The Graham Cracker Plot (6 page)

Number three:
Ashley's moods change a lot. I think she has an alarm clock in her body that says, “Noon. Time to giggle! Three o'clock. Crabby time! Ten o'clock. Be sad and stop talking to people!”

Now that's one looooong and sad story. Mom tells it to
everybody
with gasps and f-bombs. The Chemist says it's creepy to talk about Ashley like she's a reality TV star. Mom's fascinated, the Chemist says, because it makes her feel better about her own crappy life.

*   *   *

The next morning, after Kari left for work, I stuffed our backpacks while Graham used a highlighter to trace the back roads on a road map. We had to walk to Ashley's.

I asked, “You sure Ashley will help?”

“I told you a hundred times what my mom says. Ashley was the queen of adventure even before the accident.”

I hoped he was right, because Plan B was taking my mom's car and driving it ourselves. Graham said he was plenty experienced from his go-cart riding. But cars are bigger, and they don't go around in circles. Sometimes cars hit trucks, and when that happens, drivers turn into Ashley.

“Oh my God, it's heavy!” Graham groaned as he lifted his pack. He leaned against the stove, which Kari apparently never cleaned. The stove was covered with crumbs, charred pieces of stuff that had been food, and sticky spots. “What's in this backpack?”

“Mom's change jar. And the notebook and the wire cutters from the shed.”

He squinted at me. “What are you carrying?”

“Sandwiches and your mom's sweat suit so the Chemist has something to wear. I didn't have room for hardly any of my own clothes. We'll have to get stuff in Canada.”

“That's all?”

I looked away. “A book. Two rolls of toilet paper because you just never know. Some pictures. No big deal.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah. So what?” My chin felt shaky, but just for a minute. He didn't notice. I forced myself to think forward, not backward. “Graham, the most important thing is in your pocket. That's not good. Let me carry it in my backpack.”

He pulled out the Idea Coin and held it in the light from the window, studying it closely. “No way. It's mine. I keep it.”

“You would have lost it the other night in the weeds! It's too important for pockets.”

“Why? You got a safe in the backpack? No way. It's mine. I don't want you using up all its energy.”

“Whatever.”

He tried readjusting his backpack, but the straps cut into his shoulders. “It's gonna take forever to walk to Ashley's. My back could break.”

“Toughen up, Canada boy.”

He walked slowly across his kitchen, taking his last look, maybe making a last memory of his trailer. His home. As he reached for the doorknob, his hand shook. For a second, I didn't know whether I was afraid he'd change his mind or whether I was afraid he wouldn't. He pulled open the door and let it slam shut behind us. Slowly we walked down the gravel driveway, past the play dump, past Frank the Creeper's motorcycle, past the mailboxes and the faded sign that said,
River Estates Mobile Home Park
. He didn't look back, but I did.
Toughen up
, I told myself.
Toughen up, Canada girl.

It was hot. Too hot for spring, and way too hot for morning. A pool of sweat formed between my shirt and backpack. Graham's hair was plastered flat from sweat and when he scratched his head, his hair stood up in short clumps.

We walked on the gravel shoulder and carefully moved into the grass when a car drove by. Finally we came to the intersection with the Rattlesnake Bar and Grill billboard. The sun had faded the picture, but you could still see two pretty girls with tank tops, arms wrapped around each other. Underneath the girls, the sign said,
Friends, food, and fun!
Not a word about beer or mozzarella sticks. Not far from the sign, the weeds turned into grass and the grass turned into a neighborhood.

“I'm so thirsty,” I said.

“Try carrying a five-thousand-pound backpack.”

“Toughen up, Canada boy.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Who's going to carry the solar panels and fight grizzly bears?”

“Duh. The Chemist.”

The clouds came together in big fluffs and blocked the sun. Still, it felt hot, and the air was sticky.

“Our moms will be scared.” I can't remember who said it, but it was probably me. I'm the one who would never want our moms to worry.

“Don't even start!” he said. “We'll call tonight when it's all done so they know we're safe. Just think about the Chemist. Don't let your head go anywhere else. The Chemist. Canada. Cinnamon bread with honey.”

