Chasing the Milky Way (8 page)

I
'M UP OUT OF MY SEAT
before she gets to the door. Cam stands up beside me.

“Uh-oh,” he says. Cam's been around long enough to know what bad looks like. And this is BAD.

“Mama, Mama?” I whisper, trying to get her eyes down on me. But as she reaches the office, I can see she's drenched in sweat, must have walked down here. Her hair's a little matted in one section, but straight up in another. She's a frayed wire, walking. Her brow is all bent out of shape already and before she even reaches the desk, she's yelling: “Now I'm here and you have to give me my child. She's my child. You can't keep her.”

“I'm right here, Mama,” I say. Cam's an inch behind me and when I reach back, his hand is there in mine. Mama doesn't hear me. She's got tunnel vision. I see Mrs. Ginesh grab the phone.

“Yes, Trudy, Mrs. Peevey is here. It appears to be . . . urgent.” Mama doesn't wait for Mrs. Ginesh to hang up the phone. She heads for the principal's office door. It swings open and Mrs. Hoffsteader is there. She lurches back to stand behind Principal Partridge. Mama waves her hands and points. “How dare you hold my daughter here against her will,” she starts. “Your goddamn corrupt system . . .”

I swallow hard as people from track practice start to leave the gym. Their steps slow down. They see my mama. Their eyes go from her to me. Their expressions twist. Half questions, half . . . disgust. The imprint of their wide eyes settles into my mind and fossilizes on my brain.

“We should go,” I say, but my words are just a slip of what they were. Nothing of much importance. The kids keep streaming out. I see Jack, Kim, Laura. Snippets of Mama's words trickle to my ears while I glance down at the tiles.

. . . you stupid . . .

. . . don't tell me what I should do with my kid . . .

. . . your sister, she killed him . . .

On the last line I look up, shaking my head. Glimpses of real, glimpses of fiction. They flash together and it's hard to untangle one from the other. The room is too hot.

“Mama,” I try again, but she doesn't hear me. She doesn't respond.

“I wanna go,” Cam whispers as his fingers tighten around mine. I'm not sure if he's talking to me, or Mrs. Ginesh, or the world.

“Mrs. Peevey, you're going to have to calm down or we'll be forced to call the authorities.” Mrs. Partridge's voice has a sense of steel to it now. There's no honey or care from our earlier conversation, and I can tell this episode is enough to make Mrs. Partridge see us just like Destin does. Just like Mrs. Hoffsteader does.

“There are no allies among us,” Cam whispers.

. . . you make me . . . sick . . .

Mama picks up a vase from the table and hurls it through the door. I hear the crash. Flinch. Pinch my eyes closed, then open. No matter how you cut it, this isn't a dream.

A breeze comes in through the office window, and I see the sun glancing off the pavement outside.

“Mrs. Ginesh, please call the police,” Mrs. Partridge says, her voice shaking.

Not the police, I think. If the police come, everything in front of us changes tracks, just like a train. And I don't want to be a part of it. The air in here is choking me. My space suit is running low on oxygen.

“Cap'n, say the word and we retreat,” Cam whispers.

“Affirmative,” I say, squeezing his fingers.

We run.

C
AM AND
I
SPRINT DOWN
F
IELDERS
Lane. I hear a set of sirens start up in the distance and I can tell we're not ever leaving today. At least, not together. Not in a direction we wanted to be headed. Not a chance in a million years. Why, why, why couldn't we have luck on our side for once? We round the bend and dash between the trailers. I bolt up the steps and we crash in the front door. Izzy is sitting at the kitchen table and she jumps as we fly inside. She frowns and tears start to roll down her cheeks. I go over to her. Her crown has been cracked in half, and when I get up closer I see a few of the gems are scattered among the newspapers, books, and articles that litter the table. She's tried to make herself a sandwich. The bologna is half in and half out of the bread, and she hasn't eaten a bite of it.

“Hey!” I grab her up, tickling her around the middle, playing like everything is so fun and great. Cam fills up a water glass and slurps it down. I try to calm my breathing, too.

“Sorry, sorry. We got into some trouble at school,” I say, hugging Izzy.

She buries her head in my shoulder. “No one was home.”

“I know,” I say, “but we're here now.” I pull back and look her in the eyes. “And we're going to go and play Mission Control, okay?”

Cam places the glass in the sink and heads around me toward the living room. I pick up the sandwich and tuck the bologna inside. As I walk past the phone, I see the voice mail button blinking red.

“You catch up with Cam and I'll meet you there,” I say. Izzy grabs on to Cam's hand and heads through the living room door. She stops just before it shuts.

“My crown,” she says, pointing to the table.

“We'll have to make you a new one,” I say, “a better one.” She considers this, seems to warm to the idea, and then goes through the door. I push the voice mail button.

Beep

“Hey, Marge, it's Candace. You missed critique group. Was wondering what's up. Give me a call when you get this. We miss y—”

Beep

“Hi, Lucille and Margaret, this is Dr. Vincent. I received your message and am wondering how you're doing. Margaret, you missed your appointment today. I think I'll stop in to check on you. Give me a call.”

