Don't Fail Me Now (10 page)

Denny considers this, his little brow furrowing. I wonder how all these pieces connect in his brain and whether they make any sense to him yet. “Aunt Sam's family, and she sucks,” he says.

“You've got a point,” I laugh.

“I just want you and Cass and Mom as my family,” he says, giving the back of my seat a hard kick for emphasis.

Shit, Cass
. I have no idea where she went. “Stay here for a sec,” I tell Denny, getting out of the car and surveying the overwhelmingly beige suburban landscape. Leah is standing in the middle of an empty parking spot a few feet away, staring intently at her phone. The lot is about half-f, and people amble from their cars toward the shaded strip that houses, in addition to the Kinko's and RadioShack, a sad-looking gym, an Edible Arrangements, and a Mexican restaurant called Burrito Allegre.

I lean against the hood, dial Cass, and try not to panic as it rings and rings. I don't think she would actually try to ditch us—this is still the girl who, now that my mom's legs aren't long enough to hide her, darts around corners to avoid talking to strangers—but she's not above laying low for an hour or two and making me sweat it out as punishment.

“Cass, please come back to the car,” I beg after that Stepford female robot voice tells me to leave a message at the tone. “I know today has been crazy, but you're only making it worse by hiding.”

“Who's hiding?”

I turn to see Cass standing by the rear bumper, holding her backpack by one frayed strap.

“I was just doing my shot,” she says. “The gym let me use their bathroom.” She leans in conspiratorially and gives me a
little smile. “I could've even taken a shower, they didn't care. For future reference.”

“Thanks,” I say slowly, shutting off my phone. My sister is acting downright chipper . . . which happens about as often as a Halley's Comet sighting these days. I'm thrown by the quicksilver change in mood, but hey, I'll take it. Since we don't have enough cash to get us all the way to Venice, we might have to rely on our sparkling personalities.

Speaking of which, Tim has materialized with a triumphant grin and is chaperoning a reluctant Leah back to the car.

“I got us some food,” he says, holding up a greasy paper bag. “Figured we could have a parking lot picnic.” I watch as Tim doles out tacos to the kids, calling the girls “m'lady” and goofing around with Denny—even offering food to Max. Having another person around to play grown-up might not be so bad after all.

“And for you, I got a burrito,” he says, turning to me with a smile. “For old time's sake.” He's clearly very pleased with himself, and although I try to fight a reflexive smile, I can feel it starting to show.

“What, I'm not worth a bouquet of cantaloupe?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips and nodding toward the Edible Arrangements.

“Next time,” he says, “I'll buy you a dozen long-stemmed honeydews. But for now: truce?”

I take the foil sleeve and examine its contents. “What kind?” I ask, poking a finger under the wrapper.

“Just bean and cheese,” he says. “I didn't know if you were a vegetarian.”

“Sour cream and guac?” I like to douse my food in more
condiments than a normal human should consume in one sitting.

“Yes and yes,” he says. “I decided to go for it.”

The smile breaks through, despite my best efforts. “Thanks,” I say.

Tim looks relieved. “So we're good?”

I cock my head and think for a minute. “Maybe just one more thing?”

A few minutes later, Tim is punching Aunt Sam's number into his phone, and I'm holding up a cue card made from the back of a Chinese take-out menu I found on the floor in the backseat. I'm 99 percent sure Aunt Sam won't pick up a random call from an unknown number, but I bite my tongue nervously until Tim gives me a thumbs-up sign.

“Hi, Mrs. Means,” he says, dropping his voice again. “This is Agent Yusuk from CPS. I'm calling to let you know we picked up your nieces and nephew and will be holding them for a few days to ask them some further questions. We'll be sending you a check for your trouble. Take care.” He hangs up and shakes his head, laughing. “I don't get it.”

“You don't have to,” I say. “Just know you got back some good juju.” Hopefully that message will keep Aunt Sam from reporting us missing or saying something to Mom, at least for a while. And I love picturing her checking the mailbox every day, resplendent in her kimono, for a nonexistent payoff.

