Rebels Like Us

by Liz Reinhardt

  “I… Uh, we were at the river and, uh…” I’m dangerously close to blubbering. I funnel air into my lungs in quick gulps. “We took Jeeps into the mud. And went to the river. I was going out to get some snacks. Doyle had a few—” I stop because Doyle is eighteen: it’s illegal for him to drink. I feel like my words and Officer Hickox’s narrowed eyes are tying me into knots that are tightening into nooses. “Doyle was really tired.”

  “Tired?” He finally smiles, but it isn’t a nice expression. “At the river?”

  “It’s his uncle’s place,” I stammer.

  “I know it.” He rubs his jaw. “All right. I’ll let you off this time, Ms. Pujols.” I wonder for a second what exactly he’s “letting me off” for, but relief clamps down on my tongue before I go all stupid and ask.

  I barely nod. My fingers are coiled around the steering wheel so tight, I’ll need a crowbar to get them unclamped. Sweat rolls off my temples, down my neck, and soaks into the cotton of my T-shirt. I bite back sobs that keep rocking against my lips like boiling water rattling at a pot lid.

  “Be careful ’round here. There’s some areas that aren’t real welcoming to…strangers.” He hands me my license and Doyle’s registration and saunters back to his cruiser.

  When he doesn’t leave right away, I realize he’s waiting for me to leave first. There’s no way I can drive, no way I can stop my body from spasming and curb my need to vomit. My nerves are too frayed. But before I know it, I’m driving, my eyes flipping between the windshield and the rearview mirror every other second.

  By the time he pulls off a side road, I can just make out the lights of a town glowing up ahead, and I shudder with relief. I spy the neon purple-and-pink Taco Bell sign, and since I found all those hot sauce packets next to Doyle’s napkins and condoms, I pull up at the drive-through window and order anything. Everything.

  When they hand my bag out, I don’t even wait until the truck comes to a full stop before I tear it open, cramming greasy, fried gorditas and sour cream–loaded chalupas down my throat like I haven’t eaten in weeks. And just when I’m sure I can’t stuff another bite in, I feel it all knock back up so quickly, I almost don’t make it out of the truck. I retch hard, doubled over, my palms and knees biting into the gravel under me. I coat his front tire in puke, along with the curb and the prickly grass outside the parking lot. I hear a car door slam and the rhythmic thump of feet headed toward me.

  “Hey, ma’am, you all right?” a man’s voice calls.

  I sit up and wipe the side of my mouth with my wrist. “Yes. Thank you. Just something I ate.”

  “From here?” A girl eyes the glistening puddle of puke and gags a little.

  I shake my head, unwilling to implicate Taco Bell in my puke-a-thon. “No. Lunch, I think.”

  I hear the girl whisper that the guy should offer me a ride. He whispers back that I’d think it was weird, and she argues that her being there would make it okay.

  I attempt to stand, but my knees buckle like they’re made of a bunch of rubber bands balled together.

  “Ma’am, do you need a ride?” the girl asks, her voice high and worried.

  I paste on a smile. “Thank you so much, but I’ll be okay. Seriously, thank you.”

  I hear the word drunk, but she whispers it with such sadness, I don’t have the heart to get offended. They walk over to her truck slowly, looking back to make sure I’m okay. I manage a reassuring wave to let them know they’re not being Bad Samaritans.

  I rinse my mouth out with my soda, dust the gravel chunks off my knees, and climb back into the truck. I drive slowly, carefully, making two wrong turns and taking twice as long as I should, but I find my way back to Doyle without attracting the attention of any other cops. One look at his crooked, relieved smile brings the urge to sob roaring back, but it also feels like home.

  He feels like home.

  I hand over the food, collapse into his arms, and press my face to his side. He runs a hand over my soft curls and croons off-key country songs about pretty women and heartbreak, and my panic slowly sinks to the pit of my gut. I stop shaking; my muscles relax; I breathe easier. Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal after all? Maybe being alone and lost magnified the craziness of the situation.

  “Hey, you all right?” His fingers strum my ribs softly, like I’m some instrument he’s learning to play by ear.

  I swallow a few times before I answer, to clear the tears out of my throat. Luckily he’s a little too sleepy and buzzed to notice. The entire horrible story is on the tip of my tongue, but I’d rather just forget it.

