Full Ride

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  It doesn’t even make me mad that Mom is still making excuses for Daddy.

  “Is there anything else you’re waiting to spring on me?” I ask dejectedly. “Anything else you think you’re protecting me from, that’s really just another booby trap to destroy me?”

  Mom studies my face. I can tell it’s on the tip of her tongue to say, “No, honey, that’s the last secret I was keeping from you. You know everything important now. Honest.”

  But that isn’t what she says.

  “I don’t know,” she admits. “That’s everything I can think of right now, but it’s been three years and I’m still figuring things out. I’m stumbling around in the dark here, too.”

  There’s something different about how she says this—the pain she lets into her voice? The agony splayed across her face? The helplessness she openly reveals? It’s like she’s been unmasked.

  She isn’t trying to protect me anymore, I think. She isn’t trying to hide anything from me. She isn’t pretending she has all the answers just because she’s the mother, the grown-up.

  And that’s when I understand: In that one instant, she switched over to treating me like a grown-up, too.

  This time it’s me who puts my arm around her shoulder.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

  And it’s not that I think we will truly be safe there; it’s not that I think we’ve solved anything.

  But neither one of us is alone in looking for answers anymore.

  Now—

  it all comes out

  We talk all the way home. We take a short break only to tiptoe into the apartment and check behind all the furniture and double-check and triple-check the locks. We’re being foolish and superstitious and paranoid—surely we’ve got some time before Excellerand could find us because of what I told Mr. Court. And anyhow, what difference would any of our precautions make if there were assassins nearby? It’d be so easy to break in through a window; it’d be so easy to put a silencer on a gun and take two quick shots at shadows that can’t be hidden by our flimsy blinds.

  Still, I feel like we’re being bold and fearless just turning on the lights, just sitting down to eat leftover chili at our kitchen table.

  Maybe the past three years when all I saw was Mom acting terrified, she felt like she was being bold and fearless just letting me go to school every day, just heading to work herself, just barely managing not to fall apart completely?

  We go back to talking endlessly. I tell Mom everything about the Court scholarship, from the very beginning. I tell her how I thought Whitney was dead and how I found out that she wasn’t. I tell her about the conclusion I jumped to about the scholarship, and how much I wanted to believe that Daddy, from prison, had brilliantly worked out a scam to funnel money to me for college. I tell her about the mistakes I made: writing that furious screed to Daddy, accidentally turning it in as my scholarship essay, then trying to use truth as my defense when the Courts assumed my problem was the same as Whitney’s.

  Mom sighs a lot during my story. More than once, tears well up in her eyes. But she doesn’t interrupt except for a few questions now and then, and these are minor, inconsequential, just to get me to explain more clearly.

  When I finish, we sit in silence for a moment, our empty chili bowls in front of us. I can hear the tick of Mom’s alarm clock from her bedroom. Gently I tap Mom’s hand.

  “Your turn,” I say.

  Mom startles.

  “I . . . I don’t have any answers,” she says. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what we can do to be sure what you said won’t get back to Excellerand. I don’t know how we can stay safe until your daddy’s accusations against them come out. . . .”

  I feel a pang of guilt, answered by a defensive, Well, how was I supposed to know this was a matter of life and death, when Mom never told me . . . The cycle of anger and accusation is starting again.

  No, it just wants to start again, I think. I can stop it.

  I put on a rueful smile for Mom. And it’s not fake, not hiding anything. It just holds kindness, too. And understanding.

  “I just meant, can we figure things out together?” I ask. It’s strange how shy I feel even saying this, suggesting we might actually function as a team. Or . . . a family. “Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Mom makes a wry face, wrinkling up her nose.

  “Honestly? I’m thinking this is why I like the jobs everyone else hates at the hospital,” she says. “When a patient vomits, or someone’s adult diaper leaks—I know how to deal with that. This? Where do we even start?”

