Don't Fail Me Now (8 page)

“Is he in a time-out?” Denny asks. I'm losing my patience.

“No,” I say wearily. “He's in a place called California. Now, please—”

“Can we go there?” I glance in the rearview mirror to see Denny bouncing excitedly on the ripped imitation-leather seat. “Can we go?” he repeats. And all of a sudden, something clicks.

We have no life here. I'm about to graduate high school with no prospects but Taco Bell middle management, Cass is getting bullied, Denny
is
the bully, Aunt Sam has Satan behind her, pushing hard, and Mom is sweating out her heroin habit in an eight-by-six cell. The only thing I can think of that can even begin to solve our problems is money, and the only person who might have something for us that could give us a new lease on life (and on a new car, because I'm half-convinced this one is going to kill us) is the person whose stellar decision-making skills got us here in the first place. In a twist so ironic it actually turns my stomach, Allen Buckner Devereaux III now stands as our last shot at keeping this family together.

But hey, at least someone saved something for us. At least someone wants to say they're sorry. And right now, I'll take anyone as that someone. I'll even take Buck.

Ten feet before the turnoff for Denny's school, I pull a screeching U-turn that leaves about five cars leaning on their horns in my wake. The adrenaline hits my system like a lightning bolt, kicking Dunkin' Donuts' ass by a country mile.

“What the hell?” Cass asks, bracing herself against the glove compartment.

“Sorry,” I say, “there's been a slight change of plans.” I watch Goldie's odometer click over to 97,678 miles and say a silent prayer that she's up to the task I'm about to give her.

Wednesday Morning, Part 2

Baltimore, MD

In the parking lot of a strip mall Family Dollar store, I make a list of what we'll need for our trip, my hands still shaking from the rush of abruptly veering off course.

Toothbrushes

Toothpaste

Baby wipes (aka “insta-baths,” not to be confused with the more thorough “ghetto baths” we'll be enjoying in gas station sinks)

Underwear

Nonperishable snacks

“Can't we just go home for that stuff?” Cass asks, peering over my shoulder. “And what about clothes?”

“We already took everything that was clean to Aunt Sam's,”
I remind her. “Besides, you wear the same thing every day anyway. I think you'll live, as long as you have enough insulin for another week.” Devereaux rule #8: The less you need, the farther you'll get.

“Yup,” she says.

“Are you sure? Because I really don't want to have to hold up a pharmacy.”

“I'm suuuure,” she groans, but the corners of her lips turn up in a faint smile. Her mood has markedly improved since we did a one-eighty, going from impenetrable fortress of angst and despair to impenetrable fortress of slightly less angst and despair. But I'll take it. Even the most minuscule positive changes slow the intestinal spasms about the decision I've just made.

“How long does it take to get to California?” Denny asks. He's so blissfully ignorant about the real reason we're going, and what's at stake, that it's all I can do to restrain myself from dragging him to the nearest wishing well to try to force a
Freaky Friday
–style brain swap.

“About four days, maybe.” I don't have GPS on my phone, but I've already done the math in my head: If we start at nine
A.M.
and I do sixty on the highway, which is about as fast as Goldie can take, we'll log 650 miles a day over twelve to thirteen hours, allowing time for bathroom and meal stops. That should get us across the country by Saturday night—Sunday morning at the latest.

He pokes his head in between the front seats and grabs the straw from my empty coffee with his teeth. “Where will we sleep?”

“We'll camp,” I say.

“Like in tents?”

“More like in car,” Cass quips, but Denny's enthusiasm can't be deterred.

“Cool!” he cries, the straw spewing melted-ice water onto the dashboard. “Dibs on the trunk!” If only Child Protective Services could see us now . . .

I glance around the parking lot, growing more paranoid by the second. I wonder if this is how it felt for Mom in the Shell station, if she felt this same sick thrill at knowing before anyone else does that you're about to do something wrong. I'm pretty sure this little road trip is five different kinds of illegal, considering I'm underage with a provisional license, taking minors out of state without their parents' knowledge, and—since Goldie's not registered to me—probably also
technically
stealing a car.

I'd like to think that I'm owed this one transgression after so many years of playing by my mom's hypocritical rules, especially since my motives are mostly pure . . . but another part of me can't help but wonder if I'm just finally fulfilling my genetic legacy, as if a criminal mind is inherited like schizophrenia or Parkinson's—something that hides in your DNA for years, only to show up one day out of nowhere and ruin your whole life. And I have to admit that it does feel good, the prospect of leaving all my responsibilities behind. Maybe I have more in common with Buck than I thought.

