The phone rang while I was sorting through some books. Treasure Island, keep. Bridge to Terabithia, keep. I heard Mom talking, first slow, then fast. The phone slammed onto the floor, broken pieces scattering on the linoleum. Seconds later she burst into my room. “No time, Megs,” she said. “Leave it all. We gotta go now!”
I grabbed my backpack and we ran out the door. Three minutes later we were on the freeway headed east out of town. Once we passed the CHICAGO 220 MILES sign, Mom finally relaxed. “Don’t worry, Megs,” she said, lighting a cigarette and leaning the driver’s seat back a little. “It’s all going to be okay.”
And that’s what I’m thinking as I stuff my backpack full of the treasures I found in this SUV. It’s going to be okay. Spaceballs are shooting death rays from the sky. All I have left to eat is five pieces of popcorn and one tube of ketchup. I’ll drink the last of the beer before we leave. Plus I have one hungry kitten—how did I wind up with that? Richie is coming back any minute and he’s expecting to find a gun in the safe. A gun that I don’t want him to have. Instead he’ll find a note from yours truly. But still I whisper, as I roll up my sleeping bag and tie it to my backpack, that it’s going to be okay.
I slip the backpack on and step out the door, headed for who knows where. Definitely up because down isn’t a choice. I look over my shoulder at Mom’s car, all covered with dust, dents, and duct tape. The taillights are broken, pieces of red plastic mixing in with the dirt and cement. I walk into the shadows of the parking garage, a yellow kitten in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
Mom is right. Crazy does run in the family.
DAY 10: PROSSER, WASHINGTON
Lights Out
“I wouldn’t do that,” he says. “You’re leaving too many pieces open.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” I say, “because you’re not a risk taker. Me, on the other hand, I’m fearless.”
Of course he rolls double threes, lands on two of my unprotected chips, and knocks them off the board. It’s a crushing blow.
He says, “This game is a delicate balance of patience and calculated risks.”
I pick up the dice and say, “It’s a game of dumb luck, plain and simple.”
We’re sitting on the family room floor, playing one of my least favorite games of all time—backgammon. Dad’s on this board-game kick. Monopoly and Scrabble yesterday, both of which I dominated. Now we’re supposedly on his turf. He even played backgammon online, back in the PP (-Pre-POD) days. This must be our thousandth game. I had a string of victories this morning, but he’s on one of his patented streaks of lucky rolls.
I shake the dice, saying, “If you want a game with real strategy and risks, Halo is the obvious choice.”
“Halo?”
“It’s what Alex and I play whenever he comes over.”
“Ah, the video game.”
“It’s more than a video game,” I say, releasing the dice. “It’s a defining—”
The lights go out. No flicker, just out.
The power has been iffy the past couple of days, but it always comes back—sometimes in a couple of seconds, sometimes a couple of minutes. This time is different. I have an odd feeling in my stomach like this is a whole new deal.
We sit in the dark. There’s a wind outside. The house creaks. Somewhere to my right there’s a thump—my brain races to catalog the sound. Up high, maybe aliens on the roof, maybe not. Odds are it’s a tree branch rubbing up against the house.
I have an unbearable need to hear something other than my screaming mind. “Look,” I say, not even able to see the board, “I rolled double sixes!”
“Shhhh!” Dad stands up. The floor creaks as his footsteps move to the patio door. “The whole town is dark,” he says.
I’m staring out the window. I’ve never seen the world so absent of light. No stars, no moon. For all we know, the PODs landed and bug-eyed storm troopers are slithering their way through our neighborhood. I wish Dutch were a Rottweiler, not a house hound with an arthritic hip. When the aliens come he’ll wag his tail and lick their tentacles.
Five minutes of this waiting-for-the-world-to-end and my brain is shooting sparks.
“Can I light some candles at least?”
“Might as well,” Dad says.
Candles are already strategically placed, so it’s just a matter of walking around the room with a lighter. Luckily, Mom was a big fan of candles. The house was beginning to smell pretty stale. The fruity scents provide a welcome relief. In some distant way they remind me of another life.
