Julia's Daughters

50 days, 9 hours

“So, what?” I say, my tone hostile. I pull one earbud out of my ear. “Now we’re not going?”

I stare at Mom as she starts to make a U-turn in the middle of the intersection at the end of our street. Only she does it so fast that I have to grab the back of the front seat to keep from flying around in the back. A bald guy walking his dog turns to look at us. My ball falls out of my hand and rolls under Mom’s seat. I sat behind her on purpose just so I wouldn’t have to look at her. I’m so angry. I can’t believe she’s doing this. I can’t believe she’s making me do it.

But maybe she’s changed her mind. Maybe she finally realized how freakin’ crazy a road trip with her crazy daughter would be.

I lean down to find my ball and she hits the gas, throwing me back in the seat. I try to wedge myself in with one hand while I search for the ball with the other. But it takes a minute for her to make the turn and I’m still getting thrown around. It hadn’t occurred to me I’d need my seat belt before we left the neighborhood. “Mom! What the hell?” I open and close my hand, searching frantically on the floor. I can’t lose the ball. I can’t lose it.

We fly by neighbors’ houses. Mom’s driving over the speed limit, which she never does. I wonder if she’s having a breakdown. A breakdown because Izzy’s having a meltdown. For a minute there I really thought Mom was going to drive to Maine with me in the backseat. I’ll have to remember to thank Izzy for saving my life.

If she ever speaks to me again.

I’m half on the seat, half on the floor, and the other earbud falls out of my ear. I finally feel the little ball under my fingertips. I almost have it when Mom slams on the brakes. My face hits the back of the seat. “Mom!” I holler.

I look around the seat and up to see her glare at me in the rearview mirror. “Stay in the car.”

“What?” I snatch up the ball and scramble up onto the seat to see Izzy through the windshield, still standing there in our driveway. “So we’re still going?”

She doesn’t answer me.

Dad is a couple of feet behind Izzy. He says something to Mom, but I don’t catch what it is.

Mom is out of the car, leaning on the open door. “We’re leaving in five minutes, Izzy. Get your stuff.”

Izzy turns and runs faster than I’ve ever seen the little runt run on those chubby legs of hers. What the hell? Now Izzy’s coming, too? That’s even worse than riding three thousand miles with Mom. The way Izzy looks at me, it makes me just want to disappear. Or have never existed at all.

This cannot be happening. Maybe I should have let her commit me to the nut floor.

Dad says something else to Mom and Mom closes the door hard and walks around the front of the car and up the driveway toward him. I slide to the middle of the backseat to watch them. Mom’s back is to me. I can’t read Dad’s lips because Mom’s between him and me now.

I look at the car door, trying to think fast. I’m mad and I’m scared and I’m mad. I can’t ride to Maine in this car with her. I certainly can’t do it with Izzy. The way she looks at me I feel like I should be wearing a scarlet M for Murderer. Caitlin was reading The Scarlet Letter in her Lit class. We were talking about it the morning before she died. We both liked the book even though none of our friends did. Remembering that makes me tear up and now I feel worse. Even more scared.

I cannot do this road-trip thing with them.

If I get out, if I run, I can cut through the Stevensons’ backyard. Two blocks and I can be out on the main street. There’s no way Mom would follow me on foot. She couldn’t catch me if she tried. And by the time she gets in the car and gets out of the neighborhood, I’ll be long gone. There are plenty of places to hide: fast-food places, a mini-mart.

If I call Todd, he’ll come get me. We could head for Alaska. Today. I’ve already got a bag packed. But actually, there’s not much in it. I wish I’d thought of this before. If I’m going to Alaska, I want to take more of my things. Too bad. So sad.

But I’ve got money and I’ve got Caitlin’s ATM card. There’s no way Mom or Dad thought to close her bank account yet. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I used the money she was saving for Bonnaroo, to go to Alaska. Well, she’d probably mind because I’m going with Todd and she hated Todd. She used to tell me he was a loser and that I could do better. That I deserved better. She probably wouldn’t say that now, after what I did to her.

I pull my cell out of my sports bra and text Todd.

I watch Mom and Dad through the windshield. He’s pissed. I can tell by the way he’s standing. Her, too. She’s all stiff. But no one is yelling. My family is so civilized. No one ever yells. Except Nana and only when she’s really drunk and no one will pay attention to her.

My phone dings.

Poker is his older brother. Another loser. He lives with his baby mama, but he’s dating this other girl he knows from work. He washes dishes at a diner near the pawnshop all the tourists go to.

He texts right back.

Thawt u wet grounded

He spells thought wrong. It’s not a typo. He’s the worst speller I’ve ever texted.

I hold my phone in my hand. I didn’t tell Todd my mother was trying to kidnap me and take me to Maine when we were texting yesterday. I don’t know why. Do I have some secret desire to ride in the car with my mom for the next week and listen to her cry? Or worse, talk to me in that quiet voice of hers that makes me feel like I’m crazier than I am?

Can you pick me up or not? I text back, hitting the keyboard hard with my thumb.

Now, I tell him. After I send it, I add, Alaska, here we come.

I stare at my phone, waiting for him to answer. If he won’t come for me, I guess I’ll just run. I don’t know what else to do.

My phone dings.

Not my house. Will text u in a few.

I glance up at Mom and Dad; they’re too busy fighting to think about me. I look at the door. I push the ball down deep in my jeans pocket and slide my hand across the seat to get my backpack. I look at them again and put my hand on the door.

Just as I’m about to open the door, Mom turns around and starts for the car. “Izzy!” she hollers. “Let’s go, sweetie.” She’s saying sweetie, but her voice is high-pitched.