by Jen White
“I saw a dead dog by the side of the road when you were asleep,” Billie said softly, craning her neck to look at the road behind us. The sun sat in the sky like a helium balloon clinging to a string. I looked at my watch. It said 2:45.
“It didn’t even look dead. It looked like it was just taking a nap, except for the blood,” she continued.
“Really?” I said, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I leaned over and pulled Billie into a hug. “I’m sorry.” It came out wrong and muffled into the top of her hair. I tried to blink back my tears.
She pushed herself backward to get a look at my face, and then very slowly she placed a small hand on my cheek. “Don’t worry. You’re good, Liberty.”
I shook my head. No. I wasn’t. Look at what had happened to us. It was my fault. It had to be.
“Liberty, you’re so good.” A smile crept into the corners of her mouth and stayed there.
Meow. Meow.
Billie and I both leaned down and peered over the edge of the bed. The cat sat at the foot of the ladder and meowed at us. Thankfully, we were too far for it to jump up. I didn’t want to give Tattoo Guy a reason to come up here.
“Shoo!” I whispered, waving my hand.
“Don’t,” said Billie. “He’s just lonely.” Her eyes were soft.
Mine used to be like that, too, soft like bunny slippers. But not now. Not after everything. I craned my neck to see if Tattoo Guy was bothered by the meowing. But all I saw was the sleeve of his shirt and his arm covered in swirls and lines and ghostly faces.
“What are you bawling about?” he yelled. For a second it felt like my blood froze right inside my veins, thinking he was talking to us, but he was just talking to the cat. Then his voice got sweet. “Come here, Mr. Sprinkles. Come on now.” His voice reminded me of the chocolaty milk that’s left over after you eat a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.
“Mr. Sprinkles,” he called.
The cat turned in his direction, licking its whiskers.
“Come on, Mr. Sprinkles. Come give me some sugar.” He talked to his cat like it was a baby.
Billie covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, “That’s silly.”
Maybe a guy who named his cat Mr. Sprinkles really couldn’t be all that bad.
Suddenly the truck slowed to a stop. Billie held on to me, and I grabbed on to the edge of the wall as we almost rolled right off the bunk. I held on tight. We could have smashed Mr. Sprinkles flat as a stingray.
“Breaker. Breaker. Waterford Driver, what’s the slowdown up there?” Tattoo Guy asked. The garbled static from the CB hurt my ears. Soon, another voice filled the cab, low and loud, but I could only make out a few words over Tattoo Guy’s music.
The music stopped, along with the giant truck tires. We were at a standstill, which felt strange after constant movement.
“Do what, driver?” Tattoo Guy asked.
The voice came back. “You’ve got a brake check ahead at your front door, right side. A four-wheel or something turned over, greasy side up. There’s junk scattered all over the road. Watch yourself. Use caution.”
“Ten-four. Thank you kindly, good neighbor.” Then his music came on again. The truck crept forward as slow as a sea slug. The gears clunked as Tattoo Guy slowed the truck down.
Billie and I crawled across the bed toward the window.
“What did he say?” asked Billie.
“Shh,” I whispered, since now it was much quieter inside. “There’s an accident or something up ahead. On the right.” We both crawled to the other window on the right side of the cab.
Billie pulled the curtain back. We craned our necks and pushed our faces against the glass just to get a glimpse of anything. Red and blue lights flashed ahead, but we couldn’t see much yet. The truck crawled along and then stopped again.
Tattoo Guy unrolled his window. “Is it bad, officer?” Just hearing the word officer made my skin tingle.
“Keep to the left,” said a voice. “We’ve got almost everything off the road, but the camper’s still on its side. Be careful at the end on the right, especially with this load. Where you headed?”
“Barstow. Well, I’m dropping this load in Barstow, but I’m stopping in Junction right before.”
“All right, be careful when you go through the weigh station there. It’s a madhouse.”
“Will do,” said Tattoo Guy.
