Runaway (8 page)

Fifteen

I sit up as straight as I can on Blackfire’s back until I can see the giant hole in the ground, the quarry that’s getting closer with every hoofbeat. I picture us galloping over the side, flying, then crashing down . . .

“Whoa!” I shout, pulling back on the reins. I remember what Winnie said about ask and release. So I pull, let up, then pull.

Blackfire puts on the brakes so fast I almost sail over his head. But I catch myself. “Good boy!” I stroke his sweaty neck and ease my seat behind the withers. We’re both panting. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this alive. Even as I think this, I know it sounds like a soap opera, but there it is—that feeling. In my soul, like Popeye and his woodpeckers.

I lay the reins on Blackfire’s neck, and he turns around and starts walking back to the barn as if our ride were nothing more than a little exercise. Halfway there, I hear shouts. Hank’s running toward us, waving his arms. He stops when he sees us walking toward him. He leans over, hands on knees, like he’s trying to get his breath.

Wes catches up to Hank the same time I get there and frowns up at me. Then he turns around and heads back to the barn.

Hank inspects Blackfire and me. “You sure you’re okay, Dakota?”

I lean forward and hug Blackfire around the neck. “Hank, I’ve got to tell you. That was more fun than falling off Starlight.”

* * *

Next morning there’s an e-mail waiting for me:

Can you drive yet?

Neil always was a man of few words.

But the message hits hard. Right now there’s no way I could drive that truck to Chicago. I can’t even make it across the pasture without stalling out. I need more practice.

I don’t answer Neil’s e-mail.

I look around for Popeye, who never sleeps in—and “sleeping in” means anything after seven. There’s a note on the table, anchored under the sugar bowl. I move to the table to read it:

Fire duties. Gone with Mac. Digging trenches near Marengo. Back later.

Love,

Popeye/Chester/Dad

Great.
There goes my driving lesson. In four days I’ll be on the road to Chicago. I’m running out of time. And patience.

By four o’clock, Popeye still isn’t back. I’ve ridden Blackfire, checked e-mail, and scouted the driveway for any sign of Popeye. With nothing else to do, I stroll around the barn and see the truck’s still parked where I left it. Mac, a neighbor and fellow firefighter, must have given Popeye a lift.

I think about asking Hank if he’ll give me a driving lesson, but he’s out riding Starlight. I stare at the old truck, knowing that in a few days I’ll be driving it by myself.

So why not now?

The key’s right where it always is. I snap on my seat belt, and the truck starts with the first try. Gears grind as I wiggle the stick to first. The truck jerks, but it doesn’t die. I head for the path along the back field and bounce through the pasture with no problem. This is by far the best I’ve driven. At the end of the field, the gate’s missing. So I keep going down a little incline and onto the road.

It’s easier than I thought, driving on a gravel road. Pressing the accelerator and picking up speed, I try to imagine myself on the expressway. Actually, it’s easier to stay straight at this speed than when Popeye makes me dog it. I pass the Coolidges’ driveway and keep going until I come to a crossroad. Dust clouds rise from both sides as I turn left and regain speed. I’m guessing it’s a country mile to the next intersection when I turn left again. The corner comes a little fast, and I turn too sharply, but nobody’s coming.

I settle into the seat again and relax my hands on the wheel. I can do this. I really can. As soon as I get back, I’ll e-mail Neil and tell him. I take another left at the intersection, then another, and I’m pretty sure I’m back on the road I started on. Nobody else is out here. I own the road.

I whiz past the horse pasture. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the Coolidges’ driveway. It’s up on me sooner than I thought, so I have to wheel right to make the turn.

In front of me, tiny eyes shine up from the road—a raccoon or a rabbit. I swerve to miss it. But the truck goes too far too fast.

My front tire bumps off the drive, and I can’t get it back. I’m going too fast. I yank the wheel the other way. Back tires spin. I jerk the steering wheel, but nothing happens.

I hear a scream. It’s me. I’m the one screaming. The truck’s heading straight for a tree. I close my eyes. Then I hear the crash.

My body lunges forward, then jerks back from the seat belt.

When I open my eyes, I’m looking at a tree. Branches are pressed against the cracked windshield, like an old man’s fingers trying to get in. I’m still squeezing the steering wheel. I’ve gripped it so hard, my fingernails are broken. I wiggle my fingers, move my arms. Nothing else seems to be broken.

Except the truck.

The giant trunk of the tree is so close I could reach out and touch it, which means the whole front part of the truck has been squished like an accordion.

The Coolidges are going to kill me.

I lean back in the seat, amazed that I don’t hurt. My heart sounds like galloping horses’ hooves, but I’m okay. I don’t see blood anywhere.

