The paper on display appeared to be a history test, although it was hard to tell from all the stark red slashes across it. Three of those slashes made things clearer, though.
“An F, Ive?” Sandy said, truly shocked.
Ivy shrugged. She took another bite.
Mac lowered himself down beside Ivy’s feet, ignoring a comet trail of crumbs on the floor. They’d worked hard to train him not to scavenge, not that Mac had put up much of a fight. Their dog didn’t really fight about anything. Sandy watched her daughter rip off a clump of crust from her sandwich, dangle it by her fingers, then drop it deliberately. Mac hesitated before tonguing up the tidbit, swallowing with a grateful gulp.
Never mind, Mackie, Sandy thought, upon seeing his remorseful glance. In a war of wills with a teenage girl, even a dog can’t win.
She found room on Ivy’s test to sign, then took one of her daughter’s hands off the sandwich and folded the page into it. It was a treat to touch Ivy, even like this. “Why don’t you put this away?” Sandy said. “We can tell Dad about it some other time.”
Ivy stowed the paper in her knapsack. When she straightened up, she was looking at Sandy. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?” Sandy echoed.
Ivy glared at her.
Sandy blinked. “Ivy, look, I signed your test. I’m not punishing you. I’m not even insisting we tell Dad yet and you’re—”
Ivy spoke over her. “Are we ever going to tell him?”
“What?”
Ivy shoved the remainder of her snack into her mouth, speaking in a garble. “You heard me. Are we ever going to tell Dad? About my test?”
Sandy sighed. “Why are you doing this? It’s like you’re looking for trouble.” It occurred to Sandy that that wasn’t exactly the right explanation. But, like reaching for an object in the dark, she couldn’t quite grasp what was correct either.
Ivy wiped her hands off on her jeans, which clung in a way her clothes never used to.
“You know why,” she said.
Sandy shook her head. “I really don’t.”
Ivy stared at her.
Sandy knew better than to engage in a blinking contest with a fifteen-year-old. She turned to busy herself with kitchen tasks, speaking over her shoulder.
“Look, honey, why don’t you finish your homework? Then you’ll be ready to come down and sit with us at dinner, even if you’re not hungry.”
Ivy picked up her knapsack. As she headed toward the kitchen archway, she turned back and said, “Who said I wouldn’t be hungry?”
Sandy took this as the peace offering it seemed to be. “Well, good. I made a salad, too. All the vegetables you could want tonight.”
“Did you get the dressing I like? That really good kind, with basil?”
Sandy nodded. “Mmm, and the sesame. I love it, too.”
For a moment, they traded smiles, and it was like having the old Ivy back. The one who’d been so interwoven into Sandy’s days that for a long time she had worried Ivy would never find her own independent sense of self. Ivy had already turned eleven—a tween, especially by the standards of her older friends—when they’d begun to rehab their old house in town with the help of a local historic restoration specialist. Ivy had been as interested in the wallpaper swatches and discussion of finishes as Sandy herself. She’d foregone birthday parties, and trips downstate with her best friend, to join Sandy at the lumberyard, pricing scallops and gingerbread trim.
Then they’d gone and sold that house, and now Sandy had the uneasy sense, like the first twinges of a coming illness, that she and Ivy had lost something far more precious. Not just a piece of her childhood, but the whole loving tenor of it.
“Mom?” Ivy said.
Sandy nodded, bearing down so as to be able to face whatever Ivy was about to bring up—her grades, school, the move maybe. Sandy would confront whatever it was with honesty instead of parental sleight of hand. “Yes, honey?”
“Would it be too big of a hassle for you to make garlic bread tonight?”
Sandy bit her bottom lip, masking a smile. “Already on it.”
“Oh good.” Ivy walked through the archway, Mac at her heels. “It fills me up a lot more than just plain pasta.”
Sandy felt like she’d been given a governor’s pardon. She suppressed the urge to offer one final homework reminder, unwilling to disturb this jumpy, fragile rapprochement, like the first skin on a mold. But she knew how annoyed Ben would be if Ivy’s homework wasn’t started by the time he got home. Her husband was the ultimate worker ant, believing nothing should be done later that could be tackled now.
