Clean Getaway

by Nic Stone

Scoob can’t breathe. He twists and kicks and flails—

  And when he finally manages to inhale, his eyelids snap open and there are tears running down into his ears. He bolts upright, desperately thirsty and wanting to go to Dad, but smacks his head on the low ceiling of his bunk. “OW!” he shouts.

  “Jimmy?” comes G’ma’s voice from the other end of the RV. “Jimmy, are you all right? Jimmy…” The sound trails off, and soon Scoob is hearing her soft snores again.

  He breathes in deep and tries to get his heart to slow down. Holds his hands up to his face, and he can tell they’re solid now even though it’s dark. He’s gotta pull it together.

  It was just a dream, Scoob. You’re fine—

  Wait.

  It’s dark.

  Scoob flips to his belly to look out of his small window. Again: a bajillion and one stars. It was just creeping into dusk when he fell asleep, which means—what time is it? He moves to climb down and check, but something crunches beneath him.

  One of G’ma’s road maps.

  It all comes tumbling back into his head then: contraband and G’ma acting weird and piles of money behind the TV.

  G’ma’s missing phone.

  Scoob swallows hard—he really wishes he had some water—and blinks back a wave of…well, he’s not sure what exactly. A few things hit him at once: he’s trapped at some campground in Monroe, Louisiana (according to the map—without which he would have no idea where the heck he is), with no phone and no idea when he’s going home.

  And he really, really misses Dad. Like more than he’s ever missed anybody.

  Especially after that horrible dream.

  Though what he can do about it, Scoob doesn’t have a clue.

  He sighs and lies back down. Imagines the tire swing behind G’ma’s old house and playing with Shenice on it.

  Then he drifts back to sleep.

  This time Scoob is pulled from slumber by the fatty fragrance of bacon.

  Which would normally be great, but right now he’s literally lying on pieces of G’ma’s greatest treasures. That photo of G’pop beneath the old hotel marquee in Meridian? It’s dented in the middle and has drool crusted over half of the guy’s face.

  Not good.

  He gently shifts—doesn’t want G’ma to know he’s up until he can at least get all her stuff back in the treasure chest. He’ll sneak it back down and slip it in a drawer while she’s in the bathroom or something. Hopefully she hasn’t noticed it’s missing.

  The lid creaks as Scoob’s lowering it to secure the latch, and he freezes. Thankfully there’s no reaction from below. He shoves the chest as far into a bunk corner as he can, then takes a preparation breath before shifting his curtain aside to climb down.

  The driver’s-side door of the RV opens the moment Scoob’s feet touch the floor.

  He literally jumps and yelps like a scared toddler.

  G’ma sticks her head into the cab. “You all right there, kiddo?”

  For a second, they just stare at each other because Scoob can’t get his mouth to move. Too many responses—some true, some not—are colliding in his head and breaking up into floating letters he can’t seem to wrangle back into words that make sense.

  Then she shrugs and climbs into the driver’s seat. “Left your breakfast in the microwave. Go on and grab it and sit down at the table so I can get us moving here.” As soon as the door is shut, the rabid funk of cigarette smoke assaults Scoob’s nose.

  That smacks him out of it.

  “G’ma, I’d really like to call my dad, if you don’t mind,” Scoob says, striding right up to the passenger seat to sit beside her as she cranks the RV.

  “I don’t mind,” she says. Words so surprising to Scoob, they blow him back in his seat. He hopes she doesn’t notice.

  “You don’t?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Okay…”

  “Don’t have a phone, though.” The camper thunks into gear, and G’ma shoots out of their campsite space with more force than Scoob expects.

  “You…what now?”

  “I got rid of it,” she says with a wave of her hand like it’s the most trivial thing on planet Earth. “Wasn’t working right, so I threw it in the garbage.”

  “You threw your phone in the garbage?”

  She nods once. Resolutely. “Sure did. Didn’t need a phone the first time I took this trip, and don’t need one now. Got maps in my keepsake box, and I just snagged a current one from the campground front office.”

