Survival Strategies of the Almost Brave

by Jen White

  Really?

  Probably that was just Julie being enthusiastic. But still, it made me wonder about everything Mom had ever told me about Dad, especially if she had the old-address-treasure-map and never told us. Mostly, it made me wonder what it would be like to have a real flesh-and-bone kind of dad, like I had always wished for when I sometimes looked at the three pictures I had of him.

  Maybe he was like Suzanne Gomez’s firefighter dad. He seemed really nice, even though she was bratty. He came to our class once to talk about fire safety. She said he coached her soccer team, and he made the best chocolate chip pancakes, and he took her to McDonald’s for no special reason at all. Mom never took us to McDonald’s. Having a dad around was probably pretty awesome.

  Julie had said he’d take us for sure for the summer and probably, if everything went well, then he would have us for always. Didn’t he already know he wanted us? Almost all of me knew I wanted him. Isn’t that what kids are supposed to do? Be with their dads for always?

  But now, looking at the empty road, that was our answer, wasn’t it? He was gone. And we were here.

  Billie sighed. “I’m bored.”

  “I know,” I said. “Tell me a joke.”

  She shook her head. “I want to go home.”

  I knew she meant San Diego. Billie usually never talked about home, but after what had happened this morning, of course she wanted to go home.

  Before Mom died we had only ever lived in San Diego. And Billie and me had never been anywhere. But Dad had been everywhere because he was a photographer. He’d been to Africa and China and Brazil and the Amazon and I think Puerto Rico, and probably lots of places I didn’t even know. So I watched Hunter and Hunted every day on NatGeo because Mom said Dad took pictures for National Geographic magazine. And what if he ever came to visit us? We would need something to talk about, right?

  So now I knew a lot about animals; I mean, I knew a lot.

  Animals are important, like, essential to the human life cycle and the environment; at least that’s what my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Mortensen, told me. She said the world would be nothing without the animal kingdom. So that really made sense to me about Dad and why he was gone. Because why would he leave us unless he was doing something really important?

  Survival Strategy #4:

  WATCH OUT FOR PREDATORS

  An old burned-out car sat a few hundred feet from the gas station. My watch said 1:34. The car looked like a gutted fish. Like the ones we saw with Julie lying in a row at the pier right before we scattered Mom’s ashes. That day, there were a lot of fishermen and a lot of dead fish.

  In the desert there are no fish, of course. Only rattlesnakes or other dangerous things like spiders, and lizards, and scorpions. In the desert you have to be careful; predators could easily turn into prey.

  A blue car pulled into the gas station. The engine clicked off, but no one got out. The car just sat.

  Billie came and stood by me.

  For a second I began to worry. Could it be Dad in a different car? Had the camper broken down?

  The door creaked open slowly, so slowly that I could probably count to a million, and then I saw a tip of a shoe. A lavender shoe so shiny that the sun seemed to glow right from the tip. And then purple nubby pants. And finally, a whole body of a person so skinny she might blow away like a plastic bag, but the wind didn’t exist here, so she stayed put. A cigarette dangled from her lips, and her face was covered in miles of wrinkles that could stretch all the way back to the ocean, I bet. She shielded her eyes from the sun. Maybe she was nocturnal.

  “What?” she croaked into the crispy fried air. “Speak up, I can’t hear you.”

  I slunk closer to the cinder blocks and the ice machine, pulling Billie with me.

  The Lavender Lady leaned back into her car, adjusting something, and then coughed. “Now it’s on. What?” Her neck stretched farther into the car. “I know!” The door slammed so hard, my fillings rattled.

  She crossed the gravel parking lot like a slug on the sidewalk after an early morning rain, and silently slipped through the gas station door with a trail of cigarette smoke following her.

  The car window was too shaded to get a good look inside. Who had the Lavender Lady been talking to?

  I reached into my pocket and felt something squish. I pulled out a smashed Twinkie I got from the camper this morning, still in its wrapper.

  “Billie,” I said, holding it up.

  She smiled.

