“Just outside Coeur d’Alene,” he says. “In Idaho.”
The landscape has changed. Gentle, rolling mountains mark the horizon line, dark with trees. The sky is low and gray. But even with the gloomy morning weather, excitement fills my chest like a balloon. I sit up straight and look out the window.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. I glance back at him, suddenly realizing I haven’t even asked about the plan. “Where are we going, anyway?”
He smiles. “Anywhere we want.”
The idea makes me shiver. Anywhere we want? It’s both exhilarating and terrifying. I’ve never had the luxury of doing whatever I wanted before.
I see a sign advertising restaurants, and my stomach growls. “Can we stop for breakfast?”
He hesitates for a moment. “I was hoping to get a little more distance between us and Portland. But . . . I’ve been driving all night. I could definitely use a break. Sure, let’s do it. First let’s clean up a little, though.”
We pull over into a copse of woods off the road. The air is cold; it cuts right through to the bone. Aiden pulls one of the bags out of the backseat.
“I don’t know if anyone’s looking for us yet, but if they are they might be looking for that outfit. Better change.”
I grab my backpack from the front seat. Huddled against the cold, I pull on a fresh T-shirt and sweater. I watch as he loses the button-down and puts on a jean jacket, lined with shearling. Then he rummages in the grocery bag and pulls out a brown wig with two braids.
“Here,” he says. “Until we can get some dye.”
I stare at it for a second, then take it. I wouldn’t have thought of wigs, or dye, or any of this. But he’s right. We can’t look like ourselves.
I coil my hair up and pull the wig down over my head, peeking at my reflection in the car window. The style’s not terribly flattering for me—it feels juvenile and makes my face look small and pale under it. I look up to see Aiden pulling a grimy baseball hat down over his eyes. He’s already got a bit of stubble around his jawline, and when he takes his glasses off he’s almost unrecognizable.
“Ready for a bit of acting?” he asks, winking.
I can’t help it; I laugh out loud. A billowing sense of freedom, of adventure, takes hold of me. I pat the ends of my wig. “Born ready,” I say.
* * *
? ? ?
The diner’s full of old people, gray-haired couples with plates of eggs and pancakes. Waitresses in pale pink bustle around, refilling coffee and scratching frantically on their notepads. I breathe in the smell of bacon and sigh.
We sit across a sticky table from each other and order our food. The coffee tastes burned, but the French toast is sweet and delicious. Aiden orders a cinnamon roll bigger than his fist, corned beef hash, and a stack of sausage patties. I stare.
“You’re going to make yourself sick,” I say. He just laughs.
“You never know when you’re going to have another chance at a cinnamon roll. My policy is to get one while the getting’s good.”
I cradle the coffee with both my hands. At least it’s warm. “So, what’s our next stop?”
“I’ve got an old buddy in Missoula I want to visit. He can help us with a couple of details.” He drops his voice. “Papers. New identities. That kind of thing.”
New identities? I laugh a little. “You’re awfully good at this. Have you gone on the lam before?” I tease.
He just smirks a little. “Survivalist dad, remember? Plus when I left home, I worked under the table. Met all kinds of, uh, interesting people that way. Some of them may end up useful now.”
Missoula isn’t exactly the kind of place I pictured us fleeing to. Hopefully it’ll be a brief stop. We can get the things we need and move on. “Maybe after that, we can go to New York!” I say.
“Let’s think about it,” he says. “It’s a good place to get lost in the crowd, but it’s really expensive. We’ll have to be careful with our cash for a while, until we find our feet.”
I lean across the table and take his hand. “Come on, we can make it work. I don’t really need anything but you to be happy, anyway.”
He strokes my palm absentmindedly. “Which is why we don’t need to go to New York. We can be together anywhere.” He stands up and stretches. “I’m going to use the restroom before we hit the road again. We’re a few hours out from Missoula.”
As soon as he leaves, the waitress comes back to refill the coffee. “Hey, hon. Your daddy need a to-go box?”
“Oh, he’s not my dad,” I say. “He’s my boyfriend.”
I’ve been so eager to say that out loud—to not have to hide anymore. But I know right away it’s a mistake. Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then she puts the check facedown on the table.
“My bad,” she says.
She heads back to the counter with the coffeepot. I see her whisper something to another waitress, who then looks my way. My blood goes cold. I slap some cash down on the table, then get up to meet Aiden halfway from the bathroom. “We should go,” I whisper.
He doesn’t ask any questions. He tips his hat a little at the waitress, and then follows me to the door. Outside I tell him what happened. He frowns.
“The wig makes you look younger,” he says. “It’s probably fine. But we’ve got to be careful. Next time, just let them think what they want.”
But I don’t want to have to hide what we are. The point of leaving was to be together, really together. But he’s already climbing back in the car.
I don’t want to make this harder than it has to be. I get in after him, buckle my belt, and try to trust that we’re heading in the right direction.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Gabe
By Monday I’m well enough to be back to school. My cough’s subsided, but all the aches and pains linger, and the palm of my hand—where I touched the wall in the house—is one big blister.
When I walk onto campus in the morning it’s like I’m in a silent bubble. Crowds part around me. I wonder how word’s spread so quickly—if Sasha fomented something, or if everyone can smell the smoke that no amount of scrubbing seems to clear away. Or maybe the cops have already been making the rounds, asking about me.
They came to my house on Saturday. They ransacked my room, took my computer, my cell phone SIM card. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to get them back at some point or if they’re just gone for good. Officers pawed through drawers and bins, leafed through my comics, my notebooks, my school stuff. My parents stood by and watched. The lawyer they hired told them they didn’t have much choice in the matter.
Now I make my way to my locker, feeling bitter and fierce. I almost relish the unease I can sense rippling around me in the hall. Yeah, that’s Gabe Jiménez, the freak show that set a house on fire. Don’t mess with him, man, he’s loco. If everyone’s so eager to believe it, why not let them get out of my way?
“Gabe. Gabe!”
I’m so mired in my own sullen thoughts I don’t hear Caleb call my name for a moment. He has to grab me by the arm before I notice him. “Where the heck have you been, man? I’ve been texting you all weekend.”
“The cops have my SIM card,” I say. “The phone’s bricked until I can get a new one.”
He shakes his head. “Come on, we gotta talk.”
He leads me down to the Lower Courtyard. I can barely keep up with him. My limbs feel heavy and dead. Irene’s already there, perched on the uneven picnic table, when we arrive. A few greasy-looking smokers stand off to one side; they pretend not to notice us, but I can feel their eyes following me.
“What the hell is going on? Five-o was at my house last night. I didn’t know what to tell them. I didn’t want to make anything worse.” She picks at one of the holes in her jeans. “So I just said you were a living cream puff who’d never hurt anybody. I don’t think they liked that. They kept bringing up my rap sheet like it invalidated everything I said.”