Don't Fail Me Now (11 page)

This nugget of information seems to relax Quentin. “It's really liability,” he says, sounding almost apologetic. “Some people”—he glances at Cass and Denny—“don't know how to behave.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” I say, knowing I should keep quiet but unable to help myself. “That won't be a problem.”

“It's policy,” Quentin says to Tim, deleting me from his field of vision.

“Thanks anyway,” Tim says.
Finally
. I can't beat a hasty enough retreat. But before I can make it to the door, I hear Leah pipe up.

“Hi,
Quentin
,” she says. I spin around to see her leaning on the desk with both elbows. “See, the thing is, our dad is a criminal litigator with Buckman Farrell in Baltimore, and he's working over at the courthouse all night on this crazy murder case. We had to come with him because this is his week with us, and our school is closed for a stupid teacher's retreat, and he figured it was just easier to drop us off because he has to get back to work, and we're super tired and otherwise we'll just be, like, sleeping on benches at the courthouse. And my sister has diabetes,” she adds, gesturing to Cass.

“You guys are all siblings?” Quentin asks incredulously. I want to kick him.

“Um, yeah, interracial families exist, haven't you seen that Cheerios commercial?” Leah says breezily, not missing a beat. “Look, I have my dad's credit card, it's in both of our names, and I can give you my school ID, and like my brother said, you can even precharge the card if you want. But Dad already left, so if you can't accommodate us I'll just call him and ask him to
take us to the Ramada, where I'm sure they'll be more understanding.” She pushes the gold AmEx across the counter like a pro. She might have adjusted to the Harper lifestyle, but there's no mistaking it: That girl's got Buck Devereaux in her blood.

“That was impressive,” I tell her once we're safely in the elevator, clutching our keycards to room 413. I still hate the idea of the hotel, and not just because of the obvious racial profiling, but I know I can't turn down a free room for the night out of pride. Not when the alternative is five people sleeping in a single car.

Leah smiles self-consciously down at the toes of her Mary Janes. “I wanted to help,” she says, and for the first time all day there's not a trace of irony in her voice.

The room, I'll admit, looks like heaven—if heaven were upholstered exclusively in quilted yellow fabric. I even hear Cass say, “Sweet!” under her breath when we step inside. There are two beds, a loveseat, TV, a desk with a vase of stiff fake flowers, and a brightly lit bathroom full of origami towels from which I instinctively swipe all of the mini shampoo and conditioner bottles before anyone even has a chance to shower. Hotels are such a racket—you wouldn't take someone's used mattress off the street, so why would you pay a hundred bucks to sleep on it in a tiny room under a piece of bad abstract art?—and I have a special hatred for them ever since Mom lost her job last year, which led to the seemingly terminal unemployment that led to her starting to use again, but I keep my mouth shut so I don't ruin it for everybody else.

As I run water for Denny's bath, I try to wrap my sluggish brain around the fact that twenty-four hours ago the most
rebellious thing I was doing was testing my aunt's beauty products. I hadn't even found Leah's Instagram, and now she's in the next room, trying to sell Cass on watching a
Pretty Little Liars
marathon instead of
Iron Chef
.

“Ow!” Denny cries suddenly. I'm spacing out, and I let the water get too hot.

“Sorry, meatball.” I adjust the temperature and fight the urge to rub his hair. I probably shouldn't even hang out while he bathes at this age, but it seems like he wants the company, plus I don't really know what to say to any of the others right now. First-grade-level conversation is exactly what I need.

“Can I have more bubbles?” Denny asks, and I nod, letting him squeeze the little complimentary container of lavender body wash until it wheezes and crumples in on itself. I'm relieved I can afford not to be stingy about this one simple luxury when it feels like all I've said this week is no.

