Rebel, Bully, Geek, Pariah (9 page)

I shook my head. “Forget it.”

But Andi was engaged now. She shifted in her seat to rest her back against the car door and propped her feet up on the bench next to me.

“So you don't talk much. You don't drink. What else don't you do?”

I don't answer questions that are nobody's business.

“I don't cry.”

“Ha!” Andi crowed. “We'll see about that. You've got crybaby written all over you.”

“I think you have me confused with Boston,” I deflected.

I felt like an asshole the second the words left my lips. The kid had every reason to cry. Crying was probably downright normal in this situation. I was about to open my mouth to apologize when York whipped around in his seat, not so asleep after all.

“Don't you talk about my brother, you little nobody!”

“Whoa!” Andi pressed her palm hard against York's forehead and pushed him back into his seat. “Somebody's awake.”

A nobody. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that being invisible pretty much made me nobody at all, but the word stung just the same.

After a moment, York turned again. “I didn't mean— It's just . . . I can't let people shit on my brother, y'know?”

I said nothing, instead staring at my hands as though I could actually see them disappearing.

“Come on, Hat Girl. I'm sorry.”

“Her name is Sam,” Andi said.

York watched me for another second, but when I refused to meet his eye, he flopped back in his seat, huffing. “That's a boy's name.”

Andi laughed. “You should talk,
York
and
Boston
. What the hell is that about?”

“They're cities,” Boston said. “Obviously.”

“York is a city?” Andi raised an eyebrow.

“As in
New
York,” York said.

“Were your parents hippies or something?”

Boston eyed Andi in the rearview mirror. “If our parents were hippies, we'd be named Sunshine and Willow.”

Andi shook her head. “Nope. I don't think anyone would call either of you Sunshine.”

“Our parents are venture capitalists.” Boston puffed out his chest, but York deflated it with a backhanded smack.

“Don't try to make them sound cooler than they are.”

“What's a venture capitalist?” I asked, glad the focus was off me.

Boston answered, “They invest in start-up companies. They give money to entrepreneurs to get something going, and when it takes off, they make a profit.”

“They help people open restaurants and shit,” York said. “It's not like they funded Google or something.”

“Our parents are really important people!” Boston was getting loud now.

Andi shrugged. “Sound like hippies to me, Sunshine.”

“If they're important,” I said, “maybe they can help us.”

What would that be like?
I wondered. To have a parent in a position to help instead of one who was perpetually on parole.

“They won't help us,” York said. He and Boston shared a look, and then he added, “Okay, they won't help
me
.” He flipped the visor over his seat up and down a few times, then said quietly, “Our parents are assholes.”

The silence that followed lasted only a second before Andi laughed. “Hey, whose aren't?”

11

“WE'RE ALMOST OUT of gas,” Boston said a few minutes down the road.

“Perfect,” I muttered.

York pointed into the darkness ahead. “I think the next exit has a gas station.”

“You can't stop!” Andi sat up straight in her seat.

“We can't?” York turned around, eyes wide with mock surprise. “Gee, thanks for letting us know. We'll be sure to keep driving until the car dies, then. Good call.”

Andi returned his sarcasm with a withering stare. “Well, we can't just roll into a gas station in this car.”

“We could dump this car and get a new one.” The words were out of my mouth before I could think them over. “What?” I said when York and Andi gaped at me. “That's what they do in the movies.”

And this must be a movie, since it can't possibly be my life.

“Brilliant idea,” York said, using the same tone with me that he had with Andi. “Except, wait . . .” He made a show of
patting his pockets. “Yeah, damn. Left my carjacking kit at home. Bummer.”

I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh. He was right. The idea was so stupid it was almost funny, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a smile, not after what he'd called me.

“I'm not stealing any more cars,” Boston said decisively as he breezed past the exit.

Our headlights fell on a sign looming up alongside the freeway, making it glow against the night sky. A cheery cartoon cornstalk with googly eyes and stick legs waved from one side of the sign.

NOW LEAVING RIVER CITY.

All I'd ever wanted to do. But not like this.

The words burned bright in my vision even after we'd passed the sign, and I sat up with a jolt as the message really hit me.

“Guys,” I said, breathless. “We're not in River City anymore.”

“That's right, Dorothy,” Andi chirped. “We're in hell. Toto, too.”

I ignored her and plowed ahead. “I mean, we're not in the River City police jurisdiction.”

“So?” York said. “They'll be looking for us everywhere.”

Boston checked his mirrors as though a highway patrol car might pull up at York's very suggestion.

“But they won't be as pissed,” Andi said, my meaning settling in. “We didn't kill
their
cop.”

“We didn't kill anyone,” Boston said.

York sighed. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Those other police—I don't think they want to arrest us at all,” I said. “They threatened us. They shot at us. But the county cops . . . they might actually
listen
to us.”

York twisted in his seat, and this time he didn't mock my suggestion. “So, tell us what to do.”

We huddled at the center of the SUV as I laid out a plan. At the next populated exit we saw, we'd pull off for gas and look for a county cop car. There was usually a deputy or two cruising around the tiny towns that didn't have their own law enforcement. If we didn't spot one, then we'd call 9-1-1 as a last resort, but it would be better to tell our story in person, before word went out over all the law-enforcement frequencies that the River City cop killers wanted to confess. We'd still be in deep shit, but we'd be safe from cops bent on revenge.

York nodded emphatically as I talked, and though Andi twitched and sighed a few times, she didn't argue. Even Boston, with his eyes on the road, offered the occasional “Yeah” and “Good idea.” I smiled inwardly. Maybe all of this wasn't really my problem, but it still felt good to be part of the solution.

Finally, Boston pulled off the freeway onto a strip of road with two fast-food joints and a single filthy gas station. My mouth watered at the sight of the pair of golden arches over one of the drive-throughs, and I imagined I could smell burgers and fries.