  Scoob is astonished, as Shenice likes to say.

  (He really misses that girl.)

  “Speaking of which, have you seen my keepsake box anywhere?” she says. “Coulda sworn it was on the counter before I lay down yesterday, but when I went to look for my old Louisiana map, I couldn’t find the thing. Checked all the drawers and cabinets, too.”

  “Oh, uhh…” Well, no point in lying. At least not completely: “I put it in my bunk. For safekeeping.”

  He braces himself for fury or suspicion or disappointment—something unpleasant—from her.

  But when she turns to him, she’s beaming. “Well, what a good wingman you are, Scoob-a-doob! I mean that in the military sense, by the way. Not the way young folks these days use it.” She snorts. “Relying on a friend to test the waters when you’re looking for a date? Amateurs.”

  Despite his mood, this makes Scoob chuckle.

  “Anyway, so glad you’re keeping our treasure protected,” she continues. “So responsible!”

  Responsible. Dad’s favorite word ever in the history of language.

  Which brings Scoob back to the matter at hand. “G’ma, you sure it was a good idea to throw your phone out? What if there’s an emergency?”

  “Oh, we’ll be fiiiiine. Since when are you such a worrywart?”

  “I just mean…” Scoob gulps as pieces of his dream—and what it could mean—stalk through his head boogeyman-style. “How’s Dad supposed to get in touch with us? Or us with him?”

  “We with him, William.”

  Is she really correcting his grammar? Scoob has to swallow and clear his throat to do away with the WHO EVEN ARE YOU, LADY? that tries to leap from his mouth.

  He presses on. “I’m not worried, G’ma.” Pure lies. “But Dad will be. And like…if I’m missing school, I’ll at least need to call Shenice to get the homework.”

  “Lordy, you sound just like your stick-in-the-mud father! We’re on a whirlwind adventure here, Scoob-a-doob! Homework, schmomework!”

  An adventure, huh?

  “I’m just saying, G’ma,” Scoob goes on, deciding to run with this particular train of thought. It’s as good a way as any to try and get some solid answers out of her. “Exactly how many days of school do you think I’ll miss? We should be back home what, Thursday or so?”

  She grins in that I-know-something-you-don’t kinda way grown-ups do sometimes.

  It’s a grin Scoob’s not fond of right now. Not when she’s trying to justify trashing their sole means of communication while reeking of cigarette smoke. He can’t even look at her anymore. It’s like the woman he’s spent his whole life looking up to has been replaced with a total stranger.

  “All shall be well, kiddo,” she says—a grown-up nonanswer.

  “But, G’ma—”

  “Besides”—she cuts him off—“home is where you make it.”

  * * *

  An hour and a half farther across Louisiana—which isn’t as far as one would think considering their minimum-speed-limit pace—G’ma turns the music down and signals to exit the freeway. Gas gauge is practically on E.

  “Scoob-a-doob, didya know the Louisiana state song is ‘You Are My Sunshine’?” she asks.

  Scoob did know that. It’s one of the five Louisiana Fun Facts staring up at h
im from a small box in the top right corner of the Louisiana section of his map—fun facts he’s been reading and illustrating all over the state for who knows how long. A couple others: (1) the highest point in the state is Mount Driskill at 535 feet above sea level—which is less than 2 percent of the height of Mount Everest; and (2) the state flower is the magnolia. “Yeah. It’s pretty cool.”

  “Wanna hear something else about Louisiana?” They turn right.

  “Sure.” Cuz why not?

  “This is the state where a girl—named Ruby like me—was the first black person to go to a white school here in the South.”

  “Wait…” No way. “You mean Ruby Bridges?”

  “Oh, you know of her, then!”

  “Dad told me about her in fourth grade.” Scoob looks all around him. There are banks and restaurants. Gas stations. Even a Walmart Supercenter. And he knows it was a long time ago, but to think a thing like that happened in a place as normal-looking as this…“That happened here?” he says.

