Clean Getaway E-Book

Nic Stone

• Herausgeber: Knights Of
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 176

Beschreibung

How to go on an unplanned Road Trip with your Grandma: - • Grab a Suitcase: Prepacked from the big spring break trip that got CANCELLED. - • Fasten Your Seatbelt: G'ma's never conventional, so this trip won't be either. - • Use the Green Book: G'ma's most treasured possession. It holds history, memories, and most importantly, the way home. Set against the backdrop of the segregation history of the American South, take a road trip through America past and present with New York Times bestselling Nic Stone and an eleven-year-old boy who is about to discover that things aren't always what they seem - his G'ma included.

Leseprobe

Published by Knights Of

Knights Of Ltd, Registered Offices:

119 Marylebone Road, London, NW1 5PU

www.knightsof.media

First published 2020

001

Written by Nic Stone

Text and cover copyright © Nic Stone, 2020

Cover art by Camilla Ru © 2020

First published in the USA by an imprint of Simon and Schuster, Inc, 2020

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

Design and Typeset by Marssaié Jordan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. If you are reading this, thank you for buying our book.

A CIP catalogue record for this book will be available from the British Library

Print ISBN: 9781913311025

Ebook ISBN: 9781913311490

Ibook ISBN: 9781913311780

CLEAN GETAWAY

NIC STONE

For Jason Reynolds.

Who continues to raise the bar.

1

QUITE A WAYS TO GO

It might sound silly, but to William “Scoob” Lamar, the Welcome to Alabama the Beautiful sign looks . . . well, beautiful. Not as beautiful as his best friend Shenice Lockwood in her yellow sun-dress, but beautiful enough to make Scoob tip his head back, close his eyes, and sigh into the breeze blowing through the open passenger-side window of G’ma’s camper van.

Exhale Dad’s lockdown. Inhale the sweet fragrance of freedom. Which smells like pine mixed with a little bit of car exhaust.

“You all right over there, Scoob-a-doob?” G’ma says from the driver’s seat. She’s propped up on the check-covered foam pillow she uses to see over the steering wheel, pale, polka-dotted little hands perfectly positioned at ten and two. She’s only four feet, eleven inches tall, G’ma is.

Hearing his full nickname makes Scoob cringe. G’ma gave it to him when he was five years old and obsessed with an old cartoon he used to watch at her house about a dog who liked to solve mysteries. G’ma thought it was just too adorable! that he couldn’t pronounce Scooby-Doo. And because Shenice was G’ma’s neighbor, she picked up on the nickname and started using it at school. So it stuck.

Well, the Scoob part did. Which is fine. Kinda cool, even.

Scoob-a-doob, though?

“G’ma,” he says, “you mind if we stick to Scoob? The rest is a little . . . babyish. No offense,” he adds.

“Oh, none taken!” G’ma says. “My apologies, Mr. Scoob.”

“I mean . . . you can drop the mister, too,” Scoob goes on.

This makes G’ma laugh.

Which makes Scoob smile. He’d never tell anybody, but there’s really no sound in the world he loves more than his grandmother’s barking laughter. Dad’s not a fan; says it “grates” on him because it’s the one reminder of G’ma’s past smoking days “and potential future lung cancer,” but it reminds Scoob of elementary school days playing card games she taught him that he wasn’t supposed to know the rules for—like Texas Hold’em and Blackjack. Even now, it blows Scoob’s mind that a harsh, booming sound like that could come out of a person as little as G’ma.

“I mean it, though,” she says. “You feeling all right? I’m not driving too fast, am I?” She kicks him a wrinkly wink.

Now Scoob’s the one laughing. He looks up from the brand-new road map she handed him once they were both settled and seat-belted: according to the speed meter, the brand-new camper van he and G’ma are in has a max speed of 120 miles per hour, but G’ma has yet to push the needle to 60. “Definitely not too fast, G’ma. Though I do wonder if there’s a minimum-speed-limit law you’re breaking.”

