Survival Strategies of the Almost Brave (6 page)

“What is that?” he asked.

“My notebook,” I said, flattening it onto my lap. It felt safer there. “Just stuff I write. About animals and things I like.”

Dad coughed. “You're interested in animals?”

I nodded.

Billie stared.

“Nice,” said Dad.

But that's all he said. And I wanted to ask him questions, but they stuck in my throat like that time I had a fever and Mom gave me three Advil to swallow. The questions stuck and wouldn't come out.

Finally, after an hour or so, the silence began to bother me. Shouldn't we be able to talk to him like we had talked to Mom? He was ours now, wasn't he?

I swallowed hard and said, “So, where have you been?”

He cleared his throat and scrunched his lips together. “I've been working.” He sounded a little irritated.

I rubbed an imaginary spot off the dashboard. “Oh. Do you like being a photographer?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live?”

“All over.”

“What do you like to take pictures of?”

“Everything.”

And then I pulled out a clipping from my notebook. It was a picture of a king cobra from the
Kids Discover
magazine subscription Dad had sent us about two years after he left. As far as I knew, it was the only thing he had ever sent Billie or me. “I really like this picture.”

And he said, “I can't believe you still have that.”

Then he told me all about getting that shot in India. And how it would have been easier to go to a snake charmer to get the picture, but he wanted the snake to be a healthy cobra, not one that had had its mouth sewn shut. So instead, he took a picture of a cobra in the wild.

“Why do they sew their mouths shut?” I asked, not believing that snake charmers would really do that.

“So they won't get bitten.”

“But then how does the cobra eat?” I asked.

“It can't,” Dad said. “Eventually it dies.”

The older I got, the more I realized people did all sorts of stupid things, just because they could.

“That's sad,” Billie whisper-said, squeezing her koala bear tight.

Dad nodded. “Cobra venom is lethal. But in my experience, cobras aren't as scary as they seem. You just have to know how to behave around them.”

I thought maybe that was true about missing dads, too.

That was my best day with Dad, by far. Maybe it was the adventure of it. Or the summer days stretched out before us. Or maybe I finally realized how much I missed having a dad. That day, bumping down the desert road with him beside me talking about cobras and smelling like a campfire, I realized I had missed him a whole lot more than I had ever imagined.

But that was a trap, and the worst part was, I didn't even know it.

 

Survival Strategy #12:

NEST AND REST

Now, on the highway with the Lavender Lady and Orson, the darkness cradled me like a baby bird tucked into a nest of blackness, turning me and Billie into downy balls covered in feathers and sticks and dryer lint. Anyway, that's what most nests are made out of. You couldn't even tell it was us.
Poof.
We had disappeared like magic. No one on the entire planet knew we were here. It felt good to be invisible—invincible—in the dark.

Did you know most nocturnal animals live in the desert? I always preferred nocturnal animals anyway, like owls, and hamsters, and mice. Mice really are the cutest things. And so smart. But Billie had always wanted a cat.

I stretched my foot farther under Orson's seat, hoping he couldn't feel it. The hairs inside my ears perked up. Orson snored, and the Lavender Lady hummed to the radio. Outside, the sky was dark. How long had we been driving? My watch said 7:57. Six hours. Billie's hair splayed across my hand and became tangled in between my fingers. The rest of her was scrunched up into a little nest-ball near the door. I felt around the floor of the car for my tennis shoes.

The snoring stopped. Then it started again. Orson coughed so loud, it made me jump, and Billie, too. But she did it in her sleep and didn't even notice. Reflexes always work, even in your dreams.

The tires bumped over the highway and slowed to a stop. The car turned to the right. And then the left. Then it jerked and stopped again, like maybe we had hit something.

“Where did that curb come from?” asked the Lavender Lady. She opened her door.

Orson woke up, grumbling like a California grizzly.

“No. Not yet,” she said. “We're just stopping here for the night. Five more hours tomorrow. I'll check us in. No.
No. Just stay.
” The door slammed.

The rustling in Orson's seat stopped.

