Kiss Kill Vanish (26 page)

“I put some blankets in the back. You can lie on the floor between the second and third rows and spread them out on top of you.”

“And if they search the car?”

“Then we're screwed.”

“Right.” I don't know if he means legally, or as far as my father is concerned. He should be most worried about Victor Cruz. “And how far away is the border?”

“An hour and a half. You can sleep if you want.”

“Okay.”

I recline the seat, but I don't sleep. I don't even close my eyes. I stare at the roof, and of all the unlikely things to think about, I picture Lola and Ana. Missing them still surprises me, but I feel this ache of nostalgia right now and every other time I've thought of them since leaving Miami. Four months feels like four years. Of course, the memories have become increasingly rosy—unrealistically so. I do remember that they're mostly vain and self-absorbed, but I remember the sweet things too, like when all three of us would cram into Lola's bed during storms and sleep there the whole night, even after the storm had ended, even when we were too old to be afraid of thunder.

For all her faults, Lola has this confidence that feels like it extends to me, like she thinks I can do anything and just her thinking it somehow makes it true. And Ana is the softest shoulder to cry on, probably because she does a lot of crying herself. She's the one who helped me rinse off the blood and bandage my leg when I was ten and tried to shave it completely dry. She didn't even make fun of me.

Not having a mother to miss—that sounds so tragic, but Lola and Ana are the reason it's okay. They're the reason I'm okay.

It'll be hard, being in Miami and not seeing them, but I can't. No. Even if I thought breaking their bubble of innocence was a good idea, I can't trust either to keep real secrets. Lola not telling anyone about my dented fender one week after I got my new car doesn't mean she's capable of anything on this scale.

“Not tired?” Marcel asks.

“I guess not.”

Marcel turns the wheel, and when the car leans left, my stomach leans right. We're leaving the city. Everything darkens as well-lit civilization fades, the road becomes a little bumpier, and eventually farm smells seep into the vehicle. I smell pig first. Then cow, I'm guessing, though I'm no farm girl. It might be sheep or horse or who knows what. Skunk hits my nose the strongest, so pungent my stomach lurches and I want to gag. I lift up my head. “How much of the drive is farmland?” I ask.

“I don't know. I've only driven as far as Burlington. You want a percentage or something?”

“Never mind. The smell is getting to me, but I think I'm just nervous.”

“Don't be nervous about the border,” he says.

“Too late. Are you sure you want to do this?”

He shrugs. “What else am I going to be doing?”

I don't answer, because I'm almost certain it's rhetorical, but I can think of a dozen better things for him to be doing than getting arrested or putting his life in danger getting tangled up in this mess. I put my head back down and go back to staring at the roof. In all the nervous seconds I've spent thinking about Miami since Marcel offered to take me home, I can't believe I didn't once think of what the drive would be like. I don't have a book to read. I don't even have a magazine, just the smell of farm animal excrement and the sound of my own thoughts. Maybe I could fall asleep.

“You should probably climb back there,” Marcel says, jarring me out of my drowsiness. “We're about five minutes from the border.”

My face must register the rush of panic I feel, because he adds, “Don't be nervous.”

“I'm not.” It's a pointless lie, since I already admitted to it, and he must see my hands shaking as I pull myself over the seat, then over that row into the next. What am I doing? “Wait, what's our story if we get caught?”

“We don't have one. If we get busted, it's over—we're going to jail until your father comes to rescue you and kill me. Don't go all the way to the back in case they want to look in the trunk. Yeah, between the second and third row.”

I sit down in the back row and try to see his face in the rearview mirror, but it's too dark. “Why aren't you nervous?”

“I don't have much to lose.”

I slide onto the floor, pulling the folded blanket off the seat and over me. It's soft and dense and perfectly heavy—the kind of heaviness that folds warmth in without suffocating you. I'm surprised by how extravagant the weight of a real blanket feels. I'd forgotten.

