Page 11 of Where the Music Grows

I hand him my driver’s license. He studies it like it might be fake.

“Millfield’s a long way from home.”

“Just passing through,” I lie.

He hands it back. “Sorry. Not hiring.”

Later, the lumberyard manager doesn’t even let me finish my sentence.

“You’re what, eighteen?” He crosses his arms. “Go back to school, kid.”

“I graduated—”

“Not interested.”

I see a hardware store and figure that’s the one for me. The owner, a wiry guy with glasses, takes one look at me and shakes his head. “Runaway?”

“No.”

“Sure.” He snorts. “Parents know you’re here?”

My jaw tightens. “I’m looking for work, not a lecture. I’m eighteen. An adult. I don’t need my parents’ permission.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve seen enough kids like you. You run away, land here, and bring a shitstorm with you. I don’t need that.”

I slam the door of my truck harder than I mean to. My hands are clenched into fists at my sides as I drive back toward the motel.

These assholes treat me some like some lost kid who doesn’t know which way is up. Like I’m not capable of making my own damn decisions. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m getting out, not staying stuck in some dead-end town.

“Fuck it,” I mutter.

I’m glad I found out quickly that this isn’t the place for me. I’ve got some cash left. Not much, but enough to get to the next town. Maybe someone there won’t care that I’m eighteen. I know I look younger. It’s the baby face.

I shove my stuff into the truck and head for the ATM on the corner. Thankfully, I’ve got enough money to keep going. Assuming the truck doesn’t break down on me, I can make it all the way to Florida.

I punch in my code and tap two hundred dollars. I don’t want to keep paying ATM fees, but I don’t want to worry about someone stealing my cash or my dumb ass losing it.

I tap my foot waiting for the machine to spit out my money.

Insufficient funds.

“What the hell?”

I assume it’s the machine. I try again, typing in a hundred dollars.

Once again, the screen tells me I don’t have the funds.

I know that isn’t true. I check the balance.

$0.00

I blink, staring at the screen. That isn’t right. I pull the card out and check it, as if I just used my PIN on the wrong card.

But it’s my card.

My stomach drops.

No. No way.