by Heidi Lang
“Ready to roll?” her dad asked, popping his head inside the van.
“Almost.” Claire quickly scribbled the rest of her note, signed it, and climbed out of the van. “Just need to drop this off.”
“Hop to it, then. The open road awaits!”
“What do you think we’ll do about school?” Claire asked Patrick that night as they brushed their teeth at a campground just outside Albany, New York. “We’re supposed to start in a month and a half.”
Patrick garbled something at her, toothpaste foam sliding out the corners of his mouth.
“Ew, gross. Spit and then talk.”
He spat. “You asked me a question. You know I’m a messy toothbrusher.”
“You have paste on your chin.”
Patrick wiped his chin with his sleeve, then grinned at her. “Minty fresh.”
Claire shook her head. “I can’t believe we’re related.”
“Me neither.” He shuddered, and she messed up his hair. “And I don’t mind skipping school,” he added, swatting her hand away.
Claire frowned. “We can’t. There are laws and things.”
“Homeschooling?”
Her stomach dropped. No way her dad wanted to homeschool them. “Or maybe,” she said, testing out her theory, “he wants to live in Maine.”
“Nah,” Patrick said, completely dismissive.
Claire wanted to argue more, but she was afraid Patrick would bring out his own theory, that they were on some kind of rescue mission for their mom.
“Anyhow, I like life on the road,” Patrick said.
“You might not like it after another week. Or a month. Or a year.”
“Or I might,” he said. “And you might, too.”
Claire shook her head.
“You might,” he repeated, jabbing her in the shoulder with his wet toothbrush.
“Ew, don’t touch me with that.”
He held it up like a sword, grinning.
“Don’t,” Claire warned, backing up.
“Or what?” He took a step, then another.
She uncapped the toothpaste, and he froze in place. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Fine. Truce for now.”
Claire nodded solemnly. “Truce for now.”
They walked back to the van, the trees swaying above them. There were a few other families camping down the road, some with super-elaborate setups: pop-up shade tents, fancy hammock stands, the full REI catalog. But even those people seemed envious of their van. Claire hated to admit it, but it made her feel almost . . . proud.
“You know, I like you better on the road, too,” Patrick decided.
Claire stopped. “What?”
“You’re funner.” He scrunched his face. “More fun,” he self-corrected. “At least, for you.”
Before Claire could think of a response, he sprinted ahead.
CHAPTER 18
She remembered that sign her dad had bought, about sleeping in his vehicle and waking up in the neighborhood of his choice. For the first time, she almost understood it. “Can we go see the ocean?” she blurted.
“What?”
“The Atlantic Ocean. Wasn’t that why we came here?”
Her dad grinned. “That is one hundred percent why we came here, to track down the Lost City of Atlanticis. Or, barring that, to at least get our feet good and wet.” He glanced up at the sky. “Not sure how much time we’ll have today, though . . .”
“It’s not dark yet,” Claire said.
His eyes widened. “Are you, my reasonable child, advocating for a late-evening oceanside visit?”
Claire hesitated. It felt like a trap. “Maybe,” she hedged.
“Well then, I guess maybe there’s enough time. If we hurry.”
“Woo hoo! Lost city!” Patrick pumped his fist in the air as their dad started up the van, the purr of the diesel engine vibrating beneath them.
They drove to Portland Head Light, which their dad claimed was one of the most photographed lighthouses in the world, and for once Claire believed him. And even though the nearby beach was rocky, and not sandy like she’d imagined, she loved clambering down to the water and sticking her feet in, while Patrick claimed he saw a city hidden beneath every wave. Finally, though, it grew so dark their dad made them head back.
“We still need to find a place to bunk for the night,” he said, shooing them over the rocks to their van, where they wiped down their feet and brushed their teeth, right there in the parking lot. “Hit up those outhouses, too, just in case.”
“In case of what?” Claire asked, but her dad wouldn’t say. She and Patrick exchanged nervous looks and didn’t argue.
