White Rabbit(57)
“‘Bring it up?’” Sebastian’s foot slips off the gas pedal. “You mean, like, ‘Speaking of murdering two of your guys, that’s what my brother did’?”
“Well, maybe not exactly like that, no—”
“And what if he doesn’t notice you? What if he doesn’t say hi? What’s Plan B?”
“Um. We go talk to him, I guess.”
Sebastian is quiet for what feels like a really long time, and then he says carefully, “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but that’s even stupider than your last stupid plan.”
“I know,” I acknowledge glumly. “But I don’t have anything better.”
“Oh fuck.” Sebastian’s shoulders slump. “We’re going to die.”
“We don’t have to go through with it,” I hear myself saying in return. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just … if we get there, and it seems really scary, we can always back out.” I’m thinking about the previous winter, when I decided to get my ears pierced during my weeklong suspension from school. I made the appointment and biked over to the shop to get it done, took one look at the terrifying gun thing that was about to blast holes in my flesh, and fled outside again with a cold sweat pouring down my neck. “Believe it or not, I don’t actually want to get shot and/or stabbed tonight.”
“That’s a relief.” He lets out a grunt of friendly sarcasm, then glances over at me. “But what about what Mrs. Covington said, Rufe? You need that money, and if you give up, she might get you expelled. I mean … we have to at least try.”
My face heats at the reminder that I made him aware of my mother’s poverty—our poverty—but at least his look isn’t pitying; it just seems like he cares. I think again about all the chances he’s taking on my behalf, all the crazy, stupid things he’s been helping me do, and I start to feel ashamed. There’s something I haven’t said yet—words he deserves to hear, but which have felt like a betrayal every time they’ve gotten near my tongue. Like I’d be selling out my pride while it’s still fresh from being flayed alive. But I have to get them off my chest before I start hating myself.
“Thank you,” I mutter stiffly, trying to sound as formal as possible. “You know, for everything. For driving me out to South Hero and helping me with April, and for … for not making me do this by myself.” It is so hard to say, and I hate how much it sounds like forgiveness—like I’m relinquishing any self-esteem I’ve salvaged from the smoking rubble he made of my heart. “And also for what you said to Hayden, back at the police station. And for this, now. I know I should’ve said it earlier, but I’m … I’m saying it now. Even if I’m kind of doing a shitty job. Thanks.”
My face feels hot enough to smelt iron by the time I’m done speaking, and a pregnant silence fills the Jeep. The more the empty space drags out, the more I dread hearing what Sebastian is going to say in response, but at last he turns a familiar, wry smile at me and remarks, “It’s cool. I mean, we’re just gonna look for a drug-dealing motorcycle gang at a dirty strip mall behind an abandoned gas station in the middle of the night. What’s the big deal?”
I actually laugh out loud.
The strip mall turns out to be pretty easy to find. I had a vague impression stamped in my mind of a grubby asphalt lot serving an L of run-down, single-story businesses—one with a massive sign reading DOLLAR BIN in violent neon capitals—that’s darted past the window on the occasions when my mom and I have been headed to the airport. My memory is confirmed, in all its depressing glory, when we pull off the highway and glide up the wide boulevard toward our destination.
The fog isn’t as thick this far from the water, and the shabby storefronts and light-up plastic signs suffer for lack of the dramatic, soft-focus effect that a little nighttime haze could have provided. There’s some sort of construction going on in the lot, a freestanding structure rising from piles of rubble in a corner of the asphalt plaza—and a perimeter of plastic fencing spreads so wide around it that it blocks off the main entrance to the parking area.
Driving past, Sebastian pulls instead into the empty service station that looms on the corner—a weedy expanse of oil-stained paving, defunct pumps, and a couple of boxy, concrete edifices begging for demolition. Graffiti covers any surface wide enough for the writing to be legible, and the ground is littered with cigarette butts, used condoms, and broken glass. Sebastian turns off the engine, his headlights dying out, and I make a noise in the back of my throat. “You take me to the nicest places.”
“Wait’ll you see the Dollar Bin,” he quips, and I giggle again. But even the easy humor hurts just a little bit.
“Are we leaving the Jeep here?” I ask, just to say something. “There’s got to be another way into the lot.”
Ahead of us is a small outbuilding—the gas station’s restrooms—its painted metal doors padlocked shut; beyond that lies a short expanse of rocky undergrowth, which ends at the shore of the strip mall’s asphalt sea, where the plastic construction fence forms a lattice against the glowing lights of what few businesses remain open. Among them are Suzy’s American Diner, and, in what I hope is not some sort of omen, an establishment called the Smoking Gun.
“To be honest? I think I’ll feel better with my car over here.” Sebastian shoots me an uncomfortable look. “You said Hayden would probably come looking for Lyle, right? Well, dude knows my car, and it doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to let bygones be bygones tonight. If we decide to make a quick retreat, I don’t want to be running to the parking lot to find out that all my tires have been slashed and your bro is waiting there to finish what we started at the police station.” Embarrassed, he gestures through the windscreen. “It looks like the diner’s right there, anyway. Let’s just cut across.”