Survival Strategies of the Almost Brave

by Jen White

  “Billie,” I said.

  “I see her. Don’t worry.” And he pulled me out of the car and laid me on the dirt, which now felt kind of soft and nice. And then I wasn’t in the ocean, because there was the sky. Bluish. With little sheep clouds in it. And it felt wrong and familiar all at the same time.

  And then, I saw it.

  The dragon with the sword through its heart, and a key, and part of a beautiful lady’s face. His arm, from wrist until I didn’t know where, covered in tattoos. And that was the worst part.

  Because now the dream was ruined. I knew the truth.

  It wasn’t Dad.

  He hadn’t come. And it made me mad that, for a second, I had wanted him to.

  Survival Strategy #40:

  SOMETIMES HELP COMES FROM A TATTOOED GUY

  Tattoo Guy laid out a blanket for us outside the semitruck. He said it was too hot in there and that Billie needed some air. The wind had gone down, but occasionally little dust tornados would start up here and there. I looked at my watch. It was 6:42. Sharlee had gone back inside because she said we were disrupting her babies.

  It had only been ten minutes, and Tattoo Guy still looked like he had seen Bigfoot.

  Or maybe a mermaid. Or a UFO (which really wasn’t that crazy, since there probably was life on other planets). He kept staring at me like I might disappear if he looked away. And he kept talking about how that fence rail was falling down anyway. And how one more dent in Sharlee’s car wouldn’t make a difference. He was just trying to be nice.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  “This hurts,” I said, pulling the ice pack away from my forehead. I held it out to him.

  “No, you’ll be glad you iced it. You’ve got quite a bump on your head. Just a little longer,” he said.

  Tattoo Guy had said he’d completed a class in CPR and emergency training because, as a truck driver, sometimes he was the first one on the scene of a road accident. And he liked to know what to do. He said he was prepared for anything. Even still, I didn’t think he was too prepared for Billie and me.

  I had already told Tattoo Guy mostly everything, about Dad leaving, and calling Julie, and why we had stowed away in his semi.

  Right now, Billie was acting normal, except I couldn’t be sure. I kept giving her sideways glances, waiting to see if the rat poison would come. But except for the bite, she seemed fine. Her finger looked like it needed stitches, like the time Mom did when she sliced her hand cutting a watermelon.

  And anyway, Billie probably had rabies by now, I bet.

  At first Billie had been lying on the ground near the semi. Now she was awake and asking for water. She had drunk three bottles. I had drunk one. And Tattoo Guy said he thought she passed out because she was dehydrated, not because of the rat bite. But he did think she needed stitches. And to see a real doctor.

  Tattoo Guy picked up the empty water bottles and tossed them into the semi. “It’s about time we hit the road.” He turned to Billie. “Are you feeling up to it? You’re not going to yak in my truck, are you?”

  Billie shook her head.

  Tattoo Guy didn’t know how close he was to the truth.

  And now, he didn’t seem as scary.

  “Are you going to call an ambulance?” I asked.

  “No. You girls don’t need an ambulance, just a good old-fashioned doctor. Since we’re out in the middle of nowhere, it would take an ambulance twice the time to get you to a hospital. I’ll drive you.”

  Tattoo Guy pinched the skin in the middle of his forehead like if he didn’t, it might split in two.

  “So, when did your dad leave you?” he asked, trying to hide the surprise in his voice, but I heard it sitting there, accusing me—like he was thinking, What kind of kid gets left in the desert by her dad?

  I watched Billie out of the corner of my eye; she still seemed fine, except kind of out of it. I pretended to pay attention to Tattoo Guy’s question. Usually I was really good at answering questions, like in school. But my head hurt.

  “What?” I asked.

  “When did your dad leave?”

  His question hung between us like a fragile spider web. I wanted to wave my hands through it and destroy every tiny thread.

  “Yesterday.”

  Finally he asked, “And where were you when—uh—when he didn’t come back?”

  Billie interrupted. “He left us at the gas station. Liberty said he went to get ice cream. And Mom can’t come and get us because she’s in the ocean.”

