Free Riding Invisible by Sandra Alonzo Page B

not getting an education, then?”
    â€œBein’ homeschooled—by Daddy.” Big sigh, exaggerated-roll-of-the-eyes type of stuff. “And what’s YOUR excuse? Why aren’t YOU in school?”
    Hmmmm, pretty good question, so I told her how San Diego has this year-round schedule and we’re offtrack right now until after Christmas. Then I said, “And your friends call you Grass because…”
    She shook her head and started to walk away, kind of slow (and sexy). Kept walkin’ and lifted a ziplock baggie of marijuana out of her pocket. Mumbled, “Cuz I love to smoke it.” Still moving, without looking back: “You understand, li’l cowboy?”
    Yeah, baby. I do understand! I do realize you are Big Trouble, capital B + T , for sure.
    When Grass marched around the breezeway corner, this gust of wind whipped her black flared pants against her skinny ankles while all that hair circled her head like wild loose feathers on a binge. Ooooooh, the perfect explosive Manga character! And I bet I dream about her tonight.
DAY TWELVE—
    4 p.m.—tack room
    Fun Day. All morning Tavo let me drive the tractor, a small skip loader with cool gears and a scoop on the front. Mr. A wanted four potholes fixed in the driveway, so I hauled gravel to the holes, filled them in, and then leveled everything. For a while it was way confusing, and the scooper turned upside down and all the gravel would come pouring out, but I coped. Tavo said I did good.
    Operating Mr. A’s tractor got me to thinking about driving. Thinking about driving immediately made me remember Will and his ridiculous reward chart and how much he loves cars. Cars! Waaaay dangerous, especially when I’m trapped inside one with him.
    Six months ago, just Mom and Will and I were flying south on the 405 to one of his shrink appointments, and he flashed one of his most adorable smiles, asking Mom if he could please NOT go to therapy that day. Mom said he HAD to go, so Will tried The Nice Approach again because that works so well with Mom but she held firm—parents of children with conduct disorder must do that—hold firm—even though maybe it’s not in some parents’ personalities to act that way.
    â€œI’m sick of the motherfuckin’ shrink!” he told her, kind of punching his fist against the dashboard, and Mom said sorry, he’d just lost another point on the reward chart for saying a bad word.
    â€œFrankie invited me to go bowling with him and Jarvis. I’d rather be there!” Will’s voice, so edgy, making my heart beat too fast and maybe Mom’s heart, too.
    â€œCalm down,” she said (good job, Mom), and then she told Will that he definitely needed to keep this date with the shrink, and after that Will started breathing hard. Then he unsnapped his seat belt and…BAM! His left foot rammed the brake pedal and I knew we were gonna die, and our 75 mph Toyota Prius swerved and we almost hit the center divider, and then Mom screamed just as the car straightened and skidded to a stop. My brother laughed because this was soooooo amusing, and then he fastened his seat belt again.
    After that day, Mom never drives Will anywhere.
DAY THIRTEEN—
    11 p.m.—in the trailer
    So now I’m huddled in my trailer bed, and a few days have gone by since meeting the Impressive Miss Grass. Yesterday her chauffeur drove her someplace, and when they returned I watched him unload a zillion shopping bags from the trunk.
    Tonight the wind is howling like a wounded creature, and Tavo gurgles these snoring gusts that are louder than the wind. The whistling and whining gets inside my brain and I can’t sleep in this trembling metal box, and the clock on the counter clicks, reminding me that I’ve gotta get some rest.
    Something just grabbed my attention, and it’s the cell phone sitting above me. Home. My link to it. Fully charged, ready to use…should I?