“Phew,” he says with a playful grin. “I guess things are looking up.”

I take a bite of my burrito and look up at the bright, cloudless sky. I'm not convinced yet, but I have to admit, it's a nice thought.

Wednesday Night

I-70 W, Near Terre Haute, IN

Almost nine
P.M.
and the Indiana highway is dark and quiet, with streetlamps only at intersections, so in between all we can see are the headlights of other cars flashing past like fireflies. In the past ten hours, we've been through four states. Pennsylvania was a breeze, just a quick shortcut across the southwestern corner (which took us right through a town named, ironically, California), but then Ohio was a long, flat slog punctuated by passive-aggressive fighting between Leah and Cass—who literally could not agree on a radio station to save their own lives—and Denny either complaining about being bored or having to use the bathroom. (An impromptu song consisting only of the lyrics “I HAVE TO POOP!” serenaded us through downtown Columbus.)

Tim and I have spent most of our time hashing out a decent cover story. I have more experience crafting lies of omission, but it turns out that he, in addition to singing lead tenor in an all-boys a cappella group called the SkeleTone Crew, is co-captain of the McDonogh debate team, which means he always has to have the last word. So for now, we're at an impasse.

“I just don't think it's
believable
that I would borrow a friend's car and then drive it three thousand miles on a whim,” he says. We've been trying to come up with an alternate vehicle for them to be riding in, since everyone agrees it's best that Tim and Leah's parents don't know they're with us.

“Could you hitchhike?” I ask.

“Ew, no way,” Leah says.

“Yeah,” Tim says. “That would completely freak them out. They'd have our pictures on some national news site in about five minutes.” He sighs. “Missing kids drive page views like crazy.”

“Depends on the kids,” I say, changing lanes. “What about . . . do you have a girlfriend?”

Leah snorts, and Tim reaches back to swat her. “Why is that so funny?” he asks. To me, he says, “Uh, not currently.”

“Damn.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. Believe me, I wish I did.”

“It'd be a good cover for a car,” I shrug.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

I feel color rising in my cheeks but hope it's too dark for him to notice. “Not relevant,” I say. “I'm not driving with you, remember?”

“Right,” Tim says. “I forgot.”

“You can't forget that part!” I say. “I don't want the cops chasing
me
.”

“They wouldn't
actually
call the cops,” he says at the same time Denny announces, “Michelle
doesn't
have a boyfriend.”

“Thanks, Den!” I say, hoping to cut him off there. I guess I don't mind Tim and Leah knowing I don't have a boyfriend—this trip means we'll have to start getting to know each other, piece by piece—but I don't want them to know I've
never
had one. The sad truth is that I've only been kissed once, in sixth grade, on a dare during a brief and regrettable period when I was trying to make friends with the popular girls in middle school. His name was Ernest Hudson, and we faced off on the basketball court like it was high noon, slowly moving closer and closer and then connecting almost violently, as if we were two magnets held apart and then let suddenly go. His potato chip–flavored tongue thrashed around in my mouth for exactly four seconds. I know because I counted, because I just stood there, squeezing my eyes shut, listening to the catcalls swelling around me in surround sound, thinking,
Is this how it's supposed to feel?
I still don't know, because I never tried it again.

“What about that weird Russian guy in your grade who looks like he's forty-five?” Leah asks. “Doesn't he drive to school?”

“Yeah, but I've never even spoken to him,” Tim says.

“Then he's perfect,” I say. “So here's what you tell them: Leah was going to sleep over at Hannah's house, but then during English, the teacher mentions
As I Lay Dying
or something, and it makes her think about Buck, and she freaks out in the middle of class, so you decide to take her off campus
to calm her down, and she starts begging you to take her to see him.”

“We have a counselor at school,” Leah says. “Even if I did lose it in public—which I wouldn't—I'd get sent to her office.”

“Maybe she was at lunch,” I sigh. “It doesn't matter. The point is, Tim is worried enough that he asks his Good Samaritan buddy Vladimir or whatever to borrow his car.”

“His name's Dmitri,” Tim says.

