Don't Fail Me Now(55)

“The reservations have their own police force,” he says. “I don’t think they would know about us.”

“You don’t think, or you know?” I ask, my fear of getting caught battling to the death with my fear of losing control of my bladder.

“I know,” he says. “At least I think I do.”

“Okay,” I say. “We can stop quickly, but we have to take turns going in, and no talking to anyone. Hell, no looking at anyone.” Within a few minutes I spot a Navajo shopping center and park in a barely visible spot between two vans. I go in first, alone, keeping my eyes down until I’m locked safely in a bathroom stall. But on my way out I can’t help but notice a big, glittering food court full of scraps for the taking. I don’t want to mess with the Navajo spirits—some seriously bad juju—but the kids need to eat, we have seven hundred miles to go, and we’re down to a single sleeve of crackers. So I do what I have to do, pretending to look for a seat while I slip pizza crusts into the sleeves of my hoodie like I’m doing a party trick. I’m so nervous walking back to the car that when a nearby baby shrieks, I nearly faint.

“So where are we going today, Magellan?” Tim asks as we chew the stale dough, waiting for the kids to finish up in the bathrooms. I sent Leah in wearing one of Cass’s hoodies and some sunglasses, but I’m still on edge.

“As far as we can get before nightfall,” I say, tapping the steering wheel with my knuckles.

“’Cause I had an idea for a day trip.”

“Would you mind keeping your head down?” I ask, glancing back at him in the rearview mirror.

“Do you want to hear it?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t you want to see something cool?”

“No.” I pop the last bite into my mouth and frown at him. “Please at least slouch a little. You fail at stealth.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll give you a hint,” he says, ignoring me. “It’s big—some might even say grand—and canyon-y.”

“No,” I say firmly. “We are not going there.”

“Why not? It’s on the way. Kind of.”

“Do you understand the concept of not having people see you?” I ask, spinning around. “It’s Saturday, and that’s the most popular tourist attraction in the entire southwestern United States. Maybe the entire country.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Tim says. “Maybe you’re thinking about it wrong.” I glare at him. “Hear me out,” he presses. “Maybe sticking to podunk towns and empty roads makes us more visible, you know? In a huge crowd that’s busy sightseeing, we could really disappear for once.”

“Even if that’s true,” I say, peering out the front window for any sign of the kids, “it’s a waste of time. If we drive straight through, we can make it before midnight.”

“We won’t be able to see him until tomorrow morning anyway,” Tim says. “So what difference does it make if we get there at eleven P.M. or eight A.M.?”

“It makes a difference to me.” I don’t know how to explain that I just want to get there as fast as I possibly can and that until we hit the LA city limits, I won’t be able to breathe. I have this growing sense of unease that whatever’s approaching—the cops, the devil, the future—is faster than we are.

“Well, I just wish you could see it,” he says. “Dad took me on a trip after the divorce. A lot of what we did was pretty corny—the world’s biggest ball of wax and stuff—but the Grand Canyon . . . man, it blew my mind.”

“We went to Washington, DC, once when I was little,” I say. There are pictures in an album, including one of Mom and Buck bisected by the Washington Monument in some heavy-handed foreshadowing. “But we never really leave the city. I’ve never seen much natural beauty.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Tim says, and I reflexively press down on the gas pedal. Luckily the car is off.

I don’t want Tim to think I’m being cold, but I have no idea what to say. Boys have told me I’m pretty before, mostly murmuring stuff as I pass them in the hallway, some of it nasty, most of it harmless. My least favorite catcall, and the one I get the most, is “Come on, beautiful, give me that smile.” I always think about spinning around and telling them I don’t smile on command, that I don’t have all that much to smile about, and that they can mind their own damn business. I’m used to tuning out those comments, just walking away—but they’ve never been from someone I actually liked before. They’ve never been from someone who deserved an answer.

But before I can come up with something, the girls and Denny emerge from the front entrance of the mall. All three are inexplicably holding hands, and for the second time in ten seconds, I’m rendered speechless.

When Cass gets in the car, it’s clear she’s been crying. “I’m really sorry,” she says.

“Sorry for what?” I ask.

“Everything,” she says.

“Did something happen in there? What took so long?” Cass won’t meet my eyes, so I look to Denny. “Are you okay?”

“She’s sad about stuff,” Denny says.

“She wouldn’t tell us what,” Leah adds.