My head spun. There was a camper on its side in the middle of the road? My heart, like the truck engine, began to vibrate. What if it was Dad in that accident? What if it was him lying dead on the road? I gripped the handle above the window.
Mr. Sprinkles started meowing again.
“Come here, kitty,” said Tattoo Guy. “Yes, we’re almost there, don’t you worry. You’ll love it. I know you will. It’s like cat paradise.” He continued to talk to his cat as we inched forward.
“What’s wrong?” whispered Billie.
I couldn’t turn my eyes away from our window. I had to see it for myself. I had to see that camper slammed across the highway. I had to make sure it wasn’t ours.
“Nothing. It’s just a bad accident. We just have to wait.”
“Okay,” said Billie, tucking herself deeper into the crease between the mattress and the wall, until I could barely see her body. The mattress was big, the width of the cab.
My heart began to drum, getting louder with each passing minute.
What if it’s him? What if it’s him?
We inched along. The smell of exhaust was so strong, I longed for the semi to be riding the road again with the wind blowing all foul things away.
And then we were there, slowly rolling past the destruction.
A busted cooler, a camping chair, boxes of cereal scattered along the road, some blankets, a broken radio, along with what looked like napkins, someone’s tennis shoe, and then a bunch of other stuff I couldn’t identify. Everything tossed across the highway like sand.
“Is that someone’s clothes?” Billie asked, pointing to a smashed suitcase, its hinges wrenched off.
I nodded.
“Were there people in the camper?” she asked.
I swallowed. “Probably.”
We passed an ambulance. What if someone had died? What if there was a body? I put my hand over Billie’s eyes.
“What are you doing?” She shoved my hand away. “I want to see.”
“Fine,” I said.
Now we could see people. There was another policeman directing cars, and two guys pulled over watching everything like they were watching TV. Three people sat on the side of the road—a man with blood on his face, a woman crying, and a kid standing barefoot. They stared at the road like they couldn’t believe that one second they were doing something innocent like playing Go Fish and eating Pringles at their little kitchen table and now they were standing on the highway with all their stuff destroyed. Just like a tornado. Or an earthquake. Or an Explorer, the car that killed my mom.
One minute, things are nice. And then the next, you’re standing shoeless in the road with blood running down your face. Instinct tells you to always keep your eyes open. Watch out, ’cause bam—that’s how fast things can change.
Billie stared out the window, her cheek looking a little less purple than yesterday. Trust me, everything you’ve ever known can change in a blink.
The gears on the semitruck squealed as we crawled along even slower than before. Then we saw it, the camper: red—not black like Dad’s—on its side, the back cracked down the middle like a giant bear had slashed it with an enormous claw. Slash, good-bye walls. Slash, good-bye window. Slash, good-bye locked door that kept you safe at night. The camper lay injured and sad, like it felt bad it was a pathetic excuse for a camper. Like it was just begging to be put out of its misery.
What if Dad was lying out in the middle of the road somewhere with our smashed camper, waiting for an ambulance to come?
So what? Maybe I didn’t care. Why should I? He didn’t care about us.
My
chest felt heavier.
As soon as we passed the camper, the traffic cleared, and we were finally breathing non-exhaust air, our tires hummed down the highway to … where did he say we were going? Barstow. And I knew Barstow was in California, because Dad had stopped there to get food and gas on our way out of San Diego. Barstow sounded good. In Barstow we would call Julie again, somehow. But why wouldn’t she answer her phone?
I tried not to think about Mom and the Explorer, but I couldn’t help it. What if something like that had happened to Julie, too?
Survival Strategy #34:
DON’T HIDE, GO OUTSIDE
“Where are we?” whispered Billie.
“I don’t know,” I said, still staring out the window. It was 4:45.