“And security would never let us leave,” Leah adds. “You can't hide under a set of
Toy Story
sheets if you're the one driving.”

“Just say you forged it,” I say. “This doesn't have to be airtight. You just have to make it pathetic enough so they won't focus on the details.”

“It's definitely pathetic enough,” Cass says.

“You got something better?” I expect her to retreat back into the hood of her sweatshirt, but instead my sister speaks up.

“Well, I just don't think she should snap all of a sudden. I think it should be premeditated.”

“Why?” Leah asks.

“It's just more serious or something. You thought it out. You knew what you were doing.” Cass leans back, the vinyl squeaking against her jeans. “It's better than being powerless.”

“I think they'd be even madder if they knew we planned something,” Tim says. “But man, how do you
accidentally
drive across the country?”

Desperation
, I want to say, but I bite my tongue. And after a few long seconds our collective exhaustion syncs up and everyone falls silent for a while, until there's no noise but the
whirring tires on the Indiana highway. And, of course, the ever-present death rattle.

“I'm going to look for a place to stay,” I announce, trying to sound pumped for the kids' sake.

“Thank God,” Leah says. “I can't be in this car anymore. I think my butt fell asleep.” Denny guffaws, and I hear the soft shifting of cotton on pleather that tells me Cass is probably throwing her some serious side-eye before tucking her face back into her sleeve.

Instinctively, I want to side with my sister and hate on Leah for pretty much everything she says. But I can't begrudge her wanting to sleep in a real bed. I want that so badly it literally hurts—there's a mad ache in my joints that I know can only be soothed by sinking into a mattress and letting my body rest, even if my brain can't. So it's with genuine sympathy that I break the bad news to her.

“About that,” I say. “The thing is, we have to sleep in the car.”

“WHAT?”

“We can't afford hotels,” I shrug apologetically.

“Yes we can,” she cries. “Tim, don't you have, like, $4,000?”

I look at Tim expectantly, holding my breath. I haven't asked him outright about money yet because I don't want him to feel like I did when Aunt Sam cornered me . . . but if he's loaded, that will solve a lot of problems, and fast.

“No,” he says, grimacing in the glow of his phone screen. “Those are savings bonds from my grandpa, Lee. They don't mature until I'm twenty-one.”

“So . . . we have to wear the same clothes every day for a
week without showering?” Leah says in disbelief, her voice rising with every syllable. “We have to
sleep
in here, all
five
of us? Like
homeless
people?”

“Dibs on the trunk!” Denny says again, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“It's
not
like being homeless,” Tim says.

“Yeah, we're not going to an alley behind a Walmart, we're going to find a campground,” I explain. “Tim, can you search for free camp sites near . . .” I squint up at the green road sign flashing past in the glare of our headlights. “Terre Haute?”

“Wait, camping? We're camping?” Leah says, leaning forward. “Do we at least get tents?”

“I want a tent!” Denny says. Great, the Gospel of Leah is spreading.

I shake my head. “Unless it's raining, some of us can just sleep outside. We've got blankets.”

“No!” Leah says. “I can't—I mean, we
have
to stay in a hotel. I never would have come if I knew we weren't going to have basic stuff like clothes and beds. That's
so
ghetto.”

“Shut. Up,” Cass snaps.

“She does have a point,” Tim says. “It's going to be pretty rough. Maybe we could just find a cheap motel, something really low-end.”

“Sure,” I say. “If you want to spend the rest of the week illegally siphoning gas with your mouth, then by all means, let's spring for a hotel room.”

“Ohhhh-kay,” he exhales. “Exactly how much money do we have?”

I bristle. “
We
don't have money,” I say. “
I
have $276.” I signal right and take the exit ramp. “How much cash do
you
have?”

“Maybe ten bucks,” Tim says sheepishly, quickly adding, “but I bought lunch.”

“No one asked you to.”

“I didn't hear you complaining.”

“You're right, 'cause I was too busy trying to figure out how to cover your asses.”

“You guys!” Leah cries from the backseat.

