Don't Fail Me Now (14 page)

To my surprise, Leah volunteers to go first, citing the mall as her target. “I can do way better than leftovers,” she says confidently.

Malls are a goldmine for scavengers, a glittering oasis full of free samples, public restrooms that actually get cleaned on the regular, and dressing rooms where you can change clothes in private. Picking through Cass's and my luggage (which is really just a garbage bag stuffed haphazardly with wrinkled clothes), Leah finds a gray T-shirt she deems “not horrible” and a pair of dark jeans that ride loosely on her hips. (She seems very excited about the brand, which is apparently high-end, and I don't want to burst her bubble by telling her I got them for $20 at Marshalls' on-fire sale.) We put it all in Cass's backpack along with dry underwear and a clean shirt for Denny and walk through the automatic doors into the blast of Cinnabon-scented air conditioning and streams of midday shoppers.

We head straight for the bathrooms, and while Tim helps Denny de-lake himself in the men's room, Cass, Leah, and I take over a bank of sinks in the ladies' and start scrubbing our faces, arms, and any other exposed skin we can reach. I show
Leah how to put a blob of dispenser soap on a paper towel and rub it under her arms for “deodorant” (Devereaux rule #7: Be prepared to improvise), and she helps me restore some bounce to my curls with an application of soapy water and a few minutes under the hand dryer.

“If there's a Sephora, we can even do our makeup!” Leah says enthusiastically, and Cass retreats into a stall, either to administer a shot or just to hide. Much to Leah's disappointment, there is no Sephora, but there is a Bath & Body Works, and she's able to find a pot of clear lip gloss with a
TRY ME!
sticker that she insists on applying to both my lips
and
eyelids. “Trust me, you look really pretty,” she says, and when I turn to Tim to crack a joke, I catch him looking at me in a way that makes my stomach flip.

Leah leads us to the food court—your typical brightly lit, abundantly littered square of fragrant chaos—and starts to tentatively case the joint, pretending to look for a table. I see her pass by perfectly good half-full sleeves of fries and lonely, untouched broccoli spears left on greasy Chinese-food trays, and it's all I can do not to jump in and show her the ropes. Finally, she homes in on a half-eaten burger. She stands over it, looking around nervously, combing her hair with her fingers, before finally snatching the tray. Even though it's not what I would have chosen (I try to pick things that haven't touched anyone's mouth if possible—stuff you eat with a fork), I'm weirdly proud of her. But then, instead of coming back over to us, Leah makes a beeline for the Burger King register and starts talking animatedly to the cashier. Almost instantly, she's holding a tray with a brand-new, uneaten burger and a side of large fries.

“Ta-da!” she says, smiling broadly even though her hands are visibly shaking.

“What did you
say
?” I ask, plucking a golden, still-grease-hot fry from the top of the pile. The taste of warm, fatty food after thirty-six hours of dry crackers is positively transcendent.

“I said I found a hair in it,” she says with an innocent shrug.

“So you lied,” Tim says.

“That's not a rule!” Leah protests. “Right, Michelle?” She hands the burger to Denny, who takes a bite much larger than he can chew.

“It's not a rule,” I say, cramming another fry in my mouth and swallowing it nearly whole. “If it means the difference between starving and eating, it's allowed. Plus, it's Burger King, not a mom-and-pop shop. They can swing a freebie.”

“If you say so, coach,” Tim says with a little smile.

Leah's con is quickly forgotten as we pass the tray around, demolishing the meal in what seems like seconds. Only Cass doesn't eat much, claiming she feels sick. But somehow the rest of us are all even hungrier after getting some real food in our stomachs, so Leah repeats her trick at Wok 'n' Roll with a plate of General Tso's chicken.

“You have officially earned your scout badge,” I say, and she does a little curtsy.

It's after school hours by the time we tear ourselves away from the buffet, and as we pass a Chuck E. Cheese's on our way to the exit, Denny spots a bunch of balloons inside.

“My turn, please?” he begs. “Max has an idea.”

“We'll never see him again,” I joke as he sprints into the noisy restaurant.

“On the bright side, maybe Max will fall in the ball pit,” Tim says, and we high-five.

