FOUR

“OH, YEAH, DEFINITELY a simple fix,” says the super-friendly trucker I met coming out of the food court with a handful of lotto tickets. He’s sitting in the passenger’s seat of our truck, checking out the blinking exclamation point, and I’m standing beside him, trying to listen so we can get back on the road.

Jax, however, is being less than helpful.

“I can’t believe you let some stranger climb in the truck,” he hisses at me. Jax is supposed to be pumping gas, but the pump is doing all the work. What Jax is doing is scratching his arm and being even weirder than normal. “That guy is going to drive off and steal our truck, and then what will we do?”

I roll my eyes. “That guy’s name is Gerald,” I say, and I don’t even bother to lower my voice, either. “And how’s he gonna drive off while you’ve got the gas pump in there, huh?” Jax has no response for that.

Gerald, who has obviously heard everything we’ve been saying, nods to his own rig across the way. “My truck’s nicer’n yours anyway,” he says. “So stealing this one wouldn’t make a whole lot of sense, economically speaking.”

I turn back to Jax. “See?”

“You can’t just walk up to any person you meet at a rest stop,” he hisses. “Didn’t your aunt teach you about stranger danger?” He is peeved, but if you ask me, I’m the one who should be in the bad mood. At least I’m doing something to solve our problem.

“What were you gonna do?” I reply. “Cross your fingers till the light went away?”

“What if he’s a murderer?” Jax whispers.

I’m getting a headache from all my eye rolling. I point to Gerald’s left arm, where a huge panda bear tattoo is exposed beneath his T-shirt sleeve. “I’m pretty sure most murderers don’t have cutesy tattoos,” I tell Jax.

Beside me, Gerald clears his throat. When I turn back to him, he is waiting patiently for us to stop squabbling.

“So,” he says, and Jax and I both straighten up, very serious. “Like I said, it’s no biggie. Low tire pressure.” When we both stare at him blankly, he explains, “You gotta refill the air in one of your tires. I’m guessing neither of you knows how to figure out which tire it is?”

“Uh . . .” I start. I know how to change a tire, and I’m a whiz with jumper cables, but somehow I don’t know anything about tire pressure. I glance at Jax like maybe he’ll be helpful, but he’s busy avoiding eye contact.

“Well, I’m happy to show you, if you want,” Gerald says. “And how to fill it with air, too. Then you’ll know how to do it yourselves for next time.”

“That’d be awesome,” I say.

Jax, of course, says nothing.

“Great. Air pump’s back there.” Gerald points to a row of metal machines near the rear of the station. “Takes quarters. You kids got quarters?” I nod. Jax scratches. “Well, that’s one thing, at least. Pull up to the pump, and I’ll meet you over there.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Gerald, seriously,” I say, just as the gas pump clunks, letting us know our tank is full. I wait for Jax to pull the pump out, but he doesn’t. “Need help?” I ask him. His hand is on the pump, but he’s stone-still, eyes on Gerald in the passenger seat. Finally, I figure out that he’s waiting for Gerald to hop out before he removes the pump.

“For Pete’s sake,” I say, rolling my eyes again.

Gerald is watching us. “You know,” he says slowly, “this is awfully rough road for a joyride. You kids sure you don’t need me to call someone?”

“Huh?” Jax asks, hand still on the pump.

“He thinks we’re dumb kids who stole their parents’ truck,” I tell Jax. Then I tell Gerald, “We are not dumb kids. Jax is official driver of my aunt’s business.” I leave out the part about how we kind-of-sort-of are driving off where we’re not supposed to. “Just ’cause we don’t know how to put air in tires doesn’t mean we’re imbeciles. It means we need help.”

“Well,” Gerald says. “I stand corrected. I’m happy to help you not-imbeciles get back on the road.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. And he hops out of the truck.

---

•   •   •

When we get to the air hoses, Jax sits in the driver’s seat while Gerald shows me where to find the info about our truck’s required tire pressure. It’s located on a sticker like two inches from Jax’s elbow, but Jax won’t even look at us as we inspect it. Gerald hands me his pressure gauge, which is this tiny tool with a top shaped like a diving helmet, and he demonstrates how to attach it to each tire and let out just a hiss of air, so the gauge pops out and gives the reading. I do two of the tires by myself, and I’m the one who figures out that our left front tire is super low.