That’s when I realize somebody’s honking. The steady cry of the horn blares through the dusk. I look around for another car, then figure out that it’s the truck’s horn. It’s stuck. I pound on it until it cuts off, leaving an eerie silence.

The driver’s door swings open, and Hank’s there. “She’s okay!” he shouts. He reaches in and tries to pull me out, but the seat belt’s still fastened. He undoes the belt, then slides one arm under me and lifts me out of the truck.

Kat rushes up and grabs my arm. She’s sobbing. “Dakota! Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay, Kat.” I see Wes behind her, and he looks scared. Then I look at Hank, who’s still holding me like I’m a baby. “You can put me down, Hank.”

“Sure?” Hank holds me a few seconds longer, then sets me down.

My left knee hurts when I try to stand. It buckles, and Hank reaches for my arm to steady me.

A van pulls up behind us, and both doors spring open. Annie and Popeye come running for me. “Dakota!” Popeye shouts. The headlights point bright fingers at me through the settling dusk.

Annie says something I can’t make out.

I brace myself. I don’t think they’ll hit me. But they’ll go ballistic as soon as they see their truck. I try to stand up straight and get ready.

Annie reaches me first. “Dakota! What did you do? Are you okay?”

Then Popeye’s there. He puts his hand on my head. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Annie kneels down, even though she’s wearing a white skirt. “What did you do to your knee? Let me see.” Gently, Annie squeezes my kneecap and pokes and prods. When she stands, she lets out a sigh. “Well, nothing’s broken that I can see. You’ll have a nasty bruise though.” She peers into my face. Then she feels my arms.

Popeye looks up at the sky. “Thank You, Lord!”

“Man,” Hank says, more to them than to me. “I heard this bang, then a crunch. Then Kat came running into the barn to get me.”

“It was so scary,” Kat says, still looking stunned.

Wes hasn’t left, but he stands to one side.

Popeye throws his arm around Kat. “It’s over now. Everything’s just fine.”

This is
so
not the reaction I expected. “Your truck,” I say. “It’s wrecked.”

“What about her knee?” Popeye asks, peering down as if he hasn’t heard me. “Sure it’s not broken?”

“Am I sure it’s not broken?” Annie repeats. “Have you seen my medical degrees, Mr. Coolidge?”

They both laugh.

None of this makes sense. I feel like I’m watching these people from another dimension. “Hey! I wrecked your truck!” I shout. “
I
did it. I drove by myself, and I smashed your truck into a tree.”

The smiles don’t disappear from their faces. “We love
you
, not that truck,” Popeye says.

“What?” I don’t believe he just said what he did.

“We’re just grateful you’re okay,” Annie begins. “Of course, you shouldn’t have been driving on your own.”

Here it comes,
I think. Now I’m going to get their
real
reaction.

“True,” Popeye agrees. “We have time to come up with something.”

Annie smiles at me, then squints like she’s concentrating. “Dakota doesn’t watch TV like Wes does, so that won’t work. Extra chores maybe?”

That’s it? Extra chores?
“Don’t you get it?” I shout. Only now do I feel tears pushing to get out. “I wrecked your truck! I’m sorry. I’m really sorry! But I can do extra chores until I’m a hundred, and I still won’t have the money to pay you back!” Tears stop up my throat, and I cough.

“It will all work out,” Popeye says.

“No, it won’t!” I want them to be angry, to yell at me, to hate me for this. “I’ll never be able to pay you back.”

“We know,” Annie says.

“Dakota,” Popeye says, “most of what we do, we can’t pay back.”

“That’s why we need Jesus,” Kat whispers.

I’m out of words. Out of breath. Out of everything.

“I could sure use some hot chocolate,” Hank says, sticking out an elbow for me to lean on.

I do lean on him and hobble to the house, but I skip the hot chocolate.

From my hot, bubbly bath, I listen to the laughter rise from downstairs, the voices seeping up through the radiator vents.

Sleep comes easily. But in the middle of the night I bolt upright in bed.
There’s no truck!

No truck means nothing to drive. Nothing to drive means no Chicago. No Chicago means no California.

I throw off my covers and hobble barefoot down the stairs. My knee hurts, but I ignore it. The computer’s turned off, and it takes forever to warm up. I log on to my e-mail and dash off a message in all caps, slapping
READ THIS NOW!!!!
in the subject line.

NEIL, HELP! I WRECKED THE TRUCK!

I CAN’T DRIVE TO CHICAGO.

YOU HAVE TO COME HERE AND GET ME!

* * *

I try to go back to sleep, but I can’t. Pieces of the last two days fly through my head like runaways: my wild ride on Blackfire, the truck slamming into the tree, Popeye placing his hand on my head.