  “Ugh, Mom, that’s disgusting,” I say, pretending to gag.

  But I can understand. Maybe part of the reason I’ve studied so hard the past three years was that it was such a relief to know some right answers. Give me a fill-in-the-blank Spanish quiz, give me a multiple-choice chemistry test, give me an AP lit essay exam, even, if you have to. But don’t expect me to know how to deal with real life.

  “What if we called the attorney and asked him what to do?” I suggest.

  Mom grits her teeth.

  “I hate calling Mr. Trumbull,” she says. “I hate that man. I have been fighting with him for weeks about how you could go to college without getting us both killed. Every time I talk to him, there’s this undercurrent: ‘Well, Mrs. Jones, if only you’d married someone else, none of this would be a problem, now, would it? Seeing as how you and your husband screwed up big time, shouldn’t you do everything you can to keep your daughter safe?’ So many times I think I’ve worked out a way to get us a little more freedom, a little more possibility . . . and every time he makes me feel that much more trapped. That much more certain that Excellerand has eyes and ears everywhere. Because they do.”

  I think about how Mom hacked off and dyed her hair, how she used fake work records to get her job at the hospital, how we’ve never once written Daddy’s name on any school form, how I can’t even have my picture in the yearbook. I realize belatedly that none of that was because Mom was scared of the news media. It was because she was afraid of Excellerand.

  “I know we never would have managed without Mr. Trumbull,” Mom says. “And I know he’s just trying to keep us safe, always telling me how Excellerand is trying harder and harder to find us. The last time I called him, he insisted we use only code language, because he said it was possible Excellerand had tapped his phone. He said I had to get off the phone quickly, before Excellerand could trace the call. He said we could only communicate by mail from then on—and not anything like Express Mail or UPS or FedEx, where the letters could be tracked online. . . .”

  So, nothing that would work quickly, I think, my stomach twisting.

  “I guess we should be glad Excellerand doesn’t have contracts for regular mail service,” Mom says ruefully. “But I was so upset when Mr. Trumbull told me all that, I had to come home sick from work . . .”

  The night I turned in the Court scholarship application, I think. When I messed up everything because I was so mad at Mom.

  “It goes on and on, doesn’t it?” I ask. “What Daddy started . . .”

  Mom doesn’t ask what I mean. She puts the palms of her hands against her cheeks and presses hard.

  “I just want it to end,” she says, letting go with a violent slash of her hands through the air. “If the government would just finish investigating Excellerand—whether they arrest anybody or not, whether Roger gets out of prison early or not—it would be over. We could move on. You could apply to college and go wherever you want. I could apologize to my family and actually go visit them while my parents are still alive. . . .”

  “Wait a minute—apologize?” I ask. “Apologize for what?”

  Mom gives me a sidelong look.

  “Eight years ago Roger stole money from Grammy and Papaw,” Mom says. “He denied it, and I believed him . . . and that’s why we stopped going to visit anyone in Kentucky.”

  This is something else I didn’t know, but somehow it
doesn’t surprise me.

  “So . . . that’s why we didn’t go hide there,” I say.

  “No, we didn’t hide there because it might have endangered my entire family,” Mom says grimly. “It was bad enough having you and me in danger, but everyone?”

  Mom doesn’t say, “And that’s why we can’t go hide there now, either.” She doesn’t have to.

  “If we had the FBI protecting us during the trial, why can’t we get their protection now?” I ask. “Especially if it’s the government making this take so long?”

  “They don’t think it’s ‘warranted,’ ” Mom says bitterly. “They think we’re safe enough as it is. Mr. Trumbull says it’s a matter of time and money. The trial was just a couple weeks, and this could be months or years . . .”

  Years, I think. It seems like that’s more honest than Mom saying I might have to wait an extra year for college, and don’t lots of kids want a gap year, anyway? It’s like I can see Vanderbilt fading off into the distance, all my dreams dying.

