Free Two Rivers by T. Greenwood Page B

said.
    “Well I did ,” Betsy said, and she seemed almost angry.
    “Are you going to bury it again?” I asked. There was something disconcerting about the skeleton. About Betsy right then.
    She nodded and lowered the box back into the ground. “Dumb bird. Flying around, just being a bird, and then bam , it’s over.” She looked at me and frowned. “Nobody bothered to tell him about the glass. You’d have told me, right? If I were that bird? And you were my bird friend?”
    I nodded. I would have.
    She’d packed for both of us—everything we needed except for my clothes. She’d been stealing food from the pantry for nearly two months. She’d also been pilfering from the pickle jar where Mr. Parker threw his spare change. She had almost forty dollars, which she’d had Nancy Butler’s older sister, who worked at the Two Rivers Savings and Loan, turn into bills so as not to raise any eyebrows. She had toiletries she’d shoplifted from the drugstore and even a pair of men’s hiking boots she’d found at the Goodwill, which she offered to me like a gift. “We’ve got many miles ahead of us,” she said. “I don’t need you going home when your sole blows out.” The way she said it made me think of my soul exploding. My mother did not believe in God, but I had my suspicions.
    “Where will we sleep?” I asked.
    “I’ve got a tent,” she said. “I was a Brownie, before I got kicked out, you know.”
    I didn’t ask any more questions.
    I dawdled. I stood in my bedroom, looking for a way out. It was futile. I didn’t even have a proper closet in which I could hide. My closet was full of more of my father’s inventions; no one had dared open that door in years. Downstairs my mother was playing the piano, angry music. Last day of school music. She had a summer of daily piano lessons ahead of her. Never mind a thirteen-year-old boy puttering around the house. My father was at work. By the time he got home, I would be gone. It made me sad. Though Betsy had forbidden me to do so, I got out a piece of paper from my school notebook and scribbled down a quick note: “I’m okay. Don’t worry. I’ll call when I get a chance. Your loving son, Harper Montgomery.” I wasn’t sure why I bothered to sign my last name except that it made the whole thing seem somehow more official. I muttered “Good-bye” to my mother, kissed the top of her head, and she nodded her farewell as she continued to abuse the piano keys.
    I met Betsy at the drugstore, as planned, for a final soda pop. I ordered a Vanilla Coke, and she got her usual Orange Crush. Luckily, Brooder and Ray weren’t there or else I might have chickened out. We sat at the counter, both of us making those drinks last as long as they possibly could, until finally Betsy said, “Let’s go.”
     
    By the time the sun was starting to set, I had lost my bearings. Betsy insisted that we travel through the woods until we were out of Two Rivers, lest anyone driving by might wonder what we were up to. She had calculated even the most minute details of our escape. She carried elaborate maps, which she had traced from her father’s road atlas. A compass. A pocketful of stones to make a trail, even, I figured. But after the sound of the river faded into the sound of wind in the trees, I couldn’t tell which way we were headed anymore and I was starting to wonder when one of us would finally say, “Uncle.”
    As the sun burned red and orange through the thick foliage all around us, Betsy stopped. “Let’s camp here for the night.” As she pitched the tent and unrolled the sleeping bags, I waited for her to stop what she was doing, to turn to me, punch me in the shoulder and say something like, “All right, let’s head back.” But she didn’t. “Why don’t you go find some wood for a fire?” she asked.
    I agreed and set out in the waning light to look for kindling and firewood. Though I didn’t have a watch on, I figured it to be about eight o’clock. If I