“Yes. Thanks. And, ah, do you … think I could have your paper, you know, if you’re finished with it?”
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“No reason.” I swallow hard. “Just thought I’d catch the day’s news.”
“Papers are over by the cooler. They’re three dollars and fifty cents. Here’s your gum.” She’s still glaring.
Too late I notice the picture of Gonz and me. Apparently, it’s a slow news day for the tabloids—no faces of Jesus in guacamole dip or anything—and Gonz and I have finally moved to page one right next to a picture of the president golfing on an aircraft carrier and under a lurid headline—TEENAGE TERROR PLOT HATCHED IN HIGH SCHOOL BATHROOM!
“You know, actually, it’s cool. Never mind. Have a good day,” I say, walking away fast.
“Hey!” she calls after me. “You stay right there. Don’t you go nowhere!” Her voice goes over an intercom. “Bobby Joe, call Cyrus to come on up with the wagon. We’re gettin’ ourselves that fifteen large.”
There’s a sudden crash from aisle five. It diverts Cash Register Lady’s attention. “Hey! Hey now! You stop that nonsense right this minute!”
A familiar voice rings out: “Free the snow globes!”
I rush back to Dulcie, who is standing in a puddle of sparkly water and escaped lobster toys.
“What are you doing?” I plead.
“Freeing the snow globes. Wanna help?” There’s a wicked gleam in her eye that scares the crap out of me.
“No, I don’t!”
“Suit yourself.” With the flick of a wing, Dulcie wipes out a whole row and then another, until the dirty linoleum is awash in small plastic mermaids, floating towns, seashells, and tiny white pellets that stick to the floor like fake snow.
“I’m calling the police!” the lady screams. “I have a gun!”
She isn’t kidding. A shot sails past in the other aisle, breaking open a jar of yellow-green margarita mix that splatters onto my shirt. Holy shit! I duck down next to Dulcie, who’s grinning like it’s the first day of summer.
“Get out of here,” she says. “I’ll keep her busy.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about me. Just grab the paper on the way out.” Dulcie picks up a snow globe and hurls it toward the soda case. Another shot shatters the glass there. Cash Register Lady starts racing in that direction, and I am off and running toward the door. Gonzo’s right behind me, screaming bloody murder, Balder tucked under an arm. And the three frat guys are hot on his tail. On the way out, I grab the paper in my fist.
“Get in the car!” I scream. Everyone falls in, and I start the Rocinante up and peel out with a big screech of tread.
“I don’t have my door closed!” Gonzo yells.
In the rearview mirror, I can see the lady aiming the shotgun at us.
“Then you better hold on to something, man, because I am not stopping.”
“Sorry, Balder!” Gonzo yells, dropping him to the floor for safekeeping.
She fires a third shot that manages to miss the Caddy but does hit another car in the lot. Its alarm goes off with a loud, skin-crawling scream. I duck my head and floor it.
We have to clover-leaf to get back on the highway. My foot hits the gas hard, and we zoom onto the on-ramp, edging out an SUV that lays on its horn in protest. I take the first turn so fast the Caddy’s airborne for a second. It comes down with a rattling whomp and then we’re back on the interstate and blended into the buzzing lines of anonymous cars and trucks. We drive in total silence for a good five minutes, my knuckles white on the wheel, all of us breathing hard and sweating. Balder’s on the floor in the fetal position. Gonzo’s got his inhaler out. He clutches it to his chest. The guys in the backseat sit straight up, eyes wide, mouths open, not moving. We pass an overhead sign that tells us Daytona Beach is another three hundred miles.
We made it. Every part of me feels alive. I can’t help it. I pound the steering wheel in victory. It was crazy. Insane. And completely awesome. Finally, Middle Guy speaks up.
“Dude, I want to party with you!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
In Which Dulcie Makes an Accidental Confession
By nine o’clock, we’re still a hundred miles from Daytona. The Caddy’s high beams are for crap and I’m dog tired, so we pull off the road and find a place to make camp. The guys have spent the last two hundred miles replaying our narrow escape. Every time, they add something new to the story, making it bigger, making it theirs. My mom used to say that’s how myth is born. But it’s kind of hard to resist their good-natured charms. Plus, they’ve provided us with a tasty meal of lime-flavored corn chips, fast-food burritos, juice, and beer bought on Left Guy’s excellent fake ID. Even Balder can’t resist the party atmosphere. He’s come out of hiding, regaling everybody with tales of his life as a Viking.