We had driven for a couple hours, and then we pulled off the highway onto a little road that looked like it led nowhere, except to maybe a faraway sandpit. The dust billowed up into huge clouds as we drove. We passed occasional shacks with yards full of leftover stuff like cars, and mattresses, and rusted swing sets. But always the desert surrounded us in every direction. The miles of nothing on every side made my head hurt.
Tattoo Guy parked his truck in front of a house with three faded flamingos in the yard and a huge satellite dish next to the front door. It swayed in the wind, like it wanted to take off and fly away from this dead, dried-up place. Did the house fall from the sky and land here by accident? No one would purposely live here surrounded by brush, cacti, and nothing.
Tattoo Guy took Mr. Sprinkles and went inside the little house.
I counted the flamingos in my head again and again.
“When’s he coming back?” asked Billie.
I shrugged. It was hot inside the semi. I opened the window near the bed, but the air coming in felt just as hot.
“I’m hungry,” said Billie. And even though she had eaten a mountain of food this morning, it was way past time to eat again. “Go look in there,” she said, pointing to the little fridge tucked into the side of the semi’s cab.
I looked toward the little house again. Still no movement. Suddenly, I saw Mr. Sprinkles dart past the house, chasing something. He ran through the dirt, into the brush, and pounced. I guessed he’d found his dinner. My stomach growled.
“Okay.” I inched down the ladder, still nervous. I crept toward the fridge.
Now Billie began to climb down the ladder, too. “I’m thirsty.”
I opened the fridge. It smelled like rotten milk. It had old milk, an apple that looked like it had been there for a while, and half a can of cat food.
Billie pushed ahead of me and scrunched up her nose. “What does he eat all day?”
“He must eat out.”
She grabbed the apple.
“Doesn’t he have anything else to drink?”
I shook my head.
Billie rubbed the apple on her shirt and took a bite. Then she handed it to me and I took a bite. The apple was mushy, but it would have to do.
“I wish we had brought the water bottle,” said Billie, wiping sweat off her face with the back of her hand.
I nodded. I wished many more things than that. I opened the cabinet above the fridge hoping he might have something in there and was happily rewarded with half a box of cereal. “Look,” I said, shaking the box of Apple Jacks in the air. “One of your favorites.”
Billie shrugged. “Are there any water bottles up there?”
“No, but this will keep your mind off of being thirsty.” I poured some cereal into her outstretched hand.
She shoved it into her mouth, pieces falling onto the floor.
“Slow down,” I said. But I shoved some into my mouth, too, and crunched on the stale rings. It was better than nothing.
After we ate all the cereal, we stood there for a minute, me staring out the window. Staring at nothing. No people. No houses. Just miles and miles of empty desert.
Finally, Billie said, “What’s taking him so long? I need a drink.” Beads of sweat covered her forehead.
A line of sweat rolled down my neck. “I don’t know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Call Julie again at the next gas station.”
“When?” asked Billie, her face red from the heat.
“Whenever we get out of here.”
Billie pushed her hair out of her eyes. “It’s too hot.”
“I know.” I saw once on the news in San Diego how a baby was asleep in her car seat and her dad just drove to work instead of taking her to day care because he forgot she was sweet and little and still asleep in his car. It was a hot day, and he just locked the door and went to work without thinking for a minute that he was doing the one thing he couldn’t believe he would ever do. And that poor baby died in, like, twenty minutes or something because it was so hot. And that dad, I bet, was never the same again.
After that, how could he be?
I shook the image out of my mind, but it was hard to forget with Billie’s face all red and sweaty. Every second felt hotter, like we were being cooked alive. What if we passed out and never woke up?
Finally I said, “Come on. We have to get out of here.” I opened the door farthest away from the house. Hot air rushed in, but it felt so much better than being stuck in the semi.
I stepped onto the dirt and turned to help Billie down the steps. The top step was kind of scary because it was so far away from the second, and the step below it was even scarier because it was even farther.
I held out my arms. “Hold on to me.”