Afterward, Claire stared out the side window at the stars as her dad looked up places on his phone. She tried not to feel anxious—of course he’d find somewhere for them to sleep—but as the minutes ticked by, her heart seemed to speed up, until she could feel it thumping hard against her chest like it was a clock.
“All the campgrounds are full,” he said, finally putting down his phone. “I think we might just have to wing it.”
“Wing it?” Claire swallowed, her mouth going dry. “What does that mean?” Her dad and the words “wing it” were not a very comforting combination.
“We-ell,” he drawled, “it means we might be in for a long, boring night, or an adventure. No way to know!” He grinned, but his smile fell away at the look on Claire’s face. “How about we try sleeping here. What do you think?”
Claire looked across the parking lot at the “no overnight camping” signs posted. It was too dark to read them now, but she could feel them looming there, practically screaming.
“Or,” her dad said, following her gaze, “we can try to find somewhere else.”
“There aren’t any rest areas?” Claire asked.
“Well, there might be . . . but Maine doesn’t allow overnight camping in their rest areas.”
“Why not?” Patrick asked. “Isn’t resting what a rest area is for?”
“Yeah, isn’t it dangerous to force tired drivers onto the road?” Claire added. It felt like the night was closing in on them, all dark and creepy. The lighthouse flashed in the distance, illuminating stretches of inky water, while the waves beat against the shore in loud, angry bursts.
Their dad held up his hands. “I’m not arguing with either of you. I don’t think it makes sense, either, but it’s their rule.”
“I thought you didn’t care about rules,” Claire grumbled.
“Oh, I don’t, not usually, but—” He broke off suddenly, looking out the driver-side window as a van pulled up next to them. “Just a second, kids,” he said, his voice tense. Claire clasped her hands together tightly and waited. Were they in trouble? Or . . . what if this person was a robber? Or a serial killer? Or—
Her dad opened his door. “Wait, Dad, what are you doing?” Claire cried, but it was too late; he’d gotten out and was walking over to the other van.
The passenger-side window rolled down and a woman stuck her head out, her long gray hair whipping around her face in the wind. “Howdy, friend,” she said cheerfully. “You look a little lost. Need any help?”
“Oh, I think I’m doing just fine, thanks,” Claire’s dad said.
“Are you sure? You sleeping in that?” The woman pointed at Van-Helsing.
Claire watched her dad nod once, slowly.
“Nice! Always wanted a Sprinter, but Tracy here was all about the classic VW.”
“Still am!” the other person in the van said. “And always will be.”
“Anyhow,” the first woman continued, “we’ve been kicking around this part of Maine for a little while, and it’s not the easiest place to boondock. But there’s a hunting and outdoor recreation store that lets people camp in their parking lot. Not the most glamorous, but it’s pretty safe, well-lit. Here’s the address.” She handed him a slip of paper. “We’re not going that way, but we can, if you need us to show you.”
“Julie,” Tracy said
.
“What? This poor man might need our help.” She smiled. “We’re both retired, see. Plenty of time.”
“Ah, well, I should be able to find it on my own. No need to put yourselves out, but thank you.”
“Anytime, my fellow tumbleweed. Anytime.” Julie waved once, then rolled up her window and the van drove slowly away.
“Tumbleweed, eh?” Her dad smiled as he climbed back into the van.
“You love that, don’t you?” Claire shook her head.
“You know it. Now, let’s go check out this parking lot. Sure sounds like a good time to me!”
“What’s boondocking?” Patrick asked as they pulled out.
“Not sure, but it sounds exciting, whatever it is.”
Claire squeezed her hands as she listened to her brother and dad chatter in the front. She had almost—almost—started to like this life. She’d even gotten a little bit comfortable in the van, with the driving and the sleeping in different places. But it was dangerous. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be all hashtag vanlifing, and then next thing she knew, she’d forget that this wasn’t normal at all. And if she forgot that, then there’d be no one holding on to normal, and who knew where her family would end up.