Dad returns to the floor, scans the board. “It’s your move,” he says.
He still wants to play the stupid game. “You’re not serious,” I say.
“You rolled a two-three.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No. I’m winning. You want to roll again?”
I glare at him, afraid of what I’d say if I open my mouth.
He takes one of his deep, thoughtful breaths.
Please, no! Not the Sphere of Influence speech.
“Look, we need to keep things as normal as possible, so—”
“Normal?” I say. “Normal?” He starts to say something, but I cut him off, the dam really open now. “There’s a giant spaceship hovering over my best friend’s house. We’re like animals in cages and we’re all starving! And now we don’t have electricity. I’d say normal is out the freaking window!”
“It’s the way things are, Josh,” he says, his voice all calm like he’s the therapist and I’m the psycho. “Worrying about it won’t accomplish anything.”
Worrying? This from the man who invented the concept.
I kick the backgammon board. It slams into the wall, breaking in half and scattering pieces, brown and white, all over the carpet. This feels good for exactly one second.
He starts picking up the pieces. His shadow, stretched out and cartoonish in the candlelight, flickers against the wall.
My voice shaking, I say, “How about if I walk out the door? Go for a little stroll. Maybe visit our friendly neighbors, the Conrads? See how normal things really are.”
On his hands and knees and looking at the floor, he says, “You do that, Josh, and I’m right behind you.”
Later, I’m trying to find a way to fall asleep. Dad’s downstairs playing the piano. He knows only one song, “Blowing in the Wind.” Everything else he plays is just notes that occasionally sound like something familiar. He once played this song over and over for two hours after he and Mom had an epic fight. Dad keeps talking about piano lessons, but news flash—he waited too long.
I’m reading People magazine with a flashlight. The issue is only two weeks old. Mel Gibson is on the cover—he has a new war movie that should’ve opened this month. Britney Spears is pregnant again, or maybe she’s just getting fat. I turn the pages but can’t focus. The guilt feels like a boil on my brain. I shouldn’t have kicked the backgammon board. And then I threatened to walk out the door. Jesus! It was all stupid, every little bit. And Dad would die, me wasting batteries on a magazine like this.
I turn off the flashlight and pull up the covers in the dark with the wind picking up outside, and think about Lynn. I wish I’d kissed her that night after the jazz-band concert. She was sending me every kind of signal—squeezing my hand, pressing her leg against mine, looking at me sideways with her lips parted just a little. I wish I had told her I like the way her hair smells, or put her hand over my heart so she could feel the way it thumps in my chest when she’s close. But I waited too long, so there’s that, too. I close my eyes, trying to remember her lips and that killer sideways smile, hoping that’s the last thing I see before I fall asleep.
But it isn’t. Lynn morphs into the apartment girl with the dark eyes that I can’t quite see. Instead of sweats she’s wearing this amazing white gauzy dress that’s almost transparent in the sun. She blows me a long, slow kiss and I feel the warm wetness brushing my skin. This is what my brain grabs onto when I finally drift off to nothing.
DAY 10: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Falling
I’m at the top of my world—Level 7. There is a Level 8, but that’s on the roof. I’m sure all the cars up there got hit by the death ray, so it may as well be on the moon. That means seven levels of broken glass, crumpled fenders, leaking fluids, and bad smells. I found another bloater on Level 5, a man with a neatly trimmed beard and short gray hair. He was wearing jeans and a pajama top. His legs were pinned between two cars. He wrote I love you Mary in the dirt on the trunk of the car in front of him. His eyes were open, just like the grandma bloater’s. But this time I climbed onto the hood, held my breath, reached out, and closed his eyes. The lids were cold and stiff and didn’t move at first. I found an unopened box of Tic Tacs in his pants pocket. Wintergreen.
