by Una LaMarche
“I don’t know,” he laughs. “That sounds pretty intimate for someone I just met yesterday.”
My skin feels tight as I suddenly realize how close we’re standing, so close I can feel warmth coming off his skin like a space heater, sending wafts of citrusy deodorant and tangy sweat into my lungs.
“Sure, you can drive,” I mumble and walk hastily over to the edge of the bed where the girls and Denny are now watching a bunch of teens in short, tight funeral outfits freak out while staring into their phones. I pretend to look interested, but out of the corner of my eyes I’m watching Tim as he carefully empties five packets of chicken-flavored ramen noodles into paper cups, fiddling with the dinky coffee-machine buttons to get the hot water to dispense.
Despite his annoying tendency to second-guess everything I say, there’s something about Tim that’s so sturdy and even and just kind of . . . good. It’s like watching a different species through binoculars, trying to figure out what it’s gonna do next. Buck was definitely never like that. I remember him being affectionate and fun sometimes, but even as a kid I got the sense I couldn’t really count on him, or Mom. They both seemed like—I didn’t have a word for it then, but unstable, I guess, like the atoms we learned about in physics that can turn radioactive, vibrating and contorting while they try to balance out but can’t. I wonder if some people are just born that way.
“Dinnertime!” Tim calls, arranging the steaming cups in a row on the desk, and Cass, Denny, and I spring up like the scavengers we are, hardwired to eat whatever is offered before anyone else can get it.
I slurp down the hot, salty broth with a hunger I didn’t even realize was there. And later, when the TV is off and everyone but me is asleep and the only light in the room is the moonlight peeking through a gap in the heavy yellow drapes, I watch Tim’s chest rise and fall in the next bed and wonder if I’m more like him or more like my parents. Can I steady myself and find a way to be the rock my family needs, or will I be cursed, too, with a life spent freewheeling through the universe, desperately reaching out for something, anything, to hold me down?
NINE
Thursday Morning
Terre Haute, IN
I have two vivid dreams, one after the other. In the first, I’m driving down a dark, rural road, so groggy I can’t really see, so I keep running the car into trees, which send me spinning backward with a gentle, rubbery bump. In the second, I’m looking for Mom in the empty halls of a jail, but every time I turn a corner, sure that I’ll find her on the other side, there’s a crumbling brick wall.
Knock, knock.
Mom? I yell in my dream voice, which annoyingly comes out like a whisper no matter how hard I strain. I put my palms on the bricks and find that they’re loose, so I pull them out one by one as the knocking gets louder.
Mom, I’m coming!
“It’s the manager.”
I stop pulling bricks and try to peer through the hole.
Mom, is there someone with you?
“Please open the door, it’s the manager.”
I seize out of the dream and into a pool of bright sunlight. Cass is huddled under the covers next to me, and Denny is sprawled across us, making a sloppy H. I realize two things at the same time: (1) The knocking is real, and (2) I’m not wearing pants.
But then Tim is up, his shirtless back wide and pale and smooth, his hair knocked out of its Hardy Boy tidiness and into soft curls and peaks from the pillow. He stumbles as he pulls khakis on over his boxer shorts and steps over the remnants of our noodle cups to get to the door. I lean back and stare at the ceiling, my heart pounding, as I hear the locks click open. This can’t be good.
“Can I help you?” Tim asks groggily.
“Yes,” I hear a stern male voice say. “You can come with me. Get your friends and get your things.”
“Why?” Tim asks. “What is this about?”
“I’ll explain downstairs. For now, just get everyone and everything out of the room.”
Ten minutes later, we ride down three floors with the extremely pissy-looking hotel manager, who wears his jet-black hair in a mushroom cut—a bold move for a middle-aged man the height of a hobbit. It’s barely seven A.M. Denny is clinging to my arm, and I don’t think Cass has even woken up yet, but I can’t tell because she’s got sunglasses on indoors, like a movie star, or a drunk. Tim and Leah look gray and nervous; Mushroom won’t answer any of their questions. I’ve decided to keep my mouth shut, both because I don’t want it to get me in trouble and because I’m a little bit afraid I might throw up.