  “Here.” I shoved it into her hands. But before she could enjoy it, the gas station door slammed open. I turned. It was the creepy guy who worked inside.

  He walked slowly, his hands tucked into his pockets. And for a second he paused and stared out at the gas pumps, but then he turned and headed straight toward us.

  “Whatcha kids doing?” he asked. The glare off his bald head was so bright, I squinted and shaded my eyes with my hand. “I seen you out here. Where’s your mom?”

  I flinched; just hearing that greasy man ask about Mom made my head hurt. But I put on my most responsible voice and said, “Our dad will be back any minute. He just went to get…”

  I hesitated.

  “Ice cream,” Billie said. She circled her small arms around my waist. Since Mom died, she usually only ever talked to me.

  “Shush,” I said, elbowing her.

  She gripped me tighter.

  “Ice cream?”

  “Yes, ice cream.” I tried not to look at Shiny Head’s eyes and just concentrated on the blue thread that was hanging from the patch above his front pocket that said VERN.

  “Well, your daddy ain’t going to find any ice cream ’round here.”

  He put his leathery hand on his hip and gazed down the road as the ice machine switched on. It coughed and hummed.

  “All right, thank you. We’re okay.”

  He stood and stared. My back felt all crawly.

  I chanted in my head: Go away.

  Once I saw a lady on TV control minds just by chanting what she wished for inside her head over and over again. I tried it, and sometimes it worked, like when I didn’t want Billie to eat the last Rolo.

  It could work now.

  Go away.

  Go away.

  Go away.

  Billie squeezed my waist harder.

  “Unless he went to Monticello,” he said slowly. “That where he went?”

  “Yep. That’s it. Should be back any minute. We’re fine. Thank you, sir,” I said, pulling Billie around the corner where the ice machine sat, fat and heavy.

  “Hold up,” said Shiny Head, following us. He pulled on the blue thread, wrapping it tight around his finger. “Why didn’t your dad take you with him?”

  I backed up.

  He stopped pulling and put his hands back in his deep pockets, like maybe he was harmless, like a puppy dog.

  Then his eyes narrowed.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, licking the sweat off his upper lip. “I’ll help you girls.” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “Just tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.” His breath felt heavy on my face and smelled like something dead.

  Go away.

  I grabbed Billie’s hand and squeezed it hard.

  Do it. Do it, Billie. Fake it, fake it right now.

  Our eyes locked for a moment, and then … she nodded. After all this time, we really didn’t need to speak; we understood each other.

  “Liberty, I don’t feel so good,” moaned Billie. “I don’t feel good at all.” She clutched her stomach and bowed forward like she was looking at her flip-flops.

  “Carsick,” I said too loud, looking past Shiny Head’s shoulders. “My sister’s carsick.”

  Fake car sickness had saved us when we needed to stop for food and Dad didn’t want Billie to barf in the camper.

  “Here it comes,” shouted Billie, her big eyes glassy, hand over her mouth.

  Shiny Head jerked back, his nose scrunched up like he’d stepped in dog poop.

&nbs
p; I pushed past him and dragged moaning Billie inside, into the gas station, through the shop and then into the bathroom.

  We locked the door behind us. The bathroom sucked us in, like it was taking one big deep breath. One hot, stinky breath. I knelt down next to the door and listened for Shiny Head. My knees stuck to the floor. Toilet paper snakes coiled around the sink, ready to strike.

  Billie slid down next to me and breathed out slow and long, like a balloon deflating. We sat there waiting for something. Just waiting.

  Where was Dad?

  Deep inside, I felt cold. Like the panic seeped out of the cramped crease inside my brain and dripped slowly into my bloodstream.

  Survival Strategy #5:

  HIBERNATE

  “Don’t you lock me out!” yelled Shiny Head. His hand slapped at the door, the wood bouncing with each smack.

  “As soon as I find my keys, you’ll be sorry,” he growled. His footsteps faded away.

  Please, keys, stay hidden. Hibernate for life.

