little kid.” This master stroke of racial profiling seems to finally pacify Baldy.
“Sorry to bother you,” he mumbles into his neck.
“Sorry to bother you,” I say icily.
As we walk as inconspicuously as possible back to the car, Tim tries to take my hand again, but I shrug him off. A few minutes ago I was almost falling for him, but now I can’t even look at him. He was supposed to keep this from happening. He promised it wouldn’t. And he has no idea how much I stand to lose now that it has.
• • •
“Well, fuck,” I say once we’re back on the highway. I say it a few more times for good measure. For once I don’t care what Denny hears. He’ll probably hear a lot worse in his new foster home, anyway, which is wher
e he’ll be going once the cops catch up with us. I’m so numb from shock and fear that I can barely feel the steering wheel under my fingers. I have to get off the road soon, or I might get us all killed.
“I thought you were taking care of your parents,” I say to Tim, the acid in my mouth sharpening my tongue.
“I didn’t think they’d go through with it,” he says.
“So you knew?” I feel betrayed in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
He looks at me helplessly. “I tried to stall last night, like you said, but the story just doesn’t hold. They saw right through it.”
“What exactly did you say?” I ask.
“I told them we were going to keep going.” He takes a deep breath. “And Dad told me that he was going to report us missing.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“I was trying to find the right time,” he mumbles.
“Bullshit,” I snap. “You had plenty of time.”
“Well, would it really have helped?” he asks irritably, fiddling with the radio dial. A burst of deafening static fills the car.
“Yes,” I shout over the noise. “It! Would! Have! Helped!”
Tim lowers the volume. “What I don’t understand,” he says, “is why some random dude in Amarillo heard about us on his local radio station. I mean, how could anyone know we were anywhere near there? If we got spotted by a cop . . .”
“Then we’d already be in custody,” I finish.
“This might be a stupid question, but there’s no way Goldie has, like, a tracking device, right?”
“She can’t even charge a cell phone, so no. And yes, that is a stupid question.”
“Oh no,” Tim says, turning around. “Leah. Did you turn on your phone?”