by Liz Fichera
Finally I tugged on Sam’s jacket. I had to yell over the engine. “Where are we going?” My hair flew around my face, sticking to my lips.
Sam turned a fraction so I could hear him. “Just want to make sure we lost them. I didn’t want them to follow us.”
My stomach tightened at the thought of seeing any of those boys again. Boys? Criminals, more like it. “Should we find a police station?”
“Do you want to?”
I paused, considering it. It was probably the smart thing to do. Tell the police all about them, describe their tattoos and baggy pants; explain what they’d done to us, the green car they’d driven with the wide wheels and shiny hubcaps. How they’d threatened to kill us. And yet reliving it—any of it—was the last thing I wanted to do.
“Let’s just go home,” I said finally, burying my head and feeling another surge of tears thicken my throat as we approached the freeway ramp. This day had turned into one big bad dream. I was seriously cursed.
Instead of the freeway, Sam turned into one of those huge gas stations, the kind with endless pumps and a convenience store in the middle. Classic rock blared from overhead speakers, and I was glad to see that almost every pump was taken. I didn’t want to go anywhere without a lot of people. Customers darted in and out of the store with sodas, cigarettes and six-packs of beer. Sam found an empty parking spot near a corner. He shut off the ignition and spun around over the seat so that we were facing each other, straight on.
“Riley,” he said. He grabbed my arms.
I could see the apology in his eyes, one that I didn’t deserve. I lowered my head and covered my face in hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. Then before I could answer I jumped off the bike and ran to the blue Dumpster next to the air pump that no one was using. I fell to my knees on the pavement and puked.
After my stomach was empty, I sat back on my knees, struggling to catch my breath. I wiped my mouth.
“Riley?” Sam said behind me. His voice cut through the silence. He placed a hand on my lower back.
I sat up, embarrassed, and turned to face him. Puking seemed to have become a habit for me.
One thousand watts of more worry filled his eyes, and I fought back another urge to cry again, or worse. He knelt and then reached for me. He took my face between his hands, caressing my cheeks with his thumbs until I had no choice but to look at him.
We sat there, staring at each other, letting our eyes talk, especially since our words—mine especially—seemed to always be all wrong.
I’m sorry, his eyes said, so simultaneously fierce and gentle, the kindest eyes I’d ever known.
I’m sorry, too, mine replied.
I wanted to kiss Sam Tracy, right then and there, more than anything in the world, but I didn’t think I had the right. Plus I’d just puked. So I took a deep breath and kissed him with my eyes and I let myself believe that his eyes kissed me back.
Finally, he stood and extended a hand to me.
I swallowed, praying I wouldn’t hurl again, and threaded my fingers through his.
Sam wrapped his strong arms around me. His embrace stilled my shaking. Then it was like my whole body split apart, bone by bone, muscle by muscle. The dam burst and more tears flowed.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered in my ear, warm breath against my skin.
I fought against my sobs. He crushed me against his chest. Speaking was still difficult. “Not…your…fault,” I croaked. I’m the reason we’re here, remember?
Sam’s chin pressed against the top of my head. “What do you want to do? Should we call the police? Call your parents? I’ll do whatever you want.”
I shook my head, feeling his chin pressed against my head. “No,” I said, fighting to speak. “I’ll be okay.” I breathed in his jacket. It smelled all-Sam, campfire and desert, and only brought more tears. I leaned deeper into his opened jacket. “Are you okay?” I asked him.
“I am now.”
I cried harder. Sam didn’t say a word. He just held me.
How long we stood by that smelly blue Dumpster, I didn’t know. All I knew was that holding Sam was the only thing I needed.
Gasoline pumps beeped and people buzzed around us. A few people probably stared at the two crazy kids hugging each other for dear life, but I didn’t care.
Finally, my breathing slowed and my sobs quieted.
