The original Robocop is the top movie. Tempting, but I’m not quite bored enough to put on a movie yet. It’s still strange not having to hit the bathroom or want to eat right after getting up. Wonder how long it will take me to get used to that? Or should I? I mean, I obviously can’t force myself to pee, but I could still make myself eggs or whatever. Having human food purely for the sense of routine and all.
Except, there’s no food in here and opening the door will probably hurt.
So, yeah. Dad and Mom went over ‘the plan’ last night after dinner when they gave us a tour of the monstrous camper. At night when I’m awake, the ’rents will use this bed while the sibs sleep in the bunks, Sierra and Sophia sharing one, Sam in the other. Contrary to every vacationer ever, I hope for crummy weather. The more overcast it is, the more time I can spend with the family instead of sitting in the bedroom all day before milling around the RV at night watching everyone sleep.
After stretching, I flop back on the bed and grab one of the books I brought along. Yeah, I know paper is not environmentally friendly, nor trendy. It’s bulky and heavy—but these don’t care about battery power or Wi-Fi. And, I’m quite capable of reading print in total darkness. Oh, very funny, Dad. He added Bram Stoker’s Dracula to the top of the pile. Might as well… I’ve never read it.
Outside the room, the beeps of a PS Portable accompany the girls chatting with Mom. They’re playing some kind of Pictionary type game on their phone. I push aside the mild feeling of being an outsider eavesdropping on someone else’s family, and keep reading.
A few hours later, Sophia asks Dad to stop somewhere so she can go to the bathroom.
“There’s a toilet right over there, doofus,” says Sierra.
“Oh, this is so weird. I’ve never, umm, used a toilet in a moving car before.”
“Some buses have them,” calls Dad. “It’s okay.”
“Don’t hit any potholes,” adds Sierra, laughing. “Or she’ll get all wet.”
“Eww!” shouts Sophia.
It’s quiet for about a minute, then Sophia lets out a shrill scream. I know that scream. It can mean only one thing. Three… two… one…
“Samuel!” yells Mom. “Why are there frogs in the bathroom sink!”
“Eww!” shrieks Sophia.
“Flush ’em,” says Sierra.
“No!” yells Sophia and Sam at the same time.
“Alan and Edgar won’t hurt anyone,” says Sam. “They need water.”
“Sam,” says Dad with a hint of exasperation. “Why did you bring your frogs?”
“Because!” replies the boy, not quite shouting, “We’re going to be gone all week and they’re lonely. Besides. You said you wanted the whole family to go on the trip.”
“Come on, do something,” wails Sophia. “I gotta go.”
“They won’t hurt you,” says Sam.
“I am not peeing with frogs staring at me!”
Mom’s grumbling approaches. I picture her hovering at the bathroom door, surveying the situation, then backing out to ask Dad to move the frogs. She kinda shares Sophia’s opinion about all things green and slimy. Don’t hurt them because they’re animals, but she doesn’t want to touch them.
“Okay, okay,” says Sam. The noise from his PS Portable stops.
Footsteps and clonking follows, then the ka-chunk of the small bathroom door closing. Yanno, that is kinda cool. Not having to stop anywhere for a rest break. I sigh at the thought of how expensive it must be to rent this thing, which makes me think of Hunter’s family being poor. He can tell me it doesn’t bother him all he wants, but I still feel kinda guilty—and miss him. Even though we spent two hours on the phone last night, it’s already like we haven’t seen each other for months.
Since frogmageddon is handled, I resume reading.
An hour later, the bedroom door opens and Sophia sticks her head in. “Hey. It’s getting dark out.”
“Oh, cool.” I stuff a napkin in the book to hold my place, set it on the little nightstand, and scramble off the bed to change out of my oversized T-shirt into a normal one with jeans.
The most noticeable clue to me that it’s becoming dark out is the stream of headlights going by on the other side of the road. Well, there’s also the whole not going up in flames thing. So, I guess the headlights are the second most noticeable indication of dark. Having night vision is bizarre.
“What time is it?” I ask, glancing at a terrarium on the mini-kitchen counter containing a pair of green frogs, each about the size of Sam’s fist. They appear indifferent to their surroundings. One’s sitting in the water bowl, the other on the chunk of wood beside it.
