Eleven and Holding (9 page)

My cheeks flushed. “No. I
love
my dad.”

“You're not one of those girls who eat and then puke it up on purpose, are you? Because that is so lame.”

I stared at my feet a moment, feeling a ridiculous
urge to confess. “No— It's just that— Well, buses make me puke.”

“Can't your mom drive you to your dad's?” he asked, puzzled.

I gnawed the inside of my cheek. “She doesn't exactly know I'm going.”

“Oh,” he said. “This is getting interesting.” He pulled me down next to him, close. “Give it up.”

The pulse point in my temple started beating like a tiny drum.

“You running away?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. I just need to see my dad real bad.”

Switch looked over at me sideways. “You know, I could take you.”

I guffawed. “What? On your skateboard?”

“I got wheels,” he said, giving me a long, slow smile. He had really white teeth, and this loopy scar at the corner of his mouth, like a fish that had once been hooked. I wondered how he got it.

A uniformed driver hopped aboard and picked up his clipboard. Switch scootched down in his seat. The driver turned over the ignition, gave it some gas. And then revved the engine a few times, like he was going to race it in the Indy 500 or something.

A cloud of smoke billowed up. My mouth felt like
it was filled with exhaust. I might as well have been under the bus, sucking on the tailpipe. I swallowed and licked my lips.

Switch looked me over. “I'll make you a deal. Go turn in your bus ticket. They'll give you cash back for it. You give me half for gas; you take half for snacks on the way. What do you say?”

I couldn't say much of anything.

“Oh, man, you're going all green on me! C'mon.” Switch grabbed his board and sack in one arm, and me in the other. Dragged me down the aisle.

Sweat ran down both my legs, and it felt like I was wearing cement boots. Switch looked back at me. “Hang on—almost there.”

My head grew heavy and stupid. A strong arm came around my waist, dragged me the rest of the way. I don't remember getting out. Next thing I knew I was sitting with my head pushed down between my legs.

“Stay!” Switch barked.

No problem,
I thought.

Moments later something icy cold was pressed against my neck. My eyes rolled back into their proper places, and the dancing lights finished their sideshow.

“Kid, you weren't joking about hating the bus!”
Switch's voice was close and teasing next to my ear.

I grabbed the cold thing he was pressing against my neck. It was a can of soda. I rolled it against my face. I tried to look at him, but his face was too close, and there were three of him.

He took the can from me and popped the lid. “Here, drink. You could use some caffeine.”

I took a long swig, trying to get the world back into focus. I stared at the line of people getting on the bus.

“So, what'ya think?” he asked. His eyes swept my face. “You gonna get on, or you gonna take me up on my deal?”

The driver pulled the last ticket, checked his watch, and double-checked the luggage storage. Then he looked over at me. “Coming, miss? Time to pull out.”

I wiped my sleeve across my forehead. I tried to imagine myself getting back on, settling in a seat, even saw myself waving good-bye to Switch. Then the driver would have to give it some gas, and we'd lurch out into traffic. Before I knew it we'd be tearing down the freeway toward Los Robles.

My stomach seized up into a ball of snow. I stuck my head back between my legs.

Switch patted the top of my head. “Naw, go on,” he told the bus driver. “She's with me.”

“Hey,” Switch said, leaning in. “Let me take you, okay? You need to see your dad real bad? I'm your man. I'll get you there, no problem.”

I sat up and dragged a deep breath of fresh air. Gave him a long sideways look. Quickly counted up how many weeks I'd probably get grounded for this. Weighed that against not seeing my dad. Weighed it against Jack growing up in a broken home.

“I'll go turn in my ticket,” I said.

Barely an hour later I was trudging back to Jet Park. Sort of like déjà vu, but without the mystery. Switch told me to meet him here while he went to deliver his newspapers and get his wheels. Said he could get there faster on his board. We'd had a short conversation about his age, and the fact that he didn't actually have a license. He explained that was only a technicality, as he'd had the class and drivers' training. What was most important was that he knew how to drive.

Oh, boy, would my mom love to get her hands on that argument. She'd pound it into holiday mincemeat. Her whole world was technicalities, making sure every kid in the county followed the very letter of the law. And living under the same roof with Mrs. Probation Pants meant that whatever I did always got serious scrutiny.

But, like Switch said, some good things didn't fit under the law. We had stopped at a small market near the bus station to pick out some snacks for our trip. While I was paying for our stuff, I saw Switch slip a cigar into one of the “free” newspapers he was holding. He just smiled at me when I'd looked at him shocked, and then he cruised out of the store, like he didn't have a care in the world. I left a whole dollar in the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray, hoping that would cover the price of a cigar.

