Where did that little boy go? Running the pad of my thumb over a detailed depiction of Tiny Tim, I hope to absorb some of that lost whimsy. I contemplate the prospect of finding that forgotten self. If I stayed longer, would I revert to being wonder-struck and hopeful? Would I even want to?
I’d like to think I’m better now, stronger. A top-tier version of myself with good hair and nice clothes and friends in high places. That’s what my parents raised me to be, prepared me for. I’m more equipped to take on the world and all the bullshit it throws at you. Right?
So much for clearing my head.
My face grows hot, and my back clams up again. Krampus—the name I’ve christened my anxious brain with—reaches an arm out of my earhole and uses its claw to put me in a choke hold. I rise quickly, rushing into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, which cools me down enough to think a little more in the moment. I realize I’m not in any danger. Not really.
Returning to my bunk, I let a thought of Hector’s whereabouts pass. I’m happy to have a little breathing room as I set myself up for escape. I read passages in his book, lazily looking for answers, until I calm myself down enough to fall asleep.
Chapter 8
At midnight, my alarm goes off, vibrating the underside of my pillow.
It’s time. Now or never.
I listen for signs of Hector having returned.
Not a peep, and all the lights are still on.
When I slip out from my bunk, everything is as he left it when I excused myself from the dinner table. Sneakers still tossed off in the center of the room. Towel still hanging from the top bedpost. I wonder where he could be at this late hour.
Without time to think about it, I rush up the steps and into the only corner of the family room that gives me enough bars to get my RideShare app open and working. I’m thankful Dad’s business card is still linked to my account. It takes forever, but the server finally loads.
I plug in my destination as Bentley’s apartment in Williamsburg. She gifted me a spare key for those nights out where she would invariably forget her own. She’s away. She won’t mind. Or maybe she will, and I just won’t tell her. I tap the last button between me and sweet, blissful freedom.
The “searching…” message mocks me. In minutes, Gramps could be in here looking for a midnight snack, a weird nighttime habit of his I remember from childhood. I don’t know how I’d talk my way out of this one.
I’m surprised when the app says there is a driver ready and waiting for a passenger within two minutes of here. Finally, a win for me. I’m borderline giddy as I race back downstairs, fling on my outerwear, and traverse the steps with care and quiet feet.
When I nearly crash into a table covered in Precious Moments figurines, I curse Mom for packing me so extravagantly. I’d make a bad criminal on the run from the law. My shoes need their own suitcase!
I roll my cumbersome baggage onto the front porch. The Christmas lights are out now, but the porch light is on, a weak yellowish glow illuminating the shoveled steps. A lone vehicle sits idling in front of me. If this were the city, I’d need to check if this was my car. Out here, I’m more than certain.
With some oomph, I stow my bags in the popped trunk and jump into the back seat. The cabin is warm and the music is soft, a Christmas carol played on the piano. I relax, allowing the adrenaline to subside.
“Making an escape?” the driver asks in an almost-familiar voice. I notice then that they wear a hat with fuzzy flaps pulled down over the ears. The rearview mirror is angled away, so I can’t get a good look at their face.
“What’s it to you?” I’m not looking to make a friend on this long ride. Chatty drivers are the bane of my existence.
The young driver laughs and shrugs, setting the car into motion. Only we’re moving at a snail’s pace. Inching down the driveway. Squeaking onto the main road. I know it’s dark and the streets are icy, but damn, this is ridiculous.
“RideShare Person, can you step on the gas? I’d like to make it home before sunrise,” I say, tipping forward in my seat to insure they hear my directive.
“You got it, Back-Seat Person,” they say. Except they only tap the gas a tad. We’re going one or two miles per hour more than before. It’s late, so I decide not to fight it; however, this bizarre attitude is churning up my anxiety.
I take a breath, try to conjure an event. Maybe the driver’s just chilly and cautious. Doesn’t want to catch a cold or get a speeding ticket. Both are good. This car is carting precious cargo after all. No reason for Krampus to come out.
“You have left the planned route,” drones the GPS. The car is turning down a tight-squeeze lane. Trees bracket us in. Branches are dangerously close to scratching the windows.
Okay, maybe Krampusshouldcome out. Can my brain demon become real and save me from what might very well be a kidnapping-extortion plot?
“Where the hell are we going?” I ask through a thick throat.
“Do Lorna and Doug know where you are right now?” the driver asks, voice pitched lower.
I’m about to ask how they know my grandparents, but this is a small, community-driven town of only about a thousand citizens strong. It’s spread out in physical distance, yet close in relationships. I let out a sigh, but it’s neighboring on a yelp. “Yes. Yes, they do,” I lie. “Andyou—you’re going to be in big trouble if you don’t tell me where we’re going or let me out of the car this instant.”
“Am I? Just hold tight. It’s a shortcut,” they say ominously, waving a hand like I’m panicking for nothing.