“I’ll heat up a whole loaf,” Sandy said, then added, “but go do your homework, okay?”
“I don’t have any.”
Sandy had begun searching the depths of the mammoth fridge for butter; now she lifted her head. “You sure? Because this would be the first time since middle school that you didn’t.”
“I did it with Cory,” Ivy said. “The guy who brought me home.”
“Ivy—” Sandy knew Ivy was lying, but she had no idea why. First the test, now this. Although her daughter’s grades had dipped a bit this year, it hadn’t been that big a deal because Ivy had started out so high, with a 4.5 GPA in mostly honors and AP’s. But that Ivy was shape-shifting lately, morphing from one creature into another mysterious, unknowable one.
“What?” her daughter said, brazenly. “You want to check? Look through my things?”
Fights with Ivy never fully went out these days. They were like a fire whose bed of embers always lay ready to spark. Sandy’s patients had shared stories of their own teenagers, so she knew that this was normal. But that didn’t make it any more enjoyable, especially for someone who had always craved peace, built her entire family around it.
“What I want,” Sandy said, moving a little closer to her daughter, “is for you to go upstairs, finish your homework, then come down and join Dad and me for dinner. What I want is for us all to have a nice meal. What I want—”
A flicker of emotion changed the set of Ivy’s mouth. “Are you calling me a liar?” she cut in.
“No,” Sandy said. “I’m not. I’m just saying that I’m pretty sure you do have homework. I have no idea why you would say that you didn’t.”
“Good,” Ivy replied, and at first the reply sounded nonsensical. “Because you’re the liar.”
The accusation hit Sandy like a club. “What?” She stepped forward, surprised when Ivy shrank. “What are you talking about? When have I ever lied to you?”
Suddenly, shockingly, Ivy was crying. She swiped at her face, transferring a beige smear of mustard from her hand to her cheek so that her face was for a moment that of the little girl she had been, oh, five minutes ago.
“I don’t know, Mom,” Ivy said, and sniffled.
Sandy took another step, thinking to comfort her daughter, but Ivy turned away. All the pepper and posturing of a teenager was gone, replaced by a child’s despondent shuffle. Mac matched Ivy’s pace out of the room.
At the border between the dining and living areas of the big, open space beside the kitchen, they both paused.
Sandy looked down. Mac was watching her with one dark, trembly eye and one bright blue one.
“I don’t know when or why or what you’re lying about, Mom.” Ivy took in a breath deep enough to make her chest swell. “I just know that you are.”
ESCAPE
Nick edged through a scatter of dry leaves. The sound was whisper-light, yet it had the force of buildings toppling. He could see the road unspooling before them. He put down a last cone without considering its placement. This was pure charade now; soon Harlan would toss aside the few he still held, and then he and Nick would be gone.
Instead of dropping the cones though, upset bloomed on Harlan’s face. His faulty memory had kicked in, and now he was watching his only friend walk away from him, with no idea why. A full second ticked by as Nick weighed the risk of trying to
hiss a reminder in Harlan’s cabbage leaf ear—which he would have trouble reaching—versus waiting for him to remember the plan.
Understanding dawned and Harlan moved over alongside Nick. They stood beside a pack of trees bordering the bridge.
The guard’s back was turned as he observed the fourth inmate board the bus, moving slowly, enjoying the last remnants of his freedom. Old-School must’ve already given up on his. Nick could picture the ancient inmate selecting a seat and sitting down, silent and resigned.
In just five seconds—not as many as Nick had wanted; the teenage driver had introduced infuriating delay—the light was going to change and both cars would take off. The driver of the SUV didn’t appear to be as impatient, but that didn’t mean she’d stick around.
Nick seized the handle on the rear door. He knew it wouldn’t be locked—cars here never were—but Nick’s heart still pulsed until he felt a reassuring give.
