Chapter 7 Steffani
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
I look up at the passenger-side window, at the trucker leaning across the center console.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Here.” He bends down. A crocheted sunflower on a spring, stuck to the dashboard, wobbles back and forth as he grazes it with his elbow.
When he reappears, he has a strip of beef jerky from the box in his footwell.
Eighteen different flavors, every last one of which we taste-tested as we drove across the state.
“ ‘Sweet picante,’ ” he reads off the packaging. “That was your favorite, right?”
I nod, and he tosses the strip out the window. I catch it and give him a salute.
“You won’t have to wait long,” he says, although I don’t know if he’s trying to make me feel better or himself. “You take care.”
“Thanks, Booker.”
And with that, he shifts the truck into drive and pulls back onto the road. He took me as far as he could, but here’s where our paths diverge: He’s heading south to California, I’m going north to Washington. I’ll need to find someone else to take me that final stretch.
Turning, I stare at the gas station where he’s left me.
The sign above the door says LAST CHANCE FOOD AND GAS.
Won’t have to wait long, he’d said. Meanwhile, I’m betting the only cars that come out here have dead bodies stowed in their trunks, their drivers hoping to unload the cargo where no one will find it.
The road rolls out into the plains, dusty yellow grass fringing either side, as far as the eye can see.
The sun’s starting to slip down the horizon, like a drunk losing their balance on a barstool.
I don’t want to be out on this road, alone, at night.
The bell above the door tinkles as I step inside.
The grizzled old man behind the counter doesn’t look up from his newspaper when he shouts, “Closing in fifteen,” in his smoker’s rasp.
Just my luck. I duck into the nearest aisle and start perusing the candy selection.
The stack of twenties in my backpack’s almost gone, but the thought of being stranded outside makes my skin itch.
There are no price tags hanging from the racks, but based on the thick layer of dust covering the goods, I’m willing to bet they sell for cheap. I pick up a package of caramel SweetSations and check the expiration date. “Hey, Mister!” I call to the cashier.
He looks up at me from beneath his wiry gray eyebrows.
“These expired back in ’ninety-eight. Does that mean they’re free?”
He hacks out a laugh. “Free?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re a public health hazard at this point.”
He squints at the package, his forehead creasing into heavy folds. “Bring those here.”
I do as he says, slapping the SweetSations down on the counter.
“I remember watching this commercial when I was still learning to tie my sneakers.” I shimmy my shoulders a little.
“SweetSations here—smooth and bold! Butterscotch, mint, and caramel gold. Chocolatey goodness, oh-so-sweet. It’s the hard candy flavor that can’t be beat.
Every single bite’s a SweetSation!” I drop my voice as low as it can go. “Yup candy, best candy.”
“Three bucks.”
“What?”
“You want the candy? Three bucks.”
“For expired SweetSations.”
He rips open one side of the pouch and tips a candy out onto the counter. The caramel looks exactly the same as on the packaging. “They’re hard candies, kid,” he says. “They don’t go bad. Besides, if they’re really discontinued, that means you’re looking at a collector’s item. Three-fifty.”
“I thought you said three even?”
“The fifty cents is a surcharge for forcing me to listen to your little concert.”
I let out a humph and return the now-opened SweetSations to their rack.
There’s a small freezer section with all kinds of novelty ice cream snacks: Drumsticks, Push-Up Pops, Creamsicles.
My gaze lands on the final package: Choco Tacos.
I nudge the freezer door open and pick up the box, crusty with frost. My mom and I used to buy these from the supermarket whenever I had the day off school.
Choco Tacos, and then we’d visit the AAA across the plaza.
They’d lead us to a little cubicle and ask where we wanted to go, and my mom would say something like Bali or Namibia—the farther away, the better—and the travel agent would bring us all these glossy brochures.
We’d both oooh and aaah over the luxury resorts, fancy restaurants, snorkeling excursions.
When she asked if we wanted to book anything, my mom would tell her she needed to check with her husband.
We’d take the brochures home and spend the afternoon cutting out our favorite photos and taping them to the closet door.
That was our Wall of Places to Go, all our dreams for the future, hung up for everyone to see.
The photos all got ripped down and thrown away when she left.
“You buying anything?” the man yells from across the store.
“Nope.”
“Then scram. We’re closed.”
Outside the front windows, the sun’s almost disappeared; the sky’s turned the color of a morning-after bruise.
“Do you know how far the nearest town is?”
He snorts—a wet, mucusy sound. “About thirty miles. You’ll be walking all night, I can tell you that.”
“Great.”
“Out.”
The bell tinkles again as I leave. I shrug the backpack off my shoulders and sink down to the cement curb.
A few minutes later, the old man steps out of the gas station and locks the door, double-checking to make sure I won’t be pilfering any SweetSations while he’s gone.
