Survival Strategies of the Almost Brave (17 page)

“I can't do it. They're my everything. Since Katelyn died, I have no one.” She sighed. “They give me great comfort.” She turned away from Tattoo Guy and began talking baby talk to the cat in her lap. “You're my princess, aren't you? You're my favorite, and don't you know it?”

Tattoo Guy closed his eyes. He rubbed his face like he was trying to wash it. Finally he said, “Doesn't Mom mean anything to you?” He stared at the thing on Sharlee's lap like he finally smelled something bad, too. “Mom asked me to come and get you. She's worried.”

Sharlee's body got real stiff and she sat up straight. “I'm fine,” she said, petting the cat.

“Well, at least let me look at your car. You can't live way out here and not have a working car. What if something happened?”

Sharlee shrugged. “Bob comes out here and brings me what I need.”

Billie tugged on my shirt. “What is it? Where's the baby?”

I pushed her away. “I don't know.” I scanned the room again.

Tattoo Guy's shoulders slumped, like he had lost some sort of fight.

Sharlee sat hard and silent. For a second, all was quiet, except for the wind occasionally flapping the sheet, and for the sound of my heart, and another noise, too. But I couldn't place it. There was background noise, like at the beach, how the ocean is always growling, or how static hisses when you lose a radio station. A sound hummed through the house.

I peered back through the window and noticed how the corners of the room were kind of moving. Dark shapes tumbled over one another.

“All right then, if I can't convince you,” said Tattoo Guy.

Sharlee shook her head back and forth.

He reached into his pocket. “Do you have enough money?”

“Lift me up,” said Billie, pulling on my shirt again. “It's my turn to see.”

I stepped away from the window and crouched down, examining the ground, searching for something.

“What's that noise?” I asked Billie. I peered into the dark hole scratched into the wood paneling. I leaned in closer, and Billie gasped.

 

Survival Strategy #36:

INSTINCT CAN BE TROUBLE

“Look out!” she said. “It's a mouse!”

I jumped back just in time to see a large rat slink out of the hole and across my feet.

“That is not a mouse.” I pushed myself away, my foot suddenly feeling too bare. The rat slunk along the base of the house and disappeared around the corner. Then in that moment I realized what the sound was. Claws, hundreds of them, scratching in between the walls. I stared through the window. Mounds of rats clambered after whatever was in a bowl on the floor.

Then something warm and hairy slid across my bare foot, and I barely stopped the sound that wanted to come out of my mouth. But it was just Mr. Sprinkles coming back to say hello.

Rats. That's what he had been chasing in the brush.

Obviously forgetting he had just killed one, Billie leaned down to pet him. He curled up at her feet, and without hesitation Billie kissed him on top of his head.

“Don't do that,” I whispered. “He's got rat germs.”

“Why do you think everything has germs?” asked Billie. “He's sweet.”

The corners of Mr. Sprinkles's mouth were smudged with brown. My stomach squirmed just thinking of all the rat guts he had torn through. But then again, he was just doing what cats do. Instinct. In theory, rats were supposed to be like dogs as far as friendliness and intelligence, but somehow looking at the nest of them in Sharlee's house gave me the heebie-jeebies.

I took a step closer and pulled myself up to the window ledge to peek inside again.

Tattoo Guy walked toward the front door.

Sharlee still sat on the couch, humming a lullaby and stroking the shape in her lap. Now I knew it was a rat that sat curled in the folds of her skirt, not a cat. She was like the tiger that took care of the piglets just because she had enough love to give to something that wasn't her own.

Tattoo Guy paused at the door. “I'm going to check your car.” And then he left.

“No, don't,” Sharlee said to the air.

I had noticed an old car sitting on the other side of the house. Now I could hear the sounds of Tattoo Guy trying to start an engine.

Sharlee still sat. She stared at the rat in her lap like it was the only thing that mattered in the whole wide world. Like she was going to hold tight and never let go. I understood that wanting.

“Come on,” I finally said to Billie. “We've got to get back to the truck.”

She didn't answer.