  “Not here, here in Shreveport, no. New Orleans. But it was still a big deal for the state. Prior to her first day in 1960, schools in this part of the country were completely segregated.”

  G’ma turns into a gas station and parks at a pump. And as she reaches for the door handle, the truth smacks Scoob: “G’ma!”

  Her eyebrows lift. “Yes, William?”

  He has to turn and look at her. “Your school had only white kids when you were my age?”

  “Yep.”

  Whoa. “What was that even like?”

  She shrugs. “It was my normal. Didn’t think anything of it when I was in it.”

  “So you didn’t have any black friends when you were a kid?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Dang.”

  “But enough about that now.” She pats his knee. “Let’s not dwell on the past, hmm? Hop on down so we can grab refreshments while the gas is pumping.”

  Scoob does as he’s told.

  But he winds up regretting it. Because as soon as they step inside the convenience store, the white clerk behind the counter looks between him and G’ma, and her eyes narrow.

  He refuses to look away this time. Even when, without taking her eyes off him, said clerk tugs the sleeve of a different clerk, whispers something to him, and then he looks in Scoob and G’ma’s direction. Suspiciously.

  “Strawberry or Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts, kiddo?” G’ma calls out, none the wiser.

  He sighs and heads to where she’s studying options in the unhealthy-snack aisle.

  “You pick, G’ma.”

  She turns to study his face. “You all right, Scoob-a-doob?”

  “Yeah.” Can’t face her as he lies, so he pretends to skim the potato chip options. “I’m fine—”

  Except he’s really not fine now because he can see the male clerk “restocking” something nearby. And the guy keeps peeping in Scoob and G’ma’s direction.

  Scoob’s had enough. “I’m gonna get some air.” And he walks away—eye-stabbing both clerks—before G’ma can say a word.

  She unlocks the RV as she exits the store, and Scoob climbs in and sits fuming while she replaces the gas pump. Probably should’ve offered to do it for her but…well, he’s not in the mood.

  The second she’s in her seat, she looks in his direction and opens her mouth to speak, but he beats her to it: “G’ma, how’d you and G’pop meet?”

  She blinks. Like she’s caught off guard. “Filling station,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

  “Where’s that? Were you catching a train or something?”

  Now she laughs. “We’re at a filling station. Guess you call them gas stations now.”

  “Oh.” Ironic.

  “He was workin’ at one,” she says. “Pumping gas. Wanted nothing at all to do with me at first.” She shakes her head, but she’s into her story now. “I tell ya, Scoob-a-doob: the excuses I came up with to visit that station as often as possible. Whew! Wore him down little by little, though.”

  “What made you want to…date him? Especially back then.” Scoob decides to just go ahead and say what’s on his mind: “I’m sure you knew people would be opposed to it, right? Why put yourself through pain for someone you didn’t know?” He’s really hoping she doesn’t say love at first sight or something bananas like that.

  “Dunno” is her response. With a shrug. “There was something about him that wouldn’t let me go. Stayed true for as long as we were together. Wasn’t bad to look at, either.” She winks.

  Gross.

  Scoob shakes it off. “So what’d he go to jail for? Like, I know it was—”

  “Grand larceny.”

  “Uhh—”

  “Theft.”

  “Yeah, but what’d he steal?”

  She doesn’t respond at first, but he’s got a hunch that she will. She’s got her baby blues all squinched up behind her glasses, and she worrying—as he’s heard her say when he’s doing it—her bottom lip between her teeth.

  Then she shifts her focus out the window. “His conviction involved money and jewelry, but—” She sighs. “It’s complicated, Scoob-a-doob. Bottom line, he was unjustly imprisoned. Yes, he did some stealing, and yes, stealing is wrong. But he didn’t steal everything the police said he did.”

  She doesn’t go on. Scoob’s turn to be responseless now.

  “We just need to get to Juárez,” she says, suddenly energized. She puts the RV in gear.

  Scoob opens his mouth to speak but changes his mind.

  There’s nothing left to say.