“Oh you hush,” she says. “Speaking of which, you never said if you liked my new sweet ride or not. That’s what you kids call it these days, right? A sweet ride?” She says it in a way that makes her sound like a smarmy used-car salesman with oil-slicked hair.

Scoob chuckles and shakes his head. Then he peeks over his shoulder into the back.

Truthfully, when G’ma popped up out of the blue and asked if Scoob wanted to “go on a little adventure,” he was too excited at the thought of a loophole in his punishment to give much thought to anything else, their destination included. Especially when she said he’d “probably miss a couple days of school.” (Bonus!) He finished item three— empty the dishwasher—on the to-do list Dad left for him on the kitchen whiteboard every day, and grabbed his suitcase. Then, after scribbling Dad a quick note about being with G’ma “for the night,” Scoob ran right out of the house as fast as his off-brand-trainer-clad feet would carry him. Even left his phone at home.

Largely so Dad can’t call him, but he won’t tell G’ma that.

The suitcase had been sitting in Scoob’s wardrobe for a month. Dad promised Scoob a trip to St. Simons Island this year—Scoob’s first choice was Universal Studios, but Dad said Scoob was “too old for all that.” (He’d been “too young” the previous year, but whatever.) So Scoob packed up according to Dad’s specifications three days before they were supposed to depart.

Except they didn’t go.

Scoob got in trouble at school, and voilà: trip cancelled. Lockdown commenced. Half-term ruined before it could begin.

Scoob hadn’t been able to bring himself to unpack the bag, so he hid it. Now he can see it sitting on the seat of the dining booth in G’ma’s new sweet ride.

Scoob was in such a rush to get out, it didn’t fully *click* that he and G’ma weren’t in the Mini Cooper until she asked him to get out of his seat—while the vehicle was in motion—and “grab a GPS from the fridge” (that’s Grandma Protein Shake, other-wise known as Ensure) for her.

Fridge? Scoob thought, lightbulb slowly illuminating.

That’s when he looked behind him for the first time. And almost choked on the gum that shot down his throat when he gasped.

“Ain’t he handsome?” G’ma said, smacking the dashboard twice. “Brand spankin’ new, this fella. I’ve decided to call him Senior after your late grandfather. He and I had a camper van back in the day before your dad was born and your G’pop—” She paused. Then: “Anyway, I ain’t gettin’ any younger. Sold my house and bought this baby—”

“You sold your house?” Scoob said, stunned.

“Sure did. Fetched a pretty penny for it, too. God bless home equity and hipsters lookin’ to ‘revitalize’ or whatever the heck they’re calling it.”

“Wow.” (Was there anything else he could’ve said? She sold her house!)

“Well, ya gonna get me a GPS or not?”

Scoob gulped, removed his seat belt, and made his way to the back. Dad would’ve breathed fire and shot smoke out of his ears if he’d been around to see.

As he opened the for-real, for-real fridge—with separate freezer!—G’ma gave him a rundown of “Senior’s” features. “You see those lights above your head?”

Scoob looked up. “Yeah . . .”

“Those are LEDs,” she said. “Real state-of-the art! There’s also a microwave, a two-burner stove top, and two ultra-HD TVs where you can watch anything! Rated PG-13 or lower, that is.”

Scoob rolled his eyes.

G’ma pushed on. “Bathroom’s there to the left of the mini-pantry—got a flushing toilet and a shower! And that booth you see there? Doubles as a bed. And speaking of beds, there’s one in the rear for me, and one for you right above the cab here.

There’s a window up there and everything, kiddo!”

Scoob could hear the proud smile in her voice.

Which made him smile too. Despite the fact that she’d called him kiddo.

As he grabbed the drink for G’ma and saw that the fridge was fully stocked, Scoob realized he’d never again play on the old tyre swing in G’ma’s garden or kick back on the old window seat in the attic with his favorite book.

