Survival Strategies of the Almost Brave (15 page)

Billie laid her head on my shoulder and snuggled into me.

The engine roared and the bed shook beneath us. We pulled forward, bumping over potholes in the road.

The cat continued to meow.

“What's wrong?” yelled the Tattoo Guy, his voice carrying back to us over the music and the meowing.

Billie buried her face in my arm and stifled a sneeze.

Shh.

“I couldn't help it,” she whispered.

Of course she couldn't. None of us could help anything.

The cat kept meowing.

Don't you tell him, cat. You keep your meowing to yourself.

Billie and me had a lot of traveling left to do. Migration usually takes a very long time; just ask a flock of geese. It could take months. Whales migrate, too. Sometimes they can be delayed by fishing boats, or changes in water temperature, or a school of sharks.

Sharks aren't always scary like what you see in movies. Back before I was born, Mom swam with sharks. She told me once when I was in fourth grade and was doing a report in science on the nurse shark. It was one of those unusual days when we had her all to ourselves. She took us to my favorite place, the aquarium. I had my face pressed against the glass of the shark tank, which made long, streaky steam marks from my nostrils, but Mom hadn't told me to stop.

We had been staring at the sharks for a while.

“They look kind of scary, huh?” I asked Mom.

She smiled a smile that I didn't recognize. “Oh, some sharks aren't so bad.”

“Yeah, until you're face-to-face with one in the ocean,” I said.

“I have been face-to-face with one.”

“What?” I asked. “When?”

“A long time ago, when I went with your dad to Australia. It was his idea. He said he needed to practice with his underwater camera. So we went, and of course I was being stupid and trying to impress him, so I acted like it was no big deal.”

“Weren't you scared?” The sharks darted past, first in one direction and then another, like they couldn't make up their minds.

She turned to me and laughed. “Of course. Wouldn't you be scared?”

I nodded. I mean, those sharks looked pretty decent now, but I'd seen on
Planet Earth
what sharks did when they were hungry.

“At first it was awful. But after I got used to it, it was awesome. Sand sharks couldn't care less about people,” Mom said.

Then she stopped, like she remembered she never talked about my dad. The happy look in her eyes vanished; replaced by the blank one I usually saw if his name was ever mentioned.

“Are we ever going to see Dad again?” I asked.

The sharks in the aquarium seemed to be swimming faster. “Probably not,” she said.

“Why?”

“Trust me, Liberty. It's better this way. It's better for everyone. He isn't the same person anymore. He changed.”

“How?” I asked.

She tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “He just did. He has a lot of problems.”

“Like what?”

She stared at the sharks as she spoke. “It's hard to explain. The world is too difficult to manage for your father. He is not comfortable in normal life. He's not the same person I met years ago.”

I didn't get it. How could someone change so much?

“Like being camouflaged?” I asked. I knew there was a dragonfly that looked like a stick.

She looked unsure. “Sort of.” But then she turned her attention back to the sharks. “Besides the nurse shark, which is your favorite?”

Conversation about Dad over.

And since Mom had died, nothing good ever happened anymore. Except for Billie. She was the one good thing. And Mom was right. Dad was like a shark: interesting to look at from far away, but don't get too close or you'll be sorry.

 

Survival Strategy #32:

DREAMS ARE DANGEROUS, TOO

I slid through the water like a dolphin
.
In the ocean deep, I had goggle eyes. Everything seemed so much clearer than it ever had on land. Here, everything made sense. The fish, the seaweed, the coral, electric and bright, were a part of me. I held the creamy egg carefully, trying not to rip its shell, and dipped down into the black water, touching the sandy bottom just to say I could.

I had a mission. The sea turtle, the one I saw on the beach—I had to find her. I had her fragile egg, the one she left in the sand. She would want it back. Once she realized what I had, she would want it.

She had to want it.

But the turtle swam away and disappeared into a kelp bed; bubbles chased behind her and then popped into nothing. I was alone, except for the egg. I was responsible. How would I ever take care of a baby sea turtle? I wasn't its mother. How could I possibly know what to do?