  “Billie, stop,” I said. I turned back to Tattoo Guy. “We were somewhere near Four Corners, I think.”

  He got a little pale. “Four Corners is hours and hours from here.”

  I swallowed hard. For a second I wished we were back in the Lavender Lady’s car, still huddled on the floor, hidden from everything.

  “How far are we from San Diego?” I asked.

  “I’d say, with traffic, four or five hours.”

  I cleared my throat. Still five hours away. I didn’t want Tattoo Guy to think he was stuck with us. “Don’t worry, Julie will come. We should call her. But I don’t think our dad’s coming back,” I said, my throat suddenly sore and scratchy. I picked at some sticky stuff shaped like a flower on the bottom of my bare foot.

  Billie’s eyes filled with tears. “I guess I kind of thought that, too.”

  Finally Tattoo Guy said, “What I want to do right now is get you guys to a doctor.” Then he turned toward his sister’s house. “I can’t vouch for the health of the rat that bit her. My sister doesn’t keep her pets in the best of conditions.”

  “Pets?” I asked.

  “She said they were her babies,” Billie said. She wiped tears and snot on her arm. It glistened like snail tracks.

  “Yeah, something like that,” Tattoo Guy said.

  He picked me up and put me in the front seat of the semi, and then he lifted Billie up after me. She tried to scoot into my seat as well.

  “You can’t sit here,” I said. “It’s not safe. You need to be twelve.”

  She shook her head. “He already said I could.”

  Tattoo Guy climbed into the other side of the semi. He held Mr. Sprinkles in one arm like he was holding a baby. He winked, grabbed on to the steering wheel, and dumped the cat onto the floor. Then he tossed me his cell phone. “Call that Julie of yours. Let her know where you’re at.”

  Now the rocks in my stomach returned. Another message for Julie. Where could she be?

  “Is your sister coming?” Billie asked, pointing to the little house.

  He shook his head. “No. There’s not much I can do for her. She refuses to leave. I wish she would change her mind, but she is who she is.”

  Mr. Sprinkles jumped onto Billie’s lap and curled up like he was going to sleep all day.

  Tattoo Guy smiled at Billie. “You watch that hand, now. Just keep it up and away from Mr. Sprinkles. What happened to the napkin I gave you?”

  “It blew away.”

  “Wait a second, I think I have something.” He bent over, fumbling around under his seat. He pulled out a first aid kit. He flipped the lid open and dug through until he found what he wanted. “Here, let me see your finger.”

  Billie got up and held out her finger.

  Tattoo Guy opened the wrapper to reveal a Band-Aid with four long ends that looked like wings. It reminded me of a butterfly I saw once in a magazine: the leopard lacewing, which lives in Singapore. When the lacewing is a caterpillar, it has huge spiky thorns all over its body, but after it molts, it transforms into one of the most beautiful butterflies I have ever seen. I’d really like to go to Singapore someday just so I could see a leopard lacewing in person.

  Tattoo Guy wrapped the Band-Aid wings around Billie’s finger, pulling the skin back together. “Does that hurt?”

  Billie shook her head.

  “Nothing a few stitches won’t fix.”

  The little S shape in between Billie’s eyes scrunched tighter.
Was Billie going to freak? I waited for the rat demon to come.

  “You’re not scared of stitches, are you?” asked Tattoo Guy, starting the truck.

  Billie nodded.

  “Little tiny stitches? That’s nothing; look at this.” He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal an ugly, knotted scar. It cascaded over his shoulder like boiling hot lava. “Motorcycle accident. Two years ago,” he said, pulling the truck forward. “My right leg looks the same. Let’s just say I was pretty lucky that day, and I know it.”

  Billie nodded, sucking in every word.

  “Not everyone is lucky,” I said. “We aren’t.” It just slipped out. I wanted to slurp it back in, but it was too late. I cringed, waiting for the kind of stupidness people say when they are trying to make you not feel sorry for yourself. When Mom died, I heard all sorts of I’m sorrys, stuff that sounds completely like faking it.

  Tattoo Guy sighed. “Maybe you’re right. You girls don’t look so lucky right now, do you?”