This feeling only intensifies when the elevator doors open into the lobby and I see two uniformed cops waiting at the front desk. I get hit with a panic attack that’s like a FIFA World Cup player kicking me in the chest at close range. This cannot be happening. We’re in the middle of Indiana with only a half tank of gas and a family-size bag of Skittles to our name. I dig my nails into Denny’s palm so hard he yowls.
“Your credit card was declined,” Mushroom says as we reach the cops. The front desk faces the continental breakfast buffet, and a sunburned family of four tries not to look like they’re eavesdropping while they eat their Corn Flakes and stale pastries. “Early this morning we received a call from Jeffrey Harper,” he continues, “the cardholder, who told me directly that he did not authorize the charge.”
“But that’s my dad,” Tim says, keeping his voice low. “You didn’t need to call the cops.”
“If we suspect a stolen credit card is being used, police involvement is standard procedure,” Mushroom says stiffly.
“It’s not stolen!” Leah pipes up. “It’s mine.”
“I’m guessing you don’t pay the bill, though.” Mushroom treats us all to a condescending smile, and Tim and Leah exchange terrified looks. They’ve probably never been in any real trouble and have no idea how to handle this. Leah might have talked us into the hotel, but talking us out is gonna be up to me.
“Could you call him back?” I ask as calmly as I can manage. “I’m sure he doesn’t want to press charges.”
“Yeah,” Tim says, “can I talk to him?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Mushroom says and goes behind the desk to the phone. The cops look bored, and I let myself relax a little. We’re not getting arrested. Not if Tim’s dad is anything like him.
Mushroom gets Jeff Harper on the phone and, after some stony small talk, hands the receiver across the counter to Tim.
“Hi, Dad, it’s me,” he says, looking stricken, running a hand through his bedhead. “Listen, I’m so sorry . . .” He gets quiet for a minute, and I can hear his dad yelling even from ten feet away. “Indiana somewhere,” Tim finally says. “I know. I know, okay? I swear I was just trying to do something good for Leah . . . yeah, she’s fine. We just didn’t think it through . . .” Another pause. “I know that, but could you at least let this charge go through? We don’t have any money, and—” He closes his eyes and grimaces. “Well, could you at least tell the manager to send the police officers away? . . . Yes, I understand. Okay, Dad . . . Bye.”
Tim hands the phone back to Mushroom and walks over to me. “He’s not pressing charges, but he’s not paying for the room either,” he says. “We’re going to have to use your money.”
“What?” I whisper. “No! That’s, like, half of what I have left!”
Tim shakes his head helplessly, his eyes still sleep-swollen. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what else we can do.”
“I knew this would happen.” I’m saying it almost more to myself than to him. I knew we had to stay off the grid, but I let them sway me. These oblivious kids with their emergency credit card and their blithe confidence that the world would give them everything they needed.
“I’ll pay you back,” he says.
“Great, I’ll just buy gas from the future then.”
“Come on,” Tim pleads, s
tarting to get that anxious eye glaze I know only too well. “What do you want me to say?”
“You could have told your dad our story, for starters!” I know I’m talking too loud; I can feel both the cops and the sunburned family staring. “You barely said two words. You didn’t explain anything!”
“You’re mad because I went off script?”
“No, I’m mad because you’re ruining everything, and so is she.” It’s harsher than I meant it to come out, but it still feels true. Tim looks away, and I stalk back over to the desk to pay the room charge of $109.99, plus tax. I count out the bills slowly, feeling a fresh twinge of anger each time I slide one across the desk. We were already stretched beyond our means, and now it’s a bad joke. Have you heard this one: How did the kids in the beat-up station wagon cross the country? They didn’t, because they ran out of money halfway! Ba dum bum, ching.
Mushroom dismisses the cops, and we lug our bags back out to the parking lot, where we form a rough semicircle around Goldie’s mismatched front door. From the looks on everyone’s faces, all of the tentative goodwill of last night has come undone. Even Denny looks miserable.
“What did he say?” Leah asks.
“That I should be ashamed of myself,” Tim says softly, scuffing the toe of his loafer against the gravel. “That we have to turn around and come home right away, or he’ll call the cops on us for real.”
“Do you think he’d do it?” I ask, squinting into the sun rising over the highway. We’re about ten hours from home, which means we’ve only got another ten before the Harpers realize their kids aren’t coming back. That would still leave us with two days of travel left to go—way too long to be dodging police.