I stared at my feet. When my right foot came down on the sidewalk, I thought,
The
, and when the left one followed, I thought,
Chemist
. Like a drum, I marched. The! Chemist! The! Chemist! Right! Left! Right! Left!

*   *   *

We were two blocks from the brick house, which was divided into apartments. Every window had white blinds except one. A purple sheet or blanket covered the corner window on the first floor. That had to be Ashley's place.

I'd met Ashley, because Kari sometimes invited her over for pizza and movies. Kari felt sorry for Ashley, and maybe Ashley felt sorry for Kari. Graham hated their “girly-girl movies” because, he said, those movies made Kari and Ashley talk about boyfriends. And then they'd either get mad or sad. Graham liked adventure movies. I bet he thought running away would be an adventure movie starring him.

“Is this it?” I asked.

Graham pulled up his T-shirt to wipe his forehead sweat. “Yup. Purple window. That's it.”

When we turned onto the sidewalk, a woman with deep frown lines slammed the front door and hustled by us, grumbling, “Damn that girl. Can't pay me enough.” She stormed down the sidewalk. “Saint Bernard. Dumbest thing I ever heard.”

*   *   *

From the hall, we heard bangs and shouts. The noise told me to wait, but Graham barged right into Ashley's apartment, so I followed him.

I got a quick look before we dropped to the floor: Ashley, by the couch, a stocking cap pulled completely over her eyes. Yelling. Stomping. Throwing things at the door, which is why we belly-crawled under the kitchen table, backpacks and all.

Something banged over our heads. I peeked. Ashley shouted, “It's my life!” A lamp flew across the room. “I don't care if this is a County apartment. I pay rent! I have a job! If I want a Saint Bernard, that's my business. Saint Bernards save lives!”

Graham cleared his throat, but he squeaked. “Ashley?”

“I want my money now! I'm not waiting until the first of the month. Screw you and your budget!”

Graham yelled this time. “Ashley!”

Ashley froze. Slowly, she lifted the stocking cap just above her eyelashes. She got on her knees and crawled under the table.

“Graham!” she shrieked. “And your friend what's-her-name!” She smooched Graham's forehead and mussed his hair. “Love the hair, dude! You're so cool.” She tried to hug him, backpack and all. Then she gave me a forehead kiss, too. “I don't remember your name, but I know your face. You're gorgeous and lovely. Like a preteen supermodel.”

I felt my face go red. “It's Daisy.”

“A flower. So, so lovely. You deserve to be named after a flower.” She put her elbows on the floor and rested her chin on her hands.

I said, “So do you!” And she smiled.

Graham cleared his throat again. “Ashley, we need your help.”

“I bought fifty records at the thrift store. The Beatles … and the Clash and … a bunch of others. Stay here, and we'll listen to records all night. It'll be a hoot.”

Graham tried to sit up, but he whacked his head on the table.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I bought a crap-ton of Beatles. I love how they sound on a real record player, even if they're scratched. I got some old grunge stuff, too.”

Graham rubbed his head. “Here's the deal. We need a driver, and you're all we've got.”

She straightened the knit cap on her head.

“We really, really need help,” Graham said. “Really, really.”

“Today I'm going to look for … hmm … what was that dog again? They're big.”

“The Saint Bernard?” I asked.

“That's the one! They're so cute and cuddly. I don't care how much they cost to feed. We all gotta eat, right?”

“Ashley, please listen for just a second. We need a ride,” Graham said. “Somebody's going to get hurt if we don't help.”

“So you should call 911.”

We'd hit nowhere at one hundred miles per hour. I had to take over.

“Ashley, you like Saint Bernards because they help people. You could be like a Saint Bernard and help save my dad's life.”

She rolled on her back and sighed. “How's that going to happen?”

I said, “My dad is being blamed for something he didn't do. It was a total accident. So we're breaking him out of prison. It's not fair. He tried to put out the fire but it was too big and—”

Ashley squeezed my leg. “Your dad's in prison?”