“Feed the quarters into the machine,” Gerald instructs me while Jax remains useless. “Great. Now we’re gonna hook the hose to the air valve, same as we did with the gauge.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to try?” I ask Jax as I cross his side with the hissing air hose. “It’d probably be good if you knew how to do it.”

Jax shakes his head, eyes straight ahead.

Scratch-scratch-scratch.

“And always remember to replace the stem cap,” Gerald tells me when the tire is properly inflated. He hands me the tiny black cap and waits while I screw it back onto the valve. “Perfect. You guys are good to go.”

“We owe you one for sure,” I tell Gerald. “Can we buy you a Twinkie or something?”

“Nah,” he says, patting his belly. “I don’t like to eat right before I go out murdering people.”

Over in the truck, Jax’s eyes go wide, even though it’s obvious Gerald is messing with him.

“Sorry,” Gerald says, “bad joke.” Then he leans a little toward me. “Is he okay?”

I shrug. “Who knows?” Yesterday, during Aunt Nic’s show, I thought he was jumpy because he was freaked out by Spirit, but as far as I can tell, Gerald’s not a spirit, so I don’t know what gives.

“Tell you what,” Gerald goes on. “Next time I find myself in the same town as you and your aunt, you get me discount tickets to one of her shows. I gotta see this lady for myself.”

“I’ll get you in for free,” I tell him, and we shake on it.

And that’s when I see it—the tattoo poking out of Gerald’s right shirtsleeve. It’s inky and blue, a skinny curved tentacle.

I grip Gerald’s hand tighter. “Let me see that,” I say, trying to tug his arm closer.

“This old thing?” Gerald asks, pushing up his sleeve with his other hand.

The octopus on Gerald’s arm is nearly identical to the one I found on my wrist, only slightly larger. Nearly the exact same shape. Same profile, same image, same color. And just like the one on my wrist, there’s a message inside it, one letter in each of the eight tentacles.

“Jax!” I holler to the bozo in the truck. This time I need somebody else to see what I’m seeing. “Jax!”

“I see it,” Jax says. He’s already leapt out of the truck. He’s not scratching anymore. “Where did you get that?” he asks Gerald.

Gerald snorts. “You kids are definitely too young for tattoo parlors.”

“It’s a sign,” I explain. “For me.” Slow down. Why does Spirit want me to slow down?

But Gerald only pushes his sleeve down to hide the tattoo again. “Sorry, CJ,” he says. “This one was meant for me.”

He’s wrong, obviously, but it doesn’t really matter as long as I get the message. Only, there’s one thing I’m wondering.

“How come yours didn’t disappear?” I ask Gerald. “The octopus I got didn’t even last a minute.”

As soon as I say that, something on Gerald’s face changes.

“So you’ve been Charmed, too,” he says, eyebrows raised. Only he says “Charmed” with a soft ch sound, like “chandelier” or “chef.”

“Charmed?” Jax and I repeat.

“Haven’t figured it out yet?” I get the sense that Gerald is enjoying leaving us in the dark. “Took me a while, too. And it did disappear, same as yours. I just had my buddy re-create it in ink. What’d yours say?”

“Take heed,” I tell him.

He nods, thoughtful. “Good advice. You follow it?”

“Trying to. When did—?”

But Gerald cuts me off. “This is a mystery you’re going to have to solve on your own, CJ,” he tells me.

And with that, he’s off, tipping an imaginary hat at us as he heads back to his truck.

“Uh, that was weird,” Jax says, hoisting himself back into the driver’s seat. He spends a second checking the dashboard and seat and shifter, like he thinks maybe Gerald sabotaged us somehow. “What do you think ‘Charmed’ means?”

“No idea. Why do you think Spirit needed to send me another sign? I mean, I think we’re on the right path, because they didn’t say ‘Turn around’ or ‘Stop what you’re doing!’ but . . .”

“Well, none of those messages would fit inside an octopus,” Jax replies. He slams his door shut, concentrating so hard on starting up the truck that he doesn’t notice me giving him the stink eye. “Uh, you gonna help me shift or what?”

I shut my own door. “Ready? And . . . clutch,” I tell him, and we start up the truck together. Make our way back toward the 5 together.

