Chapter 8 #2
“It’s in here, I know it is,” Dad mutters to himself.
“What’s in there?” I ask, full of hope that it’s something that can magically get us out of here, like a wand or perhaps a crystal ball with a bright outlook.
“I found it.” Dad holds up a mysterious folder.
The less responsive he is, the more inquisitive we get.
“Let him speak.” Mom shushes me and Gavin, then stares at Dad expectantly.
“Mr. Ahn said he was able to get an appeal date for Monday.”
“That’s in one week!” Mom’s face lights up.
“If they find no wrongdoing, we can be back in our homes by the end of next week, just like he said,” Dad says. “And these are the documents that are going to prove our innocence.” He waves the folder in front of us.
“Finally good news!” I jump up and down, clapping.
“That’s a relief,” Mom says, sighing. “I’d hate to think we lost everything because of that no-good George Bronstein.”
Gavin, however, remains stoic, which is surprising, even for him.
Although he’s usually devoid of emotions, you’d think he’d at least show some signs of relief knowing his future is close to being secured again.
It goes without saying that I’d never be in his size tens, but that’s how I would feel if I were in his shoes.
Speaking of shoes, Dad is putting his back on, which makes me panic.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “You just got back.”
“We’ll need to prepare for the appeal with Mr. Ahn,” Dad says, then turns to Gavin. “Make sure to wear your blue suit.”
“Excuse me?” Mom places her hands on her hips, facing Dad. “What about me?”
“Gavin needs to learn how to run the business,” Dad says cluelessly. “It would be a good experience for him to watch and learn.”
“I’ve put as much time into the company as you have. I should be there if we’re being accused of money mismanagement. Don’t you think?” Mom asks with some serious side-eye.
“And leave Gavin and Elena home alone?” Dad doesn’t say it directly, but he makes a serious assumption that Mom is supposed to stay home and babysit us. “After their run-in with the police—”
“Tech police,” I clarify. What I don’t say is that Gavin and I don’t need a babysitter. We need a referee.
“They’ll be fine,” Mom says, not taking no for an answer. She joins Dad at the door, slipping on her shoes.
I’m about to ask them how they’re going to LA when I notice something unfamiliar in our driveway. “What’s that?” I can’t seem to peel my eyes away from it.
“Elena, for the last time, that catchphrase isn’t going to fix our—” Gavin stops when he gets closer and sees for himself. He shuts himself up, saving me the trouble. “I think it’s a tractor,” he says a second later.
“I know it’s a tractor.” I roll my eyes at him. Just how much of an airhead does he think I am? “What’s it doing here?”
“The mayor lent it to us,” Dad says.
“The mayor?” I didn’t even know this town was big enough to have one.
“We went to the auto repair shop to ask if they had any cars they could loan us. The owner said they didn’t, but he had a tractor we could borrow,” Mom says.
“Wait. So was it the auto mechanic or the mayor who lent the tractor to us?” Gavin’s brows furrow.
“Both,” Mom says. “The man who owns the auto repair shop also happens to be the mayor.”
“Is this one of those towns where the preacher is the doctor and the vet is the schoolteacher?” I ask only half jokingly.
“He was nice,” Dad says pointedly to me. “In fact, he lent us the tractor at no charge. We haven’t seen that kind of generosity in a while, right, Gloria? The Harringtons, the Sheffields, the Wentworths…they won’t even return my calls,” Dad admits.
“Yeah, that’s true,” Mom says, agreeing with Dad for the first time since we got here. “The only people who are taking our calls now are lawyers and the IRS.”
“That’s bleak,” I say. I don’t know what’s sadder, the fact that this tractor is the nicest thing anyone’s done for them lately or that they admitted to having crap friends.
“Anyway,” Dad continues, unamused, “the point is, thanks to the kind people here, we were able to get a diesel-run piece of machinery that can get us around town without disturbing the radio frequency waves.” He climbs into the driver’s seat.
“You can’t drive to LA in that thing,” Gavin says, reading my mind.
“No, but it can take us to Bakersfield,” Dad explains, “which is the nearest town with Wi-Fi access. There’s a small remote workspace where we plan to meet with Mr. Ahn virtually.
It’s about thirty miles away, and since the tractor only goes up to thirty miles an hour, we’ll have to take local roads. ”
Gavin must be doing the same mental calculations I am, because his face turns sheet-white at the same time that I feel the blood drain from mine.
“That’s a two-hour commute!” He flails. “On top of your meeting, that could take—”
“All day,” Mom confirms.
Sheer panic takes over me. On second thought, maybe we do need a babysitter.
“What about us?” I plead. “I haven’t eaten all day, and I don’t see any frittatas.
We’ll starve to death.” As I’m saying this, Gavin is mocking me from behind Mom and Dad so they can’t see him.
“Oh my God, Gavin. I’m going to kill you! ”
“Elena!” Mom chides. “That’s no way to talk to your older brother.”
“Especially since he’s the one who will be watching over you while we’re gone,” Dad says, wiping the smile right off Gavin’s face.
“There’s a store just down the street. You can get food there,” Mom says, settling into the passenger seat. “And the furniture will be delivered later today.”
“Food and furniture. That should keep you busy and out of trouble,” Dad says, then turns on his engine with a loud roar.
Another f-word comes to mind as I watch them drive away.
If they think leaving us behind in this place is going to keep us out of trouble, it shows how little they know us.
Being stuck here with Gavin would drive anyone to the brink of insanity.
Who knows what kind of trouble we’ll be in by the time they get back?