  Billie smiled. Then she laughed, kind of crazy-like. “Did you see his face when I hunched over? He thought I was going to spew all over his nasty shoes.”

  “Shh,” I said, grabbing her hand. It was shaking.

  “Spew,” she said smiling. “Spew on his shoe.”

  She covered her mouth and laughed like she’d just heard the funniest knock-knock joke in the world.

  I smiled, uneasy. “Shh.”

  Then Billie’s eyes got big and she really did throw up, all over the floor and her sparkly flip-flops. I dragged her over to the toilet, grabbed some paper towels, and tried to clean her off. I threw her flip-flops into the sink.

  Billie began to cry. And when she cried, I guessed it was all right for me to cry, too.

  I cried because Shiny Head was ugly and scary. I cried because the bathroom stank like a Porta-Potty. And I cried for other important things, like:

  1. Mom was floating in the ocean.

  2. Dad was gone.

  3. We were lost and alone.

  “Where’s Daddy?” asked Billie, sniffing real loud and clinging to my neck like she was a baby sloth and I was her mama. Baby sloths and their mamas don’t ever like to be separated. She closed her eyes as I smoothed the hair on top of her head.

  “Don’t worry, Billie. I’m here. I’m not going to let you go.” And this time, I wasn’t faking it.

  My hair wound around my sticky neck. I pulled it loose, slipped it back into a ponytail, and sat up straight. Billie curled into herself on the tile floor, just like a hermit crab.

  She had vomit in her hair. And on her sweatshirt.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  He was back. The door shook with each pound. “Hey. Hey, you in there!”

  The blood rushed to my head as I stood and grabbed on to the sink. I guess he hadn’t found his keys.

  He pounded again. “I’ve called the sheriff!”

  The sheriff. Even I knew nothing good happened when someone called the sheriff. I could still remember the two uniformed policemen who stood on our front step the day Mom died. No policemen—no sheriffs. Nothing but bad stuff came from them.

  “Billie!” I said, nudging her with my tennis shoe. “Get up!”

  Billie rubbed her eyes. They were red and puffy from all the crying, and toilet paper stuck to her sweaty cheek.

  “Here,” I said, kneeling down. “Come rinse your mouth out.” Her breath was horrible.

  She sat up, pulling on the arm of her sweatshirt. “Is it Dad?”

  “No,” I said, putting my ear to the door. I thought Shiny Head had left.

  I stared at the cracked tiles on the floor. Mom would have never done this to us.

  Billie whispered, “When Daddy comes back, I’m going to show him how good I can be. If we’re really good, then he’ll keep us.”

  Was that why he left? Because we were bad?

  I shook off her words and stood up. “We are good.”

  Billie’s cheek was turning a weird purple color. I could never forgive Dad for that cheek.

  I tried to pull her up. “Come on, let’s go.” The toilet paper on her face waggled as she silently shook her head. Her feet were still bare. The black sparkly flip-flops sat wet and shiny in the sink.

  I picked the toilet paper off, and Billie snapped out of her trance.

  “I’m not leaving until Dad comes,” she said.

  I folded my arms, ready for a fight. Queen Billie. Mom always called her Queen Billie when she got stubborn.

  “We can’t sit here all day.”

  Billie stuck out her chin. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Billie!” I was hot and tired. “Didn’t you hear that guy? He said he’s calling the sheriff! We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Billie’s stone face crumpled. “The sheriff?” Tears leaked out of her eyes. “Is he taking us to jail?”

  I didn’t want to scare her. I took her hand and pulled her up. “No, no. Stop it. Stop crying, okay?” Billie wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “No one’s going to jail,” I said.

  At least we weren’t. But what about Dad?

  What if Julie didn’t want us? Then where would we go? To a foster home or an orphanage? I’d watched the news. Nobody loves you there. And what if they took Billie away from me?

  No, my brain could hardly think the thought. Living with Dad was bad, but at least we were together. Billie and I had to stay together. I wasn’t going to talk to any sheriff. For now, I would take care of us. I could do it. Not for the first time, I wished Mom had let me get a cell phone. But that didn’t matter now. I could just find a phone and call Julie. I had her phone number. She would come and get us. Then everything would be all right.