This vehicle might wind up being even better than the kid’s. Its windows had that nice tinting that had become standard while Nick was inside. He’d seen the evolution take place on TV ads and cop shows.
Harlan crowded close, bumping into Nick, and their entrance was clumsy.
The driver twisted around. She sucked in one quick breath—it made a click in her throat—at the sight of Harlan filling the plank of seat behind her, his head pressed up against the roof. Harlan barely got his legs out of the way before Nick let the door swing shut. He heard a second thud that he couldn’t account for.
“Drive,” Nick said conversationally. “And we’ll let you live.”
The guard was just beginning to frown as he surveyed the suddenly transformed makeup of his work crew.
The car in front of them drove off slightly ahead of the green.
A bullet rang out, fired up at the gray, featureless sky. A warning shot, an alert, or perhaps simply sheer futile fury on the part of the guard.
“Drive!” Nick roared.
Harlan cringed, curling in on himself, the massive vehicle shaking with the movement of his body.
The light changed and the SUV rocketed through.
—
This car was as nice as someone’s living room, provided that living room was inhabited by a half-dozen teenagers. The floor was covered with wrappers and stray cosmetics and bits of food, the seat ridged with something sticky. Nick saw a flurry of white that resembled dandruff. A wink of silver in the low light made him realize that the dust was actually nail filings. Quick as a snake’s tongue his hand shot out, closing over a slim, sandpapery blade that had gotten wedged between the door and the seat.
He refocused on the woman in front. Her grip on the wheel was unsteady, and the great vehicle gyrated as it drove forward.
“Give me your phone,” Nick said, back to his original friendly tone. There wouldn’t be a signal out here, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He had spent months going over each of the changes that had taken place during his twenty-four years inside, and pondering their effects. His escape wouldn’t be felled by the widespread use of computers or the arrival of 911 in the area.
He became aware of Harlan breathing hard beside him, his body giving off heat in waves now that they’d hit the high-octane warmth of the car.
The woman fumbled with something on the seat beside her, and Nick’s heart had a second to flare. She had a CB radio, or a relative on the job; maybe she was a cop herself. But then the woman dropped her pocketbook over the seat, and a useless fluster of things came tumbling out, along with her wallet and cell phone.
Nick emptied the wallet of cash, then examined the phone. There was a casing with a seam along it; when he picked at the opening, the plastic popped up. Inside sat the strange-looking battery that powered the device. Nick removed it. Now the phone could no longer serve to establish the woman’s whereabouts to this point. Just a few of the facts he’d learned: that everyone had one of these mechanized insects now, and they could do a lot more than dial a call.
“What do you want?” the woman asked. But there was no heft to her question, or expectation of being answered. Her tone was whimpery and weak.
Nick reached for the lever to roll down the window, then quickly corrected himself. He found the button that did the job now, and pushed it, but nothing happened. He jabbed at it again.
“What the hell?” he said to Harlan, low.
Harlan reached out a hand. It covered the whole ledge on the side of the door.
Childproof locks, Nick realized. When he twisted around, he glimpsed special seats with straps and harnesses, in a third row that looked a whole acre away. There were humps back there, boxes maybe, a jam-up of shapes impossible to make out.
“Roll down this window,” Nick growled.
The woman jumped and let out a little cry. She began stabbing at buttons. Nick almost laughed at the sheer number of them.
“Want me to come up there and help?” he said, beginning to rise from his seat.
Harlan laid a hand on Nick’s arm, which Nick shucked off with some effort.
“No, no—” the woman cried. She kept flailing around. Smacking sounds, whirrs, from up front until his window finally dropped down.
Nick sent the pieces of her phone sailing out into the frigid remainder of the day.
“Now,” he said, friendly-like again. “I want you to get off 9 and head toward Wedeskyull. You know where that is?”
“Yes,” the woman whispered. “I live in town.”
“Ah,” Nick said. “All the better. Except we’re not going to town. We’re going somewhere outside. Long Hill Road. You know it?”
