“C’mon. The car’s probably done.”
He’s right. It’s not the greatest paint job, but the Toyota just went from a literal red flag to a more under-the-radar heap of black junk. I actually like it.
“This reads kidnapping way less,” I say, getting in with our Walmart bags.
“Shh,” Levon says. Eel is standing right next to the car. Even if he did hear us, it’s not like he watches the news.
When we get back to our gritty room, we start the disguising process. I figure we need a sound track, so I tune the cheap radio to some auto-tuned hip-hop track. I cut Levon’s hair under the light from the dusty lamp between the beds, using a thin, white towel to catch the scraps.
Came up that’s all me.
He looks even better with short hair. His eyes expand, or at last seem bigger, and his lips take more prominence on his face, upstaging even those rigid cheekbones. There’s a fluttering inside me, like a buzzing insect, a tiny ball of frenetic energy that I pray is not showing on my face. The song builds.
No help, that’s all me, all me for real.
He shakes off the excess hair and glances at himself in the streaked mirror. He seems apathetic. It strikes me that vanity is not high on his list.
“Looks good,” I say, even though it looks way more than good. The guy is the literal definition of hot.
He heads into the bathroom, and I listen to the sounds he makes, picturing him in there. When he comes out and I go in, our arms brush against each other, and I’m hyperaware of it. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“Your turn,” he says.
While I’m in the bathroom dying my hair, Levon steps out, and I wait for the dye to do its work. He comes back with a pint of whiskey, which he pours into two paper cups.
“How’d you get that?”
“The lady didn’t card me.”
I try not to give away how impressed I am.
My roots start to burn a little, but I don’t care. When I really think about it, this could be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I grab one of the cups of whiskey, and Levon says, “You’re welcome.”
After I rinse my hair, I’m surprised by how good it looks. I wanted to go for white-trash runaway, but it sort of looks authentic—like I actually could have a name like Bree or Madison. When I come out and look at Levon for the second time, I realize his haircut not only passes for an actual one, but also makes him look even more mysterious. I try to hide my surprise, but it’s not working because he says, “What?”
“Nothing.”
We turn on the news, and at first I’m relieved there’s no mention of us. But when they tease our story before the commercial break, my heart picks up again.
“It’s good we painted the car, trust me,” I tell him. “And we both look totally different. No one’s going to recognize us, if we’re careful,” I say.
He downs his whiskey and nods. I pour another for both of us. I don’t drink much, but whiskey is my choice when I do.
“What about the license plate?”
“We used a different one,” he says. “The one we have now is legit.”
“Wow,” I say.
“One thing Jamal was good for.”
I flash again to Jamal on the cot, his searing eyes. At least he mentioned Jamal in the past tense. Maybe he’s gone for good.
The news comes back on, and my name is on the scroll at the bottom. I wonder if Rena’s watching the same news we are all the way across the country.
“Can I call my grandmother real quick?”
He seems skeptical.
“It’s just to tell her I’m fine. I’ll hang up in less than twenty-two seconds, which is how long it takes to trace a call. Not that they even know what phone we’re using.”
He stares at me for a second. “OK, but no funny business.”
I giggle at his dated phrase and dial, grateful that I know her number by heart.
Rena answers on the fourth ring. She’s not hysterical like a typical grandmother receiving a call from her kidnapped granddaughter. Still, there is urgency in her voice.
“Candy. Where are you? Is some joke?”
“No, Rena, but I’m fine. I’m not”—I peer over at Levon, sipping his whiskey with his new boyish haircut—“in danger.”
“Where are you? Tell me, Candy.”
“I’m…somewhere near New York,” I say, which is not exactly a lie.
“There are reporters. They here twenty-five seven.”
Typical that she would get the phrase wrong. One could call her broken English charming, if one could ever describe Rena as charming.
“Don’t tell them anything. This is really important, Rena. Don’t tell them you talked to me. Just know that I’m OK. This will all be over within a week or so.”
The thought makes my heart dip, like when you reach the peak on a Ferris wheel. I hang up as she mumbles something in Russian. The phone rings back, but Levon grabs it and turns it off—or at least tries to—but I end up helping him. I guess I won’t be calling Fin, although I don’t have his number. I’m sure he’s trying to find me. He’s always looked after me. One time, when some seniors were taunting me, he drove his lawn mower right at them. I laughed as the boys scattered.
After the commercial break, my father’s face comes on the screen, and it’s like watching a soap opera. He is in faux-worry mode, acting like his world is crumbling. I want something to throw at the TV. There is nothing—the cheap clock is screwed into the table.
“Oh my God!” I yell.
“What?” Levon asks.
“Like he cares! I haven’t seen him in years.”
After a minute, the same picture of me comes on the screen—my junior picture from NRS. Levon laughs, and this time I tell him to shut up.
“That’s me, a thirty-second segment,” I say as they cut to another story. “At least it was at the top of the hour.”
Levon smiles, but then in a flash, his face goes stern. “Candy, he’s still your father.”