“So . . . what do we need for all this, like, ten bucks?” Cass asks, perusing my list again. But then a cop car passes by behind us, and I suddenly lose the ability to speak.

“Sorry,” I stammer once it pulls out onto the highway. “Let me see.” I tick off the items, counting out loud. “Four toothbrushes, one toothpaste, maybe two packs of wipes—”

“Three toothbrushes, Einstein,” Cass interrupts.

“Yeah,
Einstein
,” Denny parrots, giggling at what he thinks is a bad word.

“No,” I say slowly. “We need four.” There's still one major detail to discuss, something I knew I had to do the minute I turned the car around, and I watch the muscles in Cass's neck gather into tense little ropes as she realizes what I'm about to say. “I'm inviting her, too.”

Cass is silent, and after a few seconds of stillness I let myself hope that she's okay with it, but then the door flies open and slams shut as a black blur that vaguely resembles my sister storms off across the asphalt.

“Who's
her
?” Denny asks, gripping my upper arm. His eyes are big and anxious again, like they were in the police station that first night, and I feel a sharp pang of guilt for bursting whatever safe little bubble he's managed to crawl into in the interim.

“A relative,” I say, giving him a reassuring smile. “She's about the same age as Cass. A year older, actually.” Buck's affair had already become a full-fledged family when my sister made her premature, dramatic entrance into the world, a tiny three-and-a-half-pound thing who my mother says never even cried and who the NICU nurses had to massage to get circulation going because she moved so little at first. It's like Cass already sensed there was no space for her and just decided to play dead from the start.

I leave Denny in the car with the windows rolled down and strict instructions not to let Max touch the gearshift, and I jog after Cass, who's made a left at the Family Dollar and is angrily stomping past a RadioShack a few stores down.

“Hey!” I call. “Come on, just listen!” I'm taller and have longer legs, so I'm starting to close the distance. Cass speeds up her walking without turning around. “She's the one he called,” I yell, panting a little. “She's the only one who knows where he is.”

“Then call her,” Cass snaps, spinning around. “Facebook message her. Just
ask
. She doesn't have to come with us. She didn't even have the guts to talk to you face-to-face.”

“She was there,” I say. “She stayed in the car.”

“That's even worse!”

“I know, but what am I supposed to do?” I ask. “Call and say, ‘Hey, we're driving to visit our dying father—who's also
your
dying father, condolences b-t-dubs—and we just need the address. Good luck with your closure!'?”

Cass shrugs, like
why not?

“Look, the only reason we even know about him is because of her,” I say. “She tried to do the right thing. We owe it to her to at least invite her. She probably won't even come.”

“We don't owe her anything,” Cass spits. Her anger surprises me; she hardly seemed fazed last night when she saw Leah's photos.

“Maybe you're right,” I sigh. “But she's still his daughter. She still deserves the chance to see him.”

Cass broods, cursing under her breath for a minute, before finally walking toward me with her arms crossed tight against her chest.

“Fine,” she says, giving me a look that says it is most definitely not even remotely close to approaching fine. “But no
way
she gets her own toothbrush. She can use her finger. Or get cavities.”

“That's big of you,” I say, only half joking. Under the circumstances, I don't feel like meeting Leah either, let alone being trapped in a car with her for a week. But as far as I can tell, she's our only way to get to Buck, unless we feel like driving aimlessly around the country's third-largest state, randomly accosting handsome sick people. I don't even know what he would look like now. He could be pudgy or graying, even balding. But nah, if Buck started losing his hair he'd be that guy who shaves it all off and makes it seem like a lifestyle choice. Everything is a facade with him. I have to be careful not to pin too much hope on him this time around . . . which is going to be pretty hard, considering he's basically the only hope we've got left.

Before I can dwell too much on my father's track record of broken promises, I run back to the car to rescue the receipt with Tim's number on it before it disintegrates or Cass changes her mind, whichever comes first. Denny is in the driver's seat, pretending to drag race, so I lean through the open window, fish the slip out of the cup holder, and dial before I have a chance to second-guess this decision, too.

He picks up on the fourth ring and sounds pleasantly surprised—if a little suspicious—to hear from me.

“Does Leah still want to meet?” I ask.

“Um . . . yeah,” he says in a very low voice that lets me know she's in earshot. “I think so. I mean, I know she would. Yes.”

“Can she be in the parking lot of your school in half an hour?”

There's a pause, and his voice drops to a whisper. “Do you even know where our school is?”

“You're not the only one who can use the Internet,” I say, the anxiety making me snippier than usual. “So can she meet me or what?”

“I don't know . . . that's in the middle of first period.” Suddenly a female voice asks him something in the background, and Tim says, “Just my physics partner. We have to finish a lab before class.” I smile to myself. He's not a great liar, but with those altar-boy looks, he probably doesn't need to be.

