Free Signed, Skye Harper by Carol Lynch Williams

drove with her knees on the steering wheel. There was ash on the floor, and I was too tired, almost, to hold my eyes open.
    “You can’t smoke in here,” I said. “We gotta keep this place looking and smelling clean as a whistle. Otherwise the Simmonses are gonna know we stole from them.”
    But Nanny didn’t answer.
    The curtains opened in the back, and Mark Spitz, wet and wearing a Speedo, came to where I sat. His mustache dripped water.
    “What are you doing here?” I said. “Did you win a medal?”
    I could smell the pool. Mark Spitz flicked water on my face, and I jerked awake trying to remember where I was, my heart pounding. { 127 }
    “Nanny?”
    She didn’t answer, maybe because my voice was a whisper.
    “Thelma?”
    Where was I? Nanny ran off the road a bit and I remembered everything. Our lawlessness, my mother, Steve.
    I glanced her way. She still sat hunched over the steering wheel, but no cigarette burned. And Thelma was no place to be seen, though it was hard to see anything toward the back of the rig it was so dark.
    “Go to sleep, Winston,” Nanny said. “You got another couple of hours to rest.”
    How did she know I was awake?
    Somehow she always knows.
    “’Kay.” I turned over and was soothed to sleep. { 128 }
    81
    A Break in the Trip
    The next time I woke, it was for real, to Nanny pulling over. We bounced every which way.
    When we came to a halt, a real halt (not a slow creeping up on a halt), there was the smell of salt water and I could hear the crash of waves.
    I sat up, feeling dizzy. Steve pushed through the curtains, Thelma trailing behind. They looked like ghosts—a good-looking boy ghost and a used-to-be-the-best-dog-in-the-world ghost.
    “So you met someone . . . Goody, goody,” popped into my head, and in my mind I saw Shelley Winters wielding a knife from the movie What’s the Matter with Helen? Nanny was right. I needed to stop going to the movie house to watch thrillers.
    Now Nanny swiveled around in her chair. Light from outside made her face eerie too. What was this? An Alfred Hitchcock film? “Thought we could take a break, stretch our legs . . .”
    “Get a smoke,” I said.
    “ . . . and walk the beach,” Nanny said, glaring at me, “before we get on our way again. Some time here on the Gulf will be good.” { 129 }
    Thelma stretched out long, her tail pointing to the motor home roof. She sort of glanced in my direction and gave me a nod. Then she padded over so I could pet her head.
    “I love that dog of yours,” Steve said.
    Twice now, he loved something from my family. I swallowed. Thelma eased back by his side.
    “She’s a man’s dog. A real dog.”
    “You mean a girl’s dog, raised and trained by girls,” I said, but Steve didn’t seem to hear.
    “A dog you can hunt with. Not a dog the size of your shoe. Yes sirree, I love this dog.” He squatted to pet her. She laid her head on his chest, right under his chin.
    “Me too,” I said. “I love her too.” My mouth tasted like a dirty sock—and felt as dry. I scrunched my eyebrows, disappointment in Thelma traveling in my vital organs.
    But, sheesh, could I blame her? Steve looked TV ready, his hair kinda messy, his teeth so white. How did he do that, first thing? I bet he didn’t even have stinky breath. Maybe the sweet smell of chocolate milk. For sure, I needed to go brush.
    I made my way back to the bathroom, used the facilities, then scrubbed at my teeth. It was time for a clothes change, too, so I slipped on different shorts and an old button-up that was a coupla sizes too big.
    Outside the vehicle, I could hear banging and feel a thumping come from under my feet.
    Where were we? And did they have earthquakes here? { 130 }
    I hurried out into the evening.
    No one. Not even Denny.
    They’d left without me.
    Forgotten me?
    The moon, shining light thick as sweet cream, splashed down.
    Everything was quiet. So quiet. Except for the ocean, which I couldn’t see—it had to be on the other