Chapter Thirteen Elsie
Chapter Thirteen
Elsie
Elsie jerked forward, then slammed back against the seat. Her head swam in confusion. The guitar case tumbled against her, smacking her on the cheek. Ouch. The ballerina statue rolled off the seat and onto Dusty. His yelp jolted her, clearing her mind.
They’d been in a wreck. Someone had rear-ended them.
She spared only a passing glance over her shoulder—seeing that a massive SUV had all but crawled up their backside—then focused forward on poor Dusty. She yanked her seat belt off, the ding, ding, ding chime announcing she’d unbuckled as she launched onto her knees by his side.
Her mom called out, her hands pressed to the dash. “Elsie? Dusty?”
“Totally okay. I was belted in.” She ran her hands over the dog’s face and his haunches, squeezing gently. “Dusty seems fine too. Grammie?”
“All in one piece.” Lillian ran shaky fingers through her hair. “Rosalynn? Are you sure you’re all right?”
Elsie froze. Why hadn’t she considered the added risk for her mom?
“Mom?” Elsie scrambled toward the front of the van.
Her mother reached back with one hand, waving her away. “Buckle up so we can get off the road before someone else hits us.” She turned toward Grammie. “Mom, if you can ease ahead a few more feet to the off-ramp, the shoulder is wide enough for me to maneuver out if we have to call a tow truck.”
Outside the vehicle, other cars were beginning to inch around and forward.
Behind them, a teenage boy emerged from the driver’s side of the SUV, wearing running shorts and a football jersey.
He looked kinda like Porter with floppy, dark hair and an easy smile that seemed caring—well, if Porter had been an athlete instead of mathlete.
The boy’s father—who was not in Biloxi—stepped from the passenger side.
Elsie jammed her seat belt buckle back in place.
The too-cool teen jogged up to Lillian’s window. “Is everybody okay? Ma’am, I’m so sorry. It all happened so fast.”
His father stopped behind him, cupping his son’s shoulder. “Everybody in there all right? I’m Chester. This is my son Chet Junior. I’ve already called the police.”
Grammie clicked off the music.
“Well,” her grandmother said in that overly polite tone that usually meant she intended to level anyone who stood in her way. “We’re alive and there’s no blood that I can see. Beyond that, I can’t attest.”
Grammie. Ever the lawyer.
“That’s a relief,” Chester answered, shoving his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts.
His polo shirt sported a golf club logo.
“My son was driving while I caught a quick nap. We are evacuating out of Beaufort. I see you’ve got South Carolina plates.
Let’s both pull our vehicles off the road so we can catch our breath and exchange information. ”
As the duo jogged back to the SUV, Elsie shoved her feet into her shoes and checked her cell for SOS alerts from Willow about weather—or about photo leaks to people at school.
No messages. There’d been a time when she and her friends had group text threads that blew up the phone.
They would have wanted all the details of her wreck, flooding her with everything they’d googled about possible injuries.
Now none of them cared what happened to her. They’d brushed her off since the blowup with Porter, like somehow her poor decision-making might be contagious. Or like people would think they’d done the same thing if they hung out with her. Grammie would have called it “guilt by association.”
Only Willow still spoke to her. A true friend.
The van tires crunched as they eased up to the off-ramp with the extra asphalt for Rosalynn’s wheelchair so she wouldn’t get stuck in the grass. The massive SUV trailed behind them with a bird dog sticking his spotted head out the window. Their front grille was crumpled in a snarl.
Ugh. How much damage had been done to the van? Her pulse hammered faster. Would they be stuck here searching for a rental vehicle? And would they even be able to find one her mother could drive?
A twinge pinched her heart harder than the seat belt. She needed a breather from . . . everything. “Mom, is it okay if I take Dusty for a walk while y’all sort this out?”
“Please, and thanks,” Rosalynn said in a tight voice. “That’ll make it easier to maneuver outside so we can all check ourselves over a little more thoroughly. Just stay within eyesight.”
Lillian shifted into park and Elsie made fast work of clicking the leash onto Dusty’s collar, the one with palmetto trees that she’d bought him for Christmas.
She leaped out the side door, her feet slipping, her head swimming.
Palming the side of the van, she steadied herself before leading Dusty to the grass, footsteps crunching the underbrush.
He trotted alongside her, but his head kept swiveling toward Rosalynn.
“She’ll be out soon, Dusty, then we’re all going to have a bunch of together time.” While he lifted a leg beside a tree, she walked to the end of the leash to sneak a look at the back of the conversion van.
Crumpled like a used lunch sack.
Were they going to be able to get the hatch open? Probably, but just barely, and they might well have to bungee cord it closed again.
Cars inched past, the traffic jam made all the worse by rubbernecking. She wanted to yell at the passersby to take a picture, since the ripple effect would make her family wait even longer. But photos were a bit triggering for her right now, so she bit her tongue.
Chester and Chet were huddled together talking, the father’s hand on his son’s shoulder again.