Beep

“Hi, Margaret, this is Jean. Wondering if you were coming in to work today, this week, or, um, at all. Pat isn't happy. Call me.”

Beep

“Hi, Margaret, this is Shirley, Shirley Claire from Mental Health Services. I just wanted to check in because we'd received a call from the school. I'm headed over to see you and wanted to know if you want to get a cup of tea or something and chat for a few minutes. Hope you're doing okay. I'll be there in a few.”

I lift my shaking finger to the button again. The crisis workers only come out if it's an emergency. I hear a crash from outside and hit the button quickly, ducking over to the window. Mama's running down the driveway. Another crash comes as I see her knock down two trash bins at Mr. Blinks's trailer. Chuck squawks and jumps out of the way of a landslide of garbage. Mama moves like a comet picking up speed. And her target is our trailer. She knocks down bin after bin after bin, like she's making a getaway from invisible predators. I wonder what else happened after we split. I'm wondering what people saw.

I spin back and back and back and back into the living room and then into my room. Out the window. I lift the tarp on the carport and see Izzy sitting in the backseat of the Mustang. She's created a little fort with my duffel and Cam's backpack. Cam has the new laptop out and flips it open.

A slam comes from the front of the trailer. “What's the noise?” Izzy says, covering her ears.

“Uh, nothing to worry about, we're just going to sit here for a few minutes.” I pull my school bag from my shoulders and place it in front of PingPing. I look up and Cam and I lock eyes.

“She's back?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Hey, you know . . .” My palms are so wet and I wipe them down my thighs as I look at Cam. “You know, I think some people are coming. If you want to go home, I wouldn't blame you.”

Cam rolls his eyes and sneaks two steps toward the front edge of the carport. He slides his hand in between the wall and the tarp and lifts it, and I can see there are some neighbors coming out of their trailers. Great. I wonder if she's gonna start swearing at them out the window, or throwing things from the kitchen, but then I hear a sniffle. And a small voice calls my name.

“Lucy.” It's a forced whisper. Scared and sad, and I know how that feels, because that's exactly how I'm feeling right now, too.

“Really, Cam,” I say as I duck back toward the window.

“Don't worry about me, Cap'n,” he says. “We'll be fine.” He jumps into the backseat with Izzy.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice coming out much smaller than I mean it to. He only nods. I climb inside the trailer, bounce off my bed, go to the door of my room, and look through the living room.

“Lucy, baby?” Mama's voice filters over the mountains of junk. I pick my way over them and slide the kitchen door open, propping it with a couple books in case Cam needs to communicate. Mama is sitting up against the outside door. The sirens are getting louder and louder. Mama's shoulders start to shake. Mine mirror hers despite my efforts to hold them up.

“They're coming for me, Lucy. They're going take me to Kensington.” I see tears start to stream down her face. I go to her. My throat shrinks.

“Don't let them take me. They're going to take me to Kensington. You lose your rights there. You're not human. They'll take my money. They'll take you.” At that, both of her hands come up and grab the hair on either side of her head. “They'll lock me up and steal my things, numb my brain.”

My stomach turns. Mama went to Kensington before. She called and I remember hearing her shaking voice on the phone, saying that bad stuff was happening. That the nurses beat on the other patients, that people snuck into her room at night, that they would use her money for a dog fight in the basement. Dr. Vincent said these were delusions. Times when reality and fiction blended to make a different story.
Delusional.
A word that people use to describe my mama. I don't like the sound of it. Not at all.

“Don't let them take me, baby girl. Don't let them take me. I'm not going back to Kensington. I'm not going back.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out with a sob. “They'll take you and put you in foster care.”

Foster scare. Good-bye, Mama. Good-bye, Izzy. Good-bye, Cam. Good-bye, BotBlock. Good-bye, future.

The sirens are loud. I hear the roll of the tires as they pull into Sunnyside. Mama freezes for a moment, then reaches up and slowly, quietly, deadbolts the door. I step back and she slides to her feet.

“They're here!” Cam's head is a dot in the window at the other end of the trailer. He climbs in and rushes to us. “They're here.”

“I'm not going. I'm not going. Please don't let them take me,” Mama says, grabbing my hands.

My mind is racing.

“I don't want to go, go, go,” Mama says, shaking her head.

Go, go, go.

“I don't know . . . ,” I say, kind of to myself. But I
do
know. We have two options. Stay and face the police, the mental health people, foster scare. Go and follow our dreams. T-minus zero until liftoff.

I hear footsteps crunch along the kitchen side of the trailer.

“We should go,” I say, nodding. “To the coast. We should get out of here.”

“Yes,” Cam says, rubbing his hands together. “Yes. Let's get out of here.”

“Go?” Mama whispers.

“Yes. Go,” I say. A thousand steps closer to our dreams. A thousand steps away from foster scare. A thousand steps from Kensington. A thousand steps from Sunnyside.