“Are you
crazy
?”

“Will you relax? It's for one of my old guys on my paper route. He loves a good stogie. Not that he'll ever smoke it,” he added with a grin. “He'll just gum it to death all day.”

“But I could have paid for it!” I sputtered.

“I know, but why should you? It's not for you, and it's not for me.” Switch just jumped up on his board with a giant clack. “If I can make the day nicer for someone, I'm going to do it. So, arrest me,” he'd said, holding his wrists out for handcuffs. His eyes locked on my face, teasing.

Twenty minutes later I was busying myself with repacking my backpack to take my mind off my superterrible new plan to get to Los Robles.

I popped open the lid on the tin of macaroons I'd
brought my dad. Took a deep whiff. They were his favorite treat in the world. I could hardly believe that in just a few hours I could be seeing him, and we'd be eating these very cookies together.

Mom seemed surprised that I was baking so late last night. I told her in a frosty voice that the Green Angels loved macaroons. I could tell she wanted to patch things up between us, but I wouldn't give her an inch. Not even a half inch.

The sidewalk under me rumbled, and a distant roar cut through the quiet morning. I looked overhead for a helicopter, shading my eyes from the sun. The rumble grew stronger, louder, and was moving toward Jet Park.

In the distance, but coming closer, Ginger's motorbike came barreling down Lincoln Drive. I whipped my head in all directions, looking for the white-haired boy on the skateboard—the boy who almost got creamed by this very motorbike just days ago.

The bike came to a quick, noisy stop just feet away from me. The driver tossed me a helmet and motioned toward the sidecar. Then flicked up the goggles and smiled at me.

“Come on! Let's go!”

I just stood there staring at him, my mouth the perfect flytrap.

“Get IN, or I'm leaving without you!” he shouted.

“YOU— You— You!” I could only sputter.

He revved the motor. “Okay, I'm leaving! And I've got all your cash, remember?”

Like a zombie, I pulled on the helmet. Stepped down into the small seat.

“Los Robles, here we come!” Switch whooped, gunning the gas.

And off we flew, looking
exactly
like my mother's worst nightmare.

I
f you ever find yourself being bounced and blown out of town in the sidecar of an old vintage motorcycle, you'll find out quick that the driver can't hear anything you are screaming at him. Especially important questions like—

“Are you
OUT OF YOUR MIND
?”

And “Do you
REALLY
think I am going to go ALL the way to Los Robles in
THIS
thing?”

Even my threats were lost to the wind. Like “If
YOU
don't pull over
RIGHT
now, I'm going to go up there and
RIP
your eyeballs right out of their
SOCKETS
!” Which I punctuated with a very, very bad cussword.

I continued to yell at him until my throat was ground meat. Just to make sure he wasn't just ignoring the hard questions, I tried screaming something else.

“YOU HAVE A GIANT HOLE IN YOUR JEANS AND I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERPANTS!”

But he just turned around, smiled, gave me a thumbs-up. Switch was having a swell time.

The only upside to this nightmare journey was that I was outside. I could breathe. I wasn't trapped inside an old, smelly bus. I was trapped outside an old, smelly bike.

Mile after mile the wind pounded me, parting my eyelashes and blowing my nostril hairs backward into my sinus cavity. After a while I couldn't yell anymore, and my eyes were too dry to keep open. My head started bobbing and weaving. I'd never sleep, though, not while my life was in the hands of Robin the Teenage Hood.

Miles later the smell of gasoline dragged me back. My head popped up, my neck stiff and sore. I shifted my helmet back onto my head, where it had slipped over my eyes. Licking sandpaper lips, I looked for Switch. He stood next to the gas pump, chowing down on a corn dog.

“Man, you were out!” He pointed his dog over at me. “Bite?”

I gave him a poisonous look and unfolded myself from the sidecar. Punched him hard in the arm and
headed toward the bathroom.

“You might want to get some gratitude!” he called after me. “You're the one who wanted to go to Los Robles.”

I turned on my heel and marched back to the bike. “I do want to go, but I'd like to get there alive!” I balled up my fist, punched him again, right in the same spot. It had to hurt.

Switch winced and rubbed his bicep. “Lighten up! We'll get there fine. Go— If you gotta use the restroom, get on it. I don't want to hang out here all day.”

The bathroom was disgusting, and the mirror was no better than an aluminum cookie sheet. I pulled off my helmet to wash my face. I looked terrible. Not exactly how I'd hope to look on the day I was seeing my dad.