Elsie’s Spider-Sense tingled—she was getting better at reading two-faced people lately—and she inched closer, wriggling her fingers for Dusty.
He nosed his way through the grass, sniffing.
She tipped her ear toward the father-son duo.
Snippets carried on the wind, spotty from the roar of engines and Grammie slamming her door closed.
“—maybe it’s her fault?” Chester asked.
“She was kinda driving like a granny,” Chet answered. “I mean, sheesh, she couldn’t even pull straight off the road. She came all the way up here.”
Whoa. They’d better pray Grammie hadn’t heard that part.
But Elsie did, and she’d had enough of people not being called out for the rotten things they did and said. She stomped over, Dusty sniffing his way alongside. “What did you say about my grandmother?”
“Oh, uh . . .” Chet scratched behind his ear. “Just that she kept going so slow and tapping the brakes every other second, it was kinda confusing to follow.”
Lillian strode closer, her gaze taking in the damage to both vehicles. “I was tapping the brakes to get you to back off. Because when one car rear-ends another car, the fault is with the car following.”
Go, Grammie.
Elsie jabbed a finger in Chet’s direction. “Before you speak, I should warn you that you’ll be arguing with a very respected lawyer who works in Washington, DC.”
Chester’s mouth went tight. “I happen to be an attorney as well, and I don’t appreciate you trying to intimidate my son. He says you were driving erratically. Maybe you were tired, ma’am, in need of a nap.”
Chet spread his arms. “Or mad about the traffic. Ya know, road rage is a thing. Maybe you were angry about the evacuation and started driving crazy. In fact, maybe we need to get out of here before you take out all that rage on us.”
Elsie grappled for her phone and opened an app. “I’m live streaming this.” She pivoted toward their vehicle. “And I just recorded your license plate, so don’t even think about leaving.”
Chester shook his head, clapping Chet on the back. “Son, we’re going to wait in the car. And I do mean wait.”
Chet postured like his dad. “Crazy women.”
How ironic that they’d just listened to “Mad Woman” by Taylor Swift. What a perfect song to fuel the rage Grammie was about to take out on losers Senior and Junior.
The rolling rumble of the van’s side door cut off any response. Chester and Chet turned in tandem just as the wheelchair ramp slid out. The teen’s eyes went wide, his face blanching as Rosalynn carefully navigated out with only a couple of inches to spare between her and the grass.
“Oh no. Oh no. Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no,” Chet gasped, hyperventilating as it seemed to dawn on him that he’d smashed into a vehicle transporting an individual in a wheelchair. “I hit somebody in a . . . in a . . .”
Elsie wanted to shout at him that he should be upset, because that van held her mother and grandmother, the only two people left in the world she could count on.
Chester pulled out his phone, turning pretty pale under his golfer’s tan. “We need to make sure EMS is coming too.”
Rosalynn set the brakes on her chair. “Let’s all take a breath. I’m fine.”
Lillian tsked. “Don’t say that until we’re sure.”
Rosalynn sighed. “Stop being a lawyer for five minutes, Mom.”
Chet put his hands together, praying pose. “Yes, please. All of you.”
As the heat hissed out of the drama, Elsie quit recording.
Cars continued to crawl past, with the occasional horn honk.
The late-day sun steamed off the pavement, the air heavy with bugs and pressure that made her ears pop.
She swallowed hard twice, to clear the ringing.
Thank heaven Grammie had taken charge again—handling the exchange of information, snapping photos of documents and damage.
Elsie’s teeth started to chatter in the aftermath.
She sank to the ground, her phone in one hand, Dusty’s leash in the other gripped so tight her fingers started to grow numb.
Thinking of her grandmother’s stories about trekking to DC all those years ago made her feel like even more of a failure because she didn’t have her grandmother’s strength to battle through seemingly insurmountable odds.
Hadn’t Grammie ever just wanted to run away?
Elsie stared at her screen, hoping for some good news. Because right now, it felt like the world was conspiring to keep her from leaving the area.
Only one new text popped through. From her father. With a picture of him eating in a hotel restaurant, slot machines behind him. She shaded the cell from view. Her mom would blow a gasket, getting mad and worried all at once over the gambling.
At least the message wasn’t about those awful photos.
Elsie cringed to think of her mother’s response if Porter made good on his threat to share more of the pictures. Beyond being hurt, her mom would insist on fighting back. And even though Grammie wasn’t a South Carolina lawyer, she would be full of advice on taking legal action.
Willow was supposed to keep her updated if he passed around another photo to anyone else. Except her friend was all wrapped up in the storm and worry for her horses. Which, sure, that was important. But so was this.
She had to stay her course of keeping those images from coming out on her own, because even if she called the police, then they would know. They would see. A court case would breathe fire into the story.
Her only hope lay in keeping things quiet, while putting distance between her and her high school until they all forgot about her.
Sirens wailed in the distance, lights flashing. Sitting cross-legged in the grass, she swatted away gnats, surrendering to the inevitable.
Their road trip was about to get even longer.