I pull the blanket over my head and inhale to check for breathability. It's good. It smells sweet and lightly floral, like fabric softener, and I have a sudden impulse to either cry or throw my arms around Marcel and thank him. It's irrational. Everything else he's giving me is so much bigger: the risk, the time, the money. But he could have grabbed any old blanket.

Marcel is lying. If he really felt like he had nothing to lose, he wouldn't be here with me. He'd still be partying, using, hurting himself until he'd really lost everything.

I feel the frequency of the car's hum changing. We aren't stopping, but we are slowing down.

“Showtime,” he says. “I'm not going to talk anymore. I don't want them seeing my lips move.”

“Okay.” I squeeze my eyes shut. My cheeks are burning, but I can't tell if I'm hot or just flustered.
Calm down, calm down, calm down.
I repeat the words as the car slows even further, but when we hit a speed bump still going too fast, I drop my calm resolve and let out a yelp as the car bounces and my head knocks against the floor. Pain pulses across the back of my skull. If we make it through this, he's getting yelled at for that.

The car stops. I think my heart does too. Marcel clears his throat, and the smooth electric purr of the window opening sends a shiver through me.

“Good evening,” a voice outside the car says. It's not friendly, but it's not unfriendly either. Male. Older. “Traveling late tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcel's tone is almost unrecognizable. He sounds respectful—polite, but nothing to hide.

“Where are you heading?”

“Burlington.”

“For how long?”

“A week.”

“Citizenship?”

“Dual.”

“American passport, please.”

Neither of them speaks for at least ten seconds, and I picture the guard inspecting it, scanning it into his computer, doing whatever it is that they do to track entry. My own passport is resting on my stomach, collecting sweat between the faux-leather cover and my skin. I lift up my shirt to feel it, held in place by a makeshift money belt I fashioned out of my ripped stockings. I assumed Marcel knew what he was talking about when he suggested that Papi had an informant in customs, but now's the first time I'm really thinking about what that means. I can't travel into the United States without my father finding out. Maybe forever. Is getting me a fake passport something Emilio has already thought of? I pull my shirt back down and refuse to think about it.

“There you go,” the voice says. “What are you planning on doing in Burlington?”

“Visiting my grandma.”

“Your grandma? She expecting you in the middle of the night, son?”

“Yes, sir. I told her I'd come right after my shift ended. She's ill and doesn't sleep well anyway. Cancer.”

I cringe. Too much. The sick grandma is overplayed, a rookie lie. I'd have thought Marcel would come out with something more subtle.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” the man says, his voice noticeably softer. “I hope you have a nice visit. Any fruits or vegetables in the car?”

“No, sir.”

“Firearms?”

“No, sir.”

“Go ahead and pop the trunk for me.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said pop the trunk, son.”

My bones are liquid. Marcel said this wouldn't happen. A clunk sounds to my left as the trunk pops, and I instinctively force the air out of my lungs, willing my body flat. I don't think I'm visible from the trunk, but I'm not sure. I should've checked to see how much space there is under the seat, but Marcel said they wouldn't search the car.

Cold air pushes its way through the blanket, and I have to force myself to breathe it in. My lungs hurt. Rustling. I hear it close by, just a little to the left of my face, but I can't turn to see what it is or how close it is. Then sliding, like a box or a duffel bag being pushed. Silence. An agonizing moment. Still nothing.

Slam.

The shock jolts every nerve. He closed it. He isn't still digging around inches from my face, but I can't stop clenching every muscle in my body. What if he opens the side door to check the rows? Should I roll under the seat now?

“Have a safe trip, son.” The voice is up front again.

“Thank you, sir,” Marcel answers.

“And watch out for deer. They're all over the roads at night.”

“Yes, sir.”

The car rolls forward. The window hums as it closes, and I'm suddenly aware of the ache on the back of my head spreading out like a claw. The speed bump. Everything's clenched, and my lungs burn. I'm not sure when I stopped breathing. I pull the blanket off my face and gasp. It's a euphoric combination, all that oxygen and relief swirling through my body.