Then he walks over to a mud-speckled car, gets into the driver’s seat, and takes off down the road.
It’s night.
And I’m out here, in the middle of nowhere.
Alone.
Wrapping my arms around my knees, I hunch forward and catch sight of a plastic chip on the ground.
A guitar pick.
Yellow, just like the one my foster dad used.
Which family was it again—the Koerbers? The Eberhardts?
He could only play three songs on his acoustic guitar, so we all became expert singers of “Wonderwall,” “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life),” and “Hotel California.” He decided to drive us to a campsite one weekend, so we could pitch tents and roast s’mores and have sing-alongs.
We were cruising along the thruway, me in the back seat with their actual daughter, when I spotted a blue Ford Taurus in the rearview mirror.
At first it didn’t seem like a big deal; there must’ve been tons of blue Ford Tauruses on the road.
But when we got off at the next exit, it signaled and pulled behind us.
I thought about not telling them. Because whenever foster families found out about my dad, it always ended the same way, and while I was getting tired of “Hotel California” (not a lovely place, definitely not a lovely place), I wasn’t getting tired of them.
We stopped for lunch, my foster mom wrapping her arm around my shoulders and asking if I wanted anything from the fast-food counters.
I watched their daughter, a few years younger than me, dash toward the rest stop entrance.
She’d never known what it was like to get hurt, not really.
She’d fractured her wrist earlier that year playing basketball, but for whatever reason, that seemed much different from someone intentionally slamming your fingers in a drawer.
That’s when I knew what I needed to do.
Because who knew what my dad might do to this family, to their daughter? They weren’t cut out for this, for surviving—not like I was.
My mom hadn’t been cut out for it, either.
After I told them about the blue Ford Taurus, my foster parents called the police, who confirmed that the license plate number did indeed match my dad’s vehicle.
By the time they arrived on the scene, he’d already bailed.
I stood by the gas pumps, alone, far enough away that I couldn’t overhear what they were saying.
But they shouldn’t have bothered. I knew the drill.
I watched cars whizz by, each one filled with a family, playing punch buggy (no punch-backs) and arguing about whether to ask for directions and singing fucking “Hotel California” along with the radio, and I found myself on the outside looking in.
I don’t believe what the social workers told me about my mom.
I don’t think she left.
I think my dad killed her.
That’s why no one’s been able to find her.
And I don’t think she’s the only one he’s killed, either.
I caught him in the kitchen once, months after she disappeared.
The faucet was running, and he was scrubbing his hands with dishwashing detergent.
“Dad?” I called, and when he turned around, the front of his T-shirt was speckled with reddish-brown stains.
His hands were pink up to the wrists, as if he’d been rooting around in someone’s insides like they were the engine of a car.
He told me to go back to sleep, and, not really wanting to know what had happened, I did.
The worst part is, if he ever does the same to me, I’m willing to bet those social workers will say I bailed, too, just like my mom. “She’s a runaway. It’s not a crime to skip town. She’s started a new life somewhere. She’s probably happy.”
No one will ever know.
I bury my forehead in my knees and take a deep breath.
It’s an illusion—the freedom of the open road.
No matter what I do, no matter where I go, I’ll never be free.
That blue Ford Taurus will always be gunning for me, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that there’s no escape.
Well, almost no escape.
I start humming the tune to “Hotel California,” and it’s not until I reach the line about the pretty boys she calls friends that I hear the engine revving in the distance. My head jerks up, all my muscles tensed and ready to sprint around the back of the gas station.
It’s not a blue Ford Taurus.
As it draws closer, peeling through the grass, the car becomes clearer.
It’s an oldie, a goodie, a classic, as my foster dad would’ve said.
A sleek black hood capped off with two headlamps on either side of the grille.
Seventies, I think. Gotta be seventies. I can’t see who’s behind the steering wheel, but I’m willing to bet it’s a man.
They’re the only ones with enough spare time to take care of a car like that.
I sling my backpack over one shoulder and rush to the side of the road.
Stopping under the only streetlight, I cock my hip slightly and stick my thumb out.
“C’mon,” I whisper as the car closes in on me.
“C’mon.” I’m coated in grime and sweat, but I’m young.
I’m hoping that’ll be enough to draw a ride.
The car passes me, and my shoulders slump forward.
Motherfucker.
I turn on my heels and start walking back to the gas station. It’s not safe out here. I’ll need to find somewhere to hide until morning, when the old man returns. Then I’ll worry about catching a ride to Washington. But as I take one final look at the road, I notice the car gliding to a stop.
I wait for the driver to change his mind, but the car remains stationary, smoke puffing out of its exhaust pipe.
I race toward it as fast as I can.