Sam pulled back, his hands gripping my shoulders. His eyes, still warm and full of worry, found mine. And, hello? Why hadn’t I noticed his impossibly long eyelashes before? Then his thumb grazed my cheek, wiping off a stray tear.
His beautiful eyes crinkled at the corners. “Home?” He said it like he knew the answer.
I nodded. “Home.” I hiccupped.
A relieved smile erased the crease between his eyes.
His arm never leaving my shoulder, we walked back to the motorcycle. I took my spot behind him as he turned the ignition, returning the engine to life. My hands fell to his hips, my thumbs brushing his belt loops. He twisted the throttle and the bike roared, ready to fly us home.
We coasted out of the gas station toward the freeway.
Home had never sounded so good. Home with Sam Tracy sounded perfect.
44
Sam
The instant we reached the freeway, the sky changed colors. It was as if someone had pulled the plug on the blue and spray-painted it with gigantic swaths of black and gray. Thunder rumbled around us and the temperature dropped enough to chill me through my jacket. I pulled back on the throttle and opened up the engine. The sooner we returned to the desert, the better.
But outrunning the storm was impossible. Like a shadow, it followed us across the state line all the way to Yuma. Just my luck, it rained only a handful of days each year in the desert, and today, of all days, Mother Nature decided to gift us with an early monsoon. There was nowhere to pull over—not a gas station, overpass, ravine. Nothing. Just miles and miles of cotton fields and brown desert and Riley and me.
Riley’s body pressed against my back. I felt every part of her. I rested one hand over the both of hers clutched around my stomach. At first it was because they still trembled. Once the trembling stopped, I guess I forgot to stop holding them.
In my side-view mirror I smiled apologetically as her chin burrowed into my shoulder. Her cheeks, still splotchy from tears, pulled back in a smile and she squeezed me tighter, sending another kind of shiver running through my body.
Rain fell, only a few drops at first, but as heavy as pennies. Ice-cold, it pelted our faces. I had to reduce my speed because of the visibility and hunch lower in the seat to shield us both from the rain.
I squinted into the distance, desperate for someplace to wait out the storm. No such luck.
Then headlights glared like bloodshot eyes behind us. The beams glinted against my rearview as rain pelted the glass. Riley’s breath hitched in my ear before she turned for a better look. For miles, we’d owned the road. Now we had company.
I decided to pull up on the throttle and veer to the right, giving the vehicle plenty of room to pass.
Except the car didn’t pass.
It stayed behind us, matching us mile for mile. I had to squint even harder as its headlights bounced off both rearview mirrors on the handlebars, the right one still scuffed and bent from Biker Guy kicking over my bike.
Biker Guy…
My gut tightened.
The car closed the distance between us and I pulled back a little on the throttle. The car drove faster, less than a car length behind me now. Ahead, lightning streaked in crazy zigzags through the sky. The rain fell harder, drenching our hair, our clothes. I shook off droplets and concentrated on the road.
“What’s going on?” Riley yelled against the rain, tugging on my sleeve.
“I don’t know,” I yelled back, scanning the rearview mirrors, the lightning. The monsoon was dropping on us. I squinted at the car in my rearview mirror. It was dark with thick front tires. I tried to see the driver through the
windshield, but the glare from the headlights blinded me.
My heart began to race as fast as the storm. Riley squeezed tighter, and I revved the engine. The bike had to go faster.
“Be careful!” Riley yelled.
I nodded. I was trying. I was trying my best. But something wasn’t right. And something was all too familiar about the car behind us. Would Biker Guy and his friends seriously follow us across state lines? All the way to Arizona? Were they that insane?
The answer mocked me in my rearview. Yes, they were.
A gush of air blew through my teeth as if I’d been punched. My mind raced with anger and frustration. Why did it have to monsoon now, of all times?
So I gripped the handlebars tighter. We wouldn’t be safe until we reached the Rez. Another fifty miles? Maybe a hundred? We had to keep moving. It was the only option.
