I take the dog, then put my arms around George. More noisy breathing. Happy’s mushed between us, smelling like peanut butter, Play-Doh, and dirt.

“Come on, guys. It’s a beautiful day and you’re indoors watching Mammal Mysteries. That’s for rainy days.” I usher the Garretts outside, but not before flicking a glance back at the TV. Despite all the posters and leaflets, the news paper photos, it’s still surreal to see Mom on television. Even stranger to see myself, and how much I look like I belong right there with her.

Chapter Twenty-one

Following Tim’s B&T firing, the Masons, still researching scared-straight boot camps, are trying to keep him busy. Tonight they’ve given him money to take me and Nan to the movies.

“Please,” Nan urges over the phone. “It’s a movie. How bad can that be? He won’t even care—or even notice—if we pick a chick flick.”

But the moment I slide into the backseat of Tim’s Jetta, I know this plan is not going to work. I should get out of the car, but I don’t. I can’t leave Nan in the lurch.

“Tim. This isn’t the way to the movies!” Nan leans forward in the passenger seat.

“So right, sis. Screw Showcase. This is the way to New Hampshire and tax-free cases of Bacardi.”

The speedometer edges past seventy-five. Tim takes his eyes off the road to scroll through his iPod or punch in the lighter or fumble around in his shirt pocket for another Marlboro. I keep feeling the car drift, then lurch back into its lane as Tim yanks the wheel. I look at Nan’s profile. Without turning, she reaches back a hand, grabbing on to mine.

After about twenty minutes of speeding and weaving, Tim pulls over at a McDonald’s, slamming the brakes so hard that Nan and I pitch forward and back. Still, I’m grateful. My fingers are stiff from clutching the door handle. Tim returns to the car looking even less reliable, his pupils nearly overtaking his gray irises, his dark red hair sticking straight up in front.

“We have to get out of this,” I whisper to Nan. “You should drive.”

“I only have my learner’s permit,” Nan says. “I could get in big trouble.”

Hard to imagine how much bigger trouble could get. I, of course, can’t drive at all, because Mom has put off my driver’s ed classes time after time, claiming that I’m too young and most of the drivers on the road are incompetent. It never really seemed like a battle worth fighting when I could catch rides with Tracy. Now I wish I’d forged Mom’s name on the parental consent forms. I wonder if I could just figure it out. I think of those six-year-olds you occasionally hear about in news stories who drive their stricken grandparent to the hospital. I check the front of the Jetta. It’s a stick shift. There’s no way.

“We need to think of something, fast, Nanny.”

“I know,” she murmurs back. Leaning forward, she puts her hand on Tim’s shoulder as he tries, unsuccessfully, to maneuver the key into the ignition.

“Timmy. This doesn’t make sense. We’re going to eat up all the tax-free savings in gas just getting to New Hampshire.”

“It’s a f**king adventure, sis.” Tim finally gets the key in, presses the accelerator down to the ground, and burns rubber out of the parking lot. “Don’t you ever crave one?”

The car surges faster and faster. The urgent hum of the engine vibrates through the seats. Tim’s passing other cars on the right. We’ve shot past Middletown and are closing in on Hartford. I check my watch. It’s eight fifty…My curfew is eleven. We won’t be anywhere near New Hampshire by then. Assuming we aren’t wrapped around a tree somewhere. My fingers ache from holding so tightly to the door handle. I feel a prickle of sweat across my forehead.

“Tim, you have to stop. You have to stop and let us out,” I say loudly. “We don’t want to do this with you.”

“Lighten up, Samantha.”

“You’re going to get us all killed!” Nan pleads.

“Betcha you’ll both die virgins. Kinda makes you wonder what the f**k you were saving it for, huh?”

“Timmy. Will you please stop saying that word?”

Of course, this request is all Tim needs. “What word? Ohhhh. That word!” He makes a little song out of the word, says it loud, quietly, all strung together. On and on and on with the F-bomb for the next few minutes. Then he puts it to the tune of “Colonel Bogey’s March,” on and on and on again. A bubble of hysterical laughter fights its way to my lips. Then I see that the speedometer has leaped into the 100s. And I’m more terrified than I’ve ever been in my life.

“Shit. Cops.” Tim pulls a wide unsteady turn into a truck stop. I pray that the police car will follow us, but it speeds on by, siren blaring. Nan’s face is parchment. The Jetta squeals sideways to a halt. Tim staggers out of the driver’s seat, saying, “Damn, I gotta pee,” and wanders off in the direction of a gigantic blue Dumpster.

I yank the keys out of the ignition, climb out, and hurl them into the bushes at the side of the parking lot.

“What are you doing?” Nan screams, following me, palms outstretched at her sides.

“Making sure we get out of this alive.”

She shakes her head. “Samantha, what were you thinking? Tim had his…bike lock keys on that.”

I’m bending over, resting my hands on my knees, breathing deeply. I turn to look at her. Seeing the expression on my face, she starts to laugh.

“Okay. That’s crazy,” she allows. “But how are we gonna get out of this?”

Just then, Tim weaves back toward us. He slides into the front seat, then drops his forehead onto the steering wheel. “I don’t feel good.” He sucks in a deep breath, wrapping his arms around his ducked head, making the horn honk. “You’re nice girls. You really are. I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with me.”

Clearly, neither Nan nor I have an answer. We close the side door of the car, and lean against it. Traffic streaks past on our left. So many people. All oblivious. We might as well be stranded in the desert. “Now what?” Nan asks.

Mom’s given me a thousand lectures on what to do in a situation with an unreliable driver. So I call her. I call home. I call her cell. Ugh, Clay’s cell. Tracy’s—not that she could help me from the Vineyard, but…No answer anywhere. I try to remember where Mom said she was going tonight but come up blank. Lately, it’s all a big blur of “economic roundtable” and “town hall meeting” and “staffing support information event.”