I turned. She was gone. And so was Mr. Sprinkles.

“Billie,” I hissed. A narrow dirt path worn through the brush led to the back of the house. It was probably a rat trail. “Billie!” I rounded the corner.

And there she was, curled on the ground, moaning, her eyes clenched shut.

Mr. Sprinkles sat near her, meowing.

I ran to her. “What's wrong?”

“It bit me.” She raised her hand high above her head.

I looked at Mr. Sprinkles. “I told you to stay away from that cat. Here, let me see.” I reached for her hand, but she pulled away.

“No. A rat. It bit me.”

My stomach lurched. In sixth grade, my teacher, Mrs. Mortensen, taught us about the Middle Ages, and how just about everyone died from the bubonic plague, a disease carried by fleas living on the rats.

Billie's hand was smeared with blood, and the skin on her index finger looked torn. “Which rat?” I searched the ground. I had to find it. What if it was sick? What if it had the plague? No, not the plague. The plague wasn't around anymore, but what about rabies? That rat could have rabies, or maybe something worse that I didn't even know about. Could you die from a rat bite?

“Over there.” She pointed to the brush. “Mr. Sprinkles chased it and had it by its tail. I was trying to get him to set it free, but it bit me.”

She stuck her finger in her mouth.

I slapped her hand away. “Don't do that. It's dirty. You don't know what kind of germs that rat has.”

Billie's face scrunched up and tears slid down her cheeks. “I don't want germs.”

I lugged her into my arms like when she was four years old. “Shh. You're fine.”

She hung on to my neck like a baby koala as I staggered toward the side of the house. My legs shook. Just stepping near the rat hole behind the garden hose made my legs feel like they were ready for a fresh bite. I pushed forward so I could see the front of the house. The wind had gotten stronger, pushing tumbleweeds every which way.

Billie cried, swallowing huge gulps of air.

“It's fine. You're fine.” But all I could do was picture rabies running though her bloodstream. I peeked around the corner. Tattoo Guy was underneath the hood of his sister's car, his back toward us. The semi felt as far away as San Diego. I adjusted my grip, but she was slipping. As I took a step forward, a thorn pierced through the skin of my bare foot. I slid Billie to the ground, felt around the bottom of my foot for the thorn, and plucked it out.

Now Tattoo Guy stood up and walked around to the driver's side of the car. He slid into the front seat and tried the engine. It started and then died. He cursed. The wind blew harder, and more tumbleweeds danced across the front yard.

I leaned against the side of the house. Billie cried as I pulled her back into my arms. I was grateful for the wind that swallowed up her sobs and threw them far, far away.

“Shh,” I said.

Maybe she was being rat-poisoned this very moment. I couldn't wait any longer. She was on the verge of a freak-out, and my arms felt like they might break.

I peeked around the corner again. Tattoo Guy was under the hood. Maybe I should ask him for help. I took a step forward and then I stopped, crouching next to the house. I couldn't do it. He'd be so mad. He'd call the police.

I just had to get back to the truck. Then I could figure out what to do.

“Okay, I'm going to run. Can you run with me?” I set Billie on the ground and grabbed her good hand.

She shook her head.

“Come on, Billie.”

That only made her cry harder.

“Remember yesterday, when you were a cheetah? You were so fast. Let's do that again.”

“My finger hurts,” she wailed.

I covered her mouth with my hand.

“Billie, you can't scream. Not like last night. You have to be quiet.” The Spoon Guy's angry face appeared in my mind.

Her eyes swam with tears. They leaked out the sides of her eyes and created muddy streams down her face.

“If I carry you, will you be quiet?”

She nodded.

I wiped my hands on my shorts and heaved her into my arms again. My legs were still shaky, and now my hands were sweaty.

Just then I heard Mr. Sprinkles meowing. There he was, sitting in front of Sharlee's car like he didn't know he was the cause of Billie's rabies plague. He turned and stared at me. Then he went back to meowing. Right now, I hated that cat.