“Hey, are you doing okay?” I ask, drawing my knees up under my chin so I'm perched on the toilet like a gargoyle. I look away from Denny's naked torso and catch a glimpse of myself in a magnified makeup mirror, my eyes puffy and red, my chin starting to break out in gravelly little bumps. One of my mother's favorite self-esteem boosters—“If you can't feel good, you might as well
look
good!”—runs through my head, and I hide my face in my jeans, feeling tears climb the back of my throat. I'm so tired of being so worried about everything. I'm so tired of being so angry at her that she left me to deal with the mess of her life.

“Are
you
doing okay?” I look up to see Denny staring at me nervously, a beard of bubbles clinging to his chin.

“Yeah, sorry.” I swallow hard and force a smile, because Denny already has enough caretakers in his life who can't keep their shit together. “I'm just tired.”

“No you're not; you're sad,” he says. “And mad.” He turns the faucet up so high the water thunders down into the tub, splashing droplets onto the floor. At home I'd yell at him for that, but here I decide to let it go, even though I cringe inwardly knowing that someone is going to have to come in here tomorrow and pick up the sopping wet bathmat, clean up after us for the promise of a crappy, crumpled one-dollar tip.

“Sometimes being really tired can make me act mad, but I'm not mad at
you
,” I say.

“Max says you're mad at Mom.”

“I didn't realize Max was in the bath with you.”

Denny rolls his eyes. “He's over there,” he says, pointing to the sink like I'm blind. “Shaving.”

“Max has a beard?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. Denny ignores me.

“I miss Mom,” he says. “Why don't you miss her? Why are you mad at her?”

“I do miss her.” I miss half of her, anyway, the half that'd suddenly wake us up with kisses and scrambled eggs when for the past twenty-four hours she'd been an empty shell, like she'd had to go away for a while but left her body with us so she could move more freely. I clear my throat, shoving the tears back down. “You can miss someone and be mad at them, too,” I say.

“Yeah,” Denny says, like he already knows. Maybe he's not as naive as I like to think he is.

“You know, she's coming back,” I say. “When we get back from California we'll get her out, and then everything will be . . .” I can't bring myself to say “fine,” so I settle for “back to normal,” which is probably true and really, really depressing.

“I wanna watch TV,” Denny says, abruptly switching his own channel. I leave so that he can towel off and put his clothes back on, and I bump into Tim, who's hovering on the other side of the door.

He puts a finger to his lips and nods at Cass and Leah, who are lying on their stomachs side by side on the far bed, propped up on their elbows.

“That's Aria,” Leah says, as a pretty actress's face fills the screen. “In season one, she was dating her English teacher, but then his son got kidnapped by the people covering up her friend's murder.”

“Damn,” Cass says, watching with rapt attention.

Tim raises his eyebrows. “Should we hold our breaths?” he whispers.

“Knowing Cass? Probably not.”

“Yeah, knowing Leah, same,” he says. “Still, you have to admit this is better than the car.”

“Of
course
it's better,” I say. “I just don't think it's smart. There's a difference.” His face falls, and I instantly feel bad. This is an act of kindness, after all, no matter how self-serving. So I force a smile. “It's really nice, though.” To underscore my point, a half-naked Denny shoots between us and leaps headfirst onto the nearest bed.

“Hey,” Tim says, “why don't you let me do some of the driving tomorrow, to give you a rest?”

“Nah, that's okay.”

“Please? I really want to.” He gives me an apologetic smile, and I notice for the first time an almost imperceptible sprinkling of freckles across his nose. “Listen, you're still the captain,” he says. “I'll just be your deputy.”

I smirk. “I think you mean first mate.”

“I don't know,” he laughs. “That sounds pretty intimate for someone I just met yesterday.”

My skin feels tight as I suddenly realize how close we're standing, so close I can feel warmth coming off his skin like a space heater, sending wafts of citrusy deodorant and tangy sweat into my lungs.