  “Yeah. I’m good. We should head back. I can drive to my house. Can someone pick you up?”

  “I’m good,” Doyle slurs. Instead of debating with him, I get up and search out Critter, glad to have something to worry about other than my run-in with the law.

  Critter’s had his fair share to drink and is shooting the breeze around a roaring inferno. I ignore the drunk catcalls as I drag him away, rolling my eyes when he says, “Hoo yeah, maybe dreams do come true!”

  “Critter, do you know who I can call to come get Doyle from my place?” I ask when we’re far enough away that no one can overhear our conversation.

  His beer-wet mouth droops. “Shoot. I really thought you might be pulling me over here to tell me I’m the best-lookin’ guy at this party.”

  I cock an eyebrow at him, cross my arms, and pop my hip.

  “So you ain’t gonna rip my clothes off and have your way with me?” He levels such a dopey grin my way, I can’t help smiling.

  “Nope. This will be a sexual harassment–free night for you. So who can I call?” I repeat.

  He pushes his ball cap up and scratches his matted hair. “His cousin Brookes is prolly home and sober. It’s his night for emergency runs. You know, the family business.”

  “Emergency runs?” I repeat, trying to imagine what exactly constitutes a horticultural emergency. A Venus flytrap rebellion? “For bugs and trees? What would count as an emergency?”

  “Swarm of locusts?” Critter guesses. I’d tell him he has a great laugh, but I’m afraid it might rekindle the whole do-bad-things-with-you vibe he’s been pushing all night. “If you can’t get Brookes, his younger brother, Malachi, got his farmer’s license.”

  “Right.” I wonder if I’ll have to drag-down fight Doyle to call. But when I get to him, he’s snoring softly, and his phone is sticking out of his pocket.

  I’m not a snoop. I respect privacy. Everything in me screams that I have no business going through Doyle’s phone. I close my eyes and imagine what I’d do if this was one of those videos they show in health class.

  I grab the phone, slide it out of his pocket, take his hand, and use his finger to unlock it. Quickly, before I change my mind, I press the contact list and scroll through, trying to keep my eyes squinted so I don’t see anything other than the names Critter told me. I’m caught off guard by two things.

  One, for a guy as adored as Doyle Rahn, his contact list is pretty bare.

  Two, I’m the only A in his list. No Ansley.

  Lincoln is still in my phone. So what does my turn as a reluctant amateur Sherlock allow me to deduce about the situation? Ansley didn’t mean as much to Doyle as Lincoln meant to me? Doyle goes through life with a fully functioning backbone and I don’t? Maybe I’m just looking for drama in the absence of her name to avoid thinking about this crazy night.

  I find Malachi and Brookes. I don’t want to call the former, because a farmer’s permit sounds sketchy, legally speaking, and I’m committed to staying on the right side of the law, even by acquaintance. I don’t want to call the latter, because technically he’s working and might be pissed. But he’s probably legal, so I bump his name with my fingertip and wait through the rings with my eyes screwed shut.

  “What the hell, Doyle? Ya callin’ to cry ’cause she ditched you after all? Don’t tell me I gave up a night with Skylar just to hang out with your dumb ass.” I guess even vocals can be genetic, becau
se the voice on the other end is deep and gravelly, but with that friendly confidence that makes listening to Doyle so addictive.

  “Brookes? Hi. You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Doyle’s.” As if he heard me say his name in his sleep, Doyle rolls over so his head is cradled against my legs, his scruff rough on the skin of my bare thighs.

  “Sweetheart, I know that’s a Yank accent, and those ain’t exactly common ’round here.” The way he says it isn’t unfriendly, but I cringe anyway. “You Doyle’s New York City girl?”

  How the hell do I answer that one?

  “I’m Doyle’s friend. And, yes, I’m from New York.” I lift my tone a few huffy notches, like Brookes shouldn’t assume things, when all the while I’m the jerk calling from his cousin’s phone at midnight and running my fingers through Doyle’s overlong hair. Not that Brookes knows that last bit.

  “He drunk?” The two words unwind on the tail of a long sigh.

  “Not like alcohol-poisoning bad, but definitely too far gone to drive.”