  Why should Excellerand bother killing me if all my dreams are already dead?

  “It’s like we’re being held hostage,” Mom says bitterly. “We’re trapped. I couldn’t even divorce Roger, because that would require official documents and leave a paper trail. And maybe we’d have to get into that whole mess about his name. . . .”

  “You—you wanted to divorce Daddy?” I ask. I gulp. “Do you still want to?”

  And this is ridiculous—my father’s in prison, I haven’t seen him in three years, and I myself have refused to even write to him. But I still feel a jolt at the thought that my parents might get divorced.

  “I don’t know, Becca,” Mom says, spreading her arms, another helpless gesture. “I don’t know what to think. During the trial, when I heard everything the prosecution said about Roger, I started thinking, no question about it, the instant I could carry it off without destroying you, yeah, I’d cut all ties. Make it official. Declare to the world that I want no part of being connected to Roger Jones. But . . . I am connected, no matter what, and it’s been three years now and . . .”

  “You still love him,” I whisper.

  Mom stares back at me without saying anything for a moment.

  “Maybe,” she finally admits, grimacing. “I’m capable of feeling sorry for him now, anyway. It’s like he’s broken, or there’s something missing in him . . . that’s the only way I can come close to understanding what he did. So I feel sorry for him but I’m still mad, and I can’t forgive him but I worry about what his life is like in prison, and I hate that we can only communicate back and forth through letters through the attorney’s office. . . .”

  And that’s another precaution because of Excellerand, not the media, I realize. And Excellerand is the real reason we don’t call.

  “And nothing ever changes,” Mom complains. “We can’t really forgive or heal from any of this because we’re still stuck in it. Nothing can change until Roger’s accusations against Excellerand come out.”

  She slumps back against her chair, a gray-haired woman trapped in despair. The dirty dishes in front of her might as well be prison bars.

  I shove away the dishes in front of me.

  “But something did change today,” I tell Mom. I lean forward. “Because of what I said to Mr. Court, because . . .” I can’t quite bring myself to say everything I’m thinking: Because you and I stood under the glow of the stained glass together, because you finally trusted me enough to tell me my life is in danger, because you’re treating me like an adult now. What if Mom doesn’t feel any of that is such a dramatic change? I decide to push for action, not explanation.

  “Maybe now we have to try something . . . riskier,” I say. “What if we went to see Mr. Trumbull in person? Or the prosecutors? We could demand—”

  Mom is already shaking her head.

  “Mr. Trumbull says the prosecutors have asked that I never contact them,” she says. “It would be seen as tampering with the case, or something like that. And . . . Becca, are you sure you want to hear the rest of this? It might really frighten you.”

  Oh, because nothing else she’s told me today has been scary in the least?

  “Tell,” I demand.

  “You know what facial recognition software is, right?” Mom says.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Mom swallows hard.

  “A few weeks ago Mr. Trumbull’s firm discovered suspicious cameras outside their offices,” she says. “And his home. They did a little searching, traced back the work orders . . . it looks like a subsidiary of Excellerand put them up. He’s pretty sure they’re there to watch for us, because they haven’t been able to find us otherwise, and he’s certain they’re using facial recognition software there and probably other places in Atlanta as well. Mr. Trumbull says we’re playing in the big leagues here. These are horrible people who don’t care who they kill or what lengths they have to go to, as long as they can protect their billions. . . .”

  I get chills just listening to Mom. I was feeling so good that neither of us was alone in this anymore. So we’re two people together now—so what? We’re two people against a corporation that owns the entire world.

  No, God owns the world, I think, a stubborn, ridiculous remnant of my childhood of going to church every Sunday.

  This is as useless as thinking about that story of Jacob fighting the angel when I believed Daddy might have set up the entire Court scholarship. Before I made a complete and utter fool of myself and ruined everything. I might as well tell myself fairy tales, like Daddy’s version of the Gingerbread Man or . . .