I cleared my throat. “Could we maybe stop for—”

“Oh my God, food!” Andi said.

“Exactly,” I laughed. I actually
laughed
.

Boston parked at a gas pump. “We're only here long enough to fill up. You can grab something inside. And hurry,” he urged. “We want to find a deputy before they find us, remember?”

Andi pouted and opened her door.

“Wait,” Boston commanded. He ducked low in his seat, peering up and out the windows like a turtle sticking out its neck.

“Uh, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Checking for cameras.” He sat up straight again. “It's clear. If anyone in there asks, we're camping nearby and getting supplies, okay?”

Andi and I agreed, but York only growled as he got out of the car. “Whatever. Stop acting like you know what you're doing.”

I rounded the back of the SUV and started to pass by York as he fumbled with the gas pump, but his arm shot out, blocking my path.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, what?”

“I really am sorry about before. I didn't—”

“Whatever; forget it.”

“Um, here.” He dug around in his pocket and came up with a wadded bill. “For the gas. I don't think we should use our credit—”

“Fine.” I snatched it out of his hand and stomped away without looking back.

The inside of the gas station was sweltering.

“Sorry. Air conditioner's broke,” the clerk greeted us.

I dropped York's twenty on the counter, and Andi peeled off her army jacket, revealing a black tank top and bare arms. Well, not entirely bare—her inner forearms were covered elbow to wrist in tattoos. She caught me staring and held them out to give me a better look. Two identical tree trunks stretched the length of each arm, their roots wrapping around Andi's slender wrists and their branches fading away at the top as if the leaves didn't matter.

“They're teak trees,” she said. “The strongest on the planet. Like me.”

The detail of the bark was mesmerizing, almost three-dimensional, and I reached out a hand to feel it, but Andi snatched her arms back. “Yo! No touching. I don't know you that well.”

“Really?” I stared her right in the eye. “You don't have a problem touching
my
things.”

She gave me an appraising look. “Touché.”

“York has one, too,” I said. “A tattoo. On his chest. I think it's a name. . . .”

I trailed off when I saw Andi smirking.

“So, just the trees?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I have seven total. The trees, a snake, cherubs—”

“Cherubs?” I raised an eyebrow. “Like angels?”

Andi grinned. “They're ironic.”

“Which one's your favorite?” I asked.

She turned and lifted the bottom of her tank top to reveal a leprechaun dancing on the small of her back. “This guy. I designed him myself. Cool, huh?”

I wondered if she would still think it was cool when she was eighty-five with sagging skin, and that leprechaun fell into her butthole.

“You know, there's an island in Tahiti where they still do tattoos in the traditional way, with needles made out of sharks' teeth,” I said. “I'm going there someday.”

The last bit came out in a rush, and I held my breath, waiting for Andi to laugh, but she only nodded.

“Sounds awesome.”

I smiled as we started combing the shelves for snacks. “So your parents don't care? About all the ink?”

“My dad. And not only does he not care, he doesn't even notice.”

“Kind of hard to miss,” I said.

Andi picked up a box of powdered doughnuts, then put it back down again. “You'd think.”

“No mom?”

“Dead.”

“Sorry.”

She shrugged. “I don't remember her, so it's no big deal.”

I understood that. My dad wasn't dead, but he'd left so long ago, I couldn't remember him, either.

Andi pulled a few bags of beef jerky off a hook and quickly tucked them under her jacket, which she draped over her arm.

“Oh, come on!” I complained in a low voice. “We're in enough trouble.”

“Don't remind me.” Andi tucked a package of pink Snowballs into her messenger bag.

“I'm just saying, we're already—”

“No,
seriously
. Don't remind me. I'm trying to pretend for a minute that this whole night isn't happening.”

I turned away, and the moment my back was to her, Andi shoved something into my rear jeans pocket.

“What the—”

“Shh.” She pushed my back. “Just keep walking.”

I planned to pull whatever it was out of my pocket as soon as Andi stepped away, but she stayed right on my heels, herding me toward the front door. We were just feet from the exit when the clerk's voice stopped us.

“Hold it,” he said.

Damn it. Damn kleptomaniac!

We were so screwed. It was just a hop, skip, and a jump from shoplifting to stolen cop car spotted to teenage killers caught. Andi's stupid habit was going to get us busted before we had a chance to tell our side of the story.

We turned slowly toward the clerk, and I started to put my hands up, but Andi grasped my wrist and forced it down to my side. She winked at the clerk, who was leaning deep over the counter. “Yes?”

“What are you ladies up to tonight?” His eyes raked Andi's body from head to toe, and I mentally thanked her for taking her jacket off.

“We're going camping,” she said.

“Oh, yeah?” He leered at her for another second, then his gaze shifted to me, and his jaw went a little slack. “Your eyes,” he said. “They're . . .”

Unnatural? Bizarre?
I'd heard it all, including, occasionally,
beautiful
, but usually people looked more frightened than impressed by my eye color. Mama's eyes were an identical shade, and she liked to call it “palest green, like the inside of a lime.” Or, as a boy in third grade once told me, “a freaky alien green.” I had thought that was rude, but Mama said it was just a third-grade boy's way of telling me I was pretty and he noticed.

Most of the time I liked that Mama and I had this in common, this thing that made us inextricably mother and daughter. But other times, I knew people—teachers, counselors, even Aunt Ellen—looked into my eyes and saw only Mama, and it just gave me one more reason not to be seen.

“They're contacts,” I lied. Much easier than getting into some drawn-out conversation with a guy we shouldn't be talking to in the first place.

“You girls need help putting up your tent?” The clerk grinned, and I noticed one of his teeth was capped in silver. “I know how to light a fire.”