  “Let’s go.”

  Billie still looked worried.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to make my voice sound hopeful. “Maybe Dad’s outside. Maybe he came back and he’s waiting for us with ice cream.”

  She stood up and grabbed the doorknob. “I didn’t think about that.”

  “Wait!” I said, pulling her hand off. “We just can’t leave. We have to plan.”

  “Why do we need a plan if Dad’s outside?”

  I lowered my voice. “Because of the sheriff. Do you want Dad to get into trouble?”

  Billie’s eyes filled with tears again. “No. I don’t want Dad to get in trouble.”

  “Okay, just let me think.”

  Strategy. I needed a survival strategy. I reached for my notebook in my back pocket. But it was gone. Maybe I left it in the dirt by the ice machine. My heart flipped. I had to get it back.

  What do animals do when they’re cornered? They fight. But what could we do to a sheriff?

  Billie looked at me, waiting.

  “We can’t let that Shiny Head gas station guy see us.”

  Billie nodded so hard, it looked like her head might roll off.

  “And we’re going to find Dad,” she said.

  “Yes, we’ll look for Dad,” I said, even though I was pretty sure he wasn’t coming back.

  Think. Think. Think.

  I remembered a Hunter and Hunted episode where a snake had a family of prairie dogs cornered. The snake slithered closer, looking for lunch, when suddenly the prairie dogs charged, all of them running every which way. The snake didn’t know which one to attack, so it went home hungry.

  That’s what we were going to do. Break it up.

  I grabbed Billie’s hands and squeezed them. They were soft and warm. I loved those hands—hands just like mine, just like Mom’s.

  She looked at me. “Tell me, Liberty. Tell me the plan. I can do it.”

  Survival Strategy #6:

  FIGHT OR FLIGHT

  I cracked open the bathroom door. The gas station seemed empty. Dusty cans of motor oil stared back at me from their shelves. No Shiny Head. The snake was hiding … at least for now.

  I turned to Billie. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  I inched the door open. The hinges let o
ut a squeal. Since being on the road with Dad, I knew a lot about gas stations, and truck stops, and gas stations attached to truck stops. This gas station was gross. Grosser than most.

  I peeked around the corner and looked to the front. Boxes of car parts and metal cans lined the walls. The cash register counter was empty except for a plastic bin of Bubble Yum, and behind it was a row of windows so dirty, I couldn’t see out. A lonely fan sputtered and choked above the front door.

  I licked my cracked lips.

  “Shh.” I motioned to Billie. Her eyes were as big as takeout soda lids, and the vein in her neck stuck out. Did I look as scared as she did?

  I crept toward the front window.

  Billie tripped and pulled the back of my T-shirt, the neck choking me.

  “Billie!” I whispered loudly.

  She let go and picked up her flip-flop.

  “It broke,” she whispered. She tried to put it back on, but it dangled from her foot like bait.

  “Forget it,” I whispered, keeping an eye out for Shiny Head. “You’ll just have to hold it. Maybe we can fix it.”

  Billie gave me a desperate look. She was going to cry again, or worse, throw up.

  “Come on. Let’s look out the window and see if Dad’s outside.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded as she tried to jam the flip-flop into her shorts pocket. It stuck out awkwardly, slapping her on the side when she walked.

  We hunched down behind the cash register and listened. Under the counter there were stacks of papers, a broken coffee mug, and about a million empty packs of cigarettes. I pushed the cartons away and spied an old black telephone.

  A telephone!

  Yes! I could call Julie.

  I pointed silently to the phone and motioned talking on it to Billie. Could I remember Julie’s phone number by heart? It was written down in my notebook, but I had to try. I reached for the phone.

  Suddenly, we heard voices outside. I spit on the edge of my T-shirt and rubbed dirt off the corner of the window.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Billie.

  I shook my head and peered through the window blinds. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the brightness outside, but then I saw him.