His room is painted dark blue and he has a red bunk bed with yellow stars all over it. I bet my dad built that bed for the boy. His blankets look so much warmer than mine. I take his sheet, just in case, wrapping it around my arm to keep it from trailing.
There’s a Tupperware container of leftover Hamburger Helper in the fridge like it’s just waiting to be my road trip food. I take that, one of Irene’s forks from her good silverware set, and a half-eaten package of Chips Ahoy! for dessert.
By the door, hanging from a wooden rack painted with the words Bless Our Happy Home, is a row of keys. The boy’s house key hangs from a blue and yellow lanyard, next to the one for the mailbox on a paper clip, which is next to Irene’s praying angel keychain. I use the boy’s key to pry open the angel’s ring and circle Mrs. Ivory’s car key around until it slides off.
I turn the knob on the front door to lock behind me so maybe it’ll take them a while to figure out anything even happened. I’m careful to close the door slowly, but the click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in my head. Everything is always louder when you’re trying to be quiet. I spin a story about Irene asking me to take her car to pick up the boy and babysit for him after the concert so she and my dad can go out, but no one stops me on my way across the parking lot.
Mrs. Ivory’s car is backed into a space at the far end of the lot. My dad has Irene trained for his constant getaway plan. The car is spotless. Cleaner than Mrs. Ivory ever kept it. Vacuumed and dusted in all the cracks and crevices. There isn’t even any gunk in the indents of the steering wheel. The mirrors have the same streak-free shine as every surface in Irene’s apartment, and the floor mats are brand new. Irene’s got this angel air freshener strung from the rearview. It matches her keychain, and smells like the bathroom at Margo’s Diner. I pull it off and hang it like a Christmas ornament on the hedge that outlines the lot.
Irene’s legs are shorter than mine, but when I fumble for the lever to move the seat backward, the trunk opens instead. I go out to close it, but grab Irene’s emergency kit first, turn it over and look inside, so if anyone’s watching they’ll think I meant to open the trunk.
Back in the car, I survey the parking lot. It looks clear. I find the right lever, but the seat still won’t move, so I jerk my body forward. The seat gives and I get smushed against the steering wheel. I yank the lever and push back until it feels about right. I mess with the mirrors because I know you’re supposed to, but I don’t know where they’re supposed to be.
Cars start much easier when you have the key. First try, no problem, and I’m out of the parking lot and down the road like nothing is wrong or out of the ordinary. I take the long way so I don’t have to drive past the school and risk catching my dad outside for a smoke. And even though Mrs. Varnick is at the recital, I turn the headlights off when I drive past her house. Just in case.
First order of business is to yank garbage bags from the front of the motorhome and throw them out the door. Then I work on shoving them in the car. When I cram a bunch of bags into the trunk with my foot, something crunches loud in a way it’s not supposed to.
I can’t fit everything and I don’t have time to sort it, so I pull the bags from the trunk, ripping them open to make sure I keep the important stuff: my book with the picture of my mom tucked inside, clothes, empty guitar case, blankets, food, cassettes, rhyming dictionary. I wad up sheets and blankets and stuff them behind the driver’s seat. Clothes go behind the passenger’s seat. The ring goes in the glove compartment. Food up front for easy access. Everything else gets left behind, scattered on the ground. I take a quick pass through the motorhome, pee one more time. Then I leave, pulling the door hard until it clicks shut. Hide my key under the mat. I don’t want it anymore.
When I back down the driveway, I run over a plate or a cereal bowl. Something fragile. I feel it snap under the weight of the car.
* * *
The lights are on at Matty’s house, but no one’s home. I watch for a minute from outside to be sure. His mom leaves the kitchen light on all the time so it looks like they’re home, because she never locks the door. I let myself in, sprint through the living room like lightning, and tiptoe up the creaky steps to Matty’s bedroom.
I lie on his bed one last time and look at the glow-in-the-dark solar system stickers on his ceiling. The lights are on, but I can still see the stars because I know they’re there, pale yellow against off-white. We stuck them up together, standing on his bed, mattress jiggling under our feet. At first we tried to do constellations, but we only got as far as Orion before we gave up and started plastering stars and planets everywhere. We bonked heads and Matty fell backward, pretending it knocked him out. When I leaned over to see if he was okay, he pulled me down too. That was the first time he kissed me.