Rebel, Bully, Geek, Pariah (11 page)

We might as well be sitting on a bomb.

“I think the best thing to do is type up our story, like a statement,” Boston said. “We can do that from the cabin and then find a way to get it to the police—the
good
police.”

“As long as we get it to them before they get to us,” York said.

We fell into a tense silence that York broke by turning on the radio. He avoided the police scanner and played with a few knobs until he found what sounded like an actual station.

A couple of guys were talking politics, and I imagined Mama talking back to them like she always did. Sometimes she ended up shouting at the TV or radio, and I'd tell her to turn it off, but I think she secretly liked her one-way conversations. My hand went involuntarily to the cell phone in my purse. Why hadn't she called to check on me? It was after eleven now.

The guys on the radio told us to stand by and introduced a woman at the “news desk.”

“We have a breaking news update on that hit-and-run involving a River City police officer,” she began.

The SUV made a violent lurch as Boston swerved in shock.

“Access roads to River City Park remain closed at this hour, and police are searching for suspects. Several officers were in the park earlier this evening, issuing citations to underage drinkers, when one officer was apparently hit by a vehicle that left the scene.”

Every muscle in my body clenched. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the SUV.

“That officer remains hospitalized tonight, but we're told he is in stable condition with no serious injuries.”

And just like that, my taut muscles unwound, and the sigh of relief that went around the car was like oxygen rushing back in.

We didn't kill him. We didn't kill
anyone
.

“He's alive!” Boston cheered.

York shushed him, and we all crowded in close to the radio to hear the rest of the report.

“Police say the hit-and-run happened in a different area of the park than the underage drinking, and at this time, they do not believe the two incidents are related.”

“This just keeps getting better,” York breathed.

“Shh!”

The reporter continued, “Investigators are looking for a silver SUV with oversize tires. A witness reported seeing an SUV matching that description leave the park. We were able to talk to that witness, and here's what he told us.”

The next voice we heard sounded like an old man's.

“They come tearing out of the trees like a bat out of hell; only slowed down for a second when they hit that curb over there. I told my wife, nothing good never happens in River City Park.”

You got that right, buddy.

The woman's voice took over again. “That same witness told us there were three or four people inside the SUV, including two
males in the front seats and someone in back who may have long dreadlocks.”

Andi clutched her dreads, looking guilty.

The reporter finished by saying the man had given the same description to police and a search was under way.

“Hey!” York shouted at the radio. “You forgot to mention that they tried to shoot us!”

When the DJs went back to their political chatter, Boston glanced away from the road to give a wide-eyed look to the rest of us. “It's . . . good. Right?”

“It's weird,” I said. “Why didn't they give a license-plate number? They should know it; it's their car.”

“But it's not all bad,” Boston insisted. “At least that cop is fine.”

“He's not fine. He's in the hospital,” York said.

“But he's alive,” Andi pointed out. “You dodged a bullet, dude.”

“We all dodged a bullet,” he countered. “Three of  'em. Why didn't they say anything about that?”

“Maybe those cops didn't stick around,” I said. “The, um . . .
other
ones.” Calling them crooked was starting to sound childish to my ears. “Maybe that's why the police don't know we're in an undercover car—the other cops didn't report it.”

“I wouldn't,” York said. “Not with that load of shit in the back.”

“So then, we've got evidence,” Boston said. “The cops who drove this car weren't supposed to be there. Just having the car is proof they were doing something wrong.” He was excited
now. “When the police see that, they'll believe us about the drugs, too!”

York shook his head. “Sure they will.”

“Okay, maybe the police won't believe us,” Boston said, shimmying in his seat to pull his cell phone out of his pocket. “But Mom and Dad will.”

“What are you doing?” York grabbed for the phone, but Boston elbowed him out of the way and started to dial.

“Watch the road!” Andi shouted as Boston veered across the center line.

York lunged again, and this time Boston pushed back, taking both hands off the wheel. The SUV squealed to the right as the wheel spun free, and I felt a skid as our tires hit gravel.

Well, at least if we die right now, we won't go to prison.

Boston corrected in time, but he still had only one hand on the wheel. The other was wrapped around the cell phone, which York also had a fist around. He was trying to pry Boston's fingers away.

“Just once,” York said, breathing heavily, “just once, can you not go running to them? Just once, can you take my side?”

Boston didn't answer, but I saw some of the struggle go out of his arm.

York released his grip. “Thank you.”

Boston's hand hung in the air, still clutching the phone, even after York sat back, satisfied.

“Promise you won't call them,” York said. “Promise.”

But Boston hesitated for just a moment too long, and the next thing I knew, Andi was reaching into the front seat. With
one hand, she snatched the phone out of Boston's now-limp grip while the other hand lowered her window. Wind rushed into the car, and Boston's phone rushed in the other direction, sailing out the window and into the dark.

 

14

“AND THAT SETTLES that,” Andi said, calmly raising her window with the push of a button.

I gaped at her and held my purse a little tighter, in case she reached for my phone next.

“You bitch!” Boston said. “You psychotic bitch!”

“I'm just helping you focus on the road,” she said. “You almost killed us fighting over that phone. You obviously
are
too young to drive.”

“I have my learner's permit,” Boston shot back.

“So you'll be a sophomore this year?” she asked him, totally conversationally, like she hadn't just thrown his five-hundred-dollar phone out onto the highway.

Boston just shook silently in the front seat. I imagined I could see steam coming off his head.

“He's a junior,” York said. “He started kindergarten early.”

“I've never seen you in school,” Andi said, still talking to Boston. There was doubt in her voice that set my teeth on edge.