Billie sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Where are—”

I covered her mouth.
Shh.
I pointed to where Orson sat, but he didn't move. I needed to use the bathroom, and I'm sure Billie did, too. Orson shifted in his seat. Then an old, gnarled hand poked through the curtain of clothes, almost brushing against my forehead. Billie and me shrank back.

The front door swung open again. “I forgot my purse.” Now the Lavender Lady's hand joined Orson's, swinging dangerously near us through the clothes. “Stop it, Orson. I've got it. Sit back.
Orson, I've got it!
”

Billie grabbed the purse and shoved it into the Lavender Lady's hand.

“There it is,” she exclaimed. “I swear I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached.” She slammed the door again and walked away.

I stared at Billie. Usually she never did stuff like that. She was only brave around people she knew.

She shrugged.
What?

I made a tunnel through the clothes and peeked at Orson. He was unconscious again.

Billie whispered, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

I nodded. “So do I. Let's just wait until she gets back.”

Billie made a face. “I need to go now.”

I looked around the backseat. There was nothing, just some clothes and garment bags. Should she pee on the floor? But I couldn't let her. Animals don't sleep where they pee. And the Lavender Lady, even though she didn't know it, was doing us a huge favor—we couldn't pee in her car.

But now the spell was broken. Reality was setting in. We'd have to leave our nest eventually, wouldn't we? We had to call Julie. We couldn't just ride with the Lavender Lady to her house and yell,
Surprise!

I had to find a phone.

I poked my head up and peered out the window. We were parked at a hotel. The parking lot was nearly empty. I hesitated. Billie was jiggling her knee and holding herself.

“Liberty!” Billie whispered.

“I know.”

I stole a sideways look at Orson. He had a jowly face that was covered in wrinkles, like a pug. Pug dogs were pretty cute, even though they weren't nocturnal creatures. His eyes were closed and squished into their sockets. His hearing aid had fallen out of his ear and grazed his shoulder. I listened more closely. His snoring stopped. His chest sat unmoving. Was he breathing?

I inched my face a little closer. He smelled like a fat, buttery pretzel, like the ones you buy at the mall.

Billie pulled on the back of my shirt.

I waved her away. Was he dead? A minute passed on the car clock. It said 8:05.

Breathe.

I had to do something.

The belly under his plaid shirt stayed still. It creeped me out to think we were trapped in a car with someone who had just died, even if he did smell like something good to eat. I lifted my hand and, without thinking, reached out and poked him in the chest.

He sat up and began coughing. The car rocked with each hacking cough, and something rattled in his lungs. It sounded awful.

I ducked behind the rod of clothes and pulled Billie down with me.

The coughing continued, and Billie whispered, “What did you do?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

She grimaced and pointed at a wet spot on the carpet.

“What? Why…”

“He scared it out of me,” she said, scooching out of the puddle and coming over onto my side. It already smelled like pee in the backseat. We had to get out of here. But I could hear the
tap-tap-tap
of the Lavender Lady's shoes coming closer.

It was time to do something.

 

Survival Strategy #13:

TAKE IT

The car door opened.

“That's all settled. We're room two-oh-two,” the Lavender Lady said, tossing her purse back through the rack of clothes so it perched on top of Billie's stomach. She sat on top of me, her wet shorts seeping into mine.

I shoved her over, our butts wedged next to each other on the floor. The clothes in plastic swirled around us. It was getting hot. I shoved the purse over into the wet spot, but then I stopped. I wrapped my fingers around the handle.

Orson continued to cough.

“What got you so up in arms?” asked the Lavender Lady. I heard rustling from the front of the car. “Here's your water,” she said.
“Orson. Water.”

I heard gulping, and then the coughing stopped. She turned on the engine and slowly drove through the parking lot. I pulled the purse closer.

Billie looked at me, questions in her eyes.

My heart bumped.

The smell of pee was stronger now—it filled my nose and hair and eyes. I blinked back the burn. The Lavender Lady would notice any second. But still, I could not let go of the purse.

Billie's stomach let out a gurgle.

