my head down and try to survive high school.
Alone in the hallway, I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin.
Iâm glad he didnât look at me
.
But the problem with having only yourself to talk to is you always know when youâre lying.
Â
9
AS SOON AS the SUV started moving, uncertainty set in.
âWhere are we going?â I asked.
âOur house?â Boston suggested as he pulled onto the road.
âHell no,â York answered. He turned to us in the backseat. âWhat about you guys? Are your parents home?â
âYes,â I said.
Andi looked away from us, out the window. âMy dadâs always home.â
âAre they cool?â York pressed. âCan they help us?â
Andi let out a low, sarcastic laugh. âYeah, right.â
âMy momâs cool,â I said. âBut not this cool.â
For all Mamaâs run-ins with the law, when it came to me getting in trouble, she was decidedly
un
cool. The way she lectured me about drugs and sex and anything criminal, youâd think
I
was the one with the bad habits. I guess she just worried that sheâd passed on more to me than her green eyes.
âWe could go to the cabin,â Boston offered, but he didnât sound too sure.
York faced forward again and seemed to consider the idea for a moment. âItâs far,â he finally said.
Boston shrugged. âNot
that
far.â
âMaybe just far enough,â York mused.
âYou think?â
âI think.â
âHey, Tweedledee and Tweedledum,â Andi said. âYou want to fill us in?â
âThereâs a . . .â Boston hesitated and cast a sidelong glance at York. âWe have a cabin.â He stopped at a red light and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, craning his neck around as if expecting police to surround us at any moment.
âYeah, we got that,â I said wearily. âWhere?â
âNorth,â York answered. âAbout an hour. Right before you get to Wisconsin. Weâll just go there long enough to figure out what to do.â
Andi looked at me. âWhat do you think?â
I think driving out to the middle of nowhere to some deserted cabin with two boys I donât really know is the kind of genius idea that gets girls raped and murdered in the movies. But the blond bimbo always gets killed first, and since neither of us is a blond bimbo, maybe this wonât turn into a slasher flick.
âI donât have a better idea,â I said.
âWe canât be driving around town in a stolen cop car,â York pressed.
âWe shouldnât be driving
anywhere
in a stolen cop car,â I argued.
What a colossally bad idea it had been to get back into this SUV.
âWe should drive it right to a police station,â Boston said.
Agreed
.
âI told you . . . ,â York said.
âI know, I know.â Boston waved off York with one hand. âYou donât want to get a DUI.â
âI donât want to get arrested for killing a cop!â
âDonât say that again,â Boston said. The light turned green, and he pressed the gas, careful to stay under the speed limit.
A fifth voice spoke up then, quieter than ours and muffled.
âAttention.â
The sound sucked the air out of the SUV.
âAttention,â the distant voice repeated.
âI thought you turned the radio off,â York said, running his fingers over the knobs and dials.
âI did, I did. Itâs off!â Boston insisted.
The voice spoke once more, and this time it sent a chill down my spine.
âAttention, all you little bitches in the stolen car.â
The others looked around, searching high and low for the source of the voice, but I had already found it. I raised a shaky hand and pointed to the glove compartment in front of York.
âGet off the main road,â York ordered Boston, who obediently turned down a dark side