“Frank?”
“Yeah,” Levon says, handing him cash.
The kid’s got metal piercings all over his face and neon-orange hair. He looks over Levon’s shoulder at me. I could give him a sign. I could run out the door, but I don’t.
Levon takes a slice for himself and drops the box on my bed.
It’s not the greatest pizza, but it tastes OK because I’m starving.
After he finishes his first slice, he grabs another one and sits on my bed.
“No more filming anything that might be used as evidence.” His voice is lower than usual, like his demand must be taken seriously. I wait for him to smile or something—or give me some kind of assurance—but he doesn’t. He just stares at me evenly.
“OK,” I say, trying to keep my face like his, a blank slate.
“How do I know you won’t run off now? How do I know you weren’t planning to all along?”
“’Cause I didn’t.”
“If you do anything else, I’ll have to detain you.”
Where did he hear that, a bad cop show?
I want so badly to believe that he’s putting on a tough guy act, that it’s not who he really is, but I can’t be sure.
Chapter 11
A long succession of highway lines under a blinding sun.
I put my hoodie up ’cause it feels more fugitive and roll the window down a little. The air is definitely not as cold as Massachusetts, but it still has a bite. A few miles down the interstate, we pass a sign for Cape Fear.
The moment I read the word Fear, I hear it.
The high-pitched shrills of a truncated police siren. This time the cop is not following us; he’s pulling us over.
Levon slows and turns into the breakdown lane carefully. He sighs and tells me to stay quiet. I pull my hoodie down and turn to look at the flashing lights behind us. My heart is a drum, thumping inside my rib cage, reverberating through my whole body. I look at Levon’s brow, which is glistening with sweat. I tell myself that only our age and our sex are traceable. The car, our hair, everything is different.
Breathe.
The cop is more than six feet tall, wearing a thick belt and a shiny pistol in a holster. He peers in, looking a little suspicious, and I try to give him a casual smile, even though he can probably hear my heart beating.
Levon hands him his license and the registration, which is actually in his own name, and the cop goes back to his car. I look over, expecting Levon to be freaking out as much as I am, but he actually seems calm.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I changed lanes without signaling.” His shaky tone belies his nonchalance.
“Yeah, that must be it, not kidnapping.”
He grabs my hand and squeezes it. I notice his forearm again, the faint brown hair in a perfect pattern.
“Candy. If we act like nothing is out of the ordinary, he won’t think anything is.”
“The registration. It will say the car’s red.”
“Shit…” Levon squints his eyes and starts chewing the inside of his lip again.
“Maybe he’ll only look at the expiration. And the plates.”
He’s still holding my hand. I close my eyes, willing him to keep it there. When I open them again, I see the cop approaching in the side rearview mirror. His stride is lazy, like it’s just another routine traffic stop. I’m praying the guy’s not listening to his APBs.
“What brings you to North Carolina?” the cop asks as he hands the license and registration back to Levon, who hands it to me. The cop looks at him, then at me, then back at him. The moment stretches on like someone pulling a rubber band slowly until it threatens to snap. The silence is too much for me to bear. Levon obviously doesn’t have an answer, and I switch into damage-control mode.
“I’m in film studies, and I’m doing a project for school. We’re going to see the town of Cape Fear.”
The words seem to come out independent of my brain. The cop looks like the type of guy who probably plays catch with his son and mows the lawn every Sunday. He’s a regular person, and we are too—for the most part. What signs are there for him to think otherwise? I put my hands underneath my thighs and give him another smile.
“Ah. Well, you’ve passed the exit. But if you take 87 South and then a left at Gray’s Creek, you should be good. In the meantime, I’ll give you a verbal warning. Your speed was in check, but remember to use that turn signal for changing lanes. That’s what it’s there for. Also, you need to get that rearview fixed. There’s a place in Cape Fear called Dixie Automotive. They’ll pop another on there for you.”
“Thanks, Officer, I will. I’ll do that,” Levon says a little too earnestly.
“Good luck on your project, young lady.” He tips his hat and smiles at me, then heads back toward his car.
Levon and I stare at each other, our eyes bulging.
The show must go on.
“Thanks for that,” Levon says as we pull back into the lane.
“It was nothing,” I tell him, acting like I had planned it that way.
For the next few miles, we watch the rearview but don’t see the cop anywhere.
“So who’s Billy Ray?” Levon asks.
“What?”
“You said his name in your sleep.”
My face flushes with a wave of anxiety.
“He’s a friend from Oakland.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Not really.”
“I see.” Levon holds back a smile.
I change the subject. “We have to go to Cape Fear now, in case the cop trails us. We can’t look conspicuous.”
“Definitely. Unless he figures out who we are and comes after us.”
“I don’t think we have to worry about that guy.”
The cop’s directions are spot-on. When we pull into the main part of town, I can picture the location scouts coming here and thinking, yes. It’s quaint enough on the surface, but you can tell there are secrets lurking in the corners. Plus, it actually looks like a movie set. There are town houses in different colors with flower boxes and old-fashioned streetlights. Boats dot the glassy harbor, and birds soar leisurely in V formations. For a second, I imagine us staying here and starting a life.
