Nothing But Blue (11 page)

“Cute dog.” His voice is squirrelly and old-sounding, even though he's not old at all. Maybe twenty. Shadow does his little wiggle dance, and the guy laughs. “He could be a circus dog.”

I put my head down and keep walking. He stays on the bike but pedals extra slow to match my pace. The bike wheels squeak in time.

I stand still, hoping he will give up and bike past me, but instead he stops and gets off.

As he leans to pet Shadow I glimpse a red and yellow snake tattoo curling out of his T-shirt sleeve and down his forearm. It's very detailed and intricate.

“Hey, pupster,” he says, holding out his hand for Shadow to inspect. “Looks like you've seen a thing or two.”

Shadow stands all perky and gives his tail a straight-up wag. The guy rubs Shadow's neck. When he's done, Shadow turns around and leans into him. The guy slaps his butt. This makes Shadow wiggle again with joy.

I steal a closer glance at the guy. Before I can turn away, our eyes lock. His eyes are almost purple, with hardly any white around them. I can see my reflection. At least I think it's me. I break the gaze quickly. Looking at people's eyes makes me uncomfortable.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. I think he wants to ask me something, but he doesn't. I'm relieved.

“Well, got to get to work.” He gives Shadow a final slap, gets back on the bike, and pedals down the road. There's something kind of surreal and almost comical about him on that bike.

Shadow chases him for a minute, then bounces back.
I like him,
he announces with a bark.

“Not much I can do about that,” I say. “He's gone.”

 

It is dark when I come across a car parked on the side of the road. A dark blue station wagon, old and dinged up. Cautiously I peer inside. Empty. My guess is that it broke down and the driver went for help. Or maybe he just up and walked away. In any case, the door is unlocked. I hop into the driver's seat. I check out the glove compartment. Along with the regular stuff, there's a bunch of maps, some gum, Chap Stick, and a chewy granola bar. I grab the granola bar, rip open the package, and eat it without thinking.

There's also a fancy woman's watch. It's on a silver band interwoven with gold in a crisscross pattern. The face is small and outlined in ringlets of tiny jewels. I don't know much about watches, but this one looks expensive. I put it on my wrist.

“What do you think?” I show Shadow. “Is it me?”

For a second I contemplate taking it—I could sell it and buy food, maybe some clean clothes. And if it's worth a lot, I could even stay in a hotel with a shower and tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner. I could buy Shadow a pretty matching collar and leash.

Shadow reaches toward the watch and attempts to put my wrist and the watch in his mouth. I pull back. “Hey, are you trying to bite me?”

He shakes his head and frowns. I take off the watch and put it back in the glove compartment. “I wasn't really going to take it. It didn't even work. The second hand wasn't moving.” For some reason I feel the need to explain this to Shadow.

Shadow jumps into the back and sniffs all over the place. I crawl into the back with him. There's an old towel on the floor that I use for a blanket.

Shadow snuggles with me. A few cars pass and I hold my breath, but no one stops, and then there is just the quiet of the road in the night.

 

I wake first to Shadow barking and then a
tap, tap, tap
on the window. It's a police officer. I jump up and into the front seat.

Panic. Is this it? I have been found. There's no hiding now. I hush Shadow and roll down the window.

“You can't sleep here, miss.” His white mustache frowns when he moves his mouth.

“I'm sorry.” It comes out no more than a croak.

“There's no parking on the side of the road.”

I think fast. There's only one way out of this, and that's to lie. I quickly find my voice. “The car broke down.” Then I add, “sir,” because somewhere I heard that if you are polite to a cop, they are more likely to let you go.

“You got a license?”

“I do, but not with me.” This isn't quite a lie. I did get my permit a few months ago. “My brother was driving. It's his car. It broke down. He went for help.”
Shoot, I should have said mother or father.
Two kids on the road sounds more suspicious than one kid and an adult. “My older brother,” I add.

“Can I see your registration?” The officer taps his clipboard.

I reach into the glove compartment and sift through the things I found last night, including the fancy watch, until I get to the manual. The yellow registration slip is tucked inside. Before I give it to the officer, Shadow nudges my hand. I glance at the name, then hand the registration to the cop.