A knock comes from the door. I look from Cam to Mama.

“Out the back,” I mouth.

“M
ARGARET?
I
T'S
S
HIRLEY
C
LAIRE WITH THE
screeners. Are you home?”

“I'll be right there!” Mama says, then turns to us. “Get what you need quick. Go out your window. I'm right behind you.”

“Don't forget your medication,” I say, going over to the table. I sift around for her seven-day pill container, but just as my hands are reaching it, she grabs it. I hear the pills bounce and rattle against the plastic as she shoves it into her pocket.

“Right,” Mama hisses, grabbing her purse and jacket up off the back of the chair. “Go. Go. Go.”

“Margaret, I can hear you're in there.” Mrs. Claire's voice gets quieter as I head into my room. Cam jumps up on the window frame.

“Hurry!” I say, heading to the bathroom for our toothbrushes. I couldn't pack those yesterday, on account of good hygiene.

“I just have to grab one thing before we go!” Cam hisses.

“Let your mom know we're going early, so she doesn't worry!”

I hear him laugh as he jumps out.

I grab all three toothbrushes from the side of the sink and push a tube of toothpaste into my pocket. Then I go into our room, pick up the pair of sweat pants I was wearing last night, and pull the keys to the Mustang out of them.

“I'll be right out!” Mama says loudly. I look back toward the kitchen and watch as she pulls a chair over to the door and pushes it under the door handle. Then she opens the fridge. I gulp. Is she looking for that knife? Or food supplies?

“Mama!” I hiss. “No time, let's go!”

She rushes toward me, her jacket thrown over one arm. She grabs a few books off the stacks in the living room, and she has a roll of tinfoil sticking out of her purse. I'm not exactly sure what she's doing with that, but I don't have time to play twenty questions. We climb out the window and into the carport.

We sneak under the tarp. Izzy is sitting there in the blue-green light, looking small. And for a second I think this is bonkers. Then again. The alternative—losing our dreams in foster scare—is worse. I pat her head and go over to the Mission Control station.

“What's going o—”

I put my finger to my lips. “We're going to go on a little adventure.”

“Adventure? Like Queen Nomony?” she says.

“Yeah. To a new planet,” I say.

Mama comes in through the back of the carport and climbs into the driver's seat. My heart jumps as I hear a rattle and voices from the trailer.

“Hurry, love, they're coming,” Mama says.

I wing stuff into the backseat as fast as possible. Junk box, laptop, Mission Control notebook, PingPing.

“What are you bringing that for?” Mama says. “You know we don't have any money for the competition. I've told you a million—”

“I know, Mama,” I say, kicking over the crate and pulling the Mission Control fund can from beneath it. “I'm just bringing him to show off and maybe work on.”

“What's that?” she asks as I slide into the passenger seat with the paint can between my feet.

“Extra parts,” I lie.

“Mrs. Peevey?” I hear Mrs. Claire through my open bedroom window. They're inside the trailer. Mama and I lock eyes.

“Keys?” she hisses.

I push my hand into my pocket and pull out the cluster of keys. Where is Cam? From outside the tarp I hear:

“You little sonofabitch, stay away from my bike.” A crash. “C'mere.” It's D-Wayne. A second later, Cam is busting through the tarp, wearing a motorcycle helmet. He runs and dives into the backseat.

“Go, GO, GOOOO!” he shouts.

Mom grabs the keys from my hand and jams them into the ignition. The tarp is pulled aside behind us, letting bright sunlight into the murky dark. D-Wayne is silhouetted, but I can still make out his stained tank top and ratty jeans.

“You gonna pay for that!” he shouts as Mrs. Claire and the sheriff come into view through my bedroom window. They begin to climb out and Mama hits the gas. For a second I'm blind. First from the blue flying tarp and crumbling poles, then from the glorious bright sun. When my eyes clear, there's a crowd of people in front of us, scattering like ants in the path of a water hose.

We skid to the side and drive over a tire. Jolting up and down. I grip the top of the door. Rango, Mrs. Barlow's dog, starts barking and I see Chuck run across the road near the top of the driveway. He keeps pace with us for a second. Dinosaur-like legs churning up the dirt. But that rooster, he's too slow to escape, and a second later his legs wind down and stop. He stands staring, right alongside the neighbors. A few of Cam's siblings shout and wave. His younger sister by a year, Mirabelle, seems to be documenting the whole thing with a camera phone. Mr. Blinks smiles and claps, then takes his hat from his head and waves.

We peel out onto the main road and I spot the sheriff and Mrs. Claire running toward their cars. I see D-Wayne's bike crumpled on the ground. As we pass the tree line, Cam, with the helmet on, raises his arms and screams into the sky. Izzy and I join in. PingPing bounces in the middle of the backseat. We hop quickly along the road and I watch the sign for Sunnyside become a dot in the distance. Yeah, we just ran from the law. And, yeah, they'll probably come looking for us. But right now, all I can feel is that we're on our way.

“We have liftoff,” I say. I turn in my seat and face the future.