She felt so light, like probably how much a baby seal weighed. I set her on the ground; she balanced on one foot. The other, non-flip-flop foot she held up. There was something like black tar smudged across her heel and dried blood near her big toe.
She stumbled and set her bare foot on the ground. “Ouch.”
I steadied her as I examined the bottom of her foot. The ground was harder here, with more rocks pointing their edges into the air, like they were trying to protect themselves from something. That’s what rocks would do if they were alive.
“Here,” I said, taking my shoe off. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of this before. “You wear mine.”
“But it’s too big.”
“I know, but if you tie it really tight then it should be fine.” Her tiny foot jiggled inside my shoe. My foot when I was eight had to have been bigger than hers. I tied the shoelace and made her stand up and walk a few steps. It worked fine.
“That feels so much better,” she said. “But what about your foot?”
“I’m okay.” Gingerly, I set my bare foot down; the rocks, using their defenses, pricked me. “There,” I said. “See, it’s perfect. I think my feet are tougher than yours because I’m older.”
Billie smiled. “Really? Oh, good.”
The semitruck cast a shadow where we stood. The shade and the breeze felt like an unexpected prize at the bottom of a box of cereal. At least out here, we could breathe.
“Are we going in?” Billie stared at the house. It was made of splintered wood, blue and faded, with a fallen-down chain-link fence wrapped around it. A plastic bag, stuck in one of the rungs, flew like a flag.
I shook my head. “No. We’ll just wait out here until he comes out, then we’ll hurry back into the truck before he sees us.”
“Okay.”
The house was quiet, but I had a weird feeling, like something was wrong. That crawly feeling climbed up my spinal column. I turned back toward the road. A tumbleweed floated right over the road, then bounced into the desert brush.
Billie linked her fingers through mine and glared at the house. “All we ever do is wait. What’s taking so long?”
“I don’t know.” The sun sat closer to the horizon now. Mr. Sprinkles darted and pounced on something in the brush. What if Tattoo Guy stayed the night? Then what would we do? No—I heard him tell the policeman that he had to deliver his truckload tonight.
Billie sat on the ground and leaned against the truck’s gigant
ic wheel. It was almost two times as tall as she was.
“Where are you?” she whispered into the air. Not a question really, more like a message the wind could wrap up and take to Dad. What if he heard it?
1. Then nothing.
2. He didn’t care.
I reached into my back pocket and felt my notebook. It was safe. It reminded me that I could take care of myself and Billie, too.
Except we kind of needed Tattoo Guy to give us a ride to the next gas station or Barstow, whichever came first. I turned and glared at the house for maybe the millionth time. What was he doing?
“Ewww,” said Billie, jumping up from her place in the dirt and backing up into the gigantic semi wheel. “Gross. What is that?”
Survival Strategy #35:
BEWARE OF UNEXPECTED GIFTS
“What?” I asked.
Mr. Sprinkles was back. This time he sat at Billie’s feet, staring up at her face like he wanted something.
Then I spied it. Next to Mr. Sprinkles lay a furry, matted mess. I poked it with my one shoed foot and it didn’t move. Dead. A rat, bloody and fat and minus a head. Mr. Sprinkles looked super proud of himself. If he could smile like the Cheshire cat, I knew he would.
“Sick. Why did Mr. Sprinkles do that?” Billie covered her eyes.
I found a stick and poked at the rat, pushing it away from Billie. Then I lifted it and flung it into the desert, so now it was hidden by a little hill.
“There,” I said, brushing my hands off on my shorts. “It’s gone.”
Billie uncovered her eyes and glared at Mr. Sprinkles, who was now licking his paws and whiskers. “You mean cat. Shoo!”
Mr. Sprinkles paused for just a minute and then went back to cleaning himself. I’m sure he had had a delicious dinner.
“It’s not Mr. Sprinkles’s fault. He just does what cats do. There’s something inside him that tells him to chase little animals and eat them. Don’t be too hard on him.”
“I hate it,” she said, her shoulders relaxing a little.
