Don't Fail Me Now(24)

I brake for a stoplight, and Goldie’s rattle gets even louder. I have no idea what to do. We’re less than a mile from Denny’s school. I pick up my watery iced coffee just to have something to do with my hands instead of anxiously tapping the wheel, and a damp receipt falls off the bottom of the plastic cup. I look down at the handwritten black ink numbers starting to bleed together. Tim. He must be on his way to school now, too, him and Leah, in their swanky SUV—in the light of day this time—listening to Top 40 hits instead of the death knell of their junky car, smiling their Crest Whitestrips smiles and wearing their wrinkle-free clothes that probably smell like fabric softener and freshly mowed grass. The jealousy hits me in the gut just as the light turns green.

“Who did Dad bite?” Denny pipes up from the backseat.

“He didn’t bite anyone,” I sigh, merging into the slow lane, trying to decide where to go. “It’s just an expression.”

“I don’t get it,” he says. I look to Cass, hoping she’ll jump in with one of her perfectly timed punch lines to shut down the line of questioning, but she’s leaning against the window, gnawing anxiously on a thumbnail.

“It means he’s . . . sick,” I say after some consideration. “Buck is sick.” I don’t think Denny will be as calm as Cass and me when he finds out Buck is dying. I’m planning on putting off that conversation for as long as humanly possible.

“How’d he get sick?” Denny asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, rubbing my right temple with one hand, hoping for once that Max steps in to pull one of his douchey stunts. “He probably did something he wasn’t supposed to do.” Buck would only be in his midthirties, so it has to be drugs, or maybe cancer. Something slow and awful, which I wouldn’t wish even on my worst enemy . . . who also happens to be my father.

“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.





SIX


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.