  “Everything will be fine then.”

  They’re going.

  “We’ll get there and I’ll finish—” She sits up straighter. “We just gotta get to Mexico.”

  They cross into Texas and drive for a while without stopping. Which is a huge relief to Scoob, knowing they’re finally making some real progress on this…journey, he guesses it is.

  Scoob’s seen the map: the city they’re headed to is literally right across the border. His new hope is that once they make it to Juárez and G’ma fixes or finishes or makes whatever it is right, her conscience will be so clear, her hair will turn green like go or something, and she’ll be so relieved, they’ll hop back into the RV and hightail it home. After another gas run and pause for lunch seventeen miles outside of Dallas—at least according to the sign they’ve just passed—they push on.

  It’s…nice. Scoob’s got his window down, and the fresh air gusting into his face as they gobble miles and miles of Texas open road clears his head in a way he doesn’t expect.

  He actually falls asleep. Which he only discovers when G’ma touches his leg and he jerks awake so hard, both arms fly into the air and he squawks like a startled chicken.

  G’ma laughs. Hard. “Sleeping good?”

  “Not funny, G’ma,” Scoob says rubbing his eyes.

  “Well, if you’ll indulge me one final stop on this trek of ours, I’ll make the interrupted slumber worth your while.”

  Another stop.

  “I’d like to fulfill what’s been a dream of mine for a very long time.”

  “Oh.” Scoob sits up in his seat, fully alert now. “Okay.”

  She doesn’t say anything else until they’re taking an exit into Arlington. It’s the exit for—

  No way.

  “G’ma, are we going to Six Flags?”

  When she looks at him this time, Scoob sees her: his G’ma. The one he’s known his whole life.

  The biggest belly laugh ever bubbles out of him.

  “I knew you’d be into it,” she says. “It’s why you’re my favorite grandson.” She makes her white eyebrows dance.

  There’s no expressing how good it feels to have her back.

  * * *

  Scoob has t
o say: he’s never seen G’ma this awestruck before. She looks like one of those white kids in Christmas movies who wake up to a tree packed with presents underneath—like the whole world was just handed to her on a gold-rimmed plate.

  “We gotta find the Runaway Mine Train, Scoob-a-doob,” she says. “The Six Flags we have in Georgia opened in sixty-seven, and one of their premier rides was the Dahlonega Mine Train. Runaway’s the Texas version.”

  “Wait, really?” Scoob’s never been to Six Flags over Georgia, but he’s heard of the Dahlonega Mine Train.

  “Yep! As your G’pop and I passed that park on our way out of Atlanta, I was sad. Knew I’d never get to experience a place like that with him. There wasn’t a theme park in the South that would’ve permitted it.”

  Now Scoob is sad too.

  “But there’s redemption!” she practically shouts. “When you and me stopped for gas not too long ago, I noticed an old poster for this Six Flags on one of the walls. Had a mine train ride on it and everything.”

  Now Scoob is smiling. G’ma would notice a random poster in a gas station.

  “Asked the attendant about it, and he told me the thing’s still in operation. ‘Oldest coaster in the park!’ he said. I knew right then we’d have to stop.”

  Scoob consults the map and they get to walking, but as soon as they’re standing in front of the entrance and he sees how rickety the ride looks, he feels like his stomach has dropped down to his ankle region.

  “Umm…,” Scoob murmurs as a question pops into his head—in Dad’s voice. “How exactly old is this ‘coaster’?”

  “Built in sixty-six, according to the fella! Ain’t that amazing? It was here when your G’pop and I started on our trip! Would’ve passed right by it had we made it this far!”

  1966? It’s older than Dad!

  That’s…really old. For a roller coaster.

  “You sure this thing is safe, G’ma?” Scoob says as they step into the line. A line that isn’t very long. Which doesn’t seem like a good sign.

  “Oh, don’t be such a killjoy!” she says. “You think they’d let people on the thing if it wasn’t safe? Nobody wants a lawsuit, Scoob-a-doob.”