Independence (The Significance Series)

by Crane, Shelly

  Every time our funds began to decrease, Mom would stuff me in the most heavily guarded private school she could possibly find, while she worked herself silly earning more travel money. She claimed it was a good opportunity for me to make new friends and learn something new. It also gave her a chance to do what she needed to get done without having to worry about leaving me alone in a motel. But what I never confessed to was that I stopped trying to make new friends after leaving the fourth grade for the sixth time in one year. I learned everything I needed to know from the mountain of textbooks, worksheets and notes I carted around with me from all the schools I had left behind over the years, and there were tons of those. The number was mindboggling so I never kept count. But she always insisted.

  “Can’t we just use the money dad left me?”

  I knew it was useless to ask, even before she speared me with a dark scowl. Mom never touched that money, except to pay for all the high priced schools she thought I needed. I think it was her way of making it up to me for missing out on so much of my childhood to the open highway. Not that being stuck behind towering walls and iron gates was any better and I was sure dad would have told her so as well, had he not died when I was four.

  “That money is for you to start your own life one day.”

  One day. I knew my dad would have wanted Mom to use the money instead of working herself to death, but Mom refused to touch a penny of it in any way that didn’t involve my education.

  “How long are we staying there?” I sighed heavily.

  Mom shrugged. “I don’t know yet.” In other words: until she had enough cash to keep us afloat for a few months. That could be anywhere from three to six months.

  Well, maybe it would be different this time. Maybe Amalie would behave for once. Maybe she’d go away. I believed that nearly as much as I believed the sleek, black motorcycle racing to catch our fender was on its way to rescue me.

  The sun gleamed off the rider’s black helmet, and as I watched, he raised a hand and gave me a two-fingered salute.

  My lips twitched and I raised a hand and waved back through the side mirror. Deep down, I stifled the mindboggling pulse of familiarity that warmed in my chest. I didn’t know him, yet the pull was unmistakable, As was the distinct sense of déjà vu at seeing that exact bike a few days ago at a gas stop in Nova Scotia and then again periodically for as long as I could recall, but always from a distance and always gone when I tried to get a closer look.

  I must have been waving for too long, because my mother’s voice broke through my train of thought. “Fallon? What are you doing?”

  I quickly stuffed my hand back between my thighs. “Nothing.”

  But Mom wasn’t fooled. She took one glance into the rearview mirror and lost all coloring in her face. She cursed under her breath and floored the gas pedal.

  Somewhere on highway 1 heading west, four sets of jagged burn marks mar the asphalt where the Impala had all but ripped through the concrete. Black smoke billowed, choking the clear sky with the stench of burned rubber. The motorcycle screeched, swerving under the attack. But where most would have shaken a fist and thrown a few curse words, the rider righted himself, leaned over his handlebars and sped up.

  We were doing a hundred kilometers, and climbing. The needle quivered as we accelerated to speeds the Rust-Bucket was not accustomed to; the Impala groaned and shuddered, but kept pace.

  “What’s going on?” I shrieked, partly out of soul chilling terror, partly to be heard over the clashing roar of two engines battling, one ours, the other the speeder behind us.

  “Get down!” Mom shot back, hunched over the wheel, eyes narrowed on the road.

  I wasn’t given time to follow orders. I was thrown back into my seat as the acceleration jumped nearly off the radar. I didn’t even think the Rust-Bucket could go that fast.

  “Hold on!”

  Jagged gashes scarred the leather dash where I clawed for bearing as I was smashed against the door. My skull ricocheted off the glass with a sickening thud, sending a burst of light exploding before my eyes. My spleen slammed into my ribs when Mom suddenly hammered down on the brakes. My heart had already taken shelter in my throat, thrashing like a captured bird struggling for escape. I would have been panicked, but I was already having trouble reminding my lungs to breathe and my brain not to explode.

  The Rust-Bucket nearly flipped. For a split second, that’s exactly what I was expecting, and in that second, my heart forgot to beat. I watched, paralyzed from the brain down, as the car skidded as though on ice, rolling dangerously close to the ditch on the side of the road. The world seemed to clash, swirling in smears of greens and blues. I might have screamed, but even that seemed unlikely when I’d forgotten how.

  Behind us, the motorcycle screeched, sounding like a desperate cry before it swerved under the rider’s erratic attempts at trying to miss the back end of the Impala. I was twisted in my seat before it even registered that I was no longer frozen. The leather headrest tore under my nails as I scrambled into the backseat, over duffle bags, blankets and fast food wrappers to watch with crippling horror as the bike squealed once more before disappearing over the edge, into the ditch.

  My soul screamed before the sound tore through the soft tissues of my esophagus and exploded from my lips. Time screeched to a halt. Everything froze, except the loud cracking of my heart, and the bike doing a nosedive over the lip and crashing.

  “No!”

  “Fallon!” Only when my mother’s blunt nails peeled the skin on my arm did I realize she’d stopped me from throwing myself out the door.

  I kept screaming. My insanity raged against reality. The world spun and dipped, andflashed crimson. Everything roared, swallowing the animal-like howls tearing through my lungs. I felt deranged, completely unhinged, like someone losing something so utterly precious to them that the very idea of living was unbearable. It was inconceivable. I wanted to die. I wanted to throw myself out of the car and dive into the ditch and… and what? What was wrong with me?

  “Fallon? Fallon, calm down.” Although soothing, my mom’s tone did nothing to calm the hysteria eating me up inside.

  “Don’t leave him!” I pleaded, only just then realizing I was sobbing like my heart would cease beating if I stopped. “Don’t leave him! Please!”

  “We have to go,” she said, still holding on to me as she used her free hand to maneuver the Impala back onto the road.

  “No!” I shrieked, renewing my thrashing, throwing myself against the door. “Don’t leave him!”

  But she didn’t stop and I was taken away; away from the other half of me.

  End of preview

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