Mom had always said, “Billie does whatever you do. You are the example.” I knew that. Did she think I didn't know that?

Billie pushed the hair out of her eyes and shook her head back and forth, just a little. I guess her mind powers were working.

A tingle ran up my back. I ignored it. What else could I do? The Lavender Lady was practically begging me to open her purse. How long had we sat back here with it? Billie and me, we had nothing.

Somehow I knew that if I could talk to the Lavender Lady, really look into her eyes and tell her what had happened to us, she'd help in an instant. Give us every cent she had. Take us to California to find Julie. I stared at the black leather of the seat in front of Billie like I had X-ray eyes. Like I was telling her everything and she listened like there wasn't anyone else in the world. She might even adopt us. I was sure she would. Just like that tiger I saw on the news that adopted piglets, four of them. They put little tiger-print sweaters on them and the tiger fed them and kept them warm, just like their real mom would have done if she had been alive.

But Billie and I were not piglets.

I stared at where we sat curled in plastic and pee and thought maybe we were, just a little. The thought of really asking the Lavender Lady for help made me want to throw up. I couldn't
really
trust her. Usually how people seemed and what they actually did were opposites. Look at what had happened this morning with Dad. What if the Lavender Lady was mad about Billie and me sneaking into her car and about Billie peeing all over it? For sure she would be angry about the pee. There was no way I would ask her for help. Not for real.

The Lavender Lady hummed as the car bumped into a parking spot.

“Okay, Orson, the map says we're in building C. I'm going in first to open our room door and turn on the lights, and then I'll come back and help you.”

Orson mumbled.

“I'll be right back.”

This was my chance. I grabbed her lavender studded purse and unzipped it—fast. Faster than I thought I could, and then I dumped everything onto the car floor. Receipts, hand sanitizer, some kind of medicine, tissues, her wallet(!), old lady lipstick, some breath mints, and that crumpled-up business card Cowboy had given her.

Billie hunched over me and poked at the tin of breath mints with her skinny finger.

I handed them to her.

She flipped the lid open and dumped them all into her mouth.

While she crunched on those, I unbuttoned the wallet. But then something made me stop. I had never stolen anything in my life, unless you counted the Ring Pop at the grocery store when I was four. (Which I did not, because Mom had marched me back to the store manager to return it and apologize.) But right now I wasn't stealing. I was looking. There was nothing wrong with looking.

Orson started to cough again.

I yanked the wallet open. My heart fluttered, like a hummingbird was trapped inside. Out slipped the Lavender Lady's driver's license. On the top it said
CALIFORNIA
. She was from California! A straight ride to San Diego … maybe. Then:
MYRNA ANN HALSTRONG
. Born in 1940. Wow, she was really old. I stared at the weird picture with her eyes sort of crossed.

Suddenly, the front door flew open. The voice of Myrna Ann Halstrong, aka the Lavender Lady, rang out.

“That stupid clerk! I swear I told him I wanted a room on the bottom floor.” She cursed and slammed the door behind her. “Orson, people don't listen anymore. Nobody listens.” She turned the car back on and squealed out of the parking space. “I'm going to give that guy a piece of my mind. I told him there was no way you could climb the stairs.” The car jerked forward as she sped back to the front of the hotel to yell at the person who manned the front desk.

Hurry. Hurry.

All I could think of was Billie and me being stranded here with nothing, not even a dollar to make a phone call. I jerked the money out of the wallet and shoved it into my pocket, the bills fat and heavy. Then Billie and I quietly scrambled to put everything back into her bag. Tissues. Lipstick. Sanitizer. I grabbed the empty mint tin under the seat and tossed that in, too. The Lavender Lady still ranted. She parked the car and stomped inside.

Billie chomped on her mints, her cheeks full like the chipmunks we saw at Zion National Park. Now the backseat smelled like pee and breath crystals. I zipped up the bag and set it on the little bump behind the armrest, between the rack of clothes. The money in my pocket poked me in the hip, like an outstretched finger saying
Liberty is a criminal.
Was there such a thing as kid jail?