When it hit him that this, this bizarre truck that contained everything a person needs to live, this thing was now G’ma’s house?

Creepy.

G’ma’s fingers do a tap dance on the steering wheel, pulling him back into the present, and he takes a deep breath and lets his eyes continue to roam around the open space behind him. It’s so weird to him that if he has to pee, all he’s got to do is walk like five metres to the little bathroom. And it flushes? Where does the stuff even go? It’s not like they’re connected to a sewer. And what about the dirty dish and shower water?

G’ma’s house had one of those old-school baths with the fancy metal feet, and Scoob secretly loved to get in with one or two of the lemon-sized balls G’ma would buy that would fizz up like Alka-Seltzer and turn the bath all kinds of wild colours.

Plop! Fizzzzzzz . . . and the water would be blue and kind of shimmery. Like taking a soak in the galaxy.

This caravan doesn’t have a tub. So no more galaxy baths.

His gaze catches on the kitchenette thingy as he faces forward. Which just adds to his sudden sadness. He can’t imagine G’ma making her blue-ribbon-winning cast-iron French toast—first pan-toasted, then baked in the pan for a few minutes for extra crispiness on the outside—on that tiny cooker thingy. No more extra-sweet iced teas on the porch swing. No more reading in front of the fire.

In all honesty, the caravan gives Scoob the creeps. But of course he can’t tell G’ma that. Not when she’s so excited about it.

“Well?” she says, taking her baby-blue eyes off the road to look at him. Second only to Shenice’s honey-brown ones, G’ma’s got the prettiest eyes Scoob’s ever seen. “What do you think, kiddo?”

Scoob traces the handle of his door and gulps down his true feelings.

“I think it’s great, G’ma!” he says with forced enthusiasm.

Whether or not she can tell he’s lying, Scoob doesn’t know.

“Good,” she says. “Settle on in. We’ve got quite a way to go.”

2

PAY THE BILL

The trouble really started six months back during those weird three weeks of school between Thanksgiving and winter break.

Scoob’s got no idea why, but over the course of that stretch, Bryce Benedict— a kid Scoob used to be friends with (“until he started playing ‘footyball’ and got too big for his britches,” G’ma likes to say)—started picking on Shenice’s little brother, Drake.

Drake has epilepsy—which was never a big deal until Bryce’s antics began.

Things started pretty light: Bryce would make unnecessary detours past Scoob, Shenice, and Drake’s table in the canteen to tap Drake on the back of the head as he’d shout “’Sup, Drakey-Drake?” loud enough for the whole room to hear.

After a few days of this, the tapping turned to shoving, turned to smacking. There was one morn- ing Bryce hit so hard, Drake cried out in pain. The nearest teacher hadn’t been paying attention—if she had been, Bryce probably wouldn’t have done it. But when she turned to see what’d happened, Bryce was gone and Drake said nothing.

So no one else said anything either.

The following day, Bryce cornered Drake in the hallway to taunt him. Scoob arrived just as Drake’s arms jerked of their own accord and he dropped all the books he was holding.

Of course old Bryce found this—and Shenice’s protective punch in the chest—hilarious.

He shoved Drake’s shoulder—hard—and walked off just as Scoob rushed over to help Shenice and Drake with the books. As they gathered everything, Scoob could tell Drake was fighting with everything he had to keep from crying.

Shenice was crying.

For the first time in his life, Scoob experienced a violent urge: he wanted to smack Bryce upside his fat head.

“Whew,” G’ma says as Scoob relays the story to her over an early dinner. They’re at a place called DamnYankees, and the lemon pepper wings truly are smokin’, just like the menu says. Decor’s a bit . . . country: rodeo posters and horseshoes and cowboy hats all over the walls, lassos and saddles hanging from the ceiling. There’s even a mounted bull’s head, massive horns menacinglyoutstretched.

“Can’t blame ya, Scoob-a-doob,” G’ma continues.