“What's wrong, Mr. Sprinkles?” called Tattoo Guy. His head was still buried in the engine; he didn't even look up.

“Come on,” I whispered to Billie.

I lunged toward the semitruck, hoping my mind powers would give me strength.

Don't drop her. Don't drop her.

Something jabbed into my bare foot again. My brain told me to stop and pull it out, but I couldn't. I gritted my teeth and hoped it would be over soon. Each step felt like it required super strength. I willed my adrenaline to kick in, hoping it would surge through my veins, giving me superhuman power.

But with each step my hands slipped. Billie's skin felt like slimy fish scales. I dug my fingernails into her legs. The truck tire loomed in front of me.
If I can just make it to that tire …

“Liberty!” yelled Billie. “You're hurting me. I'm falling.”

And just before we reached it, I couldn't hold on anymore. My arms felt like they were cracking into pieces. With my last step, I collapsed.

Billie slammed into the dirt. A cloud of dust billowed up around us like we were in a dream. The dust filled my lungs. For a second, I wished it could hover over us like a cloaking device and camouflage us from whatever would happen next.

 

Survival Strategy #37:

HELP YOURSELF

And then, as if my mind powers were working, the wind continued to howl and swirl around us, creating a dust storm like I had never seen before. Billie screamed, but the wind gobbled it up, turning her voice into nothing but air. Billie's meltdown at the hotel had been bad, but this was ten times worse. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. Was it the rat bite? Did she have rabies already?

“Billie, stop it!” I shook her, trying to bring her back to me. The dust swirled; I couldn't even see Tattoo Guy or the little house. I shook her harder; my fingers dug into her arms. But still she screamed, as if she didn't even know I was her sister. Like she wasn't even here on this planet, like her body had been taken over by a rat parasite.

I let go of her and wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the shaking. I had to be in charge. This was no time for notebooks or facts. Inside my brain a little voice nagged me.
You can't do this alone. Get help.
But I didn't want Tattoo Guy to help me, with his cursing, and his tattoos, and his angry face. No. I could only trust myself.

Instinctively I reached for my notebook and flipped through the pages. Just doing that calmed me. I had to be missing something. I scanned the front yard: the cracked flamingos, the fallen-down fence, the broken car—

The car.

Tattoo Guy had fixed it, hadn't he? The hood was down. He must have gone into the house.

Inside, the seats were barely held together by chewed-up cloth. Springs poked out everywhere. But then I saw the keys sitting on the seat. And before I could talk myself out of it, I knew what to do. I shoved the notebook into my pocket. Sometimes you have to do something you never thought you'd do, just to put everything back together again.

I slid inside. Like the prairie dogs, we would not have a heart attack while we waited for the snake to come.

 

Survival Strategy #38:

FLEE

My heart floated somewhere near my epiglottis. I might choke.

I glanced at the front door of the house. It stayed shut.

I imagined Tattoo Guy with his forearms itching to strangle someone. I had to do something. Something had to be done
right now
.

And before I could think it through, I put the key in the car.

I had to.

It was like the car was begging me. Like it needed me to set it free. It needed me to take it and Billie and me away from this dead place that sucked out your life like a lukewarm chocolate shake, if you let it. Just look at Tattoo Guy's sister—alone on her couch, petting those rats, like she was dead already.

I turned the key. The car wheezed like it was coming back from the grave. But then it died. I turned the key again and the engine stayed on. I had never driven a car, but I had seen Mom do it hundreds of times. It probably wasn't that hard. I pressed the large pedal on the floor. Nothing happened. Then I pressed the pedal on the right and the car whined.

Just in that moment, someone yelled,
“Hey!”

Tattoo Guy stood in front of the house, his fists clenched. Sharlee stood beside him, a rat on each shoulder.

I pulled the arm on the steering wheel to the letter
D
and slammed my foot onto the pedal and the car leapt forward, right toward them and the house.

Tattoo Guy and Sharlee jumped out of the way. And the rats, too, I bet.

And just like that—
bam!
—I hit the porch rail. My head whipped forward and smashed against the steering wheel.