“Sure, you can drive,” I mumble and walk hastily over to the edge of the bed where the girls and Denny are now watching a bunch of teens in short, tight funeral outfits freak out while staring into their phones. I pretend to look interested, but out of the corner of my eyes I'm watching Tim as he carefully empties five packets of chicken-flavored ramen noodles into paper cups, fiddling with the dinky coffee-machine buttons to get the hot water to dispense.

Despite his annoying tendency to second-guess everything I say, there's something about Tim that's so sturdy and even and just kind of . . .
good
. It's like watching a different species through binoculars, trying to figure out what it's gonna do next. Buck was definitely never like that. I remember him being affectionate and fun sometimes, but even as a kid I got the sense I couldn't really count on him, or Mom. They both seemed like—I didn't have a word for it then, but unstable, I guess, like the atoms we learned about in physics that can turn radioactive, vibrating and contorting while they try to balance out but can't. I wonder if some people are just born that way.

“Dinnertime!” Tim calls, arranging the steaming cups in a row on the desk, and Cass, Denny, and I spring up like the scavengers we are, hardwired to eat whatever is offered before anyone else can get it.

I slurp down the hot, salty broth with a hunger I didn't even realize was there. And later, when the TV is off and everyone but me is asleep and the only light in the room is the moonlight peeking through a gap in the heavy yellow drapes, I watch Tim's chest rise and fall in the next bed and wonder if I'm more like him or more like my parents. Can I steady myself and find a way to be the rock my family needs, or will I be cursed, too, with a life spent freewheeling through the universe, desperately reaching out for something, anything, to hold me down?

Thursday Morning

Terre Haute, IN

I have two vivid dreams, one after the other. In the first, I'm driving down a dark, rural road, so groggy I can't really see, so I keep running the car into trees, which send me spinning backward with a gentle, rubbery bump. In the second, I'm looking for Mom in the empty halls of a jail, but every time I turn a corner, sure that I'll find her on the other side, there's a crumbling brick wall.

Knock, knock
.

Mom?
I yell in my dream voice, which annoyingly comes out like a whisper no matter how hard I strain. I put my palms on the bricks and find that they're loose, so I pull them out one by one as the knocking gets louder.

Mom, I'm coming!

“It's the manager.”

I stop pulling bricks and try to peer through the hole.

Mom, is there someone with you?

“Please open the door, it's the manager.”

I seize out of the dream and into a pool of bright sunlight. Cass is huddled under the covers next to me, and Denny is sprawled across us, making a sloppy
H
. I realize two things at the same time: (1) The knocking is real, and (2) I'm not wearing pants.

But then Tim is up, his shirtless back wide and pale and smooth, his hair knocked out of its Hardy Boy tidiness and into soft curls and peaks from the pillow. He stumbles as he pulls khakis on over his boxer shorts and steps over the remnants of our noodle cups to get to the door. I lean back and stare at the ceiling, my heart pounding, as I hear the locks click open. This can't be good.

“Can I help you?” Tim asks groggily.

“Yes,” I hear a stern male voice say. “You can come with me. Get your friends and get your things.”

“Why?” Tim asks. “What is this about?”

“I'll explain downstairs. For now, just get everyone and everything out of the room.”

Ten minutes later, we ride down three floors with the extremely pissy-looking hotel manager, who wears his jet-black hair in a mushroom cut—a bold move for a middle-aged man the height of a hobbit. It's barely seven
A.M.
Denny is clinging to my arm, and I don't think Cass has even woken up yet, but I can't tell because she's got sunglasses on indoors, like a movie star, or a drunk. Tim and Leah look gray and nervous;
Mushroom won't answer any of their questions. I've decided to keep my mouth shut, both because I don't want it to get me in trouble and because I'm a little bit afraid I might throw up.

This feeling only intensifies when the elevator doors open into the lobby and I see two uniformed cops waiting at the front desk. I get hit with a panic attack that's like a FIFA World Cup player kicking me in the chest at close range.
This cannot be happening.
We're in the middle of Indiana with only a half tank of gas and a family-size bag of Skittles to our name. I dig my nails into Denny's palm so hard he yowls.

