Full Ride (35 page)

Mom is not stupid. She can probably tell from my trembling voice just how badly everything went with Mr. Trumbull, just how baffled and scared and helpless I feel.

“Can I do anything to help?” she asks, and I can hear the strain in her voice—and the need to sound like a normal mom with normal worries for the sake of her friend beside her.

I'm back in the South, and sometimes old habits come back in a familiar place.

“Pray for me,” I tell Mom, without the slightest trace of irony. “I've got to go.”

I hang up.

The “I've got to go” was a lie, because I don't actually know what to do next. Do I really think I'm protecting Mom by not telling her everything? Or am I just protecting myself from having to relive it all?

A bus rattles past on the street outside my hiding place, and I think longingly of just going back to Emory and joining my Deskins friends for lunch and pretending that none of this ever
happened. I think I could almost do it. I could go back to Deskins and live out my senior year and throw caution to the wind and apply for college in spite of the Excellerand threat. It almost seems inevitable that Excellerand is going to get Mom and me in the end—we might as well enjoy ourselves before that happens.

Mom would never go along with that plan,
I think.

Or the two of us could go into hiding without Mr. Trumbull's help. We'd be refugees on the lam, maybe living in abandoned houses, eating in soup kitchens, moving to the next place whenever we get the slightest hint of danger . . . We'd fall further and further out of the scope of normal life, further and further from any chance of finding out what's really going on. . . .

No,
I think.
No.

It's bad enough that I was so ignorant the past three years.

I look down at the envelope from Daddy's letter. I stare at the words “Atlanta, Georgia” like I'm going to develop x-ray vision and see straight through to what that actually means.

What does anything about this messed-up day mean?

Maybe I could study that in college,
I think sarcastically.
Not that I'm ever going to get to go to college now.

Tears sting at my eyes over everything I'll miss. Maybe I was listening to more of the presentations last night than I thought. I remember the Emory admissions people saying that college isn't just about going to frat parties or getting to brag about what a great college you got into or getting a better job than you could have straight out of high school. What college is mostly for, they said, is seeking knowledge, and finding out things you've always wanted to know. Or things you never dreamed anyone could know.

“There's more than one way to get knowledge,” I mutter under my breath.

I pull out Mrs. Collins's iPhone. I type a few words into a
search engine, click through screenfuls of information, and study the phone number I eventually find.

Am I brave enough for this?
I wonder.
Is this really what I want?

I am. It is.

I tap the phone number and bring the iPhone to my ear. As soon as someone answers, I ask, “Can I visit one of your inmates today?”

“No,” the woman on the other end of the line says in a flat voice.

She goes on talking, something about the appointment slots at the penitentiary already being full for today, something about having to sign up in advance and needing to be an approved visitor. But I barely hear her, because I'm plunged into despair. Of course this won't work. Of course this is another door slammed in my face.

“—tomorrow?” the woman says, and this word actually breaks through my fog.

“E-excuse me?” I stammer.

“I said, we do have openings tomorrow,” the woman says. “Saturday morning?”

She's speaking slowly now, enunciating each syllable as if she's decided I'm a nearly brainless creature.

And maybe I am, because it seems to take me forever to process this. Tomorrow? I'm supposed to tour Vanderbilt tomorrow. My friends believe that's the whole reason I came on this trip. I'm not supposed to spend another night here in Atlanta, let alone another day. I'm supposed to be in Stuart's car by three o'clock this afternoon, headed toward Nashville.

“Want to sign up for a visit tomorrow?” the woman asks.

Impossible,
I think.

“Yes,” I say.

The woman begins telling me I need to bring two forms of ID and, yes, a driver's license and school ID will work fine.

I have my school ID because I thought I might need to show it at Emory, and of course I needed the license to drive. But suddenly it hits me that I've been reckless carrying either of them with me in Atlanta.

And now I'm going to march up to Daddy's prison and show both IDs right at the gate?
I agonize.
With my name and “Deskins, Ohio” right on both cards?

My brain tells me to hang up right now—to give up completely—but I don't. I let the woman keep talking, warning me that I will be turned away if I wear anything too “provocative,” and . . .

And what am I going to tell my friends?
I wonder.
What lie can I make up to explain wanting to stay in Atlanta an extra day—when everybody knows I'm more interested in Vanderbilt than Emory? And how am I going to get back to Ohio if I stay here when everybody else goes on to Nashville?

The woman asks for my name and the name of the inmate I want to visit, and I'm so rattled that I just give both, straight out. She doesn't react, but maybe there's some special training that prison workers go through, so they don't make a big deal about inmates' crimes, no matter how infamous they are.

As soon as I hang up, I remember that I was scared a moment ago about listening devices on the wall behind me or in the bushes around me. That's silly, but cell-phone transmissions can be intercepted. I don't know all the technology Excellerand has at its disposal.

I scramble out of my bushes and scurry down the block,
because if Excellerand was listening in, maybe they could pinpoint the exact spot where I spoke my name and my father's name. I don't want them to catch me until after I've visited Daddy.

I really don't want them to catch me at all, but that's another issue.

I smooth down my hair and force myself to slow my stride to a normal pace, not a desperate dash. I can't stand out. But of course I do. Kids my age aren't supposed to be out wandering the streets of Atlanta this time of day.

So, back to Emory's campus, where I blend in?

This thought comes as a relief. I glance at the time on the iPhone's screen—it's only 10:35. It feels like I've lived a lifetime since I got on the bus back at Emory, but it's only been a few hours. I've got enough time that, if the bus and metro schedules work in my favor, I can meet my friends back at the Emory dining hall at noon, right on schedule.

