Perfect Escape

by Jennifer Brown

  “Rena won’t mind,” I said.

  Finally, he reached out and took the shirt, wriggling into it. “Let’s eat,” he said, easing his feet into his new portable rock bed and pulling the door closed behind him.

  For the first time in forever, I finally felt like I had things under control. I’d changed a tire myself. I’d gotten Grayson out of the rocks. I’d even gotten him to smile.

  I’d gotten us through a whole night and most of a state, and I’d get us through a whole lot more before this trip was over.

  Because I’d done it my way, and my way was working.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY

  I took the road back into town, remembering the couple of restaurants I’d seen on the way to Buddy’s. At the time, the lots had both been pretty full. Even people who farm all their groceries must like a place to grab a sandwich every now and then.

  We pulled past the garage—Buddy standing out front, twisting a car part between two blue towels, as he had been before—and past an old trailer converted into some sort of used lawn mower store. The place looked cluttered and filthy, as if a wet rag hadn’t been taken to it in years. Grayson would have a meltdown if I even so much as pulled into the parking lot.

  We kept going, passing a warehouse-like building with farm equipment displayed on the lawn in front, and a tiny house with antiques crowding the front porch. A faded flag was nailed to the beam framing the front porch: OPEN.

  “Hash and Dash or Edwina’s?” I asked, slowing as we neared the only stoplight in town—a flashing yellow light.

  Grayson frowned. “They both look disgusting. Look at the front windows on that one. They’re so greasy you can’t see through them.”

  My stomach growled. “They’re food, Grayson. We’ve got to eat. So which’ll it be? Hash and Dash has more cars in its parking lot. Maybe it’s better than Edwina’s.”

  “Or the customers were so sick with botulism they all left in ambulances.”

  I snorted, glancing at my brother. He was smiling, too. A full-on smile. I hadn’t heard Grayson crack a joke in a long, long time.

  “Edwina’s it is,” I said, and swung Hunka into the gravel parking lot.

  Edwina’s smelled even greasier than the windows suggested. The scent of burger grease made my stomach growl so hard it cramped. I hugged myself as I slid into the first booth.

  Grayson kind of hovered by the edge of the table. To a passerby, he might have looked like someone who was lost deep in thought, but my trained eye caught the tapping—one finger against the sticky Formica tabletop. I could see his lips moving as he silently counted to whatever number was the one that would let him sit down.

  I pressed my lips together and looked around the restaurant as though I didn’t notice, giving Grayson room to preemptively save our lives in his head. After all, he’d left the rock bed for me. He’d taken off his shirt for me. He’d even smiled. I owed him a moment. Was this how Mom felt every day, dealing with my brother? Like she owed him moments with his disorder because he had tried to get better for her? I ignored a thought that was trying to edge its way into my brain—that by not asking him to help put the tire back on and letting him bring the rocks and letting him stand next to the table and count, I was being just like Mom, and if I was going to give in to him, this was never going to work. I couldn’t think that way. I’d give myself a few minutes to rest, and then I’d get right back on the program with him.

  There were a handful of diners peppered throughout the cafeteria, mostly old men in snap-front shirts and baseball caps, their bloated and cracked fingers gripping coffee mugs as they talked about politics and weather. A single waitress stood back behind the cash register, scratching her ankle with the toe of her other foot and leaning over the counter to whisper to a woman on the other side. The woman was holding a toddler’s hand but was totally unaware that the little boy was using a crayon to draw all over the front of the counter.

  Nobody seemed to even notice us, and for the first time since leaving school, I felt like I could relax a little bit. Our problems couldn’t follow us here.

  After a while, Grayson sat down, skewed over to one side, like he didn’t want his whole butt to touch the booth. He gazed at his hands.

  “I need to wash my hands,” he said. He held his fingers up for me. The undersides of his fingernails were caked with dirt from digging in the rock bed.

  I pointed toward the back of the restaurant. “Restroom’s over there.”