We park and go to the College Diner where the red vinyl booths have rips in them, the insides threatening to burst out. The place is empty except for a family, a couple sailors, and a woman in a tracksuit drinking coffee at the counter. Her coffee mug has lipstick smudges all around the rim, as if she rotated it for each sip. When Levon notices me dumping three sugar packets into my iced tea, he looks away like he’s seen something he shouldn’t.
We order “smothered chicken,” because it seems to be what everyone’s having. But we’re not everyone. We are on the run, and we are on a mission. We don’t talk much during lunch, still processing the close call we got out of by some miracle. Everything seems to have settled—until the end of our meal when our story runs on the flat-screen TV, the one modern appliance in the whole place. There’s no sound, but I can see the same picture of me, and this time they show an exterior shot of NRS and an old logo from the Black Angels. Clearly it’s a local channel. We pay the check and leave discreetly, not talking again until we’re back on the highway.
“No lane changing without a signal,” I say.
“Got it.”
I lean against the window and close my eyes, hoping my mother was right, that the road really is a chance. A chance for what? I don’t know. But something is better than nothing, and the fact that tomorrow is a blank canvas on which anything could be painted is both scary and thrilling.
• • •
I dream that someone is leading me through a forest of pines. I am watching my bare feet crunching the pine needles. The ground is moist, and so is the air. We move through pockets of fog until we come to a ridge overlooking a d
eep gully. I look up into the face of the person leading me. It’s Levon, and he’s smiling…
• • •
I wake with only my eyes, not moving my body so he thinks I’m still asleep. I still have sunglasses on, so again he doesn’t know I’m watching him. He is mouthing along to the words of a Maroon 5 song and tilting his head a little on the beat. The scruff on his face is a little more pronounced in the afternoon light, and though he keeps checking the mirrors, he seems happy-go-lucky, like he’s just on a road trip with a friend. It’s kind of how I feel too, even if he might be leading me off a cliff. I stare at his full lips, and I imagine that instead of the dumb pop lyrics, he’s saying my name and telling me I’m beautiful, that he wants to take me away. That the fall from the cliff is actually what we need.
We drive until dark, then pull into a Super 8 in the city of Florence off I-95, one of the marks on the old map Levon has. In our now-usual routine, he checks us in, and I meet him at the room. I wince when I enter. The place should really be called a Super 2. There are stains on the rugs, the wallpaper’s peeling, and the tub has faded from white to a sickly brown. It smells like a cross between an ashtray and a locker room. The sign read, “From $39,” and now I see why.
Levon says he’s going for a run and tells me he’ll be back in about twenty minutes.
“You don’t think I’m going to leave?”
“You said it yourself. You would have already. But don’t even think about changing your mind. Keep this door locked.”
“I will.”
He believes me, but when he leaves, I stare at the door.
Where would I go? To the police? What would that mean for Levon? In a way I can’t really pinpoint, I want to stay. It’s not logical, just what I feel. Like I’m finally awake.
I turn on the news, and our story is still there. I am looking at the same picture of myself, which I’m used to now. I actually laugh a little. The whole world has no idea what’s really happening. There’s a shot of Rena closing the door on reporters, and I think, Good for you.
There’s a knock at the door and figure it must be Levon, who left his key or something. Just to be safe, I slide the cover of the peep hole to double-check.
It’s not Levon. It’s a dark-skinned man in worn jeans and a black windbreaker, carrying something behind his back. His eyes are staring at the door, pupils shaking.
Chapter 12
I jump back from the door.
Jamal?
As I sink down with my back against the sidewall, he knocks again, this time harder. My throat is a vise grip, not letting air in or out. I instinctively look around the room, wondering if there’s anything I could use as a weapon.
How the hell did he find us? Was he meant to come back? Was he the one who marked the route on the map?
“I know someone’s in there,” I hear him say, his voice hoarse and dry. “I saw you. Open up, or I’m breaking in.”
I can feel sweat forming on my brow and wipe it with my sleeve.
How can this be happening? We are hundreds of miles from where he last left us. Was that what his expression meant while sitting on the cot? That he’d be back? Was he following us all along? Does Levon know?
I look at the phone on the table between the beds. I could use it, but who would I call? 911? Levon would be screwed. Jamal has seen the car outside, even though it’s black now. He knows we’re here.
Please, Levon, come back.
I put my ear up to the door and can hear Jamal’s erratic breathing through it.
“What do you want? We don’t have drugs.”
He bangs on the door with enough force that I leap back and fall on the floor.
“Levon!”
“He’s not here!”
I realize that he probably wants money. But Levon’s not stupid; he has his cash on him. So I’m not going to be able to get rid of Jamal. I have to stall him.
He bangs again.
“Open up! Now!”
I hear myself moan. I wonder how easy it would be for him to break down the decrepit door. Definitely faster than 911 would get here. I notice the lamp on the side table. It’s seventies style, in the shape of a teardrop, and it’s not screwed to the table. I crawl over and unplug it, my hands shaking as I pull off the shade and unscrew the lightbulb. It is made of wood, and thankfully it’s solid. If he breaks down the door, it’s my only chance. I hold it by the skinny end and crouch in the corner.