But the meatball comes through, dashing out ten minutes later with a cupcake clenched in one hand and a slice of pepperoni pizza in the other.

“Hey,” I say gently, kneeling down to meet his eyes, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Did you take that stuff off someone's table?”

“Nope,” he grins. “There was a birthday party, so I just sat down and someone gave me food.”

I give him a big, wet kiss on the forehead. “Don't let anyone tell you you're not a genius,” I say, and he takes a victorious lick of blue frosting. He hands the pizza to Cass.

“I know it's your favorite,” he says.

“Thanks, buddy.” She takes a small bite from the end but grimaces a little as she swallows. I hope she doesn't have a stomach bug or something. If Goldie gets vomited in, we'll have to spend my last $61 at the car wash. That, or set her on fire and walk away in slow motion like cool action-movie heroes. Right now I could go either way.

• • •

“So what's
your
game?” I ask Tim as we get back on the highway heading toward the little top hat of Texas.

“I'm still fine-tuning,” he says, rubbing his chin with one hand. “But I had to go last because I didn't want to make you guys look bad.”

“Trash talk, okay, I see how it is,” I laugh. “Bring it. Next city we stop in, it'll be you and me, head-to-head, winner take all.”

“What do I win?” Tim asks. “A car that actually runs?”

“Go ahead, keep talking,” I say, batting my glossy lids. “You're digging your own grave.”

We score another full tank of gas between Oklahoma City and Amarillo, split between three Good Samaritans who stop in quick succession, no dancing required. After watching Tim do it the first time, I learn to do the siphoning myself. It gives me a cheap thrill to add to my list of self-sufficiency skills, and I want to show Cass and Leah that you don't need a man to do the dirty work for you. There are a lot of ways I don't want to turn out like my mom, but I have to give her credit for teaching me how to survive on my own. Just as many nights as she locked herself in her bedroom with a bottle of wine, she was down under the sink perched on her bare toes, banging away at a leaky pipe with some dog-eared how-to book open on the floor next to her. She figured it out because she had to, because she didn't have anyone else who would help voluntarily, and because she couldn't afford to pay anyone. And that's how she taught me to live.

Which gives me the idea. Wiping my hands off on my gasoline-splattered jeans, I know how I'm going to completely school Tim.

We drive into northern Texas on a long, cracked stretch of Route 66 dotted with pawn shops and legitimate Mexican joints that make Taco Bell look like the Disney cartoon it is, their bright storefronts faded to lazy pastels by decades of unflinching sunshine.

“Jesus saves, ask Him!” Tim says as we pass an RV park, and it takes me a minute to realize he's reading off a bumper sticker and not just suddenly professing his Christian mission.

We reach downtown Amarillo just as the sun starts to set, and while it's mostly as low and sparse and beige as a Texas tumbleweed, it's still a spring Friday night, so there are people milling around outside of a few busy-looking bars and restaurants. It's too late to execute my master plan, which requires both natural light and local library Internet access, but I know Goldie's death rattle will still be there tomorrow—and Tim doesn't seem to be exactly off to a running start—so I try to enjoy the warm evening breeze and turn my mind to dinner. I park in front of a big old-school theater marquee adorning an otherwise nondescript office building. It must have been gutted to make dozens of tiny, soulless cubicles, but I guess it's nice they left the sign up. It's a beautiful scar.

“Want to scout for food?” I ask as I turn off Goldie's engine, giving her rusty old bones a rest. “There's probably not much here, but if we can find a coffee shop, they should at least give us a few cups of hot water to make noodles.”

“I think I need to check my messages,” Tim says, pulling out his phone. “That okay?” I nod. He hasn't tried to turn it on once without asking since I laid down the law yesterday.

“I'll stay with him,” Leah says.

“What about you?” I ask Cass and Denny. “Any important calls?”

“Haha,” Cass says.

“Can we call Mom?” Denny asks.

“No, buddy, calls only go one way where Mom is.” I haven't turned my own phone on in over twenty-four hours, too afraid of what might be waiting for me.

“Can we find a bathroom then? One where I can stand up?” The great thing about being six is that talking to your absent
mother and finding a urinal to practice on are basically equally exciting.