Only, obviously, one of us is taking this trip a whole lot more seriously than the other one.

“You’re not even going to try to help me figure out what this new sign means?” I ask.

“It’s not a sign,” Jax says. He’s lots more sure of himself now that Gerald the Not a Murderer is gone. “It’s just a coincidence.”

I cannot narrow my eyes more than I currently am. “You honestly think that what happened back there—Ready-and-clutch!—was a coincidence? Three octopuses in two days? That’s not just a random thing that happens. Ready-and-clutch!” We merge back onto the freeway.

Jax checks over his shoulder, then switches into the middle lane. “Maybe there’s been tons of octopi all over the place, your whole life, only you never started noticing them till yesterday.”

I was wrong. My eyes can narrow even further. “Doesn’t it seem a little more likely that Spirit’s putting the octopuses there for me to find?”

“All I’m saying is you want them to be signs, so you think they are.”

“And you want them to be coincidences,” I reply.

Jax nods at that, like fair point. “Help me shift into fourth?”

I put my hand on the stick shift, then realize what I’m about to do. I pull away. “Slow down,” I say, repeating the message from Gerald’s tattoo.

“Wait, what?” Jax asks. Then, realizing what I mean, he lets out a huff. “CJ, seriously? We’re supposed to drive with the flow of traffic. Traffic is going more than forty miles an hour. I need to upshift.”

“Sorry,” I tell him. I raise both my hands in the air. “Just following orders from Spirit.”

“You are the most annoying human, CJ Ames,” he says. But he merges back into the right lane, where traffic is moving more slowly.

“I’m annoying? What about you, Mr. Freaked-Out-For-No-Reason? What was that back there? Gerald was being totally helpful, and you were being weird.”

“I was not being weird,” Jax argues. But he lifts his right hand from the steering wheel to scratch under his left sleeve again. When he sees me noticing, he pulls his hand away and slaps it back on the wheel. “It’s not weird to not want to get murdered, CJ.”

His words are angry, but there’s something else there. He’s like a porcupine, with his quills up, trying to keep me from getting at something tender.

I slouch back in my seat, arms over my chest, gazing out the window at the cars zooming around us. “You want to play the Geography Game?” I ask.

I kick Jax’s butt at the Geography Game, obviously. He seriously thinks he’s gonna stump me with “Phoenix,” like I can’t come up with any places that start with “X.”

“Xenia,” I say immediately.

“Uh, where’s that?” Jax replies. “You made that one up.”

“Xenia is a city in Ohio. I’ve been there.” There’s one in Illinois, too, but I’ve never been to that one. “Want to see it in the atlas?”

“No,” he says. “What letter do I have? ‘A’?”

“‘A,’” I agree. Then Jax goes silent for approximately fifteen minutes. “You are so bad at this game.”

“I’m thinking! There aren’t that many places that start with ‘A.’”

I count off on my fingers. “Anaheim, Azusa, Apple Valley, Arcadia . . . And that’s just within two hours of here.”

“All right, all right,” Jax grumbles. But there’s a laugh in there, I can hear it. “I give up. You win.”

“Yeah?” I sit up in my seat, excited. I mean, I knew I was gonna win, but still, it feels nice. “You gotta say, ‘CJ Ames is the Geography Game Champ of the Universe.’”

“I don’t know about the universe,” he says. “Definitely this truck, though.”

“Say it,” I instruct him, very seriously. “Say ‘Universe,’ or I’ll make you play another round.”

At that, he rolls down his window, sticks his head out as the wind zips past. And he shouts, “CJ Ames is the Geography Game Champ of the—! Whoa.”

As we crest the hill ahead, that’s when we see the accident. Major crash, three cars all smashed together in the middle lane.

“Holy . . .” Jax begins. It is ugly.

Together we downshift to second, then inch past the wreck in silence. Crushed metal. Scared people on the side of the road. The sound of sirens approaching.

“I hope everyone is okay,” Jax says in a hush.

And I don’t say anything, but here’s what I think.

Slow down.

That could’ve been us in that accident. And it wasn’t, because I followed the sign.

I lift my eyes and send up a thank-you. Obviously Spirit wants me to get to Bakersfield in one piece.

All I need to do is pay attention.