“Yeah? Funny how you’re sticking up for him after kidnapping his daughter.”
That shuts him up.
Chapter 9
We are past Richmond and almost coming into Raleigh when we see our first real cop. He’s parked on the median about three hundred yards ahead. I immediately lean over, laying my head on Levon’s lap and thinking that this could be a totally different situation. After we go through the underpass, I sit up and look back, then over at Levon. He’s chewing the inside of his lip.
“Did he look at you?”
“Yes, he’s coming,” Levon says. “Fuck!”
He starts breathing heavy. The cop gets closer, and I can feel my heart in my temples.
“We aren’t speeding,” I tell him.
“I know!” he yells, clearly freaking out.
“Put on your blinker and get off at the next exit.”
The cop is right behind us. I close my eyes tight, like a kid watching a horror movie. When I open them, the cop is still there.
“Drive normally.”
“I am, Candy!”
“OK, OK.”
We change lanes and the cop does too, continuing to trail us.
“God dammit,” Levon says.
“Just—”
“Don’t talk, Candy. Shut up, please.”
“OK, but you’re doing fine.”
He slams his hands against the wheel.
For the next two miles, the cop remains a steady car length behind us. I keep waiting to hear a siren or see the lights. But nothing. Only Levon, breathing heavy and tapping his fingers really fast.
Finally, the siren sounds, and the lights spin, but he’s passing us, pulling someone else over.
We don’t say anything, continuing to drive in silence.
Levon’s breathi
ng returns to normal, and he’s not tapping his fingers anymore, but he’s still obsessively checking the mirrors.
“Good thing we painted the car and did our hair,” I say.
He’s really serious now, like a whole other person. He nods, but he seems super spooked, like a kid who just woke up from a nightmare in a dark house with no parents.
For the next hour, it’s just the sound of the wheels and our own thoughts. I go through my list again. Gone Baby Gone. Saw. Both girls, but only one survived. I crack the window, and the whizzing sound reminds me of my years on the tour bus. The trouble with moving is that the road never goes on forever.
I pull down the sun visor, which has a tiny mirror on it, and look at myself. My hair still looks strange to me, but it also kind of works. I’m a brunette now stuck in the body of a blond.
“I would never want to be blond all the time. People assume you’re dumb.”
Levon makes a face. “What about Hillary Clinton?”
“Yeah, but she’s, like, sixty. If you’re young and blond, you’re ditzy—even the smart ones.”
“I assume you mean the girls at your school?”
“Yes, but back in Oakland too.”
“Is it true what you said?” he asks in his new serious tone.
“What?”
“You haven’t seen Wade in years?”
“Yes. Even when he comes to play the same city I’m in, he doesn’t come to see me. Heartwarming, huh?”
“Wow…”
“It’s cool. I’m used to it. Actually, I only have one memory of hanging out and having fun with him. Isn’t that weird?”
“At least you have one.”
“You sure know how to look on the bright side, don’t you?”
“I grew up in a trailer,” he says, tilting his head and glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “That shit was not the Berkshires.”
“Believe me, NRS is not a postcard once you walk inside. I mean, my school is good, but I just don’t feel like I really belong there.”
“Where do you belong?”
On a highway with you, I think. Maybe.
“I don’t know. I want to make films. I’ve made a couple.”
“Cool.”
“Ever since I was given my first video camera at age nine, I’ve been shooting and editing films. It’s nice to document stuff, to know that life isn’t so fleeting. When I see paintings or photographs, they look so one-dimensional. I want to step inside the frame and make them come alive.”
He nods, glancing in the side mirror. “I watch a lot. Films, I mean.”
“So, are you going to tell me why your dad was in jail?”
He checks the cracked rearview yet again, maybe this time to make sure the past is behind him. “Not now. Tell me about the one fun time you mentioned, with your dad.”
I put my feet up on the seat and hug my knees close, and Levon turns the radio down.
“It was a few months before my mother died, actually. I was seven. We were at Joshua Tree. Do you know it?”
“California?”
“Yes. It’s this vast landscape of nothing except for a couple trees that sprout over the horizon. They kind of look like giant flowers. I’m sure you’ve seen pictures. Anyway, there was an eighteen-wheeler that had an accident, and after they had cleared the wreckage, there were all these cans of whipped cream that had rolled off the truck that had been carrying them. Hundreds and hundreds of them, dotting the fields, everywhere. It was early morning, and the sky was surreal, almost purple. My dad woke me up, and I remember wondering if I was still dreaming—maybe I was. Anyway, we went outside and drew this huge peace sign out of whipped cream, in the field in front of Joshua Tree. It was the coolest thing in the world for a seven-year-old.”
“The coolest whip you mean?”
“Ha. Anyway, as we were walking back to the bus, he sprayed my head from a can he’d saved. I tried to eat it, then I rubbed some on him, and we were laughing so hard. It was the only time I’d really seen him laugh. He always smiled his dumb, stage smile, but that day, it was like he wasn’t a rock star. We were just kids playing with whipped cream.”