  Surprised, I pointed to Billie. “I don’t think she should sit up here with me. It isn’t safe.”

  He smiled and then winked at Billie. “Oh, I think she’ll be all right, just this one time. You girls put that seat belt on. We’ve got to test that luck theory of yours.”

  The semi headed down the dirt road.

  “Knock, knock,” said Billie.

  I looked over at her, but she was talking to Tattoo Guy.

  “Who’s there?” he asked.

  “Barbie.”

  “Barbie who?”

  “Barbie Q. Chicken!” Billie laughed.

  So did Tattoo Guy. “Now, that’s a good one.” He smiled as he maneuvered the semi over a small hole in the road. He crinkled his brow. “I don’t think I know any age-appropriate jokes.”

  “Do you have kids?” Billie asked.

  I pretended like I didn’t care, but really I wanted to know the answer. Did Tattoo Guy have some kid somewhere who he ignored and never talked to, just like our dad?

  “Me?” Tattoo Guy laughed. “Nope. Not that I know of. I don’t think I’m a kid kind of guy.”

  Billie shrugged her shoulders. “You’d probably be pretty good.”

  “You think so?” he asked.

  Billie nodded.

  I pulled my notebook out of my back pocket and flipped through the pages. There it was: the gentoo penguin picture my dad took. I picked at the edge of it and pulled. It tore down the center, giving a satisfying rip. Now all that was left of the penguin were parts of its back, beak, and foot. I ripped off the other side, taking some of the notebook paper with it. How many times had I stared at it, trying to imagine what Dad was doing right at that moment? I scrunched the picture up into a little ball.

  “I’m hungry,” yelled Billie. She had rolled down the window.

  It was dinnertime.

  I stuck the crumpled picture into my pocket. “I’m not.”

  Billie turned and stared at me. “Yes, you are. We haven’t eaten anything good all day.”

  I glared.

  The dirt road turned into a gravel one. We passed a beat-up old house, and I saw a flash of orange near the porch. A life vest, the same color as penguin feet, was hooked over the gate, swimming against the breeze.

  I leaned over Billie and stuck my head out of the window. The wind whipped my hair into my face.

  “What are you doing? You’re squishing me,” she said, poking me in the side with skinny twig fingers.

  I pulled the penguin photo pieces out of my pocket and held them out the window, my heart beating as fast as the semi’s wheels were spinning. Then I set them free. They bounced away from each other like an explosion and then disappeared, like they had never existed.

  Survival Strategy #41:

  DR PEPPER CAN RUIN EVERYTHING

  I had tried Dr Pepper once before when Billie and me were with Dad. Dad had a whole bunch of Dr Peppers in his camper. A whole bunch. Like, thirty maybe. After a couple of weeks, we were parked at a rest stop near Lake Mead in Nevada and Dad was looking between a trail map and his computer and grumbling to himself.

  “Dad, can I have a Dr Pepper?” I asked. Billie and me were playing Go Fish for the thousandth time. Go Fish is, like, only fun for the first five times you play. But when we were with Dad, she always wanted to play because I let her win.

  Dad didn’t say anything.

  I guess I could’ve taken one, but I wasn’t really sure about the rules of living with him. We had only been together for a few weeks, so I didn’t know. Were we supposed to ask if we wanted anything in the camper? Technically it was his camper, and his stuff, and his food, and his Dr Peppers.

  I thought I should ask.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said a little louder. “Can I have one of your Dr Peppers?”

  “Go Fish!” said Billie.

  I picked an angelfish.

  “Dad,” I said.

  “What?” He looked up at me like he couldn’t quite remember who I was. His eyes were all bloodshot. I didn’t think he had slept the night before.

  “Can I have a Dr Pepper?”

  “Fine,” he said, looking back down at his computer. “Quit bugging me.” He was always looking at his maps/cameras/magazines and never really looking at us.

  Billie shrugged. “My turn again.”

  I pulled a can out from underneath the sink and flipped it open with a loud hiss. The bubbles burned my nose.

  “Do you have any pool sharks?” asked Billie.

