“What?”
“A cat. In our new place. Do you think Utah would get along with a cat?”
“I … I dunno.”
“Let’s ask.” She turns in her seat, looking back at the dog. “What do you think, Utah? Should we get a kitten when we find a place of our own?”
I hear Utah’s tail thumping against the backseat.
“You gotta promise not to eat the cat, though,” Agnes says. “Can you promise that?”
The tail keeps thumping.
“Good.” Agnes spins back around in her seat, laughing and smiling in a way that oughta make me feel happy but instead makes my chest ache. “Utah promises not to eat our future pet cat. So it’s decided.”
I keep my eyes on the stretch of blacktop ahead, trying hard to fight the thoughts of me and Agnes in an apartment with Utah and a cat. In my imagination, it’s small and white and way too fluffy. And she’s named it something like Waylon or Hank, after a country music singer. And we’ve got a place that’s small but clean, with bookshelves full of poetry and braille books and a kitchen that ain’t never empty.
I fight it because as nice as it sounds, that ain’t what’s gonna happen.
But I can’t tell her that. Not yet.
“Hey, listen,” Agnes says after a minute. “I’ve been thinking. I know we’re headed out to your daddy’s, and it’s a long ride. But we’re not in a big hurry, are we?”
I glance at her, then look back at the road. “Depends how you look at it. Why?”
“I was just thinking … I’ve never been outside of Mursey, and no one but Colt knows what car we’re driving now … We ought to make the most of this driving, you know? Make a few stops. Have a little fun.”
So she does think we’re on a road trip.
“Agnes, we don’t got much money—”
“I know,” she says. “And we don’t have to spend it, either. I’m not talking about tourist-type stuff, I just … If we see anything that seems fun, let’s try and actually stop, okay? Just to check it out. We might not get to your daddy’s until tomorrow, but that’s all right. What do you think?”
I oughta say no. I oughta keep driving and get out east, into the mountains, as fast as I can. The police are looking for us, and a couple bad haircuts and a cheap-bought car ain’t gonna disguise us for long.
But when I look at her again, out of the corner of my eye, she’s just smiling at me. Her hair’s blowing around in the wind, and she looks beautiful and hopeful. And I realize, even though she doesn’t, that we probably won’t get this chance again. If we don’t take the time to have some fun now, there’s a good chance we never will.
And I want her to have at least one good memory of me when all this is said and done.
“All right,” I say. “You spot anything that seems fun, we’ll make a stop.”
“Yes!” she shouts, and she sounds so much like a little girl that even I gotta laugh through the ache in my stomach and the tightness in my throat. “But you’ll have to do the spotting, Bo. It’s not really my strong suit.”
I smile. “All right. I’ll keep an eye out.”
And it don’t gotta be out long before I see something.
We’re driving through a little town, no bigger than Mursey, when I spot a sign taped in the window of some restaurant as we pass.
Summer Street Fair!!
Every Night This Week
Maple Avenue, 7–11 p.m.
Live Music! Good Barbecue!
I slow the car down as we pass, reading the large block letters.
This town’s tiny enough that it ain’t likely any cops would be looking for us here. And if the street fair gets crowded—and since it’s only one street, it might—it’d be easy to take off and disappear if anybody did recognize us. It’s a little risky, but maybe not too bad.
And it could be fun, I reckon.
A couple years back, the week Colt turned sixteen and bought that old pickup truck he’d been saving lawn-mowing and tobacco-field money for since he was ten, he’d taken me to a town half an hour down the road and we’d found ourselves at one of these summer street fairs. We’d wandered around for hours, listening to the band and smiling at strangers who didn’t know us as town trash.
We’d danced and laughed and a cute boy had even given me his phone number. Not because he thought I’d blow him in someone’s hayloft, either. Just because he thought I was pretty.
I’d never called, but it still felt real good.
And every now and then Colt and I talked about going back to that street fair. We never made it out there, though. Something else always came up. But I still think about it. About how nice it felt to have fun with strangers who didn’t know my name, didn’t know my story.
Didn’t know what a horrible, lying bitch I was.
I am.
“Bo?” Agnes asks. “Why’d you slow down? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, swallowing hard. I turn to look at her and try to smile, even though it hurts. “You up for some barbecue tonight?”