  He started to get up and hesitated. I knew what he was thinking. He couldn’t make himself use a public restroom. He hadn’t used one of those since he was nine. Even at school, he’d go all day long without going into the boys’ bathroom. This meant, of course, that he couldn’t eat lunch, because he couldn’t wash off the billions of microscopic germs that you can’t see but will kill you as dead as any gun will kill you, Kendra. One of his favorite germaphobe lectures.

  He didn’t say anything. But he knew that I knew exactly what was going on in his mind. He was probably waiting for me to say something first, but I was determined to act as though everything was fine and normal. This is what Mom needed to do more often. See? I wasn’t acting like her at all. Momentary lapse, that was all.

  I reached over and grabbed a laminated menu from behind the napkin dispenser, as if I were clueless. I held it up in front of my face. It was still early, but I really wanted lunch. “Mmm,” I said, “grilled cheese…”

  After a few seconds, Grayson slowly slid out of the booth. I peeked over the top of my menu, just in time to see him pull open the restroom door.

  Good job, Gray, I said to myself, going back to my menu. Mom would’ve been bawling with pride. I was just hoping I was doing the right thing and wasn’t messing him up even worse than before.

  “You decide yet?” I heard, and looked up to see the frizzy-haired waitress standing over me. “You eatin’?” she said, raising her eyebrows at me. She held a coffeepot in one hand, and had it propped against her hip, which looked soft under her worn checkered dress.

  “Oh, um,” I said. “Yeah. Bring us a couple grilled cheese and some fries? And two milk shakes. Chocolate.”

  She nodded but didn’t say another word. She wandered to the table of farmers across from me and started filling their cups. “So, Darrell, I heard them cows got loose…” she said, and I hoped by the time she got done gossiping about livestock, she didn’t forget my order.

  My stomach growled again, and I ripped open a pack of sugar and tipped it up into my mouth. The taste was so sweet and wonderful, my jaw tightened up, making it almost painful. I closed my eyes and pushed the sugar up against the roof of my mouth with my tongue, feeling it grind along the ridges of my palate.

  “Kendra,” I heard, and opened my eyes again. Grayson was making his way across the restaurant, holding his pink wet hands up so they were dripping onto his shoulders. I tipped the sugar packet up over my mouth again, emptying it. “Kendra. We need to go.”

  “What? No. I already ordered. Why?”

  He dropped one hand and pressed his fingertip onto the corner of the table. And then again. And again. “There’s no hot water in the restroom,” he said. “We can’t eat here. And I saw a bug on the tile under the urinal.” Press. Press. Press.

  I laid my hand over his finger, pressing it down hard enough to make him stop. He recoiled from me—I’m sure my germy hand had undone all of his hand washing in that one touch.

  “Sit down,” I said as calmly and slowly as I could. Zoe had a way of talking to Grayson when he was ramping up into a panic. Very soft, very slow, very matter-of-fact. It always worked. Though maybe it only worked because it was Zoe doing the talking. But it was worth a try. “People are going to start looking at you.”

  “I can’t,” he practically whined. “There’s no hot water in the restroom. You should never eat at a restaurant where there’s no hot water in the restroom. That’s basic. The cooks’ hands are probably teeming with bacteria. We could get hepatitis.
”

  “Thank you, Professor Poop, for that information. My mouth is really watering now,” I said. “Look. We could eat here or we could starve. And I swear I’m about to. I can’t drive until I get something to eat. So hot water or no hot water, I’m eating.”

  As if on cue, the waitress brought our milk shakes—two empty glasses and two frosted metal containers. Her hands were still on my milk shake when I started to pick it up. She left, eyeing Grayson cautiously, just like everyone always did, and I poured myself a glass.

  I remembered the time Grayson had made Zoe and me milk shakes. It was summer break, and our moms had gone shopping together, leaving Grayson in charge. By then Grayson and Zoe had already declared their love, had already kissed (once, in the garage, crouched behind Dad’s riding lawn mower so I wouldn’t see, though Zoe told me all about it later when I spent the night at her house), but our parents didn’t know it.