  Somehow my scorn and thinking about Daddy have jarred something loose in my brain. For the first time I remember what Jacob got at the end of his night of fighting the angel. It’s the same thing Daddy took for himself when he left home: a new name.

  I sit up straight.

  “Mom, what if . . .”

  Just then the phone rings, a jarring sound that makes us both jump. Mom must have turned the ringer back on when I ran away. Neither of us even glanced at the phone when we walked in, but I see now that there are eight messages waiting for us on the answering machine.

  Mom goes over and scoops up the phone.

  “Hello?” she says. There’s a pause, and then I hear her say, “Yes, Ms. Stela, Becca did tell me everything that happened this afternoon, and believe me, she deeply regrets it. She was just so desperate to win that scholarship that she went a little crazy . . . no, I don’t mean literally crazy, though, yes, she could take a psychological profile test to reassure everyone. . . . No, there’s no reason for you to worry that we really are related to Roger Jones. . . .”

  Mom sounds so calm that I’m sure Ms. Stela is falling for it. But then there’s a long spell where Mom is silent, and I can see the horror growing on her face.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to take that down immediately,” she says. Though her voice is still steady, I can see her knuckles turning white because she’s clutching the phone so hard. “I understand you didn’t use Becca’s name, but I still consider this a terrible invasion of my daughter’s privacy. If you don’t take that down this instant, you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

  A moment later Mom hangs up and sinks into the couch. She drops her head and presses her forehead against her fists.

  “What happened?” I demand.

  Mom looks up.

  “Ms. Stela was so worried about you that she posted a description of the whole situation on some guidance-counselor listserv,” Mom says faintly. “Asking for advice. She promised me she’d take it down right away, but . . .”

  But it’s too late. Even if something like, “teenager in Deskins, Ohio, claiming to be Roger Jones’s daughter” was up on that listserv for only five minutes, that could leave all sorts of traces.

  Ms. Stela might as well have sent a map directly to Excellerand telling them where to find me.

  “What can we possibly do now?” Mom asks hopelessly.

&nb
sp; I remember the plan I’d been about to tell Mom before Ms. Stela called. If I had any doubts before, they’re gone now. I just have to see if it’s possible.

  “Let me check something,” I tell Mom.

  I pick up the phone and dial quickly, even though this is a number I rarely call.

  “Hey, Stuart?” I say. “Are you still looking for people to go to Emory and Vanderbilt with you this weekend?”

  “You mean, the day after tomorrow?” he asks. “Uh, we still have room in the SUV, but . . .” I hear the clicking of laptop keys. “Whoa, that’s a surprise. Registration is still open for the overnights at both schools. But they might count it against you down the line, if it looks like you’re some big procrastinator or—”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I say. “Count me in!”

  And then, before he can ask why I changed my mind or how my Court scholarship interview went or anything like that, I hang up.

  Mom’s looking at me like I’m certifiable.

  “What was that about?” she demands. “Don’t you understand anything? Emory—Emory’s in Atlanta, and Excellerand has the whole city staked out watching for us—”

  “No, Mom,” I say. “They have the whole city staked out watching for you. I’ve grown four inches in the past three years, and I’m sure my face size and shape has changed, too. I don’t look anything like my old pictures anymore. So that software wouldn’t recognize me. Neither would anybody watching for me.”

  Mom only looks more skeptical.

  “But . . . why risk everything for a college visit?” She sounds horrified. “Especially somewhere you could run into people we used to know?”

  “The college visit is just a way to get to Atlanta,” I say. “What I’m really going to do is go see Mr. Trumbull. Since you can’t call him anymore, and we don’t have time for letters.”

  “But why . . . ?” Mom’s still not getting it.

  “I’ll tell him I ruined everything, and there’s no way we can stay in Deskins,” I say. There’s a lump in my throat, but I ignore it. “And then I’ll get him to give us new identities. So we won’t be trapped anymore.”