“It's important,” I say. “You said so yourself.”

He starts talking too loudly now, trying to cover his ass. “Okay, no problem,” he shouts. “I'll be there.”

“Just make sure
she's
there,” I say and hang up.

• • •

Twenty-five minutes, twenty-two bucks, one map, two bribery sodas, and three off-brand toothbrushes later, we're turning off the highway onto a leafy suburban road that's only nineteen miles from the city but feels worlds apart from the streets we call home. The houses here are all set way back from the curb, some so far you can't even really see them through the trees. And that's another thing: the trees. They're everywhere. It's greener than the city parks.

The houses I
can
see are well-manicured one-stories, not that showy but still sort of grand, with bright red brick, painted shutters, and bushes carved into rounded rectangles. In a row, they look sort of like those fake presents that department stores line their windows with at Christmas: evenly spaced, gleaming little boxes that hold the promise of the perfect gift inside, that one elusive thing that you're convinced might make your life different if only you could have it.

“Where
are
we?” Denny asks, gluing his face to the window, and the innocent question sums up my feelings so exactly that I don't know quite what to tell him.

“We're almost there,” I say distractedly, staring at a woman who's literally on her knees by a flower bed pruning roses, like she got hired by central casting just to be there while we drove by:
Show the urban youth with the negligent parents what they've been missing, Ruth! Make sure to polish your shears in advance, and bring the gardening gloves with the pink grosgrain trim. Oh, and wear clogs. Not Crocs, real wooden clogs—you know, the kind people never actually walk in and the Dutch use for Christmas stockings.

“We're almost in California?” Denny says excitedly.

“Yeah,” Cass mumbles, still—and maybe eternally—pissed off at me. “Welcome to Beverly Hills.”

I ignore her and squint down at the map in my lap. I'm so used to driving the same pattern every day without even thinking about it that navigating new territory is hurting my brain. I would get a GPS except, for one thing, Goldie's way too old to be compatible with most of them, and also they start at, like, $100 and I've already spent almost 10 percent of our meager funds on doughnuts and toiletries. I'm not sure I'll even be able to afford gas for all four days, let alone food, so I hope the sandwich crackers and mixed nuts we stocked up on at Family Dollar can keep us alive until we get there. Or that Leah's wallet is lined with hundred-dollar bills.

Luckily, there's a big sign with the school name on it at the turnoff, which is marked by two stone columns.

“It's like Hogwarts up in here,” Cass says, peering at the long, winding path that leads to a big, intimidating, city hall–looking main building about a mile uphill.

“I want to go home,” Denny says.

I'm gathering the energy for a reassuring speech when I notice a kiosk in the middle of the road a couple hundred yards up. There's a dude in a gray uniform standing beside it, speaking into a walkie-talkie. I brake and redial Tim.

“You didn't tell me your school has a bouncer,” I say. Cass rolls her eyes.

“Did they stop you?” he asks, genuinely confused in the way only a privileged white boy could be.

“Not yet, but I don't want to give them a chance,” I say. “Can you come down the road?”

“I don't think so,” he says with a nervous laugh. “It's probably harder for us to get out than for you to get in. Listen, I'll call and put you on the list. I'll tell them you're dropping off Leah's math textbook—they hardly ever question academic stuff.”

“Okay,” I say, acid churning in my stomach.

“Also, what does your car look like?” he asks. “They'll want an approximate make and model.”

“Tell them it looks like it doesn't belong here,” I say. “Just like us.”

“I'm serious,” he says.

“So am I. It's a 1973 Datsun that looks like shit run over twice. I'm pretty sure they'll know it.”

Somehow we make it past security, like Annie's grubby orphan friends sneaking into Daddy Warbucks's mansion, and drive up to the main campus, which looks like one of those Ivy League schools on the college brochures I may or may not like to page through in my school's library on low days.

Tim and Leah are standing in a handicapped parking spot under a big maple tree, having what looks like a heated
conversation. Leah is willowy and almost as tall as Tim, with long, skinny legs that my mom would call a symptom of TTDT—Thighs That Don't Touch—Disease. They're both in polo shirts and khakis (him, pants; her, skirt) that look so aggressively matched they've got to be uniforms. As we pull up, they stop fighting and turn to stare at Goldie. Leah says something to Tim and then stays put, staring down at the toes of her black Mary Janes, as he walks up to the car. He taps on Cass's window, but she doesn't react, so I put the car in park and get out to meet him. The breeze smells fresh and a little bit sweet, like someone sprinkled it with cinnamon.