“Ryan Sanchez?” the officer reads, and twists his mustache with his fingers. “That's your brother?”

“Well, no. I mean, yes. Yes, that's his name. It's his car.”

Either the cop doesn't notice my bad lying or he doesn't care, or maybe he takes pity on me. “Neither one of you has a phone? You couldn't call for a tow?” he asks.

“No, sir. No phone.”

Shadow was sitting next to me on the passenger side, but now he stands and pushes his head over me out the window. He stares long and hard at the cop. The cop doesn't move or say anything. He and Shadow are transfixed.

Finally the cop lets his hand with the clipboard drop to his side. “I'll be right back,” he says. He goes to his car. I can see him in the rearview mirror, looking up stuff in the computer. I rest my hand on Shadow, close my eyes, and cross my fingers.

He saunters back and gives me the registration. “Your brother has his license, I assume?”

“Yes, sir. He's twenty-two. He's an excellent driver.”
Lie.
The lying is getting a little easier.

“And where were you two headed before you broke down?”

“To visit his girlfriend. She's not far from here.”
Lie. Lie
.

“Do your parents know where you are?”

This question rolls around in my head.
Do my parents know where I am?
Do I know where my parents are?

“Miss? Are you okay? Can I call someone for you?”

I shake my head.
Breathe.
“They're out of town,” I say.
Lie. Lie. Lie.

“I could give you a ride to meet up with your brother,” he offers.

I think the cop is just trying to help now. I don't think he's going to take me in. I don't think he recognizes me as anybody. See what a little lie can do?

“Thanks,” I say, “but he'll be back soon. He'll freak if I'm not here. I'll wait.”

The officer scratches his chin. “I'll tell you what. I'll pretend I didn't see you sleeping in this car, which shouldn't be parked on the side of the road in the first place. I'm going to drive by here in a couple of hours. If you and the car are still here, I'll have to write you up and we'll have to find your brother.”

“Okay.”

The officer takes off his cap. He smooths back his remaining strand of hair. “Take it to Phil's Auto on Route 36. He won't screw you.”

“Okay, thank you, sir.”

“Two hours and I'll be back.”

He gets into his car, and after a few painful forever minutes he drives off.

I let out my breath, but my heart is still pumping ferociously.

 

I am walking into another town. There are more cars and more people than other towns. A lot of the cars are from faraway states, and there are a lot of fancy boutiques selling overpriced and over-fashioned outdoor gear, so I'm guessing this is a tourist town for hikers.

I come to a supermarket—a smaller version of a big chain. The parking lot is busy with cars and carts. People load bags full of groceries into their trunks. A few take a gander at me, but I keep my eyes down to avoid connection. I try to pass for a tourist.

Outside the entrance, leaning against a bike rack, I notice the funky green woman's bike from yesterday. The weird computer stuff is still in the basket. I recall that guy's dark eyes and his snake tattoo.

“Wait here,” I tell Shadow. “I'll bring you a treat.” I give him a pat.

He sits, already eager and ready.

I enter the supermarket and am taken aback by all the food. There are vegetables and fruits galore, a deli of meats and cheeses, a bakery oozing with bread and sweets. In the middle aisles is everything imaginable: a thousand kinds of cereal, coffee and endless types of tea, baking needs, jars of peanut butter, household cleaners. Every single thing a person might need or want, and then some. I'd forgotten there could be this much food in one place.

First I just walk around trying not to look conspicuous, even though I am dying to reach out and take a bite of everything. I note the employees so I can avoid them. They all wear red aprons and
HELLO! MY NAME IS ———
tags pinned to the front. I get a hand basket and put a jar of tomato sauce in it so I look like a real shopper.

I sneak some chocolate-covered pretzels from the serve-yourself bins. People do this all the time. I'm not the only one. I suck the chocolate with my tongue and let the taste linger before crunching on the salty pretzel underneath.