Why don’t they hate me for wrecking their truck? I don’t understand. And I don’t belong. Not with these people. Not with this “Nice” family.

I belong with Neil. And DJ. And whoever and whatever’s waiting in California. Not here, where people don’t get mad at you for wrecking their truck, where they say they love you when they should hate you.

When it starts getting light outside, I give up trying to sleep and go back down to the computer. Maybe Winnie sent me more horse e-mails. I log in to Annie’s e-mail account and scroll down, looking for something from Winnie.

An e-mail catches my eye. But it’s not from Winnie. It’s from someone named George. Addressed to Annie. The header reads:
We need to meet!

I know I shouldn’t, but I click on the e-mail and read:

My dearest Annie,

We cannot go on like this. It’s been days since our last encounter. We must meet. You must tell your husband. I need you more than that husband of yours needs you. I miss you madly.

All my love,

George

Sixteen

The screen door slams, and I jump up from the computer as if I’ve been shot.

It’s Wes and Rex. Rex trots over to me and wags his tail until I pet him.

Wes, still in pajamas, eyes me suspiciously. “Great job on the truck,” he says. “Guess that makes it a little harder to run away.”

I don’t answer him. I couldn’t speak if I wanted to.

He walks past me and goes back to bed.

I feel sick inside. The words in George’s e-mail race through my brain, electrically charged. How could Annie do this to Popeye? He loves her so much.
His
Annie. Right. What a lie.

Love?
If that’s where love gets you, then I want out more than ever.

I can’t wait for Neil to write. I know it’s too early to call him, but that’s just too bad. And I know I’m not supposed to make long-distance calls without asking. But it seems to me there are a lot of things being done around here that are not supposed to be done.

I pick up the phone and dial Neil’s number.

The phone rings six times, and I’m afraid nobody’s going to answer when somebody finally does. “Who is this?”

I’m pretty sure it’s not Neil’s voice. “Uh . . . is Neil there?”

The guy swears under his breath. Neil lives with two other guys, but this doesn’t sound like either of them. Then I wonder if it’s DJ.

I wait so long I think about hanging up. Then Neil answers. “Who is this?”

“Neil, it’s me. Dakota.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I wrecked the truck I was going to drive to Chicago.”

“You’re kidding. You better have a backup plan. Are they ready to kill you, or what?”

“Not exactly.” I picture Annie running up to me to see if I was okay. But I shove the image from my head and instead try to imagine her with George.

“Dakota?” Neil says. “You still there?”

“Neil, you have to come get me.”

In the background, I hear somebody yell.

“Was that DJ?” I ask.

“Yeah. And he’s not going to want to drive all the way out to get you. That costs money, Dakota. Gas prices are killing us already.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I can’t stop my voice from cracking. I’m on the verge of an all-out cry.

“Let me think,” Neil says. His sigh travels through the phone.

I wait. “Please, Neil.”

“Do you have any money? Maybe if I told DJ you could pay your own way . . .”

“I only have $10,” I admit.

“There’s got to be money around there somewhere, Dakota.”

“You want me to steal?” I’ve never stolen anything, not even when kids copped gum from the supermarket.

“Borrow, then,” Neil says. “Anyway, they owe us. Fosters, I mean. They’re getting money for you. From the state. And they’ve probably got you doing farmwork without pay too, right?”

“I don’t know, Neil.” And I don’t. I don’t know what to think or believe or do.

“Get the money, kid,” Neil says. “I’ll talk to DJ. You better overnight the cash, though. I think if he sees a hundred bucks, he’ll do it.”

“But I haven’t said I’d—”

“Mail it to me here. Fast. We need to get it by Friday.”

My head hurts. I just want to go to sleep and not wake up. I can’t handle any of this.

“Dakota?” Neil’s voice is wide awake now. He sounds as sure and confident as I am unsure and confused. “Listen to me. You don’t belong there. We’ll get jobs in LA. DJ’s got us covered. Just get the money and send it to me. You hear me, Dakota?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll see you on the Fourth. Everything will be all right.” Neil hangs up.

I’m shaking when I hang up the phone. My breathing is jagged, like a bunch of spikes are cutting up my insides with every breath. I stand and walk to the kitchen. I open the cupboard under the sink. The pet bowl’s there, loaded with cash.

But I can’t do it. I can’t take that money.

I slam the cupboard and race back upstairs. I have to get out of here. But there has got to be another way. I storm into the bathroom before I realize someone’s already there.

“Oops. Sorry, Kat. I didn’t—”

Kat is standing over the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Or rather, staring at me staring at her. Kat is bald. There’s not a hair—not a red, black, or blonde hair—on that pale, shiny head.