  They’d spent most of the afternoon being inseparable, for once not having to hide their feelings for each other. Zoe sat on Grayson’s lap while we watched Full House reruns, and I watched, feeling totally alone, as Grayson used his finger to draw little invisible designs on Zoe’s shoulder, which was bare except for where the spaghetti strap of her tank top cut through her tan. They giggled. They whispered. They’d built a whole little world that no longer included me, and were spending the day immersed in it.

  And I couldn’t help myself. I got jealous. I pouted, sitting on the couch, ramrod-straight, my arms crossed and my legs crossed and a scowl on my face. I hoped that our moms would walk in and catch them together, and that they’d get in trouble and they’d regret leaving me out.

  So eventually when they noticed I wasn’t talking and they asked what was wrong, I told them. “When our moms get home, I’m going to tell them that you two were making out the whole time.” I gave them a haughty little smile, my head tipped to one side.

  Zoe’s face clouded, and I knew she was instantly mad. She and Grayson exchanged looks.

  “But we haven’t been,” Grayson said.

  “So?” I shot back.

  “So why would you do that?” Grayson asked.

  Zoe cocked her head to one side to match mine. “Because she’s jealous.”

  “No,” I shouted, standing up. “Because you’re acting disgusting. I don’t want to see my brother with his tongue shoved down your ear.”

  Zoe jumped up off Grayson’s lap. “He wasn’t!” she yelled. “You’re lying!”

  “Practically!” I yelled back, but before we could get too out of control, Grayson stood between us.

  “You guys, stop. Ken,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You’re right. We’ve been ignoring you. We’re sorry.”

  Zoe made a noise and rolled her eyes. I glared at her.

  “Don’t be mad,” he said.

  And we all stood there, the air thick with silence around us. It was the first time—the only time—there were two of us against one. And the realization had hit me. If we were forced to pick one person to be with now, I would be the one to be alone. They would choose each other over me. Which seemed so unfair. I was the one in the bassinet next to hers in the hospital nursery, not Grayson. I was the one who played card games with her and hung out at the slides with her on the school playground and shared my markers with her. Not Grayson. But I knew if it ever came down to taking sides… it wasn’t my side that either of them would ever take.

  I let out a breath. “I won’t tell,” I said. “But stop ignoring me, okay?”

  Zoe still looked put out, but Grayson brightened. “I can do better than that,” he said. “I’ll make milk shakes.”

  And we’d gone into the kitchen and Grayson had gotten out the chocolate ice cream and the milk, and even though we had to wait for nearly half an hour for him to wash his hands properly, and even though he sweated and worried and took forever to get scoops that were the same exact size and an even number, it was good. He’d laughed along with us when we teased him for having to press the button on the blender over and over again to get to the right number of presses. He’d smiled as he turned his glass in his hand over and over again, wiping smudges away with a towel.

  He was sick, even then. Sick as he ever was. But he was still somehow relaxed. He was still somehow okay, as long as Zoe was there to overlook those things.

  Back in the booth, I remembered that day, and remembered how he was with Zoe. That was exactly why we needed to get to her. Zoe was able to do something for Grayson that nobody else could: accept him for who he was. Laugh and have fun with him. Love him. Make him relax. She was able to do what I only wished I could. She would never try to cure him. She’d only try to make herself understand him better. I was his sister. I was his blood. So why couldn’t I do that?

  “Mmm,” I said, feeling the shake slide all the way down into my belly. “You should sit down. This is delicious.” But Grayson continued to stand by the table. Press. Press. Press. Again. Like he hadn’t just done this a few minutes ago. But I told myself I was too blissed out on my shake to care. I needed this.

  I gulped some more, feeling the pang of brain freeze behind my right eye. I knew I was making slurping and moaning noises, but I couldn’t help myself. It felt like it’d been days since I’d last eaten. My stomach started to feel squishy on the inside, as though if I didn’t slow down I was going to bring it all back up.