“Open the fucking door, or I’ll kill you.” Jamal says, this time almost tenderly. He’s not bluffing.
Then I hear another door open, and a man’s voice, a little slurred.
“Would you mind keeping it down?” the man says.
I don’t hear Jamal respond, but the door moves slightly, so I imagine he sat down. I have to remind myself to take each breath. This is not Netflix. I can’t think of what Chloë Grace Moretz or Angelina Jolie would do—it’s all up to me. I’m the leading lady, but there is no script.
I can smell smoke from Jamal’s cigarette coming under the door. I can hear him blowing out his drags sharply.
Where the hell is Levon? He’s been gone almost an hour.
“Leave us alone,” I say through the closed door.
Jamal gets up and it seems like he’s walking away, but then I hear a loud boom.
Jamal’s throwing himself into the door, hoping to knock it down.
Was his plan to kidnap me from Levon? Get more money?
BA-BOOM.
“Hey, buddy.” The man from next door is back. “Whoever’s in there is not letting you in. Can you keep it down? I got a baby.”
“Why the hell you bring a baby to a shithole like this?” Jamal asks him.
“Whoa,” the guy says. “Easy.”
Then I hear a door close quietly.
Did Jamal pull a weapon on him? How psycho is Jamal really?
Right then, my whole body reverts into some kind of crazy survival-tactic supercharge. I pull the end table and wedge it into the corner that the door opens into. I stand on the table so that my head brushes the ceiling, the lamp in my good arm. I slowly extend my left foot, pushing the door lever down slowly.
“OK, OK,” I say.
Jamal walks into the room without seeing me. I pinpoint the top of his head, and like I’m smashing an insect, I thrust the lamp forward. The sound resonates after the lamp hits his skull, which is way harder that I thought it was.
He collapses, faceup, eyes rolled into the back of his head.
I run into the bathroom, lock the door, and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathing is now even harder. I think I’m hyperventilating. Tears rush off my eyelids.
Please come back, Levon. Please.
My arm is still reverberating pins and needles. I grab some tissue and clean off my face.
I’m not sure how long it is—a minute or two?—until I start to rock, which I haven’t done since I was a little girl. But it helps. Then I hum one of the songs my mother used to sing to me. The one about the foolish frog.
I have to do something. What if Levon doesn’t come back? I open the bathroom door a crack. Jamal is still on the floor. I make a run for it, but he grabs my leg and I scream. He is conscious again.
I look around for something, a weapon, anything.
Jamal gets up and stands between me and the door, breathing irregularly and staring at me with unconcealed rage. He slowly takes the Toyota keys from the table.
“Leave us alone,” I say weakly. “Just take his money.”
“You, crazy bitch, you are worth way more than what he has.”
For a second I think he’s going to hug me, but he hoists me on his shoulder. I try to wriggle free, but I’m in some sort of death grip. He carries me outside, shoves me in the trunk of the Toyota, and slams the door while I’m still screaming, hoping someone will hear. Bu
t then there’s nothing. Silence, and everything goes dark. I hear him get in, start the car, and peel out, and my head bangs on an old rusty jack.
“Levon,” I say pathetically. “Levon.”
I’m in a trunk, my head is throbbing, fumes are burning my nostrils, and I’m thinking about Levon. Is he OK? Why was he gone so long? The car is on the highway now, and I’m trying not to cry, but it’s not working. I start thinking of all the bad things I’ve done to deserve this, but it doesn’t really add up. Stealing batteries, skipping class, writing my name to check in for study hour but then leaving. I’m locked in a trunk, and I might die of asphyxiation or shock or trauma. I’m being driven around by a crazed meth head, and this is not fun anymore. This is actually the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. How stupid am I to not have left when I had the chance? I don’t know how to pray, so I just keep whispering the word please over and over.
I manage to shift my body so that I’m breathing fewer fumes. My head is still throbbing, but it’s more of a dull ache. I start to doze off, and at first I fight it, because I know I’m not supposed to sleep after hitting my head, but it’s no use. I’m gone.
Eventually I snap awake to someone slipping a key into the trunk to unlock it. As soon as it opens, I flip into supercharge survival mode again and kick the roof of the trunk as hard as I can. Jamal yells, and his body falls back. Then I hear what sounds like a crack, then nothing. I peek out of the trunk. We’re in the parking lot of a roadside bar, and there are only a few other cars there. No people.
I get out of the trunk and stand there in shock. Time slows, and I feel dizzy. Then my eyes come into focus and I see someone running toward me, saying my name.
It’s Levon.
He crouches over Jamal, his mouth completely slack.
“He said he was going to kill me,” I say, ’cause it’s true.
Jamal’s head has hit a rock and blood is spilling out of it, making a dark pool in the dirt. We both stand there, watching the pool slowly get bigger. I don’t want Levon to see, but more tears start to pour out of my eyes.
“Are you OK?”
“Yes.”
Stealing Candy Page 6