Free Sons of Liberty by Adele Griffin Page B

RIDE
    T HEY WERE TOO OLD to roll underneath Cliff’s bed for a secret meeting, but the late-night meeting would definitely happen, an event they scheduled without need for words.
    “We have to go with her, of course,” Cliff whispered. They were in his room, wrapped in blankets and facing each other like two tribal chiefs. “In case this house is bogus. In case the place is full of gangs or junkies or something.”
    “Out to New Haven? All of us?”
    “It’s not like it’s California, meat-ax. It’s New Haven. I got money, if you need to borrow for the ticket.”
    “Naw, I got my own money.” Which wasn’t true, but Rock would somehow manage to find some money for his own ticket. It would be lame for him to help Liza make her escape on a Cliff-funded ticket.
    “I feel kinda sorry for Arlene,” Cliff commented. “Although I hope she feels cruddy after. Serves her right, being so chicken of Timmy.”
    “Me, too.” Rock scowled. “I hope it’ll teach her a lesson.”
    “Except you hear all that stuff, of what happens to kids who hit the road. How they turn into, you know, drug addicts and panhandlers and stuff. How it’s not, uh …” Cliff pressed his top teeth against his bottom lip, thinking. “How it’s not really the greatest life for a kid.”
    “Liza’s tough,” Rock said. “She’ll be okay.”
    “Shame she’s so puny.” Cliff spaced his thumb and finger about six inches apart. “She were like this much taller, she’d be more threatening against all those thugs and scumbags.”
    “She’ll be okay,” Rock repeated.
    “We’ll get train schedules and maps and figure out finances tomorrow,” Cliff said, twisting around to scribble on his typing paper. “Now beat it, I’m tired. I got an oral report in English tomorrow.”
    Later that night, Brontie wet the bed again. Rock woke up to the usual noises: thumping footsteps, his father’s voice, his mother’s “Shhh, shhh, shhh,” the incriminating squeak of the washing-machine door, and the distant spray of the bathroom shower.
    “To discipline … Absolutely … Teach more about … How much older to get before you decide? … Is a problem, yes it is a problem.”
    Rock listened to the shreds of his father’s sentences, dark and rebuking. His mother’s whisper was too high and wavery for him to pick up. The front door opened and slammed shut, and Rock heard the station wagon’s engine turn over and then slowly back out of the driveway. He smushed his pillow around his head, just in case he might overhear his mom sniffling down in the living room.
    “Rock?”
    “Bront?” Rock pulled himself up in the bed. The shadowy outline of his sister bobbled in the doorway. “You need something?”
    “Cliffy’s asleep.” Brontie hopped deeper into the room. Rock patted the bed and his sister leaped the rest of the way, hoisting herself up and curling into a ball at his feet. Rock sat all the way up now. Brontie’s hair was wet and she wore a pair of Rock’s old footed pajamas; their mother most likely had dug them up from the back of the towel closet, to replace Brontie’s soiled nightgown.
    “Bront, are you okay to sleep with wet hair?” Rock asked. “You might get sick, catch a cold.”
    “Like from giraffe teeth?”
    “No, from wet hair.” Giraffe teeth? Rock mulled this over. How did it come so easily to Cliff, slotting their sister’s words into an exact significance? Giraffe teeth, giraffe teeth. “You sure you want to sleep here?” he asked.
    “I already had an accident,” Brontie answered. “I won’t do it again. Dad told Mommy I should sleep in the mudroom until I don’t mess up the bed, since I’m wrecking it.”
    “You can’t wreck a bed that way.”
    “Dad said I could.”
    “Well, he’s wrong. You can’t help your accidents, and besides, you’ll grow out of them soon enough.”
    “Dad says I can stop anytime I want,” Brontie stated matter-of-factly. “He says I do it on purpose for attention. He