“Your credit card was declined,” Mushroom says as we reach the cops. The front desk faces the continental breakfast buffet, and a sunburned family of four tries not to look like they're eavesdropping while they eat their Corn Flakes and stale pastries. “Early this morning we received a call from Jeffrey Harper,” he continues, “the
cardholder
, who told me directly that he did not authorize the charge.”

“But that's my dad,” Tim says, keeping his voice low. “You didn't need to call the cops.”

“If we suspect a stolen credit card is being used, police involvement is standard procedure,” Mushroom says stiffly.

“It's not stolen!” Leah pipes up. “It's
mine
.”

“I'm guessing you don't pay the bill, though.” Mushroom treats us all to a condescending smile, and Tim and Leah exchange terrified looks. They've probably never been in any real trouble and have no idea how to handle this. Leah might have talked us into the hotel, but talking us out is gonna be up to me.

“Could you call him back?” I ask as calmly as I can manage. “I'm sure he doesn't want to press charges.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, “can I talk to him?”

“I'll see what I can do,” Mushroom says and goes behind the desk to the phone. The cops look bored, and I let myself relax a little. We're not getting arrested. Not if Tim's dad is anything like him.

Mushroom gets Jeff Harper on the phone and, after some stony small talk, hands the receiver across the counter to Tim.

“Hi, Dad, it's me,” he says, looking stricken, running a hand through his bedhead. “Listen, I'm so sorry . . .” He gets quiet for a minute, and I can hear his dad yelling even from ten feet away. “Indiana somewhere,” Tim finally says. “I know. I
know
, okay? I swear I was just trying to do something good for Leah . . . yeah, she's fine. We just didn't think it through . . .” Another pause. “I know that, but could you at least let this charge go through? We don't have any money, and—” He closes his eyes and grimaces. “Well, could you at least tell the manager to send the
police officers
away? . . . Yes, I understand. Okay, Dad . . . Bye.”

Tim hands the phone back to Mushroom and walks over to me. “He's not pressing charges, but he's not paying for the room either,” he says. “We're going to have to use your money.”

“
What?
” I whisper. “No! That's, like, half of what I have left!”

Tim shakes his head helplessly, his eyes still sleep-swollen. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I don't know what else we can do.”

“I knew this would happen.” I'm saying it almost more to myself than to him. I knew we had to stay off the grid, but I let them sway me. These oblivious kids with their emergency credit card and their blithe confidence that the world would give them everything they needed.

“I'll pay you back,” he says.

“Great, I'll just buy gas from the future then.”

“Come on,” Tim pleads, starting to get that anxious eye glaze I know only too well. “What do you want me to say?”

“You could have told your dad our story, for starters!” I know I'm talking too loud; I can feel both the cops and the sunburned family staring. “You barely said two words. You didn't explain anything!”

“You're mad because I went off script?”

“No, I'm mad because you're ruining everything, and so is she.” It's harsher than I meant it to come out, but it still feels true. Tim looks away, and I stalk back over to the desk to pay the room charge of $109.99, plus tax. I count out the bills slowly, feeling a fresh twinge of anger each time I slide one across the desk. We were already stretched beyond our means, and now it's a bad joke. Have you heard this one:
How did the kids in the beat-up station wagon cross the country? They didn't, because they ran out of money halfway! Ba dum bum, ching
.

Mushroom dismisses the cops, and we lug our bags back out to the parking lot, where we form a rough semicircle around Goldie's mismatched front door. From the looks on everyone's faces, all of the tentative goodwill of last night has come undone. Even Denny looks miserable.

“What did he say?” Leah asks.

“That I should be ashamed of myself,” Tim says softly, scuffing the toe of his loafer against the gravel. “That we have to turn around and come home right away, or he'll call the cops on us for real.”

