Mosquitoland(40)

I had people. Who loved me. People who cheated to lose. There’s really something to this, Iz, something that separates me from Shadow Kid. And I think this is what makes the storm pass.

People say I’m sick. Dad sure believes it. At his insistence, I’ve been on meds for the past year or so.

Shit.

Constable Randy returns.

Long story short, I’m not going to take the medication anymore, because I don’t need it. Mom never thought so, and neither did Makundi.

Abilitol is its name.

And it is Reason #7.


Signing off,

Mary Iris Malone,

Grizzly Whoa-man!



“ARE YOU DONE?”

I nod, stuff my journal away, and give the officer my sarcastic-undivided-attention look. (It’s a good one.) We aren’t suspects—a fact I pointed out twice before he dropped us in this room—but this hasn’t kept Independence’s Finest from treating Walt and me like bottom-feeders.

“Okay, then,” says Officer Randy, plopping his awkward frame across the table. “What do you think a man in my position should do?”

I want to ask him what position he thinks he’s in. Survey says: bowling ball on a straw. Seriously, in all my years I’ve never seen a noodle like his, like someone grabbed him by both feet and blew air into his toes. This man is one hard sneeze away from scoliosis.

“I don’t understand the problem,” I say. “We already told you what happened on the roof. You can’t keep us here, we’ve done nothing wrong.”

Randy shuffles his papers around. Blimey, looking at his giant head almost makes me wish I’d stared at that dumb eclipse with both eyes wide open.

“You know what I did yesterday?” he asks. “Arrested an accused child molester. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m less than cordial.”

The words of Officer Randy take me there. (I’d like to be friends, Mim. You want to be friends, don’t you?) The clicking of Walt’s cube brings me back.

It’s quiet for a moment; Officer Randy sighs, says, “Okay, look. Bottom line. I’ve got two minors involved in a possible murder attempt.”

“Dude. We were the murderees, not the murderers.”

“I know that. And under normal circumstances, I’d call your parents, explain the situation, tell you to expect calls from an attorney, and send you on your merry way. But these aren’t normal circumstances, it would seem. These are very odd circumstances.”

Constable, you have no idea . . .

“Because when I ask you a simple question—what’s your name, where’re you from, where’re your folks—you clam up. Ahab vouches for both of you, says you’re heading to Iowa, or something, but he’s a moron. Either way, that’s not enough to—”

“Cleveland,” says Walt.

Randy frowns at him. “What?”

“Cleveland, not Iowa.” Walt has his head down, completely enthralled with his cube.

Think fast, Malone. I lean in across the desk and lower my voice. “Okay, fine. Officer, my name is Betty, and this is my brother, Rufus, and we’re from Cleveland. A few years back, I was self-diagnosed with abandonment issues and—”

“Self-diagnosed?” Randy interrupts.

“What did I say?”

“You said self-diagnosed.”

“That’s right.”

Next to me, Walt is nodding emphatically.

“So anyway,” I continue, “after our parents died, my brother here was put under my guardianship.”

“How old are you, Betty?” Officer Randy asks, scribbling away in a notebook.

“Eighteen,” I answer, barely able to keep a straight face. “So I took Rufus here under my wing. Well, I’ve had a few abandonment episodes recently, real ugly shit, you understand? So we’re headed to Boise to live with our Aunt Gerty. I’ve got a job lined up with Pringles, and Auntie Gee has agreed to let us live in her bonus room above the garage.”

Randy’s pen stops abruptly. “Boise’s in Idaho,” he whispers, a gotcha smile spreading across his huge face. “Ahab said Iowa.”

I clear my throat and cross my arms. “Yeah, well, like you said, Officer. Ahab’s a moron.”

Officer Randy furrows his bulging brow. Dear God, please let him buy this story. There’s no telling what sort of chain reaction a curious cop in northern Kentucky might set off. I could kiss my Objective good-bye, that’s for sure.

“You guys wait here,” he says. “I’m gonna get on the horn with the captain and see what I can do about getting you to Boise.”

The human bobblehead wobbles from the room. I hop up, poke my head out the door, and watch him disappear around the corner.

“Okay, Walt, listen up.” I turn, expecting him to be in la-la land with his cube. Instead, he’s standing right behind me, smiling, suitcase in hand. God bless him. “We’re not arrested, but it looks like we’re gonna have to break out of jail. You with me?”

“Hey, hey, yeah,” he says, bouncing on his heels.

Closing my good eye, I will every ounce of stealth, speed, and moxie into the toes of my Goodwill shoes. Mom—the flame of my fuse, the wind in my sail, the tick-tick-ticking clock in my ear—is sick. Labor Day is two days away. Forty-eight hours. I breathe in, out, in, in, out. I am energized. I am galvanized. I am mobilized, oxidized, and fully realized.