“I don’t think so,” Tim says, frowning. “He sounded more scared than mad. But I don’t know. And, I mean, I can’t get arrested. I just got in to Johns Hopkins.”
“You’re not getting arrested,” I say. “It’s your dad sending a rescue team. Plus, you’d have to do a lot worse than run away.”
“How do you know?” Leah asks, crossing her arms defensively. I take pleasure in noting that there’s a beige ramen stain on the right boob of her white polo.
“’Cause I know.”
“Have you been arrested?” she asks. “I bet you have.”
“Stop it,” Cass says, stepping out from her hiding place behind the rear bumper.
“No,” I say, “but I know people who have. And they look a lot more like me than like you.”
Leah scowls. “Well, now I can’t say anything,” she says.
“Yeah, white privilege is a bitch.”
“Hey,” Tim says, putting a protective hand on Leah’s shoulder. “She’s just scared. We’re risking a lot, too.”
“You’re not risking anything,” I shout. “That’s what you don’t get. There are no consequences for you. None.”
“That’s not true!” Leah cries.
“What, you might lose Instagram privileges for a day? I could lose—” my entire family. The words are right there, acid letters burning my throat, but I swallow them. I don’t think I could stand their pity. “A lot more than that,” I choke out. I feel Denny’s weight press into the backs of my legs, a squirmy sandbag anchoring my resolve. “If we keep going,” I say, “you have to do what I tell you. No hotels, no frills, no paper trail . . . and no phones.”
Leah turns to Tim. “I don’t want to be here,” she says.
“Believe me, the feeling is mutual,” I mutter.
She spins around, her eyes narrowing. “Why are you so mean?”
“Why are you so spoiled? I know you don’t get it from your daddy.” We’re almost chest-to-chest now, and even though she’s got a few inches on me, I know I can take her.
“Guys, stop,” Tim says, shoving his arms between us. “Remember, you’re sisters.”
“Unfortunately,” I say under my breath at the same time Leah snaps, “I hardly know her.”
Like boxers ending a bout, we retreat to separate ends of the car, her with Tim and me with Cass and Denny.
“Okay,” I say, rubbing my eyes with my palms, “I don’t know what they’re doing, but do you guys want to keep going? Or do you want to go back?”
“Can we see Mom if we go back?” Denny asks, and I shake my head. “Then keep going, I guess,” he says sadly.
“Yeah,” Cass says with a shrug. “This sucks, but it’s better than school.”
Monday afternoon comes rushing back like a sucker punch—You better run, dyke! Cass’s been even more withdrawn than usual, and I’ve been so busy worrying about logistics and money and so distracted dealing with Tim and Leah that I’ve been kind of relieved that my sister likes to stay so self-contained. But it’s the quiet storms you have to keep an eye on.
“Hey,” says Tim, walking up to us with a teary-eyed Leah under his arm. “If it’s okay with you, we’d like to stay.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Both of you?”
“Yeah,” Leah whispers, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist. “I want to see him.”
Him. Buck. Sometimes I forget he’s the pot of gold at the end of this crappy-ass rainbow. I’ve gotten so used to pretending he doesn’t exist that he’s a fiction at this point; we might as well say we’re going to see Mickey Mouse, or the Easter Bunny. I don’t know if I’ll want to see him when we get there, but I decide to keep that particular doubt to myself for the moment. “What will you tell your dad?” I ask. If Tim’s dad is even halfway serious about involving the police, I know I should just leave them here. I was so shortsighted not to see how this would play out. I guess Leah’s not the only one who can’t imagine a different world outside her bubble.
“I’ll figure something out,” Tim says. But I see the look on his face. It’s the same look I see every time I pass a mirror. He has no idea what he’s going to do next.
TEN
Thursday Afternoon/Thursday Night
Indiana-Illinois Border Bristow, OK
Goldie’s noise is getting worse and worse. She starts okay but sounds like a vacuum cleaner sucking up quarters once she gets going. Tim frowns at the dashboard approximately every sixty seconds, trying to diagnose the problem. I took him up on his offer to drive, and I’m trying really hard to focus on watching the trees whoosh by as we pass into Illinois. But ironically, the silence in the car is making it hard to relax.