  I sat down and flipped over my cards. “Go fish.”

  “No,” said Billie. “I saw it. You have one.” She grabbed my cards, knocking Dr Pepper all over the camper floor and all over my feet and all over some magazines sitting in a box.

  “Oops,” said Billie, staring at Dad with a deer-in-headlights look.

  “Here,” I said, and quickly handed her some paper towels. The soda soaked the table and the floor and everything. “Quick. Before he notices.”

  But then Dad did notice, and his eyes weren’t on his map or his computer, but they were on his magazines, dripping in sugar and carbonation. Soda splashed down the table all over our bare feet.

  Dad cursed and slammed his map on top of the counter.

  I’d never seen him mad before.

  He grabbed Billie by her arm and tossed her up on top of his bed. “Get out of that mess.”

  I backed up and crouched against the ladder. Duck and cover. Just like the earthquake drill in Mrs. Mortensen’s class. He grabbed the box of magazines and began dabbing them with paper towels. He chucked the wet box out the door. It skipped across the ground until it stopped in a wet heap—poof—disappearing into a cloud of dust.

  He got on his hands and knees, cleaning up the soda, and only then did my heartbeat quit jumping and my breath stop sounding like I had run a mile around the school track.

  Billie hid her head under Dad’s pillow, crying.

  Then Dad stopped mopping up and went outside with his stacks of wet magazines and laid them out on the picnic table, side by side, to dry.

  “It was an accident,” I said to Billie as I crawled up onto Dad’s bed. Like maybe that was an excuse. Like maybe he would understand that eight-year-olds sometimes had accidents. That twelve-year-olds did, too.

  “Don’t touch my stuff,” Dad yelled from outside. He pointed his finger at us through the camper door.

  “It was an accident,” I said, loud enough for him to hear.

  He scowled.

  Billie just stared.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, coming closer to the door.

  “Nothing.”

  Billie’s eyes got real big and she hunched down in the pillow. Watching and waiting for something. Maybe still waiting for the Dad we had always wanted.

  This is what I should’ve said to him:

  1. What’s wrong with you?

  2. Why did you even come back?

  Dad turned away from us and snapped open a map.

  That’s when I felt
it. The stuff we didn’t talk about, heating up inside me.

  Hot = Me.

  Hot = Billie.

  Hot = Him.

  Everything felt too hot. Like how magma covers the Earth. Superhot. Infinity hot. Over a thousand degrees, I bet. Last year, during sixth grade science, Mrs. Mortensen talked about plate tectonics. I liked that word.

  Tec-ton-ics.

  Sometimes I said that word over and over again. Sometimes it made me feel better. Mrs. Mortensen said San Diego was on the San Andreas Fault, where two plates banged into one other. An earthquake could happen any minute if the plates moved. Everyone was waiting for the Big One.

  But it hadn’t happened yet.

  So we practiced being safe, just in case. When the bell rang really loud, we got under our desks, or we stood in the doorway, or if we were outside, we had to stay away from trees and electrical lines.

  We practiced duck and cover:

  1. Crouch down.

  2. Head down.

  3. Hands over head.

  4. Wait for the shaking to stop.

  But what were we supposed to do if the Earth cracked open right underneath us? Then what? Mrs. Mortensen never answered that question.

  That day, in the camper, we were like the Earth’s crust: Billie, me, Dad. And everything we didn’t say was hot, just like one-million-degree molten magma. And right then, I could feel the plates moving, slow and soft. Making us bump into one another. I had wanted to whisper to Billie, “Duck and cover.”

  But it was too late.

  Survival Strategy #42:

  EAT FOOD

  “Where’s my fries?” asked Billie as she tried to search through the bag with her left hand in the cab of the semi. She held her rat-bitten hand high above her like a medal. She had scattered her napkins and burger wrapper all over, but Tattoo Guy didn’t seem to care.

  He fumbled around in the paper bag in front of him. “Here,” he said, placing an envelope of greasy, salty, slightly firm but perfectly soft fries in front of Billie. Drool leaked out of the corner of my mouth and landed on the tabletop in the back of the semi; I quickly wiped it up.