“Well!” I spit it out like something hot, surprising myself as much as everyone else. “If you haven't seen him, then he must not be a junior. He probably doesn't go to Jefferson at all. Maybe, if you haven't seen him, he doesn't even exist!”

In the silence that followed, I wanted to gather up all the words I'd spilled and shove them back into my mouth. Five-second rule! But I only sat there seething. It was one thing to keep your head down and try to go unnoticed; it was another to have someone basically call you a ghost in your own school—as if being invisible wasn't a choice.

Andi rolled her shoulders like she was physically shrugging something off, then tilted her chin toward Boston. “I just meant you're not in any of my classes . . . right?”

I enjoyed the tiny tinge of guilt she layered onto the last word.

Boston glared at her in the rearview mirror, and she pointed a finger, directing his eyes back to the road.

“I'm in your grade, not your classes,” he said through clenched teeth. “I've never had class with any of you except her.” He jerked a thumb back at me.

I quickly scanned my memory for Boston in biology, composition, or any other subject, but if he was there, I couldn't see him. I'd only ever noticed him in the hallways. I wondered if that made me as guilty as Andi.

“And not since third grade,” Boston finished. “That's when we switched to a private elementary school.”

Well, that explained how he knew about Worms. I guess some things were just written on the world in permanent marker, no matter how much you tried to erase them.

“Now I'm splitting my schedule between AP and college courses so I can graduate early.”

“Cool,” I said.

York let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, cool. My brother, who is two years younger than I am, will graduate the same day as me.”

“
If
you graduate,” Boston retorted.

York shot a hand out as fast as lightning and shoved the side of Boston's head. To his credit, Boston kept the car straight.

“God,” I complained. “Are you guys always like this?”

“Like what?” York and Boston said in unison. Then they both cracked up, their shared laughter instantly outweighing any sibling spat.

Andi poked me. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You're mostly quiet, and then . . .” She made a sound in the back of her throat and pantomimed an explosion.

“Sorry,” I said. And I was, a little. “It just came out.”

“Well, lighten up,” Andi said. “Things are looking better. At least we didn't kill a cop. No one's going down for murder.”

“If not murder charges, then what?” York asked. “Hit-and-run? Is that a charge?”

“Leaving the scene of an accident.” Andi ticked crimes off on her fingers. “Assaulting a police officer. Assault with a deadly weapon.”

“What weapon?” York scoffed.

“The car,” she answered.

“How do you know that?”

“Everybody knows that.”

“She's right,” Boston said. “And add attempted vehicular homicide to that list.”

These charges were starting to sound made-up.

“We didn't
attempt
anything,” York said. He looked back at us girls. “Boston thinks he's going to be a lawyer or something.”

“I'm going to be a judge,” Boston corrected. “And then a Supreme Court justice.” He lowered his voice. “At least I
was
. Before this.”

“Oh stop,” York said. “This isn't going to ruin your perfect plan. Shit doesn't stick to you. It just rolls right off.”

“This isn't getting busted drinking at some stupid party,” Boston protested. “This is, like, multiple felonies. The longer we wait to tell our side of the story, the more guilty we look. And if they don't believe us, then . . . God, our whole lives—
poof
. Gone. I can't get into an Ivy League school with a criminal record.”

“Right,” York said. “It's all about your precious college applications. As long as you get a perfect SAT score, I'm sure schools won't care if you got caught up in some crime spree.”

A crime spree? Is that what this was? One crime could be chalked up to accident, but a
spree
? I shivered despite the heat.

Outside the car, pinpoints of light stabbed through the darkness, every one of them a searchlight seeking us out.

“What is that?” I asked. “A town?”

“Not really,” York said. “Just a few houses, a couple of gas stations, and a Walmart. We stop here for supplies when we go to the cabin.”

A few minutes later, we flew past the exit for the town, and in the distance I could see a sign lit up with spotlights.

Welcome to Prison.

I blinked and looked again.

Welcome to Pitson.

 

AFTER

“TWENTY MINUTES, LADIES.”

I don't bother to protest that I'm in the middle of a story. I know the drill. When visiting time is over, it's over. Once, when I was little, I threw a temper tantrum and refused to let go of Mama's leg for, like, fifteen minutes past visiting hours. The prison told Grandma if it happened again, I wouldn't be allowed to come back. Jails were usually a little more lenient, but it's best not to push it. I'll have to be quick.

“Maybe I should just skip to the—”

“No,” Mama interrupts. “Tell me everything.”

Her fingers are splayed and stiff on the cold metal table. It's obvious my story is freaking her out—giving her some kind of guilt complex. A million questions are on her face, but she knows there's no time to ask them.

Instead, she whispers, “I wish you had called me right away.”

“Would it have made a difference?” I ask.

Mama smiles weakly.

“Thank you for the violin, Sammy. That was very thoughtful.”

“Not like I can give it to you in here, though, huh?” I say.

Mama shakes her head, and a single tear slips down her cheek.

“Anyway,” I say, leaning back. “Don't thank me yet.”

 

15

“I HAVE TO pee,” Andi said a few miles down the road.

“Why didn't you say that back at Pit Stop?” York said.

“What's Pit Stop?”

“That town. Pitson. We call it Pit Stop, because that's really all there is to it.”

“Fascinating,” Andi drawled. “Pull over.”

“Can you wait?” Boston asked. “We're only, like, ten minutes from the cabin.”

“Ten minutes in a car that smells like pee is going to feel like a looong time,” she said.

Boston checked his mirror to make sure there were no cars behind him and reluctantly pulled to the side of the road. “Hurry up.”

“You have to go?” Andi asked me.

I shook my head. I did kind of  have to go, but I wasn't excited about doing it in a strange field in the middle of nowhere.