I lowered my head, my hair dripping with rain, and floored it. I knew it was crazy, given the slick road, but I couldn’t take a chance again with those guys and their itchy trigger fingers.
Then red lights began to screech and swirl behind me. They lit up the sky.
Say what?
The lights lit up the sedan behind me like a psycho Christmas tree. I blinked in disbelief. I slapped my hand against the handlebar and swore into the wind, spewing every curse word I knew and even a few in Navajo that Martin had taught me.
“Are you kidding me?” Riley screamed, too.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or keep cursing.
A voice boomed over a bullhorn through the pounding rain. “Driver!” he yelled. “Pull over!”
It wasn’t Biker Guy. Not even close. We had a DPS patrol officer on our tail, driving an unmarked car.
“Great,” I murmured, slapping the handlebar again as my bike slowed. “Now I get pulled over.”
45
Riley
I sat in the back of the patrol car, trying to see through the windshield, but it was practically impossible. Scratched plastic at least an inch thick separated the backseat from the front, perfect for transporting criminals and fugitives. The officer had left the car running and the heat blasting, but my whole body shivered with fright and confusion. Why did we get pulled over? Why was the officer questioning Sam?
Rain fell in gray sheets with blowing red dirt mixed in. The world inside and out was a mess, and it had nothing to do with weather. I wanted to be outside. I wanted to be beside Sam.
The officer wore a black hat with a wide brim and a fluorescent orange rain poncho. Seemingly oblivious to the weather, he tilted his chin upward as he talked to Sam, cool and calm. The officer had to yell to be heard over the rain, and for some reason he kept pointing a long flashlight in Sam’s face. Unfortunately I caught only muffled words through the windows, along with a few unmistakable “yes, sirs” and “no, sirs” as they faced each other with puffed-out chests. A total guy thing. I hoped Sam would simply answer his questions so we could get out of here and get home.
“But what does he want?” I reached for the door release, but the panel was smooth. No handle. Nice. I was officially a criminal.
The officer kept one hand on the sidearm at his hip. The other clutched his flashlight, clearly ready to use it as a club if necessary. I wanted to scream at him, It won’t be necessary! The guys you really want are back in San Diego!
After a century or so, Sam and the officer walked to the car. The officer pulled back on the handle to the back door.
I sat straighter. Finally!
Sam slid into the backseat, dripping wet. He dragged his hands through his hair, leaving thick ridges from his fingers.
“What’s going on?” I whispered as soon as the officer shut the door.
Sam’s eyes were shiny black but the whites of his eyes were wide. They weren’t frightened. This time they were on fire. “They’re taking me to Durango. You, too. I think.”
“What?” I choked out. “What is that?”
“Juvy lockup. Downtown.”
“Phoenix?”
“Yeah,” he said.
I studied the officer as he walked around the car. He spoke into a radio on his shoulder. “Why? We haven’t done anything wrong. Maybe if I talk to him…”
“Please don’t say anything, Riley.” He might as well have added, You’ve already said plenty for one lifetime. Then he said, “Seems someone phoned in a report about two runaways. We fit a description.” He frowned and his face darkened another shade.
“Who?”
“I have no idea. Maybe the school. Maybe your parents.”
“But we’re not runaways.”
The officer opened the driver’s door and I lowered my voice. “What about your parents?”
“I doubt it was them.” His arched eyebrow asked me a question.
“My mom?” I sighed, remembering our last conversation.
Sam nodded.
“Yeah, knowing her, it’s possible.”
Then Sam said, “And he gave me a ticket for driving without a motorcycle license.” He rolled his eyes and then looked out the window at his bike. It was parked in the gravel off the side of the road. “My mom says bad things always happened in threes. In our case, we’re well past three.”
I reached for his wet, ice-cold hand as the officer lifted a microphone attached to a computer thingy beside the steering wheel. I rubbed his hand between mine. He looked down at our hands, his face exhausted.
“I am so sorry, Sam.” If I apologized a thousand times, it wouldn’t be enough.