“Yes, I know it,” the woman said, sounding oddly pleased, as if they’d discovered common ground.
Nick looked at the trees whipping by, their bare branches lashing.
Long Hill Road.
Just the name in his head had become the purest drug during the last year he’d spent preparing. Long Hill Road was where he would find what he needed to get away, not only from prison, but from a life that had inexplicably succeeded in dragging him down. On Long Hill Road, Nick could take a brief pause, gather breath for the final push that would enable him to lose himself forever. Reach a place where he’d never be found.
“Good,” Nick said. “Then hurry.”
In the end, the woman turned out to be a good little getaway driver. Her foot pressed hard on the gas, and she didn’t slow down even on the twists and ells and curves.
But a stop sign beside the broad flank of a field finally brought her to a halt.
Nick sensed the possibility a moment before it occurred to the woman. His mother always said how smart he was, but prison had shown him that even more than brains, Nick had great instincts. He knew whenever somebody was getting ready to piss him off, buck him or thwart him. Sometimes he knew before they knew it themselves.
Now he started to climb into the front. From this position he could see how lovely the woman was, although not young, with a silver sheen to her otherwise brown hair, and bottle-green eyes behind eyeglass frames. She had taken off her coat in deference to the cranked-up heat in the car, and her breasts swelled beneath a clingy top.
Nick paused. It had been more than twenty years since he’d felt the warmth of a woman beside him, let her scent fill his nose. Nick fingered the catch on the woman’s pants, some kind of smooth hook contraption he’d never seen before, and the woman shrank away from him, her body becoming an inviting curve against the back of the roomy seat.
Harlan’s hand dropped over the seat; he didn’t have to stretch to do it. That hand was like a sandbag, and it held Nick down for a crucial strike of a second.
They didn’t have time anyway. Once Nick would’ve indulged, taken what he wanted without thinking about the repercussions, or what would happen next. But prison had poured a smooth, hard shell over that part of him, taught him to take a more considered approach.
He wrenched himself around toward the rear. He could make out the sound of labored breathing, loud even fo
r Harlan. Was it the woman breathing so raspily?
“Get off me,” Nick commanded, his gaze flitting between shadowed spaces.
Harlan looked down at his hand as if it didn’t belong to him.
The woman released her seatbelt and scrabbled at the door handle. The door flew open on its hinges, almost slamming shut again and sending the woman back onto the seat. But she was able to slip through a gash of space before the door closed itself. She took off at a run across the field, awkward in high-heeled boots.
Harlan finally lifted his hand, and Nick uttered an order, thrusting the nail file at him. The file was only insurance; Harlan wouldn’t need any weapon besides his fist or foot or fingers.
“No,” Harlan said, starting to shake his head. “I don’t want to.”
Nick squinted out into the gathering twilight. The woman had made enough headway—although there didn’t seem to be any place she could really go—that Harlan would have the best chance of catching up to her. Harlan wasn’t agile or graceful, but sheer size would allow him to cover more of the space that lay between the woman and the road.
“Nick,” Harlan said, the skin around his eyes forming valleys. “Please. She’s leaving.”
Nick slapped the dash. “And you think she’s just going to let us take this baby?”
Harlan began kneading his fingers, knuckles popping in distinct detonations.
“Besides, she knows where we’re headed.”
Harlan’s eyebrows lay like a cattail across his forehead. They rose as one when Nick’s gaze met his. Harlan had always been able to read Nick; that ability had latched them together from the start. He knew that Nick wouldn’t let up till this was done.
“You want to be free, don’t you, Harlan?”
Harlan’s head moved in a nod.
“I don’t just mean free of prison,” Nick went on. “I mean that once we’re out, for good, you never have to listen to anyone you don’t want to again. You don’t even have to see that person again. That’s a whole other kind of freedom.”
He’d pieced it together from Harlan’s mutters and murmurs in the middle of the night. There was someone Harlan hated with an intensity that threatened to crash his bunk, rattle their whole block. Somebody had screwed Harlan over, cheated him of everything he deserved.
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