“Shit,” I say. “Be cool, be cool.”
The cop car soars past chasing somebody else, and we all let out our breath.
“We need some cover,” I say, like I know what I’m talking about, like I do this all the time.
“I fear we cannot trade this car for another,” Balder muses. “It hasn’t enough value.”
Just then I spy three guys camped out by the side of the road hoisting up a sign, PARTEE HOUSE OR BUST. It gives me an idea. I pull onto the shoulder a few feet ahead of them.
Gonzo’s eyes are wide. “Dude, what are you doing?”
“Giving them a ride. We’re going to Disney. We can drop them in Daytona. It’s on the way.”
Gonzo slaps his knee and rolls his head back to the roof like it might understand his plight. “No one ever picks up hitchers. That’s, like, the kind of safety rule they don’t even put on kids’ milk cartons anymore because they figure everybody fucking knows it already.”
“They misspelled ‘party.’ How evil genius can they be?”
He angles his body around to get a good look at the guys scrambling toward the car dragging their packs.
“Look,” I explain. “These guys could be our cover, okay? The cops are looking for two crazy teens, not a carload of college kids on the way to spring break. With those guys on board, we just look like any other caravan on the way to Daytona for spring break. We slide under the radar.”
Balder speaks up. “Cameron’s battle plan is sound. But I have seen these types before. They take pictures,” he says, exhibiting a little yard-gnome post-traumatic stress disorder.
“Don’t worry, Balder. Nobody’s taking any pictures. You’re totally safe,” I say.
“Still, I think it best if I assume my enchanted form. I shall ride beside Gonzo.”
Quickly, Balder scrambles over the front seat and gets gnomy with it just as this big, doughy guy throws open the back car door.
“Hey, man. Thanks for picking us up. We’ve been standing out there for hours.”
“Because other people, sane people, know not to stop,” Gonzo mutters under his breath.
“No prob,” I say. “I’ll pop the trunk.”
Five minutes later, we’re back on the interstate.
“So what school are y’all from?” the doughy guy sitting in the middle asks.
“Texas Community College,” I lie. “You?”
“Gold Coast University,” he says, and there’s a round of earsplitting football-stadium yelling. “Coast U! Coast U! Coast Uuuuuu!”
The guy on the left says, “We call it Coast U because they coast you through.”
“Amen,” the guy on the right says. “You don’t even have to pick a major till you’re ready to graduate.”
The real estate beside the highway blooms with gas stations, all-night waffle houses, home decorating centers, and gigantic all-in-one retailers. The cars line up to enter the parking lots.
A fresh billboard’s just gone up. It’s a picture of a little girl holding a snow globe and smiling in awe. PROTECTING YOUR SAFETY. REMOVING THE UNPREDICTABLE. ENSURING YOUR HAPPINESS. UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS: WE’RE WORKING SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO!
“So do you have a major?” I ask, training my eyes back on the road ahead.
“Not yet. I just want something that’ll make me a sweet pile of money. Some desk job where I can play Hot Hoops or Casino Cash on my computer most of the day and still collect a check.”
“Y’all going to the Party House?” the guy on the right asks.
“No. Just passing through,” I say.
“Oh. We’re going to the Party House,” he says.
“Party House!” the guy on the right yells suddenly, startling me.
“Marisol is so fine!” Middle Guy says. “She will be mine!”
“The chicks are out of control at this place,” Right Guy announces.
“So, you’ve been before?” I ask.
“No,” he says, a little defensively. “But I’ve heard.”
Right on cue a carload of teenage girls pulls up beside us. They’ve got ponytails flapping in the wind. “Dude, roll down your window!” Right Guy yells to Left Guy.
“Hey, y’all going to the Party House?” Right Guy shouts.
“Yeah!” the blond chick leaning out the window yells. She’s got a Diet Rad soda in her hand. The shiny silver metal of the can glints in the sun. “You goin’?”
“You bet! We’re gonna do I Double Dog Dare You with Parker and Marisol!” Middle Guy promises.
The girl in the backseat has rolled down her window, too. She shouts, “No way! Omigod, I love that show!”
“Yeah, Marty here already did the stunt where you run your skateboard over a moving car. He broke five major bones but he’s all right now!”