  “Hell. All right, all right. Y’all down at the river?” Brookes speaks with the take-charge resignation of someone who’s used to getting other people out of screwed-up situations.

  “We are, but I can drive him to my house and you could pick him up there, if that’s closer for you.” Guilt over annoying Brookes is outweighed by my relief at finding someone to help me end tonight on a blessedly boring note. My goal is to go to sleep tonight thankful I won’t be waking up in county lockup.

  We spend the next few minutes on logistics, and I thank God Brookes seems to know every backcountry road in the area, because I have no chance of giving anything like decent directions. He even tells me how to get to my house from the river before we hang up.

  Critter wanders over and offers to help hoist a tipsy Doyle into the truck. After I almost take a boot to the face twice, we manage to get him in.

  “Thank you,” I gasp.

  “No worries.” Critter bends at his thick waist and examines me up close. “What’s a matter? You drink too much too? You guys can bunk here.”

  I realize I must look rough from all the panic and vomiting, but more than anything in the world, I want to go home. And, though I’d never admit it to anyone, I want my mom to tell me everything will be okay.

  “No, it’s…uh, it’s just that I got pulled over. Before. When I ran to get food. And the cop acted like—” Instead of being righteously pissed, I do this weird little half shrug, because in the fragmented retelling, I’m afraid maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing.

  “Was he a dick to you?” Critter asks the question with such genuine concern narrowing his eyes, the back of my throat prickles exactly how it used to when I was a little kid and I’d hold back tears all day because something bad happened at school, but the second I saw my mom—the floodgates just exploded open.

  So…things have been bad with my mom and kind of bad in general, if I’m being honest with myself. And this beer-bellied, overfamiliar, half-drunk Southern boy isn’t the person I expected to be my surrogate mommy, but screw it. I’m sad and pissed and confused as hell, so his sympathetic shoulder gets sobbed on. Possibly snotted on too.

  Through the whole weepy tale, Critter pats my shoulder awkwardly like the nice guy he is, then he takes me by the hand and says, “Look at me, all right? Some people are small and stupid. It makes ’em feel big to scare people they know they got cornered. Fuck ’em. I don’t want you cryin’ over that crap. You got friends. We take care of ours, and we’ll take care of you. Hickox was it?” He shakes his head. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  I dip my head to the side and wipe a salty sludge of snot and tears on my T-shirt. “Thank you, Critter. Seriously, thank you. But don’t go all vigilante on my account, okay?”

  He grits out an obviously reluctant okay, triple-checks that I’m good to drive, and wraps me in the kind of brotherly bear hug that makes me miss Jasper. I drive slower than my grandmother on a Sunday while Doyle snores away at my side.

  When I pull into my neighborhood, there’s a lone truck parked at the end of my street. A guy in a ball cap with Doyle’s rangy frame leans against it. Doyle opens one eye, then the other.

  “Nes?” His voice is dry and groggy.

  “Hey.” I turn off the engine, and the sudden silence is jarring. “You okay?”

  “Jest beat. I guess from rowing you back to safety from that gators plus being out in the heat…and the beer.” He yawns and rubs his eyes. I feel like I’m watching him do something private, and I like that. “I coulda drove.”

  “Why risk it?” I clear my throat and fill him in on how he’s getting home. “Critter told me to call your cousin.” I point out the windshield. “Is that him?”

  “Yup. That’s Brookes.” Doyle studies his boots and rubs his neck until it’s brighter red. “Hell. I wanted to take you on a date. Kind of embarrassing you wound up havin’ to babysit me.”

  I tug on a piece of hair that keeps falling from under his hat. “I should ask your parents to pay me. And my fees are high. I can’t stand snot-nosed little rug rats.”

  “Lucky I’m such a charming snot-nosed rug rat.” He hooks a finger in the belt loop of my shorts and drags me his way. “I always had the biggest crushes on my babysitters.” His skin radiates this cozy warmth, like it stored a little of the day’s sunshine.

  “Your cousin is waiting.” Even a whisper feels overloud right now.

  “Damn Critter, hooking me up with a chaperone. Got half a mind to call and—” He pauses to check his phone. “Speak of the devil. Weird.” He looks up at me with furrowed brows. “Everything go okay while I was conked out?”