“One day,” Kat begins, as if she’s starting a fairy tale, “I looked in this mirror, and I only had three hairs. So I said, ‘Hmm. I think I’ll braid my hair today.’ And I did. The next day I looked in this mirror, and I only had two hairs. So I said, ‘Hmm, I think I’ll part my hair down the middle today.’ The next day I looked in the mirror, and there was only one hair on my head. So I decided on a ponytail. The next day I looked in this mirror, and there wasn’t a single hair on my head.” She turns to me and smiles. “Know what I said?”

I shake my head.

“‘Finally! No more bad hair days.’”

I don’t laugh. I can’t. No more than I can stop staring at her head, the way the veins curl close to the skin.

“It’s okay, Dakota. It really is.”

“It’s not okay.” Tears are flooding my eyes and overflowing onto my cheeks. “Why? What happened to you? What’s . . . ?” I don’t even know what to ask her.

“I have cancer. If I didn’t, I never would have met Mom. My biological mother couldn’t handle it when I got sick.”

“You can’t have cancer, Kat.”

“Don’t look so scared, Dakota. Everything will be all right.”

I back away from her. How can she say everything will be all right? That’s what Neil said on the phone. I replay Neil’s voice in my head and hear his words:
“Everything will be all right.”

Then, before the sound of his voice can fade back into Kat’s, I run downstairs, go to the pet bowl, and take out all the 20s, seven of them: $140.

The money feels warm in my fingers. I’ll pay them back. I’m borrowing, not stealing. Dakota Brown is not a thief.
“Everything will be all right.”

Frantically, I search through the computer desk until I find a drawer full of envelopes and stamps. There’s an overnight express mailer, but I have no idea how much it costs to send it. So I stick stamps all across the top, making a mental note to pay Popeye back for this, too. I scribble the return address on the envelope. Neil can find me from that.

Then, before I change my mind, I run outside, barefoot, all the way to the mailbox, stick in my package, and put up the red flag.

I run back to my room and stay upstairs until I’m sure Annie’s gone. When I come down, Popeye’s whistling one of the songs they sang in church.

If he only knew.

Knowing about Kat somehow makes me angrier at Annie. The famous Dr. Annie Coolidge should have cured her. They should have told me about Kat.

Popeye turns as if he’s just noticed me. “You just missed Miami! How’s the knee?”

I’ve been so upset that I’ve forgotten about my bruised knee. It hurts, but it’s nothing compared to what I feel inside. “Fine.”

“I knew it,” Popeye says, pouring me a glass of juice when I sit at the table. “Miami is the best doctor in the world. She is never wrong.”

“She’s not perfect, Popeye.” It comes out louder than I meant it to.

Kat’s coming down the stairs, holding on to her kitten. She’s wearing the red hair she wore the first day I got here.

“No,” Popeye admits, “I suppose she’s not perfect.”

He and Kat exchange good-morning hugs, and then Kat moves to the TV and turns on some stupid cartoon show.

Popeye goes back to whistling as he mixes dough in a bread machine. He is so out of touch. His own wife is making a fool of him, and he’s baking her fresh bread.

“Annie can’t even cook, can she?” I point out.

He shakes his head and grins at Kat. “Now, that’s a fact. And you’re very lucky she quit trying.”

“She’s always gone too,” I add. “You do everything around here. She leaves her stuff all over the house, and you clean up after her.”

With each fault I bring up, Popeye’s grin becomes bigger, deeper. He gets this dreamy look in his eyes. “I do love that woman’s faults. Maybe most of all.”

He is so clueless. “Popeye! How can you?”

“It’s those faults that got me Miami. Without them, she’d have gotten a much better husband than me. I’m a one-woman man, Dakota.”

It’s no use. I can’t even imagine what it will do to him when he finds out about George. But it’s not my problem.

Kat comes over and sits in the computer chair. “Dad, tell Dakota how you’re a gecko.”

“A gecko?” I repeat.

“But not just any gecko,” Popeye says. “Most geckos have harems. But I’m like the Madagascar day gecko. He mates for life. If his wife dies, the poor fellow wanders around for the rest of his life, a dejected widower.”

None of this is my problem. None of it. I get up and go outside without a word, and I don’t come in until it’s time for supper.

Annie arrives home late, and Popeye keeps dinner waiting for her. She monopolizes the dinner conversation, talking about how great she is with her patients.

After dinner, she smiles at me before I can get away. “How’s the knee?”

I turn away without answering her.

“Something wrong, Dakota?” Annie asks. “You were awfully quiet at dinner.”

“Well,
by george
, what could possibly be wrong in this
loving
household?” I ask sarcastically. I leave before I say anything else.