“It’s all good,” Marty, aka Left Guy, says, giving a little wave with his hand, I suppose to show that it still works.
The girls giggle and give each other conspiratorial looks.
“Well, we’ll look for you there. Later,” they say, stepping on the gas. They want us to chase them. That’s the deal.
“Go on, man. Pedal to the medal,” Left Guy prompts, practically coming into the front seat. I try to change lanes but an eighteen-wheeler cuts us off. We’re stuck behind it while the girls zoom ahead down the road.
“Aw, man,” Left Guy says, disappointed.
“No worries, bro. This is going to be a total score scene!” Right Guy notices Balder for the first time. “All right! Yard gnome. Got some buds back at the house who took one of these guys all around Barbados. How long you had him?”
“Two days.” Gonzo wraps his arm around Balder.
“We should totally pose with him in front of the Party House,” Right Guy says. “Be awesome.”
Balder’s smile twitches just slightly; he wants to go all Viking on the guy, I can tell.
“He’s not that kind of yard gnome,” I say.
Middle Guy snorts. “’D’you steal him from a church or something?”
“It’s one of those Last Wish things,” I explain. “Some kid in Florida who’s dying wanted to have his picture taken with the gnome, so we’re driving him to the hospital there. For our youth group.”
“That kid won’t know if we get in a few shots first,” Left Guy says.
“No can do,” Gonzo insists. “The gnome has to be untouched. Virgin gnome.”
My eyes find Balder’s. Be cool, I silently implore him.
“I’ve got a cousin who’s a midget,” Middle Guy says to Gonzo. “We always called him Stumpy. Got any cool nicknames like that? Like Stumpy?”
“No,” Gonzo says through gritted teeth. He gives me a sideways glance and I know I will pay for this later. But at least we’ve got some camouflage for now.
The guy stares at him for a second, and I’m afraid it’s going to get ugly.
“Hey, man,” he says. “Think we could make a stop? I gotta take a leak.”
The only place that looks like it might have a bathroom is a roadside gift shop. It’s one of those places full of useless junk—state spoons, frosted pecans with a half-life of about two hundred years, tea towels decorated with grandmas making cranky observations about life, novelty cookbooks, and trivets shaped like lighthouses because apparently the world is clamoring for cute things they can place piping hot casserole dishes on. It’s hard to believe people buy this shit, and even harder to believe they give it to other people as mementos, like, “Hey, we went on this awesome vacation but we brought you back some pickled peppers in a festive, dancing jalapeño jar. Thanks for feeding our cat!” The frat guys have agreed to buy snacks in gratitude for the ride. They troll the aisles scooping up weird chip selections. Gonzo’s got Balder on his shoulder. They’re checking out a pen of a woman in a bathing suit and when you turn it upside down, she loses her top.
The lady behind the cash register isn’t overflowing with gratitude that we’re there. She reminds us that if we break something, we buy it, and goes
back to reading her tabloid while occasionally flicking a suspicious glance in our direction.
When I round a corner, Dulcie’s standing in the aisle pointing a potato gun at me.
“Come quietly. Don’t act like a spud and we’ll have no trouble.”
“Hey, Dulcie. Where’ve you been?”
She puts the gun back, picks up a prank lollipop with a “fossil” of a baby alligator inside. “Trying to get info.”
“Find out anything?”
She shakes her head. “You?”
I tell her about Putopia, the scientists and parallel universes, the Infinity Collider, seeing Dr. X, and what Ed said.
“So that’s great,” Dulcie says, but she doesn’t sound happy.
“Yeah. I don’t know. Disney? That seems like a stretch. And he was just a kid.”
“You could always check for signs.” Dulcie jerks her head toward the cash register up front.
I peer over the display of ceramic dog paper-towel holders at the big-haired lady sitting there. She licks her finger and turns the pages of her paper. Briefly, she looks up and squints disapprovingly at the Gold Coast U guys.
“Yeah, good luck with that,” I say to Dulcie.
“Come on,” she prompts.
We inch closer, past shelves displaying various curiosities—crocodile eggs, hot-sauce meat sticks, pecan logs, salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like the president and first lady—and round the corner into an entire aisle devoted to snow globes. Suddenly, Dulcie stops. I’ve never seen this expression on her face before. She seems sad. Her wings droop.