  “Yes.” Doyle’s eyebrows edge up as my vowel stretches long.

  “You sure?” He drops his voice and leans in like there’s someone else in the truck who might overhear us.

  It feels like I crammed a year’s worth of stress into this never-ending day, and my eyes have that grit-caked pain that comes with extreme exhaustion. “Look, we can talk tomorrow. Okay?”

  His face scrunches and tightens as he scrambles through a thousand different possible intrigues and worst-case scenarios, and I hate that this whole stupid little thing is already rippling beyond my control.

  “I just got pulled over by a cop who was kind of a dick, and I kind of freaked out, I guess. I cried to Critter a little, and then I got over it. No big deal.”

  Doyle rears back and squints at me, then speaks with a slow, icy calm. “You ain’t the type to cry over nothin’, Nes. Seems like a big deal as far as I can tell. You weren’t gonna tell me?”

  “You were zonked out.” I nod at Brookes, now pacing in front of his truck. “For real, your cousin is waiting.”

  “Screw him,” Doyle lashes out. “Dammit. I shouldn’t have letcha go on your own.” He rubs his hands on the thighs of his jeans, then pounds his fist on the dashboard.

  “I’m not some damsel in distress. I took care of the situation just fine. Let it go.”

  “Why’d you get pulled over?”

  Obviously, he’s not letting it go.

  “He didn’t really say why,” I mutter.

  “You can’t pull someone over and not give a reason.”

  He’s not saying it like he thinks I’m lying or guilty, but like he wants me to say the thing he and I both know I don’t want to say.

  I don’t want to believe some police officer saw the color of my skin and took it upon himself to judge me a criminal. Sitting helpless in the truck while he questioned me made me feel like I was at the mercy of things exponentially out of my control.

  When I was a kid, some of my cousins’ friends came to visit our little beach house in Santo Domingo, and they got pretty tired of hearing me talk about my life in New York City. Eventually, the most obnoxious little boy branded me a jablador, a liar. I cried and told him he was a stupid head (I was only seven at the time), but that feeling of having my truth questioned with no way to prove myself really stuck with me. I’m
always a little nervous that people will accuse me of stretching the truth even when I’m being honest.

  “I… Just… Nothing. Nothing I can fix.”

  “We can. With your brains and my Rhett Butler charm, we’re one unstoppable force.”

  I love that he can make me laugh, even when my bones feel like quicksand in my longing-to-be-kissed, sunburned, racially profiled skin.

  “Honestly, there’s nothing we can do. I was lost, and this cop pulled me over and questioned why I was driving a truck that didn’t belong to me…and then he kind of implied that I stole it. He also implied my father was in prison, and I was lying about him being in France. And he warned me there were places I wouldn’t be welcome around here. It was weird and gross, but he let me off without a ticket. He didn’t even make me get out of the truck. What am I supposed to do?”

  “A police officer treated you like that? When you were lost?” He shakes his head in disgust. “What the hell’s wrong with his head?”

  I slam my palm on the steering wheel in frustration. “Why am I Ebenezer High’s bad seed when every teacher at my old school loved me? Why was it so damn easy to make friends in Brooklyn, but I can’t get anyone to talk to me here unless they know I have the Doyle Rahn stamp of approval? The fact is, nothing makes much sense since I moved down here, and tonight…” I lean my forehead on his steering wheel and breathe slowly. “Tonight was just one more stupid thing that proves I probably should have never come here.”

  “Don’t say that.” He grabs my hand like he’s offering a lifeline. “People down here don’t like change. Folks can be a little prickly at first, but no one who spends any time with you could help fallin’ for you. Head over heels.”

  I roll my head to the side and smile at him, even though I’m so freaking tired. Of everything. “I don’t even think you’re saying that to get in my pants. Which is sweet. But you’re very, very wrong.”

  “I’ve been waitin’ my whole life to meet someone honest and brave like you.” He stares out the windshield at the moon covered with thick, gray clouds. His voice is as dim as the night. “Don’t give up on this place jest yet, Nes. I know it’s so selfish, and you got friends back in Brooklyn and a great school and a whole life, so I should be telling you to go. As your friend, that’s what I’m supposed to do. But I gotta face the truth. I don’t want to lose you yet. Not when I barely got a chance to know you.”