“Sure thing,” I say, and we trudge off into the dusk, just three disheveled minors out for an adventure pee in the Texas Panhandle.

Of course the first open place we see is a Taco Bell. I mean, of course it is. Even Cass starts laughing at the irony, and she hasn't cracked a smile since Indiana. It's on the other side of a big highway intersection, though, so we have to wait for about ten minutes for the light to change and then dash across like frightened deer because, since no one ever walks across highways, the walk light only flashes for about five seconds. I usher Denny into the men's room with the best instructions I can guess at and then give Cass a few bucks to get a bean burrito and a soda, because she looks so pale she could pass for a Kardashian. “You
need
to eat,” I tell her, shoving the bills in her clammy hand. I'm hoping we can get some downtime in California, maybe even get a room at a motel with a pool if Buck's parting gift comes through, and spend a day lying around in the sun before we have to figure out how to rejoin civilization.

While Cass is waiting in line, I finally bite the bullet and turn on my phone. And sure enough, the voicemail icon instantly lights up.

“Hi, Michy . . . it's been a few days, baby, and I'm ready to come home as soon as you can get that money together. I'm doing good now—well, better, anyway—and I'm ready to change a lot of things. I hope you believe me. Even if you can't post the bail yet, could you come and see me? It's getting lonely in here, and I miss my babies. Take care of them, okay? I know you will. You always have. You're all they got
right now, though, till I come home.”
There's a long pause, which I let myself hope is some kind of period of existential reflection until I hear her blow her nose. I forgot about the runny nose. When Mom stops using, she leaks for days.
“Sorry. Anyway,
I put you on the visitor list, so come anytime.”
By way of goodbye, she shouts,
“I'm done now. Damn, relax!”
presumably at someone waiting to use the phone.

Standing in a Taco Bell, listening to my mom's excuses . . . 1,500 miles and I can't seem to get anywhere I haven't been before. I chew nervously on the insides of my cheeks as I delete the message and stuff my phone back in my pocket. She does sound better, at least—not that it means anything. She's always better, until she's not. In some ways it's worse when she's good, because then I'm just waiting for something to happen, wondering if this will be the day, or the next one, or the next one. I always find a reason to go in the house before Cass and Denny, just in case, so I can be the one to find her if she ODs. I've never found any tips for that scenario on the cover of a teen magazine.

Luckily, I can't dwell on it for too long, because Denny barrels out of the bathroom with a big wet splotch on the front of his pants.

“It's from washing my hands!” he says, scowling, as I attempt to suppress my laughter. A big bald guy comes out of the men's room and gives us a long, piercing look, but luckily Denny has his back turned. I wonder if he knows yet that he's in for a lifetime of looks like that—and that the looks won't be the worst of it. I glare at the bald man and pull Denny toward me.

“Whoa, D, you fall in or something?” Cass appears with her burrito, which bends limply over her fist in its foil sleeve.

“He washed his hands
very
thoroughly,” I say, planting a firm kiss on my brother's forehead.

You're all they got right now
.

“Um, congrats?” Cass holds the burrito out to Denny, but I push it back.

“That's for you,” I say. “Eat.”

Cass grimaces. “I feel like puking.”

“Just eat the wrap then.”

Cass groans in protest but leans against the wall and reluctantly begins to peel open the foil. Across the room, Baldy is sitting with a younger, bleached-blonde woman with sunburned shoulders. She's talking to him, but he's not looking at her. He's still staring at us with narrowed eyes, like the very sight of us offends him to his core. He's got an
American Gothic
face, kind of pruney and all kinds of mean. Instead of Family Circus, we must have stumbled into the Racist Rodeo hour. Lucky us.

“Hurry up,” I say to Cass, who is tearing off minuscule strips of the soft, damp tortilla and placing them on her tongue like Communion wafers.

“I'm done,” she says, looking peaked and pitiful under the fluorescent lights. I should give her some serious shit about her blood sugar, but we have to get back to the car and I'm not in the mood to force-feed a feral teenager, so I let Denny dispose of the evidence as I usher them both out the door, feeling the bald man's eyes on my back the whole time.