I sighed and wished Twee were here. She always made me feel better about everything. She could find the upside to nuclear disaster. I heard Switch gunning the bike outside, so I quickly splashed more water on my face. Hurried outside and pulled my helmet back on.

Switch handed me a giant grape Icee and smiled. “Better?”

I took a deep icy swig, and then another, and another. I ignored the deep stabbing pain in my right
eye from the cold. It was worth it. I grabbed Switch's shoulder to turn him around. “Just tell me one thing. Did you steal this bike from Ginger?”

“Steal it?” he asked, giving me an annoyed look. “No way. I like the old girl.”

He had completely evaded my question. “Switch! Does she know that you have her bike?”

He broke eye contact with me for just one flea-sized second, but I caught it.

“Of course she knows!” he said.

“‘Of course she knows' as in she's calling the police right about now?”

“No! I wouldn't steal from an old lady—especially one that is off her nut.”

“Ginger's not
off
her nut!”

“Yeah, she is—trust me. I can tell with old folks. Some of them seem perfectly normal when you first talk to them, and then the next minute, they think they are beekeepers. I just told her that I have a special driver's license for animal search and rescue, and she believed me.”

“So you lied to her?”

“I told her what she needed to hear, so she wouldn't worry about me being on the bike. Big difference. I don't hurt old people. Ever.”

I just stared at him, trying to decide if he was
really kind or one big fast-talker. Maybe he was both.

“You worry too much, kid,” he said.

I drew a shaky breath. “Let's go,” I said, looking away. I tried to fluff up the small seat pillow in the sidecar, but it was unfluffable. My butt was killing me. I heard something jingle under the pillow and lifted up a corner. The other side of the pillow was thick with white hair. Dog. I reached down and lifted the bright-blue collar, read the engraving on the tag: “Mr. McDougall. If lost, please call (555) 555-0190.”

I studied it a minute and then wrapped the collar around my wrist twice. Switch tore out of the gas station, throwing me back in my seat. I righted myself and then rubbed Mr. McDougall's tag between my fingers, warming the metal. I pictured his face from all the photographs I'd seen at Ginger's. He really had one of those great dog faces—loyal, noble, and funny, all rolled up in one furry mug. I honestly wanted to find him. Ginger's face came to me then, and with it, an ache in my gut. The times when I was with Ginger, I couldn't tell which one of us the ache belonged to.

Whatever the case, I just wanted to make it go away. For both our sakes.

Okay, Mr. McDougall. Here's the deal. You help me find my dad today, and I'll get you and your mom back together. If you're anywhere around, I'm
going to find you. Tomorrow, you have my undivided attention. Deal?

I rubbed the tag again on his collar to seal the deal. And swear I thought I heard a dog bark over the roar of the engine.

Hours later Switch and I tore into half-pound burgers at Los Robles Drive 'n' Dine, on the edge of town. I lathered my fries in thick ketchup and almost drooled on the table. Being on the open road all this time had made us ravenous.

By midmorning Switch had eaten all the snacks that I'd planned for lunch. He was the hungriest kid I ever met. But since I was at his mercy, I made it my mission to keep him fed and watered. The closer I got to Dad, the less important being angry at Switch seemed.

Switch cocked his head over at me. Nodded toward my hand gripping a drippy burger. “You got some big mitts, kid. Ever think of playing basketball?”

I choked down a large piece of meat. “I play soccer.”

“That's cool. You any good?” he asked.

I took a long drink of soda. “I dunno. I do all right. My dad was a good soccer player when he was a kid.”

“Your parents split up?”

I shook my head and then paused. “I'm not sure what they are right now. That's why I'm going to see
him. I have to figure it out. What about your folks?” I asked, and then wished I could have grabbed the question back. Not a great question for somebody who lives in a foster home.

Switch unfolded his napkin and wiped each of his fingers carefully. He was a very tidy eater for a boy. I quickly wiped my mouth.

“Never knew my dad, really. He went off to fight in Iraq and never made it back. He didn't die— He just didn't come back to us.” He shrugged like it didn't matter, but I knew it did.

“He might as well be dead. I've got no respect for a dude who leaves his wife and kids. He never even sent money. My mom— She works a lot. Day and night, sometimes. She ended up doing drugs, just so she could keep up and stay awake. Ended up getting busted for driving high with us kids in the car. So, the county split us up. Sent me to foster care, and my baby sister, Elle, got sent to this rich family who are trying to adopt her. She's about your age, you know.”

“Do you like your foster parents?” I asked.

Switch snorted. “Which ones?” He reached over and jangled the dog collar still wrapped around my wrist. “Nice bracelet, kid. Part of your new fall fashion look?”