And then could I just “accidentally” get separated from them and not make it back to Stuart's SUV when it's time to drive to Nashville? Would they leave without me?

No, not even Stuart would be that heartless. And the others wouldn't let him—Rosa and Oscar and Jala would put out an all-points bulletin; they'd alert the national media; they'd tell anyone who would listen that someone as responsible as me wouldn't just disappear.

Even after this miserable morning I feel a burst of joy, because I have friends who would be that loyal. Who would do everything they could to take care of me if they thought I was in danger.

So I have to come up with a bulletproof lie, so they don't know I really am in danger.

One thing at a time,
I tell myself.

I find my way back to the metro stop, buy my ticket, plan my route. I'll get back to Emory by 11:49. Perfect. On the bus I check the price of a plane ticket tomorrow from Atlanta to Columbus, Ohio: hundreds of dollars. Ouch. Going by Greyhound bus would be less than half that, but it's still about what I would make in two shifts at Riggoli's.

This is worth it,
I tell myself.

The phone gives the little ping that means I have a text. I look, thinking it's something for Mrs. Collins that I should forward. But there are actually four messages waiting that I must have missed before, and they're all for me.

From Jala:
Is this crazy? Emory seems too small after OSU. Keep wanting to ask: Where's the rest of campus? Where's the rest of students?

From Stuart:
U right. Emory can't be Harvard of South. People too friendly. I hate that.

From Rosa:
I'm in love with this prof! Why aren't h.s. teachers like this?

I'm not sure if she means she loves how brilliant the guy is or that she thinks he's hot. With Rosa, it could be either. Or both.

Then I get to Oscar's text:
Have u had enuf of college alone? Please say you'll go to afternoon class w/me. B/c that's how college will be for u. Not lonely. Everyone will want to be around u.

From Oscar, this is practically a declaration of love. It's as bold as someone else sending roses or proposing a moonlight stroll or leaning in for a first kiss. I can imagine him spending the whole Computer Science Fundamentals class struggling to write this text. Maybe because I've just been working so hard to find hidden messages in my father's letter, I believe I can see what Oscar really wants to say:
I miss you. I don't want to be apart from you. I think you're wonderful.

Under the circumstances, this should feel like a burden. It
should feel like something I have to push away, nip in the bud. But I can't do that to Oscar. Or—I'll be honest—to myself. Not when reading his text feels like safety, like coming in from a storm, like that moment in the church parking lot when Mom and I stood bathed in light, facing truth together. And it's not just Oscar. The texts from all my friends steady me. They tether me, at a time when I really need it.

I couldn't tell Mom the mess I'm in, because she's in it with me, and telling would have only sent us both further into paralyzing despair. But my friends are different. I need them. They help.

I'm not even going to try to make up a good lie about why I'm staying in Atlanta.

I'm finally going to tell them the truth.

“—and that's why I'm not going to Vanderbilt with the rest of you,” I finish up.

I'm sitting with my four friends in a secluded part of Emory's campus, sheltered by trees. I've just told them my entire story, beginning with Daddy's arrest and running through my move to Deskins, the Court scholarship fiasco, and the story-behind-the-story I heard from Mom only last week. Then I told them how my morning went when they thought I was at the Religion and Contemporary Experience class, and why I decided to stay in Atlanta another day to visit Daddy.

I'm not sure exactly where I was in the story when Oscar moved over beside me and put his arm around my shoulder. I'm not sure what I was saying when Jala's eyes began to glisten with tears, and she also moved close, to pat my arm every time my voice broke and I had to struggle to keep talking.

But now I'm done, and everyone's silent.

“Well?” I say tentatively. “Did any of that make sense?”

Stuart clears his throat. He's sitting the farthest away from me.
I'm not sure he's met my eyes even once since I started talking.

“You know what this means, don't you?” he asks. “When you bring down Excellerand, you're so going to have the best college essay, ever. Every school in the country is going to want you!”

Rosa shoves him so hard he falls over.

“Would you just shut up?” she hisses. “That's not what this is about! This is
real.
”

Stuart puts out an arm and props himself back up. But he doesn't retaliate against Rosa.

“I was trying for comic relief,” he says. Then, uncharacteristically, he adds, “Sorry. I'm not good at this kind of thing.”

I snort.

“Who is?” I ask. “It's not exactly covered in SAT prep classes. Or
life
prep classes. But, Stuart, I don't have any hope of bringing down Excellerand. My father's been working on that for three years, and it's not exactly going well. I'm just trying to get out of this alive.”

“No, you're not,” Rosa says.

And then it's Stuart shoving her and hissing, “And
that's
being supportive? At least I was trying to make her laugh!”

Rosa puts out her hand to hold Stuart at bay.

“I
am
being supportive,” she says. “Becca, I think you're doing the right thing. But you're not just trying to stay alive. If that was your only goal, you'd go hide somewhere else with your mom, totally off the grid. But that would be like letting the bad guys win. Letting the bullies win, because you're scared to go visit your own father.”

I'm surprised Rosa has sorted through my choices so quickly and figured out my reasoning. This is one of those times it's really good to be hanging out with the smart kids.

“And we're talking about your
daddy,
” Jala chimes in. “I can tell you still love him and miss him, no matter what. And that's
okay. That's how it should be. You have to go visit him.”

I knew what I was doing when I pegged Jala as one of the nicest kids in Deskins, all those years ago at freshman orientation. She still sees Daddy as human when everybody else in the world wrote him off as a monster. She can actually understand why I still love him.

I blink back tears.

“Thanks, guys,” I say. “I wasn't really asking for permission or approval, or anything like that. It's just . . . I wanted you to know. So if I do have to disappear . . .”