“How's it going back there?” Marcel calls.

I take another gulp of air and yell, “You said they wouldn't search the car!”

“I said they
probably
wouldn't search the car. And he didn't really search it. He just poked around in the back.”

“And your
grandmother
?” This time the yell turns into a laugh, one of those uncontrollable laughs that's dangerously close to tears.

“Yeah, works in every situation.”

“It shouldn't.” I sit up and sigh, wiping my eyes. It's dark. I feel drunk. It's so much darker than Montreal or Miami, no lights, no moon, no stars. I'm in a black hole, somewhere between my two lives.

“You coming back up, or are you going to lie on the floor for the rest of the trip?”

I climb back over the seats, still shaking. “Thanks for the concussion. That speed bump nearly knocked me out.”

“Sorry. That thing came out of nowhere. Are you okay?”

I touch the back of my head. A goose egg is forming. “Yeah.”

“Sorry,” he says again.

“You can make it up to me by finding a bathroom to stop at.”

He snorts. “I'm sure there are several million lovely trees out there for you to pee on.”

“I'm a girl. I can't pee
on
a tree.”

“Fine, next to a tree. We're not going to find anything open between here and Burlington.”

“And how far away is that?” I ask, staring out at the black forest on either side. It's probably teeming with wildlife. Bears. Cougars. I don't even know what else.

“An hour.”

“I'll hold it,” I grumble.

“Tell me if you change your mind—preferably before you pee in my car.”

“If I had more than a single change of clothes, I'd consider it as payback for the speed bump.”

“You know you're going to be stuck in this car for the next few days, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you'd pee in it just for revenge.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“I respect that.”

“Thanks. Revenge sometimes requires a little personal sacrifice. My sister Lola once took out her boyfriend's mailbox with her BMW. On purpose. She was without her car for two weeks while the body damage was repaired.”

He pauses long enough for me to regret bringing up Lola. “So that wasn't a lie, then. You do have sisters.”

“No, it wasn't a lie. It's not like I lied about everything.” But when I think about it, I can't remember what I did tell him the truth about.

“Older or younger?”

“Older. Nineteen and twenty-one.”

“Hmm. So are we still pretending that you're nineteen, or are we admitting that it's unlikely that you're the same age as your older sister?”

“Shut up.”

“So you're what—seventeen?”

“Move on.”

“I knew it,” he says.

“I said move on.”

“Okay. What are your sisters like?”

“Um . . . beautiful and narcissistic.”

“Do I get to meet them?” he asks.

“Absolutely not.”

“But beautiful and narcissistic is my favorite combination,” he says. “Beautiful narcissistic girls love me.”

“Both good reasons for you not to meet them.”

“Oh, I get it,” he says. “You want me all for yourself.”

I rub my eyes, suddenly too tired to be dealing with this version of Marcel. “Why do you always have to do that? I hate that.”

“I was kidding, Valentina. Chill out.”

I stare hard at the patch of lit road directly in front of us. The car swallows it up so fast, we can't be seeing more than a second or two ahead. I don't like it when he calls me Valentina. It sounds wrong coming from his mouth, but I don't want to be called Jane anymore either. “Sorry. I'm just worried.”

“The risky part's over.”

Is it? Maybe for him. We made it through the border, but I still have to convince Emilio not to be angry with me for coming. And I have to break into my own house and steal my own things without getting caught, plus I have to spend days in the city where everyone that I know lives without a soul finding out that I'm there. And even then the risky part isn't over. I have to come and go without anyone else getting killed.

We're quiet for a while, then he asks, “Why don't you play your guitar thing?”

“My guitar thing?”

“Ukulele. No, banjo.”

“Try again.”

“Okay, I can't remember what it's called,” he admits, “but you should play whatever's in that case back there. You might feel better.”