I put down the briefcase. My backpack is a little heavier than when I left because I found some treasures on Level 2. I’d like to take it off and rest my shoulders, which are aching big-time, but I may have to leave in a hurry, so I keep it on. Cassie is asleep. I cradle her in my arms while I check out the view. My world has no real walls or windows, just chest-high cement barriers. It’s a long way down with nothing to land on but hard pavement and dirt. Maybe some small bushes if I’m lucky. I’d crack like an egg if I jumped.
The sun is beginning to rise in a blue and orange sky with thin clouds crawling left to right. I heard dogs barking earlier this morning, but they’re long gone. The only sound I hear is two seagulls screeching from the top of a building nearby. The streets and sidewalks are empty. I close my eyes and imagine the roar of buses and cars and taxi horns and people crowding the sidewalks carrying their Starbucks coffees, walking in and out of stores and talking on cell phones. I open my eyes and—nothing. There must be a wind down there, but I don’t feel it. Pieces of paper trash are swirling in a shadowy corner. It’s like they’re in a dance that spirals them up and up until they either fall or blow away. Where I am the air is cool and still and smells like gasoline.
And of course there’s the spaceballs.
Other than disappearing us with their death rays, they don’t do anything. What are they waiting for? What happened to the Air Force? The Army? Where’s our secret weapon? It’s like we’ve given up. I used to like the movie Independence Day. Will Smith is awesome and hot. Now I hate them both.
I count four. Two are huge and round, one is partially hidden by a tall building, one is way off in the distance, a pea-sized dot. They look grayish in the light, not black like I figured. The sun is glinting off the closest one, making it look like a giant chrome marble. I think it’s spinning but I’m not sure. The weird thing is they’re not freaking me out today. They hardly ever flash anymore. Maybe I’m getting used to them. Maybe I’m too hungry and tired to care.
I have to find a place to hide. Levels 3 and 5 have bloaters, so forget them. This level has a few cars—and even a carpet-cleaning van that would have plenty of room—but there just aren’t enough choices. Richie would find me for sure. And besides, if I hide up here and need to run, the only direction is down. That makes me too easy to catch. I make up my mind. Level 6 will be my new home. I pop a Tic Tac in my mouth, reach down for the briefcase—
Someone coughs. I freeze.
It’s long and loud and coming this way. Hacker! And wherever there’s a Hacker, you know there’s a Richie. Then I hear him, his gravelly voice sending a chill down my neck: “Cover your damn mouth when you do that! Jesus, get some manners in front of the lady!” Then, “You spit that my way and I’ll kill you.”
I grab the briefcase and sprint for the nearest car. No time to climb inside. I have to hide underneath. But I stop—the angle is wrong. They could see me on the ground when they come up the ramp. The van would be better, but it’s too far. I don’t have a choice. Cassie is awake and mewing like crazy. I push the briefcase under the car, then get down on my stomach and crawl like a lizard for the shadows. But my backpack gets hung up on something. I have to let go of Cassie to take off the shoulder straps.
“You stay!” I hiss.
They’re almost here. Richie laughs at something Hacker says. I wriggle the straps off my shoulders, roll over, and back-crawl into the shadows under the car. I reach out and pull in the pack just as Richie comes around the corner. He’s followed by Hacker and someone I’ll never forget—the woman with the two kids I saw on the first day. She was driving the SUV when it got smashed. Cassie lets out a string of mews. I roll onto my stomach and stuff her under my arm. She struggles at first, then settles down.
Richie says, “I’d like to believe you, but I don’t.”
The woman says, “My husband keeps it in a—”
Richie says, “Yeah, you said that already. In a safe under the driver’s seat.”
The woman says, “Then why are we up here?”
Richie says, “I like the view.”
They stop right in front of me, so close I see the scales under the dust on Richie’s snakeskin cowboy boots. Hacker has black Nikes with holes in the toes. There’s a short gap at his ankles showing a tattoo spiraling up into his pant leg. I think it’s a dragon. The woman is wearing sandals—her nails are bright red with chips, like she used to keep them nice but not anymore. Mom was always painting her toenails some crazy color. Black was her favorite. Cassie stirs against my chest. I grip the briefcase and hold my breath.
