Flyaway (13 page)

I'm not stealing her car,
I tell myself.
I'm just borrowing it.
But I'm also driving without a license, so I scan the road for cops, and when a fire engine siren wails in the distance, I break out in a sweat.

I know I could still go back. I could park the car and hang Aunt Mindy's keys on the hook and she'd never suspect a thing. But some brave, wild part of me is in control, and I keep barreling toward the freeway, the late-afternoon sun in my eyes and a breeze from the cracked-open window tugging at my hair.
We live by our own rules,
I hear Mom say.

I've never driven in traffic before. The lane feels way too skinny, and I'm terrified I'll side-swipe one of the cars parked along the curb. When I swerve to avoid an SUV, the guy next to me honks and gives me the finger. I'd give it right back to him if I wasn't too chicken to take my hand off the wheel.

Without really deciding to, I merge onto I-5 South. I see a sign to Portland, and suddenly I know where I'm going. True, I don't know exactly where the rehab place is, but once I get to Portland, I'll ask around. There can't be that many of them.

I've never driven on the freeway before, either. I clench my jaw as I watch the speedometer needle climb to forty, then fifty, then sixty miles an hour. I'm still the slowest one on the road, so I push it to sixty-five. Tires hum on the asphalt.

That's when I see the cop in my rearview mirror.

He's one lane to the left of me. No lights or sirens—yet. I slow my speed to exactly sixty and grip the steering wheel so tight my fingers go white. A bead of sweat slides down the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades.

Now he's right behind me. I keep my eyes glued to the rearview mirror, and I've been holding my breath so long I feel like I'm going to pass out. I see the sign for the 45th Street NE exit up ahead and decide to go for it. If he's after me, I'm screwed anyway. I veer toward the exit, steeling myself for the flash of red and blue lights.

They never come. I glance out the side mirror to see the cop car sailing past the exit, just another drop in the rushing river of traffic.

As soon as I'm off the highway, I pull over, lay my head on the steering wheel, and suck in deep lungfuls of air. You couldn't pay me to get back on that freeway. I stare at a squished bug on the windshield, not knowing what to do. There's no way I can drive all the way to Oregon, but I can't go back to Aunt Mindy's either. I never want to see her stupid face again. I need some time to think, so I wind the car into the heart of the University District and park on a side street. Then I plug a few coins into the parking meter and head out on foot for University Way.

"The Ave," as everyone calls it, looks all college-student friendly, with purple and gold "Go, Huskies!" posters in the shop windows. But clusters of street kids hunker in front of those same stores, sucking on joints and trolling for spare change. When I pass an alleyway, I catch a whiff of pee.

I jam my hands in my pockets and walk with my head down. The smell of teriyaki and cheap tacos makes my stomach growl. It's got to be after four, and I haven't eaten since breakfast. I've got a few bucks in my pocket, but I'll need to save them for later, when I'll be really hungry.

"Hey," says a voice behind me.

I shoot a glance over my shoulder, scared it might be a cop.

"Hey, there." A girl about my age, dressed in baggy shorts and a stained T-shirt three sizes too big, breaks away from a group of kids camped out in front of Pagliacci Pizza and scrambles to catch up with me. She probably wants to hit me up for change, so I keep moving.

She comes up beside me. "Wait up, would you? I just want to talk to you. I saw you, and I said to myself, 'That girl could use a friend.' " She lays her hand on my arm. "You never have to be alone, you know. You've always got a friend in the Lord."

The kids behind her laugh and hoot. "That's right, baby. Spread the word," a guy with stringy black hair calls out.

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's someone trying to save me. Even if it's a load of crap. I step into the street, ignoring the honking of cars, and dodge my way across. I look back to make sure she hasn't followed and then duck into a little espresso bar. It's like walking into a time machine. Grateful Dead blasts from the stereo, and posters of wizards and serpents in Day-Glo colors plaster the black walls. The guy at the counter looks like a throwback too. His frazzly gray ponytail hangs between his shoulder blades, and a silver earring in the shape of a feather dangles from one ear.

"What'll it be, darlin'?" He pretends to juggle. "We've got your mocha and your cappuccino and your triple mochaccino and your supercalifragilistic any-way-you-want-it straight-up caffeine."