“Almost seven at night,” says Dad. “Gonna stop at the next exit for food.”
“We’ve been driving for twelve hours already?” I blink.
“Eleven. We changed time zones, so we lost an hour,” says Sam without looking up from his PS Portable.
The girls try to rope me into playing a board game, but we decide against it when the RV tilts slightly to the left on a turn. Dad’s already taking the off ramp from the freeway, so we don’t have time to get into anything.
Sam unpacks one of his canisters of food for the frogs and drops in some… mealworms or some such thing. Sophia shudders and looks away, then starts complaining to Mom about the frogs being in the RV. Sam does have a reasonable point that he couldn’t abandon them for a week. Poor things. It’s sucks being trapped in a small space like that. Trust me, I know. Hopefully, they’re like Bree Swanson… not quite smart enough to be bored.
We eventually stop at a place called The Montana Club Restaurant in Missoula.
Everyone rushes to get shoes on, and we file out the side door. Dad parked all the way at the back end of the parking lot. It’s actually kind of impressive he managed to get the RV in here at all.
“Are you hungry?” Mom smiles at me.
“Snackish. I’ve actually managed to go a couple days without a severe beating, so I think I’m okay.” I glance at the building. “But I might nibble anyway. Not sure what I’ll be able to get at the campground, but there’s always nearby cities.”
There’s no wait, and we soon wind up at a larger table in the middle of the dining area. The waitress, who’s probably a year or two younger than me, is overly chipper, pale, and based on her half-dark-blue-half-black hair, a goth forced to dressed ‘normal’ for work.
“Hi everyone. I’m Kari with an I. Can I get you anything to drink?”
Most of my family responds like normal people.
Not Sierra.
“Hi Kari with an I,” says middle child. “Can I have an iced tea?”
The girl nods, either unaware my sister is teasing her for making a big deal over spelling the name of a person we’ll likely never see again, or ignoring it.
As soon as the waitress leaves to get our drinks, Sierra leans over the table toward me. “You should bite her.”
Mom gasps. Dad chuckles. Sophia shifts her eyes to Sierra with a ‘did you really?’ expression. Sam bounces in his chair while staring at the menu.
“Don’t wanna make you guys waste money, but I can order normal food so I don’t look strange.”
Dad shakes his head. “If you enjoy eating it, it’s not wasted.”
A few minutes pass. Sophia’s head lolls back and her eyes close. Sam keeps bouncing. Sierra sinks into this arms-folded glowering posture. Eventually, Kari with an I returns with our drinks and takes our orders.
“And for you?” asks Kari, smiling at Sophia.
“I dunno.” She makes a face at the menu.
Mom leans over to her. They go back and forth whispering. Every dish Mom suggests, Sophia comes up with strange arbitrary reasons why she doesn’t want it.
“It’s not organically sourced vegan approved,” mutters Sierra.
“I’m not a vegan. I’m a vegetarian.” Sophia huffs.
Sierra rolls her eyes. “They probably shoot the cows right out back. This is Montana.”
; Kari with an I stifles a snicker.
“That’s so cruel!” Sophia starts yelling at Sierra about the differences between vegans and vegetarians.
“Soph!” says Mom in a whisper shout.
She freezes, then puts on a sheepish look. “Sorry. Umm, I guess the garden salad.”
“With bacon,” mutters Sierra.
“No bacon!” wails Sophia.
The waitress nods at her and smiles at my brother.
“Fried chicken!” shouts Sam.
Half the people in the room stop and look at him.
Sierra blinks at him.
“Well okay!” Kari smiles. “It is good here.”
I order a burger because… calories are meaningless to me. Dad does the steak thing, Mom a chicken Caesar salad. The waitress saves Sierra for last. Predictably, she gets chicken fingers with fries.
As soon as the waitress walks off, I stand. “Be right back. Umm, bathroom.”
After spending all day on the road, I’m in a strange mood. I do go to the bathroom—at least in terms of physically traveling to a room full of toilets—but find it empty. Being that I’m in a weird mood, I float up to put my back to the ceiling and lurk there. Boredom wins out after a few minutes of being alone… so I start humming to myself. Then I wind up standing on the ceiling with my back to the wall.
