Chapter 6
A Close Call



I had used the computer at the University of Vermont library to go online so my story would be credible. I don’t know why I forgot it when I got in Mr. Ponytail’s car. I guess I was just surprised that I was actually on the road. But now I’m recalling the details that I tried to memorize this afternoon. And that’s good, because Betty, the big lady, wants to know where I’ll be working in New York.
“The Organic Grill in the East Village,” I tell her. This was the first place that came up when I Googled New York City Organic Restaurants. “It’s a small place, but my folks say it has a good reputation.”
Now the ladies begin to talk between themselves about various restaurants where they’ve eaten. I learn that Fran and Doris are in fact sisters. They live north of Burlington, and Fran works in Burlington with Betty at an insurance company.
The pizza is gone by the time we reach Middlebury, about 30 miles south of Burlington, and Betty decides it’s time to stop for gas and restrooms. She pulls into a Lukoil station with a mini-mart and gets out to handle the pump while Doris heads to the lady’s room. Fran and I are still in the back seat, and once Betty has the pump working, she taps on Fran’s window, asking for the pizza boxes. Fran rolls down her window and is just passing the box through it when Betty’s face – I can only see the lower half of it; she’s looking toward the back of the car – wrenches with fear.
“Damn!” she says, hushed. “It’s the Porsche! Get Mikey under the blanket. Duck, Mikey!”
I have never liked being called Mikey. Mike is bad enough. I much prefer being called by my name, Michael, and when I’m old enough, I’ll insist on it. But right now is not the time. I fall flat on the seat and Fran covers me with the blanket and rolls up her tinted window.
“Jesus!” Fran says in a harsh whisper. “It is that sports car man!”
I feel the top of my head against Fran’s leg and I feel that sweating, itching feeling I always get when I’m scared. Everything is quiet except for Fran’s breathing. I hadn’t noticed it before, so it’s probably because she’s scared, too. No wonder. Now I hear Mr. Ponytail’s voice.
“You gals seen my boy?” he asks Betty, still pumping gas. She left her window in front cracked, but his voice is still muffled.
“What did you say he looked like?” she asks. Her voice is higher than it was before in the car. High and tight.
“Oh, maybe a high school kid,” he says. “Not more than fifteen but probably fourteen. Dark hair and shifty eyes.”
“We’ll keep our eyes out,” she says. The nozzle on the gas pump clicks off with a thump, like the tank is full. I can hear her squeezing a few more drops into the car. Fran’s leg is hard, her muscles tight and shaking against my scalp. Now I hear Mr. Ponytail’s voice like it’s right inside the car.
“Hey, you lost one of your passengers,” he says. “Where’s the other girl?”
“Aren’t you the nosey cuss!” Betty snaps. “Say, what were you doing with a 14-year-old boy at a liquor store?”
“I’m a good Samaritan,” he replies. “Just giving a kid a ride, and he robs me blind. I want to get the law on him.”
“Well,” Betty drawls, her voice lowering so I almost can’t hear her. “Here’s your chance. That cop is just pulling in behind you.” I can hear her draw the nozzle out of the filler tube and clank it onto the pump stand. “Let’s you and me just go over and tell him what’s happened.”
“You butt out!” Ponytail snaps. “This is between the kid and me.”
In seconds, I hear the Porsche engine – you can’t miss that sound; almost like an attic fan or a big window fan – start up and then tires chrip as the car leaves the filling station.
Fran’s leg relaxes and I feel the blanket sweeping over my head and now there is light in the Chrysler. Just then, the passenger door opens in the front and Doris gets in.
“You’re next, Fran,” she says. “What are you doing lying on the seat, Mikey?”