Because that’s what tumbleweeds did. They just blew and blew and blew forever until they eventually crumbled and fell apart.
CHAPTER 19
“Why do you keep talking about Mike?” Patrick asked.
“What?” Claire blinked. They were sitting on their dad’s bed converted into a couch and using the table Patrick had so proudly helped sand, while their dad talked to someone on the phone up front.
“Stop leering over my shoulder.” Claire shoved her brother. “And I’m not.”
“You are. Every postcard you mention him.”
“Why are you reading my postcards?” Claire could feel her face burning. She hadn’t been talking about Mike that much, right?
“I like seeing your drawings.”
“Oh.” Now Claire’s whole body felt warm. “Really?”
“They’re definitely getting better.”
“Thanks. I think.”
Their dad hung up the phone. “Sorry about that, kiddos.” He looked worn around the edges, like even he wasn’t having a Grand Adventure.
“Everything okay?” Claire asked.
“Okay? Are you kidding me? Everything is fantabulous!”
Claire winced.
“You don’t like that one, either?”
“It’s not ‘one,’ Dad,” Claire said. “That’s the whole problem. You took two innocent words and mashed them cruelly together.”
“They’re better combined,” Patrick chimed in. “Everyone knows that.”
“Yeah, Claire,” her dad said. “Everyone knows that.” He grinned, but she could see his neck muscles straining. “Now, I know this isn’t the most exciting place to spend a night, but . . . you know what is exciting?” He waited a beat. “Ice cream!”
Patrick sat up so straight it was like he’d been turned to wood, his blue eyes wide and excited. “Ice cream?” he said.
“You scream?” their dad said. They both looked at Claire. “If you want it, you’ve got to say it, Claire-bear.”
She sighed, but she really did want ice cream. It was hot in the van, fan or no. “We all scream,” she muttered.
“For ice cream!” her dad and brother finished.
“Now, let’s go get some!” Her dad’s smile this time looked a little less forced, and as Claire followed him out of the van and into the store, she tried not to worry about their next destination, and the one after that.
CHAPTER 20
Ronnie’s birthday, the one day a year Ronnie’s mom let her eat as many grams of sugar as she wanted. Ronnie always saved the “ica” part of the icing for Claire, since her mom also insisted on writing her full name, Veronica.
Someone else would eat those letters this time. Probably Jessica, who already made comments every year about how they matched up better with her name. Ugh. Jessica and her high-pitched laugh and her need to tell everyone the price of literally every single item of clothing she ever wore. And even worse than that, she’d been trying to be best friends with Ronnie for years. Now she’d have her chance.
Claire’s eyes burned. She didn’t even like the taste of icing that much. She just ate it because Ronnie liked it. It wasn’t such a big deal to miss it this year. Or next.
She sniffed, then sniffed again.
It wasn’t a big deal.
The van side door opened, and her dad poked his head in. “You’d better hurry with your letter,” he said. “I think your brother is trying to leave us to become a train conductor.”
“Really?”
“Don’t look so excited. You’d miss him, and you know it.”
Claire thought about it. “I guess,” she sighed.
“Let’s go get him and drag him home, eh?”
Claire put down her pencil and hopped out of the van.
Her dad closed the door behind her. “Like chicken?” He held out his arm. “Then grab a wing.”
“Oh, Dad.” Claire shook her head, but she looped her arm through his anyway.
And then Claire would know Ronnie really had moved on, and she’d already been forgotten.
Claire didn’t write a postcard that day. Or the next. Or the day after. She kept waiting for Ronnie to call first, but Ronnie never did.
CHAPTER 21
Claire never slept well when they boondocked. Her dad always claimed it was fine. “It’s like stealth mode,” he explained, “only more stationary.” Claire knew they weren’t hurting anyone; they never left behind garbage and they were super quiet. But still, imagining all those people sleeping in their comfortable homes while she lurked outside in a big white van made her very uncomfortable.
