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“Sorry, Balder!” Gonzo yells, dropping him to the floor for safekeeping.
She fires a third shot that manages to miss the Caddy but does hit another car in the lot. Its alarm goes off with a loud, skin-crawling scream. I duck my head and floor it.
We have to clover-leaf to get back on the highway. My foot hits the gas hard, and we zoom onto the on-ramp, edging out an SUV that lays on its horn in protest. I take the first turn so fast the Caddy’s airborne for a second. It comes down with a rattling whomp and then we’re back on the interstate and blended into the buzzing lines of anonymous cars and trucks. We drive in total silence for a good five minutes, my knuckles white on the wheel, all of us breathing hard and sweating. Balder’s on the floor in the fetal position. Gonzo’s got his inhaler out. He clutches it to his chest. The guys in the backseat sit straight up, eyes wide, mouths open, not moving. We pass an overhead sign that tells us Daytona Beach is another three hundred miles.
We made it. Every part of me feels alive. I can’t help it. I pound the steering wheel in victory. It was crazy. Insane. And completely awesome. Finally, Middle Guy speaks up.
“Dude, I want to party with you!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
In Which Dulcie Makes an Accidental Confession
By nine o’clock, we’re still a hundred miles from Daytona. The Caddy’s high beams are for crap and I’m dog tired, so we pull off the road and find a place to make camp. The guys have spent the last two hundred miles replaying our narrow escape. Every time, they add something new to the story, making it bigger, making it theirs. My mom used to say that’s how myth is born. But it’s kind of hard to resist their good-natured charms. Plus, they’ve provided us with a tasty meal of lime-flavored corn chips, fast-food burritos, juice, and beer bought on Left Guy’s excellent fake ID. Even Balder can’t resist the party atmosphere. He’s come out of hiding, regaling everybody with tales of his life as a Viking.
“Whoa, your yard gnome … talks?” Middle Guy asks, openmouthed.
“Prototype,” Gonzo and I say at the same time. Fortunately, the guys are just drunk enough to believe our story that he’s a cutting-edge computerized toy. But I hope Balder knows what he’s doing.
The guys are steadily working their way through a case. Gonzo’s had just two beers, but he’s flying. I take a pass. Somebody has to be on the lookout for cops and fire giants and wizards, oh my. Plus, I’ve got a tabloid to scour, starting with the story on Gonz and me.
teenage terror plot hatched
in high school bathroom!
There’s a photo of Kevin, Kyle, and Rachel showing off the fourth-floor urinals. Nice.
SHOCKNAWE NEWS—CALHOUN, TEXAS
The two teens responsible for a wave of destruction and violence across the country were notorious juvenile drug fiends who hatched their terrorist plot from a fourth-floor bathroom, Shocknawe News has learned. Were Cameron John Smith and Paul Ignacio “Gonzo” Gonzales ordinary teens who stumbled onto a dark path? Or were they human time bombs waiting to go off in the way that time bombs so often do—like time bombs, only human.
“I always knew that pendejo was el problemo,” said Calhoun High’s Spanish teacher, Mrs. Rector, in an exclusive interview over a pitcher of margaritas.
Smith’s parents maintain that their son is very ill and needs medical treatment for his Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, otherwise known as bovine spongiform encephalopathy or mad cow (see box). Paul Ignacio Gonzales’s mother blamed video games and a spot on his lung for her son’s sudden turn to violence. (Do video games cause terrorism or mad cow disease? How safe are you? See other box.)
United Snow Globe Wholesalers has raised their $10,000 bounty to $15,000 for the capture of the Teen Terror Team. Any tips should be directed to the hotline at 1-800-555-1212.
Down in the left corner is a photo of my family in happier times. It’s one of the pictures from our trip to Disney, I realize. We’re on line for the Small World ride. The euphoria I felt earlier falls away, and I wish I could crawl into that photo. I ball up the paper and toss it into the campfire, then rest my head on my knees and fall asleep.
A doctor is standing at the end of my hospital bed. He thrums his thumb across the sole of my foot, but I don’t feel it. Mom and Dad are sitting in chairs beside the bed. Mom’s eyes are red and puffy and her hair’s a little greasy. Dad needs a shave. He’s watching the doctor poke at me. I can’t move my body at all.
The doctor says something about “tough decisions.” He says something about hospice to Glory, who leaves and comes back with a business card. She gives it to Dad, who stares at the raised black lettering on the crisp white background. Glory and the doctor mumble a few words about “giving you time to think things over” as they leave the room. The respirator keeps humming. Mom and Dad sit there in their chairs, alone together.
Dad moves the card in his fingers like he wants to give it away but can’t. Dad always makes all the decisions, but he can’t make this one. Finally, Mom’s hand comes to rest on top of Dad’s. She takes the card. In the set of her shoulders there’s a grim determination I’ve never seen before.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’ll do it.”
When I wake up, Dulcie’s perched next to me eating from a bag of jelly beans. I’m really glad to see her, and I can feel the ghosts of my dreams evaporating.
“Hey, you,” I say, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
“Hey, you, back.”
“Did I miss anything?” I ask, surveying the scene. Middle Guy’s down to his boxers. He’s telling Gonzo a story, or slurring it, mostly. Gonzo’s drooling and his eyes are half-closed. Left Guy’s lying on his back on the ground. He rubs his stomach and moans.
“Middle Guy dared Left Guy to down an entire package of hot dogs, which he did,” Dulcie says.
“That was some stunt you pulled today,” I say, stretching. “You almost got us killed.”