"Um," I say. I don't want to use up my money, but he seems so goofy and nice. I'll feel bad not ordering anything. "What's cheapest ?"

"Lookin' for easy on the pocketbook, are you?" He holds one finger in the air, as if he's just had the world's most brilliant idea. "How about a nice tall glass of H
₂
O, on the house. You like ice ?"

I take my glass of ice water to the little area in back. A shelf of old books lines one wall, and a couple of rocking chairs and a green-velvet couch that looks like something you'd see by the side of the road with a "Free" sign on it stand grouped in front of an empty fireplace. A huge furball of a black cat huddles on one end of the couch, aiming its pale green eyes at me.

"Hi, kitty," I say, and perch next to it.

The lady in a long black skirt who's sitting in one of the chairs looks up from her book. "That's Nostradamus."

I scratch his chin. His eyes narrow to slits and he starts to purr.

I've always wanted a cat. Most landlords won't let you have one, plus we move a lot. But even if we could, Mom says they're too much trouble. She says she doesn't want to be bothered with taking care of some animal all the time.

The long-skirt lady has gone back to her book and no one else is watching, so I ignore the couch's mildewy smell and curl up beside Nostradamus, cradling him in the crook of one elbow. Even though there's no fire, the room is warm, and the soft buzz of his purr makes me drowsy. I let myself close my eyes, just for a second.

Bad idea. When I wake up the counter guy is shaking my shoulder. "Sorry, darlin', I'm off in a few minutes."

I sit up and rake my fingers through my hair. Nostradamus is gone.

"Trust me, you don't want to be here when the manager gets in."

"Thanks," I mumble, and make my way out of the place still half-asleep.

Then I'm back on the street again, where the buildings throw long shadows on the sidewalk. My stomach is grumbling for real now. A guy who smells like moldy socks shakes a Styrofoam cup full of change at me as I pass and then cusses when I don't put anything in. The breeze has picked up, and I wish I hadn't left all my warm clothes in the car.

The car!
I don't remember how much time I put on the meter, but for sure it wasn't enough. I sprint down the Ave and onto 50th. Even from a distance I can see the parking ticket fluttering beneath the windshield wiper. I swear under my breath.

The sun is hanging low on the horizon; soon it will be dark. Once I unlock the car, I root through my bag and throw on a flannel shirt. I had this idea I could park somewhere and sleep in the back seat, but now the thought of it gives me the creeps. I think about heading over to On the Wing to see if Valerie will let me spend the night, but I'm scared she might call Aunt Mindy.

Then I think of Tonya. We haven't talked since our fight, but I'm sure if I tell her what's going on, she'll be cool with letting me stay over. And I've spent the night with her a million times, so her dad wouldn't notice. If he's even in town.

 

When I pull up in front of her house, the sun is disappearing behind the trees. I hear voices and rap music inside, but it takes a minute for her to answer my knock. She opens the door a crack and pokes her head through.

"Stevie," she says, tugging at her tangle of dreads, "what are you doing here?"

I pretend not to notice how uncomfortable she looks. "Hey, Tonya."

We stare at each other for a couple of seconds, then she says, "So, what do you want ?"

"Look, I'm sorry I acted like such a loser the other day. If you're not still mad at me, I was thinking we should hang out."

"Who's that ?" a girl's voice calls from inside. Then Laura crowds in behind Tonya and gawks at me through her curtain of dyed-blond hair. "Oh, what a nice surprise. It's our little friend Stevie."

"Hi, Laura," I say. I'd love to whack the Maybelline right off her face, but under the circumstances that's not an option. "Hey, you guys want to watch a movie or something?"

Tonya glances at Laura and snaps her gum. "Um, we've already got plans."

I can feel any hope of food and a place to stay disappearing fast. "Well, I'm up for whatever."

Doug yells something in the background, and then Tonya says, "Okay, come on in." She opens the door wider and I step inside. Doug's slouched on the couch, and next to him is the Professor.

My heart does a double flip. "Hey," I say, "long time no see."

"Hey." His eyes meet mine for a second, then his attention goes back to fiddling with something on the coffee table.