I crossed my arms against my chest. “It's Mr.
McDougall's collar. I found it under the pillow in the sidecar.”

Switch grinned. “You really think you're going to find that old pooch, huh?”

“I'll find him before you do, that's for sure.” I crumpled up my hamburger wrapper and sucked down a thick mouthful of mocha chip shake.

“I wouldn't count on that. I know every neighborhood, every park, every inch of sidewalk in that town. Heck, I've lived in half the houses in town. If that dog is still alive,
I'm
going to find him.”

“Well, if you did,” I said, “but you
won't
, what would you do with the reward money?”

Switch slunk down in the booth and got a dreamy look on his face. I could hear his skateboard beneath the table as he softly rolled it back and forth under his feet. I'd pretty much figured out that his board was his grown-up version of a blankie.

He sighed. “First I'd buy some new wheels—probably an Enjoi Whitey Panda.” He pretended to pop a small wheelie under the table and grinned. “That is one
sweet
board! Then—” He stopped to munch a fry. “Oh, I don't know, I'd probably throw a big old party at Villa Rosa for the old folks there.” He smiled at the thought. “I'd hire one of those old-timer bands, get some fancy restaurant to bring in
food, maybe have it outside on the lawn. I'd get some waiters in tuxes to come serve everybody. You know, a real classy party.”

I just shook my head. “The skateboard I would have assumed. A party at a nursing home? That I would not have guessed in a gazillion years.”

He wiped carefully around his plate with his napkin and then shrugged. “A nursing home is even worse than foster care or a group home. And it's not like they did anything to deserve it. Other than getting old.”

He smoothed the sides of his hair with the heels of his hands and tossed me one of his charming smiles, one meant to change the subject. “So, what would you do if
you
got the reward money?”

“Well, I'd be splitting it with Twee,” I said right off. “She's saving for a trip to Vietnam. She wants to find some of her family, maybe her real parents if she can.”

Switch nodded approvingly. “That's rip.”

A busboy with bad skin and a wannabe skater attitude came by and filled up our water glasses. He looked at Switch like he'd just found Elvis. Even this many miles from his home turf, Switch gave off seriously cool vibes. Switch rewarded him with a quick jerk of his chin.

I took a deep breath. “And with my half, I'm putting it in my special account that my grandmother started for me when I was a baby. I'm saving up to get her coffee shop back from Chuck,” I said. My mouth curled over his name, like I'd just licked the bottom of someone's shoe.

“You want to run a café?” he asked, surprised.

“Well, no—not really,” I admitted. “But I don't want him to have my nana's coffee shop. He's just ruined it. Not to mention the fact that he pretty much stole it from my family.”

“Chuck? Really? He seems like a righteous guy.”

“Oh, he acts nice, all right. That's how he gets away with stuff. Charms everyone to death. After my nana died, he started nosing around, calling my mom all the time, sweet-talking her. My dad was a wreck, and Chuck knew it. He took total advantage of my mom and swindled the family out of the café.”

“Didn't your dad know your mom was selling it?” he asked. “I mean it belonged to your dad, too, right? Your mom couldn't sell it behind his back.”

“Yeah, sure, he told her it was okay,” I said, decapitating a French fry with a quick snap of my front teeth. “My mom convinced him we needed the money for the new baby and everything. But I think it broke his heart that my mom sold the shop right
out from under him. My dad gave up his career in the army and everything to run Nana's, but my mom wouldn't give him a chance.”

Switch fiddled with his fork, watching me. “Well, at least Chuck kept it a coffee shop and kept her name in it. That's pretty respectful. And he's got that big picture of her up in there.”

I swallowed. I didn't know he had kept her picture up. I hadn't been inside to see it.

“I mean, what if he changed it to a tire store named Chuck's Discount Whitewalls or something? That would have been tons worse.”

I threw the fry down onto my plate. “Why are you sticking up for him? He's a snake.”

He shrugged. “All I know is he's been pretty cool to me. Treats me good. Gives me free stuff sometimes.”

I blushed, thinking of the hundreds of free Snow Whites I'd had “on the house” from Chuck.

“Well . . . you haven't heard everything,” I said.

Switch raised a brow.

“I think he's in love with my mother,” I blurted.

“Not a chance of that,” Switch said matter-of-factly. He smiled and looked out the window. Then paled and froze.

I followed his gaze toward the motorcycle. Two highway patrol officers in enormous leather jackets
were standing over it. And judging by the look of panic on Switch's face, I had a very bad feeling that the cops thought they'd just found themselves a stolen vehicle.