Richie says, “See, the problem is I broke into that safe this morning, and guess what? No gun.”
The woman says, “But he always keeps it there.”
Richie says, “All I found is this.”
The woman says, “A cell phone? Something’s wrong because he keeps cash in there, too.”
Hacker says, “Cash? How much?”
The woman says, “A thousand dollars.”
Hacker says, “A grand? You holdin’ out on me, Richie?”
Richie says, “What the hell’s wrong with you I gotta keep repeating myself? I go back to the Navigator, waste two hours of my morning with a hammer and chisel busting out the lock. All I get for my effort is this.” He drops the phone, stomps on it with the heel of his boot, grinds it into the cement. “No key. No cash. And no gun.”
Hacker says, “Why would he keep just a cell phone in the safe? That don’t make sense.”
A pause. The boots take a step toward Hacker, then, “What don’t make sense is you questioning my integrity. ’Cause if you are, my friend, then we got us a whole new con-versation.”
I hear a click. The woman takes a sharp breath, like she was just touched by something cold.
Richie says, “Don’t mind me, ma’am. This calms my nerves. It’s a technique I learned in anger-management class. Part of my re-habilitation.”
No one talks.
Then Richie says, “My grandfather gave this to me when I turned sixteen. Must’ve gutted five hundred elk. Gen-u-ine bleached bone handle from the hip of a twelve-point buck. Carved it himself. I call this move … the slice ’n dice.”
Hacker says, “You ever cut your finger doin’ those tricks?”
Richie says, “I cut some fingers. Just not my own.”
The click again.
Richie says, “There, I feel better now. So where were we? Oh yeah, on the subject of lying. If it’s not me and it’s not him, then who?”
The woman says, “I … I told you. It’s not my fault the gun isn’t there.” Her voice cracks for the first time. She’s trying not to cry, and it’s not working. I know what the problem is. She sees what I can’t—Richie’s eyes, deep in the shadows of that hood.
Hacker says, “Try explaining that to Mr. Hendricks.”
Should I come out? Should I tell them who’s really lying? Throw the briefcase at Richie and run? No, not yet …
Richie says, “So that’s the best you can do?”
The woman says, “Did you find a kitten in a cage? It would be in the back, under a towel.”
Richie says, “A safe with no gun. A cage with no kitten. Seems like a trend with y
ou.”
The woman says, “Can I please go back to my kids?”
Richie says, “Of course you can. But first we gotta figure this out. Get a new per-spective.”
He walks a short distance and stops. He’s behind me— I can’t see those boots.
Richie says, “You should check out the view from up here.”
The woman takes a deep breath, then says, “I’d rather not. I’m afraid of heights.”
I grip the handle of the briefcase so hard my knuckles turn white.
Richie says, “There’s a little coffee shop used to sell the best huckleberry scones, right up there on Wilshire. Fresh out of the oven, twice a day. It was easy to know when they were comin’ out ’cause you’d see a line down the block. Real huckleberries picked in the Willamette Valley in Oregon. I miss little treasures like that.”
The sandals don’t move.
“C’mon,” he says, smooth and easy. “Let’s look out over the city, you ’n me. Watch the beautiful alien spaceships, do some brainstorming. We’ll figure out a so-lution to this mutual problem.”
She’s still not moving.
Richie sighs and says, “I’m asking nice.”
The woman walks toward Richie. I’m facing the wrong direction. I’d make too much noise turning around, so all I do is listen to her sandals drag across the pavement. It’s like her feet are too heavy to lift. The sound stops. My legs are numb from lying on the cold cement, and my stomach hurts from trying not to crush Cassie.
The woman says, “I … I don’t like this.”
Richie says, “Aw, it ain’t that bad. Now look right down there, two blocks east—Jake’s Java Joint, with the big green sign.”
The woman says, “I can’t see—”
Richie says, “You gotta lean out a little, like this.” A pause. “Yeah, you see it now?”
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