Even though I can see what he's doing, I don't want to believe it. He's stuffing something into a glass pipe. Beside the pipe sits a lighter and a little plastic bag with chunks of whitish rock inside. It looks exactly like the stuff Mom sold to that guy at Drake's.

Tonya plops down next to the coffee table, pats the floor beside her, and smiles. "Don't worry. I've done it a couple of times, and it's no big deal."

I feel like I'm in the middle of a bad dream, the kind where you want to run but your legs won't move. At least she's smiling at me again. I drop onto the floor next to her.

The rapper on the stereo is talking a mile a minute. The Professor flicks the lighter and holds it under the bulb of the pipe. He moves the pipe in small circles and then puts the stem between his lips and inhales. When he breathes out again a sweet, burnt-plastic odor fills the air. I've smelled that odor before. On Mom.

It doesn't make sense. I always thought the Professor was so smart.

The Professor passes the pipe and lighter to Doug; Doug passes them to Laura. She takes a long hit.

Tonya's next. It takes her a couple of tries to get the lighter going. She inhales and then starts to cough.

"What a lightweight," Laura says.

Tonya laughs and pounds her chest, then hands the pipe to me.

It's light and smooth in my hand. I hate to admit it, but just breathing in the smell makes me feel close to Mom.

The Professor comes up behind me, his body warm against my back as he steadies my hand and holds the lighter under the pipe. "Now put the stem in your mouth."

They're all smiling, waiting for me to inhale. I could do it just this once and have a place to sleep tonight. I could be part of their world, of Mom's world. I hold the pipe to my lips and close my eyes.

"Go ahead, breathe in slow," the Professor says.

But before I can inhale, Drake's face floats in front of me. He's running his hand across his buzzcut. I take the pipe out of my mouth.

"Are you going to take a hit or what ?" Laura says.

Tonya gives her a little shove. "Chill, okay? She'll do it when she's ready." She smiles at me again. "Come on, it'll be fun."

I really want to make this work. I slide the pipe between my lips again, and I feel Mom right there with me. "Go ahead, baby," she's saying, and she's wrapping me up in her beautiful smile.

I'm so tired of fighting against it, of being the one who says no all the time. I'm ready to suck in the smoke that's dancing in the bulb when I think about the other Mom. The Mom who gets those calls from Drake and disappears for hours and then comes home talking nonstop and stays awake for days at a time. The Mom who finally falls asleep and then sleeps so long and hard, I can't wake her up. The Mom I'm scared to wake up even if I could because she'll bite my head off and tell me to get a friggin' life. I think about the times I wished she'd never wake up at all.

I hand the pipe to the Professor. "I can't do this."

Laura looks over at Tonya and rolls her eyes. "I told you."

I push myself off the floor and head for the front door.

The Professor's right behind me. "Hey, wait," he says, and touches my shoulder. "Don't leave."

I know I should keep going, but the sound of his voice and the weight of his hand draw me back. I turn, and his eyes are gazing into mine. His pupils are huge and dark.

"Nobody's forcing you to smoke." He puts his arm around my waist. "Let's go somewhere and talk, just you and me."

I have no place else to go, so I let him lead me down the hallway, past the bathroom. He pushes open the door at the end of the hall, and I shrink away.

"It's okay," he says in that same soft, easy voice. "Mike's out of town."

I hang back, but he just laughs. "It's not like we're going to break anything."

He pulls me into the room and shuts the door behind us. "There, now we can have a little privacy."

The room smells musty. In the few slivers of gray light that seep between the blinds, I can see Reba McEntire smiling down from the poster above the dresser.

The Professor sits on the edge of the bed.

Tonya's laughing over the music from the living room. They're still smoking out there, and all my instincts are telling me to get away. But when the Professor pats the bedspread, I sit down beside him.

"I've been thinking about you," he says.

I stare into the deep pools of his eyes, wishing I could believe him. But if he's thinking about me so much, how come he never calls?

"So you haven't smoked crystal before?"

"No. And I don't want to, either."

He starts twirling my hair with his fingers, the way he did in the car. "I like meth because it helps me focus. It makes me feel more alert and motivated."

His fingers move from my hair to the back of my neck. It feels like spiders crawling back there, and I have to force myself not to jerk away.