  After a while, Grayson’s finger-pressing slowed down, then stopped, and he slid into his side of the booth again. I didn’t say anything, didn’t call attention, even when he lifted his metal cup and drank directly from it.

  A few minutes later, the waitress brought our sandwiches, and I dove into mine, taking huge bites and closing my eyes while I chewed. Grayson counted his French fries, tearing the last one in two, and lining them up in order of smallest to largest on his plate. He picked up his napkin and used it to shield the sandwich from his fingers, then took a tentative bite. And then another. And another. And soon we were both tearing into our food, a comfortable silence stretched between us.

  “Do Mom and Dad know where we are?” Grayson said at last, as I leaned back against the booth, little greedy burps escaping me. I felt my face grow hot. I didn’t answer him. “Tell me,” he said.

  “I had Brock lie,” I answered. “But she figured it out right away.”

  Grayson stopped chewing. “You had Brock lie?”

  I nodded. “I needed time to get us some distance. It was all I could think of. He wants you to call him, by the way. Something about Zombiesplosion.”

  My brother looked down at the sandwich in his hand, his expression grave. Then, slowly, the gravity gave way and he chuckled. “Oh my God,” he said. “They are freaking out right now. You know that, don’t you? You have to know that.”

  I belched again, this time feeling icky grease sliding up and down my throat. I swallowed uncomfortably and nodded. “I know. I’m trying not to think about it. Which, by the way, you’re not making easy.”

  “Maybe we should call and tell them we’re okay.”

  I shook my head, my throat straining against the food now. “I can’t.”

  He leaned forward, his grease-stained napkin shivering above his plate. “We could go home.”

  I shook my head again. “Listen, I don’t like lying to Mom, either,” I said. “But I can’t go home. Okay? I can’t. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  “Why not? You think you’re going to save me or run away from my OCD or whatever, but… I don’t get it, Kendra. I’ve been this way my whole life. Why is it so important to you all of a sudden to make me better?”

  “It’s not all about you,” I said miserably, and the rest of the words piled up in my throat, threatening to spill out in one big yell if he didn’t stop pressing me. I wanted to beg him to stop asking. To leave it alone. To please just go along with this one thing. Instead, all I could do was hold it back as well as I could and let out a strained, “I can’t.”

  “Yes you can.
Just turn the car around and go back the way we came. Every day that we’re out here and Mom and Dad are freaking out, you’re going to get into more trouble, and—”

  The more he talked, the more I felt pressure build up in me. He didn’t know why I couldn’t go back. He didn’t understand that there were parts of this trip that weren’t about him. He couldn’t have known, couldn’t have understood, because I hadn’t shared those things with him. I couldn’t share them. And knowing that, in a sense, I was in this all by myself was too much. Panic rose, beating behind my eyeballs, until I couldn’t hold it back any longer.

  I tossed my napkin onto my plate. “I just can’t, okay? I can’t! Because I’m already in trouble,” I shouted. Grayson sat back against the booth, surprised, and several of the old men looked up at me, their coffee mugs suspended in midair. “Excuse me,” I said, feeling tears crowding my eyes. I scooted out of the booth and raced toward the restroom, leaving Grayson at the table alone.

  I suppose a part of me knew that I wasn’t going to be able to keep my secret forever, but I wished I’d gotten to keep it for longer than this.

  But there was no doubt in my mind… after that outburst, my brother was definitely going to have questions for me.

  And I was going to have to answer them.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  I felt much better after splashing a few handfuls of cold water on my face. The food had settled in my stomach, and I no longer felt like I was going to burp up an entire grilled cheese sandwich every time I opened my mouth.

  I could only imagine what Grayson must be thinking back at our table. Nobody ever yelled at Grayson—it was part of the benefit of being “perpetually sick.” People don’t yell at you because yelling might make you sicker—so I’m sure blowing up at him in the middle of a diner really rocked his world. God, I was so screwing this up. I wasn’t an expert or anything, but yelling at and then ditching someone with OCD in a strange, grubby restaurant booth was probably not what anyone ever meant by exposure therapy.