“Yeah, me, too.”
“No, really. This is my fault. Everything is my fault.”
Static buzzed across the microphone and the patrol officer rattled off a number of codes into the speaker. “Yeah, dispatch,” he said as he removed his hat, revealing a round, bald head. He slapped his hat against the ridge of the passenger seat and let the water drip on the floor mat. “We’ve got a possible 702 and need a 926 out on I-8 at highway marker 402. I’ll be transporting two to Durango for parent pickup.” His voice was deep and calm, the voice of someone who did this a lot.
“Ten-four, 301,” a woman’s voice answered through more static.
“What about my bike?” Sam said, but the patrol officer raised a palm at the plastic divider, stopping his question.
“Couldn’t he just drive us home?” I whispered, and Sam stifled a chuckle but it was hardly lighthearted. More like frustrated.
More codes and strange numbers sputtered between the dispatcher and the police officer.
“Your first arrest?” Sam said through an exhale, as if he wanted to make light of what was happening to us.
I nodded, forcing a smile, hoping to calm him. “How about you?”
Sam turned back to the window and didn’t answer. But then he sighed, shook his head at his motorcycle and leaned his face against his hand. He dragged his fingers through his hair and the sides stood up in spiky peaks. Then he said, “We should have stayed in Phoenix. But there’s no ocean in the desert,” he added, like he was trying to reconcile our decisions.
“The ocean is overrated,” I said, squeezing his hand.
The officer returned the microphone to the cradle. Just as I was about to tell him what had happened in San Diego, he reached for his hat and opened the driver’s door.
Sam and I stole a quick glance at each other, confused
He walked around to the rear door with heavy steps and opened it. Rain splattered into the backseat.
“You need to step outside the car,” he said to Sam. It wasn’t an option.
“What now?” Sam said, stepping out into the rain. “Is it something about my bike?”
My whole body began to shake again. Something didn’t feel right.
“You, too, young lady,” he said to me. “You’ll be riding up front with me.”
“Why?” I snapped.
“Just do it,” the officer ordered.
I stepped into the rain as he opened the front door for me. Cold drops pelted my face, sticki
ng to my eyelashes. Meanwhile, the officer stood razor-close to Sam, his hand back on his sidearm. I slid into the front seat, the upholstery still wet from the officer’s hat, and stared out the window, nothing but questions racing through my mind.
“I need you to face the car,” he ordered Sam as rain pelted them.
“Why?” Sam said, pulling his shoulders back.
“’Cause I said so,” the officer said.
Exhaling, Sam reached his hands against the side of the car.
“Spread your legs,” the officer said. Then he began to search Sam’s pockets. He patted both legs, from his thighs to his ankles.
“You mind telling me what’s this all about?” Sam said again, loud, so he could be heard over the rain.
“I’ll explain in a second. Just want to make sure you don’t have anything that could hurt me.”
“I don’t,” Sam snarled but the officer ignored him.
“You’re a pretty big kid. This is more for my safety than yours,” he added.
“Well, glad to be of service,” Sam said, again with the sarcasm, but this time the corner of the officer’s mouth twitched in a tiny smile that disappeared in an instant.
Sam’s eyes locked with mine. They filled with anger and frustration as the rain pelted against his face.
I lifted my hand to the glass. Don’t do anything crazy, I mind-melded with him as my body shuddered all over again. Was there no end to this nightmare? Just when I’d thought everything would be okay, something else mucked it all up. Why couldn’t everyone leave Sam and me alone?
When the officer pulled out a set of handcuffs, I garbled back a scream. That had to be a mistake! Did you get handcuffed for driving in the rain?
“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer began. “Anything you say can and will be used against you…”
Suddenly it felt like I was having a heart attack.
Thiscannotbehappening.Thiscannotbehappening.Thiscannotbehappening.
The officer finished the little spiel about Sam’s rights, except that nothing was right.