I stop in the pet supplies section and examine the dog food. I select a can with a pull-off lid, since I don't have a can opener. Liver chunks—Shadow will like that. I cradle the can in both hands and glance around. When the coast is clear, instead of putting the can into my basket, I slip it into the wide front pocket of my sweatshirt.

I head to the bakery. The warmth from the oven makes me want to move right in. Long French loaves poke off the end of a wire rack. Homemade cookies wrapped in cellophane are lined up on a shelf. I practically drool over the fresh-cakes display. There is one that says
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAUGHTER
in bright pink icing. I remember that addictive yet sickening taste of too much confectioner's sugar from birthdays long ago. That was another time, another world, another girl.

“Can I get you something?” the woman behind the counter asks. I shake my head and move toward the doughnuts and muffins. I make sure the woman is gone, then open the plastic case and pick two fat blueberry muffins and stuff them into my pocket. I go to an aisle and add a jar of peanut butter, since it has good protein, and a couple of cans of tuna. This should be enough. I don't want to take too much.

As I head to the front door I pass through produce again. It's apple season, and the displays hold mountains of apples: McIntosh, Gala, Granny Smith, Cortland, Red Delicious. I select a nice Cortland. I can already imagine the crunch of the first bite, the juice dribbling down my chin, the sweet taste. I add the apple to my stash. All the food fills up my pocket as if I am pregnant.

I turn around and almost bump into an employee spraying the lettuce. I am face-to-face with his nametag:
HELLO! MY NAME IS DAN.
He eyes me suspiciously. How could I not have noticed him? He's standing there as plain as day. Did he see me take the apple?

My heart races as I head, as calmly as I can, toward the exit. I see the parking lot through the glass doors. I am almost there. The doors slide open with a
whoosh
. The sun hits my face at the same instant that a hand clasps my shoulder.

“Just a minute there, miss.” Dan the Produce Man spins me around. His grip is heavy, even though he's kind of scrawny. His chin is raw with red nicks, like he hasn't gotten the hang of shaving yet. “I think you forgot something,” he says. He keeps one hand on my shoulder as he reaches into my pocket with his other.

I cringe and step back. “Don't,” I plead.

But he's already grabbed the apple. He waves it in the air like a trophy. “Aha! I knew it!” The peanut butter jar falls onto the ground, and he picks that up as well. “I think we'd better go see the manager.”

He tightens his grip on my shoulder and walks me back through the store and up a staircase that leads to a closed door. He knocks.

Inside, a pudgy man sits at a desk, his face hidden behind a computer screen.

“What?” the man asks, poking his head around the monitor.

I scrutinize his face. Not exactly kind, but not evil, either. How would Shadow react? Would he growl or wag? I can't tell. My instincts are not as clear as his.

Dan the Produce Man, who is tall and thin and much younger than the manager—a kid really—speaks. “I found her stealing.” He pushes me forward. “Look.” He places the apple and the peanut butter on the manager's desk. It reminds me of an elementary school kid giving his teacher an apple, hoping for extra credit.

“And?” the manager asks.

Dan the Produce Man comes toward me and again tries to reach into my pocket.

This time I step sideways so that he can't. “Don't touch me,” I say.

I take out the rest of the stuff myself—the muffins, the tuna fish, the dog food—and put them on the desk.

“I was going to pay,” I say. “I left my money in the car. I was going to come right back in and pay.” The lie slips out of my mouth, easy and cool as Jell-O. But inside I am trembling and screaming. I don't know if I am scared, worried, or mad. I feel the hint of the trembling from inside start to creep toward the outside, and I push against it as hard as I can and remain still.

I want to break down and cry, return all the stuff and leave, but it's better to be mad. Mad is easier and safer. And I am mad. I am mad at myself for getting caught. Mad at Dan the Produce Man, who is obviously going for Employee of the Month status.

Both men are staring at me. I want to run, scream, flee, disappear into thin air along with everything else. Crumble into rubble and ash and be done with myself. But the door is blocked and my feet won't move.

“Sir,” Dan the Produce Man says, breaking the silence, “why would she put items into her pocket? If she forgot her money, wouldn't she just leave the items in the store and come back for them when she has the money to pay? It doesn't make sense.”