“Dulcie?”
She lifts one of the snow globes, puts her face up to it so I can see her eye through the warped glass, huge, blinking.
“Dulcie? You okay?”
“I hate these things. They’re depressing.” She turns it over. UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS is stamped on the bottom.
“What are you talking about?”
Her head snaps up. It’s like she’s back all of a sudden, but her eyes are still pained. “It’s just that … you can’t freeze life behind glass, you know? And … and take this one, for instance.”
She swipes it from the shelf, turns it over in her hands. Smiling lobsters break-dance in front of a ship’s wheel under a glitter-confetti rain. An empty bottle resting in the fake sand makes it seem like they got drunk and decided to cut loose.
“‘Party Time,’” Dulcie says. “What a stupid thing to write on a snow globe.”
“Maybe they like it there,” I say.
“Poor lobsters. You should not be trapped in a glitter-water hell.”
“Definitely. A fake-snow-pellet hell is better,” I joke.
Dulcie ignores me. I’m used to being ignored. So why does it bother me when she does it? Why do I feel the need to try with her?
She turns away. “You should see if you can snag that paper.”
“All right,” I say, not sure what I did to piss her off. I go up to the counter and pretend to be very interested in the gum and mints selection. I put some Fruity Time Chews on the counter.
“Just this?” the lady asks. Her name is HELLO, MY NAME IS EMPLOYEE #3. In the corner, four rows of boxes marked UNITED SNOW GLOBE WHOLESALERS are stacked eight high. Man, people like their snow globes here.
“Yes. Thanks. And, ah, do you … think I could have your paper, you know, if you’re finished with it?”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“No reason.” I swallow hard. “Just thought I’d catch the day’s news.”
“Papers are over by the cooler. They’re three dollars and fifty cents. Here’s your gum.” She’s still glaring.
Too late I notice the picture of Gonz and me. Apparently, it’s a slow news day for the tabloids—no faces of Jesus in guacamole dip or anything—and Gonz and I have finally moved to page one right next to a picture of the president golfing on an aircraft carrier and under a lurid headline—TEENAGE TERROR PLOT HATCHED IN HIGH SCHOOL BATHROOM!
“You know, actually, it’s cool. Never mind. Have a good day,” I say, walking away fast.
“Hey!” she calls after me. “You stay right there. Don’t you go nowhere!” Her voice goes over an intercom. “Bobby Joe, call Cyrus to come on up with the wagon. We’re gettin’ ourselves that fifteen large.”
There’s a sudden crash from aisle five. It diverts Cash Register Lady’s attention. “Hey! Hey now! You stop that nonsense right this minute!”
A familiar voice rings out: “Free the snow globes!”
I rush back to Dulcie, who is standing in a puddle of sparkly water and escaped lobster toys.
“What are you doing?” I plead.
“Freeing the snow globes. Wanna help?” There’s a wicked gleam in her eye that scares the crap out of me.
“No, I don’t!”
“Suit yourself.” With the flick of a wing, Dulcie wipes out a whole row and then another, until the dirty linoleum is awash in small plastic mermaids, floating towns, seashells, and tiny white pellets that stick to the floor like fake snow.
“I’m calling the police!” the lady screams. “I have a gun!”
She isn’t kidding. A shot sails past in the other aisle, breaking open a jar of yellow-green margarita mix that splatters onto my shirt. Holy shit! I duck down next to Dulcie, who’s grinning like it’s the first day of summer.
“Get out of here,” she says. “I’ll keep her busy.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about me. Just grab the paper on the way out.” Dulcie picks up a snow globe and hurls it toward the soda case. Another shot shatters the glass there. Cash Register Lady starts racing in that direction, and I am off and running toward the door. Gonzo’s right behind me, screaming bloody murder, Balder tucked under an arm. And the three frat guys are hot on his tail. On the way out, I grab the paper in my fist.
“Get in the car!” I scream. Everyone falls in, and I start the Rocinante up and peel out with a big screech of tread.
“I don’t have my door closed!” Gonzo yells.
In the rearview mirror, I can see the lady aiming the shotgun at us.
“Then you better hold on to something, man, because I am not stopping.”
“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 excel
lent 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.