 

Survival Strategy #33:

ACCIDENTS HAPPEN

“Driver, ten-four, I see you on my left. I'll back off the hammer. Appreciate the information. Over.”

Static forced its way through my brain, pounding and buzzing. My head was killing me.

“Are you awake now?” whispered Billie.

I couldn't have fallen asleep. I was in charge.

“Liberty,” Billie whispered.

I rolled over, annoyed at being disturbed. I had been doing something important, but I couldn't remember what now.

“What?”

Billie looked scared. “You were talking in your sleep. You're being too loud.”

I sat up and pushed the pillow away from under my head. It smelled like something rotten. Then I remembered everything: waiting at the gas station, Shiny Head, the Lavender Lady, the Spoon Guy, and Roger and his awful brother, Jax. And for some reason, thinking of Roger made me even sadder than I was. And then, of course, there was the lost money. My stomach twisted.

The semi walls swayed around us as we thundered down the road. The garbled radio and the rumble of the engine hurt my ears. I lay flat on the mattress, staring at the plastic ceiling covered with a pattern of little white dots. Worry nibbled on my toes until it found a hole and climbed right into my body. It dove into my bloodstream and traveled through my veins and into my brain, filling my mind with all sorts of horrible thoughts.

1. We can't do it.

2. We'll never get to our condo.

3. Our dad left us.

4. Our mom did, too.

5. Julie doesn't want us.

6. Nobody wants us.

I pulled my notebook out of my pocket and chucked it across the bed. Tears leaked down the side of my face.

“Are you crying?” whispered Billie, her face only inches from me, her eyes reflecting worry like a mirror. She didn't need to whisper; I could hardly hear anything but the hum of the road, the radio, and the engine bulldozing us ahead.

I flipped over onto my stomach and wiped the tears with the back of my hand. “No. I think it's the cat. It's getting to me. I must have allergies like Mom.”

Billie nodded slowly, examining me with her eyes, like she was searching for proof of allergies. The corners of her mouth turned up a little as she pulled back a small curtain over a window along the right side of the wall.

“Look. A window.”

But I turned away. I didn't want to look out a window at a road with a name I didn't know, in a place I had never been, that led somewhere with no familiar face to greet us. I hugged my knees into my chest to stop my stomach from clenching up into a tight ball.

“I saw a dead dog by the side of the road when you were asleep,” Billie said softly, craning her neck to look at the road behind us. The sun sat in the sky like a helium balloon clinging to a string. I looked at my watch. It said 2:45.

“It didn't even look dead. It looked like it was just taking a nap, except for the blood,” she continued.

“Really?” I said, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I leaned over and pulled Billie into a hug. “I'm sorry.” It came out wrong and muffled into the top of her hair. I tried to blink back my tears.

She pushed herself backward to get a look at my face, and then very slowly she placed a small hand on my cheek. “Don't worry. You're good, Liberty.”

I shook my head. No. I wasn't. Look at what had happened to us. It was my fault. It had to be.

“Liberty, you're so good.” A smile crept into the corners of her mouth and stayed there.

Meow. Meow.

Billie and I both leaned down and peered over the edge of the bed. The cat sat at the foot of the ladder and meowed at us. Thankfully, we were too far for it to jump up. I didn't want to give Tattoo Guy a reason to come up here.

“Shoo!” I whispered, waving my hand.

“Don't,” said Billie. “He's just lonely.” Her eyes were soft.

Mine used to be like that, too, soft like bunny slippers. But not now. Not after everything. I craned my neck to see if Tattoo Guy was bothered by the meowing. But all I saw was the sleeve of his shirt and his arm covered in swirls and lines and ghostly faces.

“What are you bawling about?” he yelled. For a second it felt like my blood froze right inside my veins, thinking he was talking to us, but he was just talking to the cat. Then his voice got sweet. “Come here, Mr. Sprinkles. Come on now.” His voice reminded me of the chocolaty milk that's left over after you eat a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

“Mr. Sprinkles,” he called.

The cat turned in his direction, licking its whiskers.

“Come on, Mr. Sprinkles. Come give me some sugar.” He talked to his cat like it was a baby.

