Page 35 of The Wicker King

“Hey, Mom…”

He couldn’t remember when she had begun spending most of her time down here. It had been sometime when he was in middle school, after his dad left. August leaned down to kiss her on her blond head and ignored the scent of old sweat and medicine.

“I want to go on a trip with Jack this Saturday.”

“When will you be back?” Her eyes never left the screen.

“Monday. Winter break is starting, so I don’t have class.”

“Oh. That’s nice…” Someone was guessing how much a blender cost. August stood there for a couple of minutes, watching over her shoulder. Then he pulled the quilt up and tucked it around her.

“Did Dad send the check yet?” he asked. “It’s getting cold out—the gas is getting more expensive.” He put his hand on her forehead to check for fever, just in case. She nodded under his fingers but didn’t look up at him.

The audience cheered. “Okay. I love you,” August said.

She didn’t hear him.

FOND

Jack drove up at 6:00 a.m. “We’re going to Iowa,” he said excitedly, letting himself into the kitchen.

“What?! That’s two whole states away!”

“Yup.” Jack rummaged in August’s fridge, taking out a couple of bottles of water. “And that’s where we’re going. We’re going to find the Rapturous Blue.”

August didn’t even try to argue. He just slung his travel bag over his shoulder, tucked a blanket under his arm, and followed Jack outside. “Where’s your car?”

Jack happily patted the side of a truck that stood where Jack usually parked his car. “My grandpa is letting me borrow his pickup. Anyway, I was thinking we’d drive until like three, then stop somewhere and switch.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. Does this truck even have heat? I bet I’m paying for gas.” August could hear himself whining, but he didn’t care. “Why do we have to leave so early? I haven’t had breakfast…” He swung into the passenger’s seat and almost hit his face on the brown paper bag Jack was holding out toward him.

“I know you, man. Peanut butter and banana, wheat bread, no crusts. Go wild.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t even bother to look at Jack as he snatched the bag petulantly. He knew the son of a bitch was grinning at him fondly or something. August began wolfing down his food and Jack put the truck in drive.

PROSPECT

Driving places with Jack felt safe, like riding with a parent. He was really good at it. Way better than August was. He’d learned early, when they were about fourteen. Sneaking Jack’s father’s car out of the garage at night to go cruise into the dark.…

Jack’s grandpa’s truck didn’t have a radio, just rattling and the hum of the engine. Jack whistled quietly to himself while August chain-smoked and napped in the sun.

“Are you seeing anything now?” August asked curiously, breaking the silence.

“Always.”

“Does it … you know … get in the way of driving?”

“You’re asking me this after thirty miles?” Jack asked dryly. “I’m doing fine. We aren’t dead yet.”

That was not a comforting response. “Can I just drive the rest of the way?”

“Will you stop complaining if we stop at a Cracker Barrel?” Jack teased. “I know your complex relationship with that chain.”

“Cracker Barrel is great. It is a restaurant and a toy store and a souvenir store all in one. We’ve been over this,” August said curtly.

“Mmm.” Jack hummed in lieu of a reply. He sounded way too satisfied for someone who was most definitely going to be turning left into that parking lot and paying for both of their lunches. “Don’t worry so much. We’ll be finished with this and be on our way back home soon.”