Remember, you’re sisters, Tim said. Like I could ever forget. I’ve been holding on to Leah since I was seven years old—the idea of her, anyway. I always fantasized I would know her if I saw her someplace random, like she’d shine in a way only I could see. Then we’d walk slowly toward each other and hug, instantly bonding over the shared pain brought on by our lowest common denominator. In my head it was always us versus Buck, us versus the world. It never even occurred to me it might be me versus her.
“Hey, Tim?” Denny pipes up from the backseat. “You said your sister . . . was my sister’s . . . sister.” He speaks in a slow, probing way that makes me realize he’s been trying to figure it out since we left the hotel. Leave it to this kid to be a lightning rod for the tension on everybody’s mind.
“Yeah,” Tim says.
“We’re half sisters,” Leah says pointedly with her face turned to the window.
“What does that mean?” Denny asks.
“We have half of the same parents,” Cass says. “The same dad but not the same mom.”
“You and Michelle and Leah?”
“Yup,” she sighs.
“But if you guys are sisters, then is she my sister, too? Can she go on my tree?”
“What’s he talking about?” Leah asks.
“He’s making a family tree for school,” I say.
“Yeah,” Cass deadpans, “this trip is for extra credit.”
“So are you my sister?” Denny asks.
“No,”
Leah says. “You have to have at least one of the same parent to be siblings.”
“Hey,” Tim says, feigning injury.
“So you’re her brother . . .” Denny says, starting to piece his puzzle together again.
“Stepbrother,” Tim corrects. “My dad married her mom.”
“Do you and I have the same dad?” Denny asks hopefully.
“No,” Tim says with a smile. “I wish.”
“Oh.” Denny thinks for a minute. “But if they have the same dad, why does she have a different mom?”
“You wanna take this one?” I ask Tim with a smirk.
“No, ma’am,” he laughs. “All yours.”
“Well, our dad kind of . . . switched moms,” I say. It sounds silly reduced to first-grade vocabulary, but I know it’s still a trigger subject for Cass, so I glance back to check on her. Amazingly, both she and Leah are smiling a little bit, staring out their respective windows.
“You’re allowed to do that?” Denny asks incredulously, and Tim stifles a laugh.
“If you’re a jackass,” Cass mutters.
“So he switched from our mom to her mom?”
“Yup,” I say, biting my own lip to keep from grinning. I really don’t know why it all seems so funny coming out of Denny’s mouth, but I’m grateful for the levity.
“And then her mom switched from our dad to his dad?”
“You got it, buddy,” Tim says, barely holding it together.
“Was our mom mad?” Denny asks. Now even Cass is laughing.
“I think she’s still mad,” I say, and Denny gives me a big, one-front-toothless grin. And I know it’s really not funny, but for some reason a surge of laughter I’ve been holding in for the last few minutes—days, months, years, who’s counting?—finally comes, and I throw my head back and let it wash over me like a new kind of tidal wave, breaking me open, shaking my whole body like it’s trying to set me free.
• • •
We drive for hours under the vast sky of Illinois, fat clouds drifting lazily overhead, past the lush forests and rock faces of Missouri, breezing through the northwest corner of Arkansas straight into the plains of Oklahoma right as the sun decides to set in all kinds of sherbet colors in front of us like a drive-in movie. All of our phones are turned off (Devereaux rule #1,000,001: When on the lam, technology is your enemy. Submitted to the official rulebook by M. H. Devereaux, April 27th), so there’s nothing to do but talk or listen to the radio, and we do some of both, blasting whatever half-decent station is coming through with the least amount of static, catching pockets of Pharrell or Taylor Swift or twangy country ballads that I see Tim lip-synching along to. When the radio craps out or somebody rejects the available music, we start to talk, the conversation forced at first but then finding its legs, starting to flow. We find out that Leah plays clarinet and only got her braces off two months ago; that Tim led the SkeleTone Crew to a Northeast Regional Championship with an a cappella arrangement of “All About That Bass”; that they have a Labrador named Nemo; that Jeff and Karen aren’t home much and that most nights, Tim and Leah eat microwave burritos and watch TV by themselves. So much for the magic of the white picket fence. Leah mostly wants to know if we see a lot of shootings in our neighborhood like on The Wire, and what’s really in the ground beef at Taco Bell, but Tim asks more about our schools and home life, and while I try not to go into the details, I do get Cass to do some of her Aunt Sam impression, which gets us all cracking up again.