“Eep!” shouts a small voice.
I look up (well, down really) and lock stares with a girl of around six. Before I can decide how to react to being caught on the ceiling, her mother bumps her forward, unsure why the girl stopped short in the doorway.
The woman spots me. Her scream doesn’t quite make it from brain to mouth before I’m in her thoughts. Yeah, that’s it. Stand there in a fog. I spin over and alight on my feet in front of them, taking a moment to enthrall the kid into a mental fog so I can feed from the woman. But before I can even break skin, I hesitate, my gaze shifted sideways, staring at the platter-eyed little girl. Supposedly, it’s difficult to have sex when a dog is watching. Not that I’ve ever had that particular issue, but I understand it now.
I can’t bite this woman on the neck while a catatonic six-year-old stares at me. Grr. I pick the girl up like a big doll and rotate her so her back’s turned. Again, I go to bite the woman, and pause at the realization someone else could walk in on us. So, I relocate the kid to a stall, standing her on the toilet tank, before commanding the mother in after us. It’s a little cramped, but I’m not in dire need of feeding so this shouldn’t take too long. Finally free of distraction or worry, I lean in and bite down. A burst of cinnamon roll flavor floods my mouth. Like one of the hot, gooey ones that’re about six bucks and nine billion calories.
Ooh! It’s even warm. This is kind of amazing.
Once I drink my fill, I set the kid standing in front of the toilet like she’s just about to take a seat, erase myself from both of their heads, then move Mom outside the stall. There. That was… awkward.
By the time I return to our table, the food’s arrived.
“Wow. Did you fall in?” asks Sam, drumstick in hand.
“Had a little complication. Nothing to worry about.” I smile, plop down, and pick up my cheeseburger.
“Darn. I should’ve done that. It’s been forever since I had a mushroom-Swiss-cheese burger,” says Dad.
“You always order steak when we go out.” Mom smiles.
Sophia scrunches up her face at the word ‘steak.’
“Well, I’ve agreed to limit the amount of red meat in the house for Sophia’s sake.”
The girl gives me a dirty look.
“This place doesn’t exactly have tofu burgers,” I mutter.
Our meal continues in uncharacteristic silence. Dad’s bleary-eyed from the road. Mom’s perhaps in the best mood of everyone. Compared to her usual day at the office, wrangling three tweens on a road trip is a vacation. Sophia’s grumpy-tired. It’s almost funny watching her try to eat and not fall asleep. Gawd. Sierra found this one video of a half-awake guinea pig or rabbit munching on something green. She totally looks like that critter now. Eyes half closed, a hunk of lettuce hanging out of the side of her mouth.
I glance away before I laugh at her.
Sierra’s fist-to-the cheek glower worries me though… at least until I peek into her head. She’s keeping quieter than usual to avoid saying something too surly. The girl wanted to stay home, and misses hanging out with her friends as well as her video games. Ahh. Normal Sierra. She’ll be okay in a day or two.
Sam can’t sit still. I haven’t seen him this wound up in a while. Guess being cooped up in the RV all day left him with an abundance of energy. He ravages the fried chicken like a half-starved Tasmanian devil, inhales the French fries, and continues sucking on bones for a little while.
Yeah, so this is pretty normal for us on a road trip. And the burger’s not half bad.
Sam balances the drumstick bone half off the side of the table. Right as I open my mouth to question what he’s doing, he swats the dangling end, launching the bone into the air. Spinning end-over-end, it flies most of the way across the room before landing on a plate in front of a dude dressed like a cowboy, sticking in his mashed potatoes like King Arthur’s sword.
Of course, a splat of potatoes-and-butter goes everywhere.
Neither Mom nor Dad noticed the launch, subtle as it was. Sierra caught it, and her glum mood improves a tick.
“What in the hell?” shouts the cowboy, who’s older than dad… maybe middle fifties.
The woman seated across from him, also with a cowboy hat plus a denim dress, looks around the room. Sam clamps both hands over his mouth to stop from laughing.
People glance toward the guy.
“Is something wrong?” asks a waiter.