“Do you think he'd do it?” I ask, squinting into the sun
rising over the highway. We're about ten hours from home, which means we've only got another ten before the Harpers realize their kids aren't coming back. That would still leave us with two days of travel left to go—way too long to be dodging police.

“I don't think so,” Tim says, frowning. “He sounded more scared than mad. But I don't know. And, I mean, I can't get arrested. I just got in to Johns Hopkins.”

“You're not getting arrested,” I say. “It's your dad sending a rescue team. Plus, you'd have to do a lot worse than run away.”

“How do you know?” Leah asks, crossing her arms defensively. I take pleasure in noting that there's a beige ramen stain on the right boob of her white polo.

“'Cause I
know
.”

“Have
you
been arrested?” she asks. “I bet you have.”

“Stop it,” Cass says, stepping out from her hiding place behind the rear bumper.

“No,” I say, “but I know people who have. And they look a lot more like me than like you.”

Leah scowls. “Well, now I can't say anything,” she says.

“Yeah, white privilege is a bitch.”

“Hey,” Tim says, putting a protective hand on Leah's shoulder. “She's just scared. We're risking a lot, too.”

“You're not risking
anything
,” I shout. “That's what you don't get. There are no consequences for you. None.”

“That's not true!” Leah cries.

“What, you might lose Instagram privileges for a day? I could lose—”
my entire family
. The words are right there, acid letters burning my throat, but I swallow them. I don't think I could stand their pity. “A lot more than that,” I choke out. I feel
Denny's weight press into the backs of my legs, a squirmy sandbag anchoring my resolve. “If we keep going,” I say, “you have to do what I tell you. No hotels, no frills, no paper trail . . . and no phones.”

Leah turns to Tim. “I don't want to be here,” she says.

“Believe me, the feeling is mutual,” I mutter.

She spins around, her eyes narrowing. “Why are you so mean?”

“Why are you so spoiled? I know you don't get it from your daddy.” We're almost chest-to-chest now, and even though she's got a few inches on me, I know I can take her.

“Guys,
stop
,” Tim says, shoving his arms between us. “Remember, you're sisters.”

“Unfortunately,” I say under my breath at the same time Leah snaps, “I hardly
know
her.”

Like boxers ending a bout, we retreat to separate ends of the car, her with Tim and me with Cass and Denny.

“Okay,” I say, rubbing my eyes with my palms, “I don't know what they're doing, but do you guys want to keep going? Or do you want to go back?”

“Can we see Mom if we go back?” Denny asks, and I shake my head. “Then keep going, I guess,” he says sadly.

“Yeah,” Cass says with a shrug. “This sucks, but it's better than school.”

Monday afternoon comes rushing back like a sucker punch—
You better run, dyke!
Cass's been even more withdrawn than usual, and I've been so busy worrying about logistics and money and so distracted dealing with Tim and Leah that I've been kind of relieved that my sister likes to stay so self-contained. But it's the quiet storms you have to keep an eye on.

“Hey,” says Tim, walking up to us with a teary-eyed Leah under his arm. “If it's okay with you, we'd like to stay.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “
Both
of you?”

“Yeah,” Leah whispers, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist. “I want to see him.”

Him. Buck. Sometimes I forget he's the pot of gold at the end of this crappy-ass rainbow. I've gotten so used to pretending he doesn't exist that he's a fiction at this point; we might as well say we're going to see Mickey Mouse, or the Easter Bunny. I don't know if I'll want to see him when we get there, but I decide to keep that particular doubt to myself for the moment. “What will you tell your dad?” I ask. If Tim's dad is even halfway serious about involving the police, I know I should just leave them here. I was so shortsighted not to see how this would play out. I guess Leah's not the only one who can't imagine a different world outside her bubble.

“I'll figure something out,” Tim says. But I see the look on his face. It's the same look I see every time I pass a mirror. He has no idea what he's going to do next.