“We wouldn't have to cover anything if you hadn't showed up at our school and begged us to come with you,” Tim says.

“You
guys
,” Leah repeats.

“Please just
shut up
,” Cass moans. But I can't drop it.

“I don't remember begging
you
to come anywhere,” I say.

“Well, I guess we both made mistakes,” Tim says.

“I wanna go home,” Denny whimpers.

“Guys!” Leah shouts. “Just be quiet, I know what to do.” I hear rustling and then a magnetic snap. In the rearview mirror, I see Leah proudly pull a shiny gold credit card from a pink leather wallet. “I have Jeff's AmEx!” she cries gleefully.

“We can't use that,” Tim sighs. “It's supposed to be for emergencies.”

“This
is
an emergency,” she says, totally serious. And I guess, technically, dictionary definition–wise, she's right. This
is
an unexpected, urgent, and possibly dangerous situation. Especially since at this juncture we're all ready to smack each other senseless.

“Won't they get the bill?” I ask, hating myself a little for how much I want to cave and let her use her magical plastic get-out-of-anything-free card.

“Yeah, but not till next month,” she says. “It'll be too late for them to do anything about it.” She turns to Denny. “Wouldn't
you rather have cable TV and a big down comforter than sleep next to old gas cans in the trunk?”

“They have TV?” Denny perks up at this. He's never been to a hotel. None of us have, except for the one time we visited Mom during the years that she worked at an Embassy Suites.

“Don't get too excited,” I say. “Even if that card can pay for it, nobody's gonna rent a room to five underage kids with no parents.”

“It's not like they'll arrest us,” Leah groans. “We might as well try.”

“Maybe we should,” Tim says. “I mean, we'll never know otherwise, right?”

“It's the law,” I say. “That's how we know.” Devereaux rule #3: Keep your head down. Don't go looking for trouble that can't find you on its own.

“Come on,” Leah says. “Please?”

“Yeah, please?” Denny whines.

“Cass, could you back me up here?” I ask, but the hoodied lump just shrugs. “Okay, fine,” I say testily, looking out at a glowing Comfort Inn sign half a mile down the road. “But don't say I didn't warn you.”

• • •

The front desk is manned by a skinny red-haired guy who can't be more than a few years older than me, with a lumpy Adam's apple and a wide, greasy forehead that reflects the yellow-tinged fluorescent lights above his desk. He's wearing a blue button-down and a nametag that says
QUENTIN
. He looks like a pretty easy mark, as far as corporate types go, but if I had any money I would still bet it all on Quentin kicking us merrily to the curb.

Tim and Leah walk up first, with me, Cass, and Denny trailing by a few feet. I clutch Cass's backpack—stuffed with ramen packets and dollar-store underpants—in a weak attempt at legitimacy, but I'm sure my face gives away my anxiety. Now that the adrenaline rush is gone, the reality of what I've done is sinking in. And not just running away, or missing school, or ditching Mom without bail or Yvonne without a shift manager—all of which are shameful on their own. But Tim is right: It was my idea to take them with us, and now I have two extra pieces of baggage in my car, newbies who don't worry about the things I need to worry about all the time.

“Hi, sir,” Tim says in his fake parent voice, looking like a slightly rumpled Boy Scout. “We're, um, checking in.”

“Can I see some ID?” Quentin looks directly at me, even though I'm not the one at the counter.

“Sure.” Tim pulls out his wallet, and even though I want him to get humiliated (if for no other reason than to prove me right), I have to give him credit for having the balls to keep going.

“Her, too,” he says, nodding at me. Clenching my jaw and holding my head up, I walk over to the desk and slide my license across the slick, fake marble. Quentin looks back and forth from the picture to me, a few more times than necessary.

“We only rent to eighteen and up,” he says curtly. Which is funny, since Tim's birth date didn't seem to bother him. I smack my palm back over my ID.

“Thank you,” I say in a
fuck-you
voice.

“We have the money,” Tim says. “You can charge it up front, if you're worried about contract enforcement.” He smiles self-consciously. “My dad's a lawyer.”