“There’s a bone in my mashed potatoes,” yells the cowboy.
A few people chuckle.
“Either this is a setup for a lame joke, or there’s been some foul play,” mutters Dad while eyeing Sam.
“I got it,” I whisper, then stand and hurry over to ‘ground zero.’ “Oh, wow. You should’ve ordered the boneless potatoes.”
The waiter and the cowboy both stare at me with the same look Bree Swanson gets from teachers whenever she tries to answer questions. Like, seriously, the girl once said she thought the country of Turkey got its name because that’s where all the turkeys come from.
I swipe the drumstick bone from the mashed potatoes so fast none of them notice my arm move, and stash it behind my back. “You must be confused. There’s no bone.”
The woman blinks and stares at the crater in the potato pile. “I saw it too. It splashed on the table.”
“Must’ve been a steam bubble trapped in the potatoes that exploded,” I say.
“Steam bubble,” says the cowboy in a not-quite-awake tone.
“Yeah, those steam bubbles are pretty volatile. You should bring this man some clean potatoes.” I stare at the waiter, giving his cerebellum a prod.
“Of course. That’s a good idea. I’m sorry the chef forgot to de-steam the potatoes first.” He takes the plate and hurries off.
Once the couple firmly believes they suffered from a case of spontaneous-spud-detonation, I head back to our table and toss the bone back on Sam’s plate. Sierra is still giggling about Operation Flying Drumstick. Mom can’t believe Sam did something like that. Dad appears to find it hilarious, but he’s trying hard not to laugh since Mom’s pissed. Sophia’s half awake, and I think completely oblivious to all of it.
“Sorry,” mutters Sam, still bouncing in his chair.
“Don’t you ever do anything like that again,” whisper-shouts Mom. “You should be grateful to your sister for altering their memory or you could’ve caused big trouble. Really, Sam. You’re nine. Not five. Five year olds throw food.”
“He didn’t technically throw it,” says Sierra. “He was doing an experiment in applied leverage.”
“I don’t care what you call it. You should go over there and apol—” Mom blinks and g
lances at me. “They don’t know what happened, do they?”
“Nope. They believe a steam bubble in the potatoes exploded.”
Dad chuckles. “Have to be careful with those steam bubbles. Highly dangerous.”
Everyone except Mom laughs.
Kari with an I returns and asks if anyone wants dessert.
Sophia wakes up.
“You want to give the boy more sugar?” asks Dad.
“Good point.” Mom shakes her head. “I think he’s had enough.”
“Aww,” says Sam while doing a spot on impression of Puss In Boots’ pleading stare.
Mom’s a sucker for it.
At least it’s not too late. We still have a few hours’ time where they can burn off energy.
“Anything for you?” asks Kari, looking at me.
I smack my lips. “You have cinnamon rolls? Got an odd craving.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t.”
“Darn. Oh well. Thanks, I’m okay.”
Sierra wags her head side to side making her long brown hair swish. “Yeah. Better for you. Anything you eat goes straight to your ass.”
Kari gasps. Sophia blushes at the bad word. Sam ignores it entirely. Dad cracks up laughing since he understands what Sierra really meant. Mom gawks at her.
I laugh, which makes Kari feel better.
“What, Mom. Ass isn’t that bad. It’s not like I said—”
My hand’s over her mouth before she can spit it out. “Don’t. You’re only going to dig yourself deeper.”
Sierra grabs my hand in both of hers and pulls it down off her face. “I was going to say ‘homework.’ Now that’s a bad word.”
4
Fiends of the Night
The ’rents discuss Sam’s uncharacteristic bone toss move over the next hour or so on the road. Dad thinks he’s burning off pent up energy while Mom’s worried they should take him to ‘see someone.’ They ultimately decide not to do anything yet, since we have been cooped up in the RV all damn day.
I mean, sure, sometimes I’ve wondered if the boy could be mildly autistic, but he doesn’t really display many of the ‘usual traits’ that I found online. Really, the kid’s just stoic. I’m not sure if muted emotions mean anything. He doesn’t have a ton of friends but he didn’t have trouble finding the ones he has.
The Last Family Road Trip (Vampire Innocent Book 4) Page 3