A silence comes over the car. Levon looks straight ahead as the white dashes come at us, then disappear under the hood in a flash. He’s watching the road, but something beyond it too, something out of his grasp.
“What are you looking for?” I ask him.
He thinks for a minute and then says, “Retribution, I guess.”
“For your dad?”
“Yes.”
“How long has he been in jail?”
“Two years.”
He turns the radio back up, so I figure that’s all I’m going to get for now. It’s a college station, probably out of Durham. I can tell ’cause the DJ is meek and the songs are obscure. You would never hear a ten-minute Led Zeppelin B-side on mainstream radio. I pull out my handheld and check what’s on there. The footage I took while I was bound is of the backseat, then the motel people, the help number on the TV, Levon with his shirt off, and my confessions. At the very beginning, it’s just Fin’s dog trying to destroy an old sock. Seeing that feels like it was a different life. Pre-abduction. Will I see everything that way now? Before and after?
“Don’t turn that camera on me,” Levon says.
“Incriminating evidence?”
“Yeah that, but also I don’t like cameras, never have.”
“Why? You’re totally photogenic.”
He scoffs, but red blotches appear at the top of his cheeks.
We pull over at a sad gas station with a small convenience store. I can see the guy behind the counter, black hair with a streak of purple, an eyebrow ring, and a smattering of acne on his chin.
It could be worse. I could be working here, the stench of gasoline and all those dusty chocolate bars staring at me all day.
Levon comes back with a bag of pretzels and two Sprites. As we get back on the highway, we start in on the pretzels. They are dry and too salty, but once again, something feels right. I know that, inevitably, our time together will be over soon. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wish that Miami were ten thousand miles away.
Eventually we pull into a Comfort Inn parking lot that looks deserted. He tells me to wait in the car, and just in case, I turn the handheld on myself and make another recording.
“Me again. I’m at a Comfort Inn somewhere in North Carolina. My kidnapper is named Levon, and his father worked for my father.”
I turn the camera toward the lobby and film Levon as he’s walking out of the hotel, putting it away before he catches me.
Chapter 10
Our room tonight is definitely an upgrade. There are mints on the pillows, the rug smells new, and the toilet paper has been curled back into a flower shape, which makes me think of my mother. She didn’t smell bad, but she was kind of a hippie. She never wore leather or teased her hair. She would put flower petals all over the bus, and sometimes my father would wake up with one stuck to his forehead. It made him look even more ridiculous then he already did.
He always wore tight pants and shirts that seemed like they’d look better on tween girls. He rarely ate, and you could usually see his rib cage. When he spoke, he mostly mumbled. Still, girls lined up by the hundreds for a glimpse of him. I became immune to it: the screaming, the photographers, watching him autograph body parts. There was something he had onstage though—charisma, I guess—and maybe he still does. But to me it always looked like spastic dance moves and dramatic hair flips. And even though his voice has been called one of the best in rock and roll, I never remember him singing to me.
Levon does push-ups while I take a hot bath and read the local newspaper they left on our little desk. Thankfully, there’s nothing about us. But in the entertainment section, there’s a review of the Black Angels show that came through Ra
leigh. The headline reads, “Wade Rex Has Still Got It.”
Yeah, a daughter, I think.
I scan down to the last paragraph, which is always the most important in a review.
As the last note of “Spill It on Me” rang out in feedback, some of the middle-aged moms tried to beat the crowds out of the arena. Yes, they had to save that song for last, but could you blame them? With bands twenty years their juniors on the rise, the Black Angels have stood the test of time, even if Wade Rex, sweat dripping his guy-liner down his cheeks, looked like some kind of deranged Rock God, raising his emaciated arms like he was praying. For what? We can only imagine…
Deranged Rock God. Yep. That pretty much explains it.
When I get back into the room, Levon is sitting on the bed holding my HD mini handheld. He looks at me and slowly shakes his head. He must have found it under my pillow.
“I-I just did it as a precaution.”
“So, what, you’re an act? All of this is an act?”
“All of what, Levon?”
“Look, I didn’t go to a school like yours, but I’m not stupid. I erased over the parts where you said my name and where you filmed me.”
I sit down slowly on the bed across from him.
“I didn’t do that for evidence. It was more for Jamal.”
“Yeah, right. How am I supposed to trust you now?”
“How am I supposed to trust you?” I yell, not even knowing where the fuel for my emotion is coming from. It’s like someone pushed my freak-out button. “You fucking let that guy strangle me and punch me in the head!”
“Candy, you wouldn’t stop talking. Now please, let’s stop talking.”
I lie down and stare at the ceiling, which has tiny sparkles in it. I imagine them as stars, and I wish on each one that blinks that I didn’t mess everything up.
He calls and orders a pizza, and I almost tell him extra cheese, but I stay quiet. He tells them his name is Frank. In spite of everything, his harmless lie makes me smile.
Twenty minutes later, a punk kid comes to the door with the delivery.
Stealing Candy Page 5