Which was why she was awake when the first knock sounded at their van door.
Claire froze, every muscle tense. Maybe she’d imagined it.
Another knock, this time followed by a soft “Hello?” and then the beam of a flashlight shining through their curtains. “Anyone in there?”
Claire turned her head a fraction. She could see the whites of Patrick’s eyes in the dim light. “Dad?” she breathed.
“Shh,” her dad whispered.
“Hello? It’s the police.”
The police. Icy dread washed over Claire. She knew this was illegal! What were the police going to do to them? Throw them in jail? Bust down their door and drag them out into the street?
“Dad?” she whispered.
“Shh, shh,” he repeated.
Knock-knock-knock. “Is anyone in here?” the officer’s voice repeated, and Claire couldn’t stop herself. He was a cop. You weren’t supposed to ignore the law.
“Dad,” Claire squeaked.
Her dad sighed. “I know, Claire-bear. I understand.” And she knew that what he really meant was, “I understand how you are.” It made her feel both ashamed and strangely loved as he sat up and opened the side door.
Claire listened to him talk to the officer, her heart hammering so hard she caught only snippets of words. Things like, “can’t sleep overnight here” and “old logging road.” Her dad made approving noises, asked a few questions about directions, and then a few minutes later it was over. He closed the side door, yawned, and stretched.
“Grab your seats, kiddos. We’re changing venues.”
* * *
“I bet there are thousands of snipes in these woods,” Patrick whispered as they pulled up to the old logging road the cop had told them they could use for camping. Temporarily, at least.
“I thought snipes only traveled through pipes,” Claire said.
“Yes, but they live in trees. Obviously. Right, Dad?”
“Right, son.”
“I’m more worried about bears, or mountain lions,” Claire said. Who knew Colorado had so many trees? Claire had always pictured it as a land of sweeping rocky mountains. “Or . . .” she stopped, n
oticing the van up ahead. A Sprinter, just like theirs, only this one was bigger, newer, and painted a charcoal gray. She remembered how Mike had described their van as sleek. This one was sleek times a hundred, which made it look another word, dangerous. “Or serial killers,” she finished.
Her dad pulled up on the side of the road near the other van.
“Dad, maybe we should keep driving,” Claire said.
“Honey, your old man is very tired.” He rubbed his eyes, then scrubbed a hand down his face for emphasis. He did look tired. There were patches of stubble on his chin—the closest her dad ever got to growing a beard—and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. “I think serial killers are probably safer than my driving right now.”
Claire bit her lip. She eyed the van looming in front of them, barely visible in the night.
“They’re probably all sleeping anyhow.” He turned off their van.
Without the diesel engine rumbling, it felt like he’d suddenly turned up the night. An owl calling in the distance, crickets, the wind, tree branches creaking . . . Claire heard them all in stereo, and she realized something terrible. “I have to pee,” she whispered.
“Plenty of trees for you to pick from.”
“Wait, what?” Claire peered at her dad. He wasn’t joking. “You want me to pee behind a tree? Like an animal?”
“Technically, you are an animal, Claire-bear.” He grinned. “Take a walk on the wild side.”
“You are so not funny.”
“No, he’s pretty funny,” Patrick said.
“Thanks, son.”
“You’re welcome, Dad.” They did that annoying fist bump thing, and for one second, just one brief, teeny-tiny second, Claire missed her mother so intensely, it felt like her whole body throbbed with one single thought: I wish she was here. Because she’d understand. She wouldn’t tell her daughter to pee in the woods. In fact, if she were with them, they’d have put a bathroom into the van, limited space or no, with a toilet and a shower.
Claire knew, even as she thought it, that she was being ridiculous. She had no idea what her mom would have wanted, or what she’d have done. She didn’t really know her mother at all. All she had were images of other people’s mothers, like Ronnie’s mom, who would never have agreed to move into a van in the first place.