“Yes. And he shouldn't be. It's wrong and unfair, and the fed-mates are going to hurt him. Bad. I'm breaking him out. No matter what. I need an escape driver. If you won't do it, then we'll have to drive ourselves. And we could end up hurt because we don't know how to drive.”

“Prison?” She squinted.

I felt our chances gliding across the dirty linoleum and right out the door. Judge Henry, I had to be honest with her. You talked a lot about telling the truth, and that's exactly what I did.

“Yes. Prison, Ashley. He's in a real prison.”

“Prison?” Ashley stared through me. I thought about waving my hand in front of her face, but I figured it was better to let her think about it. Then her eyes focused on me. “Everybody wants out of prison, but there's really no escape, is there?”

“It's a
low
-security prison. No chains or bars or cells. Just a big fence. We can do it. We've got a plan.”

For a while, none of us spoke. I could hear the person next door running a vacuum. As we sat on the crusty floor, I thought Ashley should borrow that vacuum. A mop, too.

Ashley slithered backward and stood up. We did, too. She took a key from a hook on the wall. Over it was a handwritten note.

Rule Reminder # 3: Do not drive unless there's a licensed driver in the car with you.

She thrust her left arm in the air. “Prison escape!”

Graham whispered, “Shhhh. We don't want anyone to hear that.”

“I'll keep it on the down low,” she whispered back. “So let's hit it.”

“Ashley,” I asked. “Do you want to pack some stuff?”

“Wait! I have to call in sick at work. It's my responsibility.” She pulled a cell phone from her back pocket, one of those fancy phones that talks to you. “Call Thrift 'N' More.” She winked at me. “Hey Bob! It's Ashley.” Her voice was chirpy—too chirpy. “I can't make it in today. Strep throat.”

Graham frowned and whispered, “Sound
sick
!”

Ashley's eyes got big. She cleared her throat and talked with a sandpaper voice, deep and scratchy. “And I sprained my ankle.” Graham slapped the top of his head. Ashley looked at Graham like,
What?
Then she added, “And I puked.”

She hung up. “Done and done! I'll pack and be out in a snap.”

*   *   *

“This is a very long snap,” I told Graham.

Graham tilted his head. “Maybe she said, ‘I'll be back after my
nap
.'”

“We're going to miss Club Fed's smoke break if we don't fly. Go knock on her door,” I said.

Then Ashley's bedroom door opened, and she came out dragging a black suitcase. It scraped against the old wood floor. She needed both hands and a grunt to move it. Ashley had changed into jeans, a red tank top, and a gray sweater. Her sunglasses were huge, and she'd covered her head with a black wig cut into a bob.

“It's not sunny anymore,” Graham said. “You don't need your shades.”

She dropped the suitcase with a thud and spun around like a ballerina. “This is my escape wardrobe.”

 

DEAR JUDGE HENRY,

Ashley's car did not say, “I'm being driven by a hot babe with a bulging bank account.” It said, “I'm a rusty Oldsmobile that clunk-clunk-clunks and spits black smoke from the tailpipe.”

But the car had a bigger problem. The gas tank line was on red. Grandma and I stop for gas a lot, so I knew we were about to lose a chunk of the escape budget. Did we have enough money to buy gas to Canada? The sandwiches wouldn't last long. We'd need more food. How much did solar panels cost? Could we get enough food from hunting and fishing? I didn't even like fish
sticks
. How was I going to eat something from a lake with eyes and bones and scales? My head exploded with worries.

I asked, “Did you bring any money, Ashley?”

“I think I'm broke until the first of the month. But here. You can check.” She tossed her purse to the back where Graham and I were sitting. We'd argued about who got to sit up front, but then I remembered a law about keeping kids in the backseat. We didn't want cops pulling us over for illegal seating. “Dig around and see what's in there.”

Graham unzipped the small purse and made a sick face. Out came a comb stuck with a wad of gum. He emptied the bag between us: a paper advertising a Saint Bernard in need of a home (it said, “Cupcake is lovable but needs a firm hand”), two lollipops, a coupon for toilet paper, four lipsticks, a granola bar, eyeliner, and a refrigerator magnet that said,
“Help one person at a time, and always start with the person nearest you.”— Mother Teresa.