Billie covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, “That's silly.”

Maybe a guy who named his cat Mr. Sprinkles really couldn't be all that bad.

Suddenly the truck slowed to a stop. Billie held on to me, and I grabbed on to the edge of the wall as we almost rolled right off the bunk. I held on tight. We could have smashed Mr. Sprinkles flat as a stingray.

“Breaker. Breaker. Waterford Driver, what's the slowdown up there?” Tattoo Guy asked. The garbled static from the CB hurt my ears. Soon, another voice filled the cab, low and loud, but I could only make out a few words over Tattoo Guy's music.

The music stopped, along with the giant truck tires. We were at a standstill, which felt strange after constant movement.

“Do what, driver?” Tattoo Guy asked.

The voice came back. “You've got a brake check ahead at your front door, right side. A four-wheel or something turned over, greasy side up. There's junk scattered all over the road. Watch yourself. Use caution.”

“Ten-four. Thank you kindly, good neighbor.” Then his music came on again. The truck crept forward as slow as a sea slug. The gears clunked as Tattoo Guy slowed the truck down.

Billie and I crawled across the bed toward the window.

“What did he say?” asked Billie.

“Shh,” I whispered, since now it was much quieter inside. “There's an accident or something up ahead. On the right.” We both crawled to the other window on the right side of the cab.

Billie pulled the curtain back. We craned our necks and pushed our faces against the glass just to get a glimpse of anything. Red and blue lights flashed ahead, but we couldn't see much yet. The truck crawled along and then stopped again.

Tattoo Guy unrolled his window. “Is it bad, officer?” Just hearing the word
officer
made my skin tingle.

“Keep to the left,” said a voice. “We've got almost everything off the road, but the camper's still on its side. Be careful at the end on the right, especially with this load. Where you headed?”

“Barstow. Well, I'm dropping this load in Barstow, but I'm stopping in Junction right before.”

“All right, be careful when you go through the weigh station there. It's a madhouse.”

“Will do,” said Tattoo Guy.

My head spun. There was a camper on its side in the middle of the road? My heart, like the truck engine, began to vibrate. What if it was Dad in that accident? What if it was him lying dead on the road? I gripped the handle above the window.

Mr. Sprinkles started meowing again.

“Come here, kitty,” said Tattoo Guy. “Yes, we're almost there, don't you worry. You'll love it. I know you will. It's like cat paradise.” He continued to talk to his cat as we inched forward.

“What's wrong?” whispered Billie.

I couldn't turn my eyes away from our window. I had to see it for myself. I had to see that camper slammed across the highway. I had to make sure it wasn't ours.

“Nothing. It's just a bad accident. We just have to wait.”

“Okay,” said Billie, tucking herself deeper into the crease between the mattress and the wall, until I could barely see her body. The mattress was big, the width of the cab.

My heart began to drum, getting louder with each passing minute.

What if it's him? What if it's him?

We inched along. The smell of exhaust was so strong, I longed for the semi to be riding the road again with the wind blowing all foul things away.

And then we were there, slowly rolling past the destruction.

A busted cooler, a camping chair, boxes of cereal scattered along the road, some blankets, a broken radio, along with what looked like napkins, someone's tennis shoe, and then a bunch of other stuff I couldn't identify. Everything tossed across the highway like sand.

“Is that someone's clothes?” Billie asked, pointing to a smashed suitcase, its hinges wrenched off.

I nodded.

“Were there people in the camper?” she asked.

I swallowed. “Probably.”

We passed an ambulance. What if someone had died? What if there was a body? I put my hand over Billie's eyes.

“What are you doing?” She shoved my hand away. “I want to see.”

“Fine,” I said.

Now we could see people. There was another policeman directing cars, and two guys pulled over watching everything like they were watching TV. Three people sat on the side of the road—a man with blood on his face, a woman crying, and a kid standing barefoot. They stared at the road like they couldn't believe that one second they were doing something innocent like playing Go Fish and eating Pringles at their little kitchen table and now they were standing on the highway with all their stuff destroyed. Just like a tornado. Or an earthquake. Or an Explorer, the car that killed my mom.