Scoob sighs, grateful some grown-up in his life seems to understand. “I knew you’d get it, G’ma.” Because she always does.

“What’d Drake have to say?” G’ma asks.

“He shrugged it off. Said ‘He’s just being a bully.’ Which made me even madder.”

“I bet. Hard seeing someone you care about brush that kinda thing off, ain’t it?”

Scoob nods. “It really is.”

As the days wore on, Bryce’s taunting got more intense. One day after school, Shenice confided in Scoob that Drake hadn’t been sleeping well. That he’d been having bad dreams, and she was pretty sure they had to do with Bryce picking on him. That he’d been having more seizures despite taking his medicine like he was supposed to.

“That’s when I started noticing that Drake would, like . . . blank out at random times,” Scoob says to G’ma. “There was even a day someone was talking to him at the lunch table and he didn’t respond. Just sat staring straight ahead.”

People had looked around at each other and started whispering.

And on Drake sat, perfectly still. Blinking. Blinking. Blinking.

“Bryce passed by and hit him, and Drake’s whole body lurched forward like a board. Which Bryce thought was hilarious.” Scoob’s eyes narrow as the anger begins to simmer again. “He pointed one of his fat, pink fingers at Drake and laughed. Imitated Drake’s blinks. ‘Looks like he’s having one of his “seizures,”’ he said. Did air quotes and everything.” Scoob shakes his head.

G’ma shakes hers, too.

“Then he said, ‘Too bad it’s not the type where he shakes and his tongue falls out…’ And he stuck his big, ugly tongue out and pretended to convulse. Shenice jumped up and said something I won’t repeat, and then Bryce looked at her like the evil villains do in the cartoons just before they hurt people. When he took a step toward her, I—” Scoob sighs. “I lost it, G’ma. Just kinda . . . snapped.”

Scoob will never forget hearing Ms. Manasmith gasp as he leapt from his seat, hopped the table, and tackled Bryce.

Then they were on the floor. Bryce on his back.

Scoob on top of him.

Punching. Punching. Punching.

Scoob’s got no idea how long he punched. He just knows that at some point, one of the punches failed to connect because he was flying up, up, up. And by the time his surroundings came into focus, there was no longer a youngish white lady staring at him, but a little old brown-skinned dude.

Mr. Armand. The principal of Casey M. Weeks Magnet Middle School.

Soon, that dude was joined by a BIG, slightly lighter-brown-skinned dude: Dr. James Robert Lamar Jr.

Scoob’s father.

“And that was the beginning of the end,” Scoob says to G’ma as he rips another hunk of lemony-peppery meat from a chicken leg.

“The end of what exactly?” G’ma’s eating raw oysters. Scoob shuts his eyes as she picks up a shell and tips the glob-of-gross into her now-snaggletooth mouth. She removed her “partial.” The thought of the false teeth currently chillin’ in their purple glit- ter container inside G’ma’s purse almost grosses Scoob out as much as the oysters.

Scoob shudders and takes a sip of sweet tea to clear his head. “Sorry, what was the question?”

G’ma smiles. “You said the fight with Bryce the bonehead was ‘the beginning of the end.’ The end of what?”

“Oh,” Scoob says, lowering his eyes to his near empty plate. “The end of . . . well, Dad’s faith in me, I guess.”

Not that Dad would listen to Scoob when Scoob tried to explain why he did it. “You think a police officer will care about you ‘defending a friend’ when they toss you in jail for aggravated assault?” Dad said on the way home from school to begin Scoob’s three-day suspension.

“You can’t react violently to someone else’s words. Especially someone like Bryce. When boys like you”—he pointed to the brown back of Scoob’s hand—“hit boys like him”—he opened his own hand and pointed to his pale palm—“the punishment is harsher and the fall- out infinitely worse, William.”

Scoob will never forget Dad’s look of disappointment.

“Seems a tad extreme, don’t you think?” G’ma says, plucking Scoob back to the present.

He shakes his head. “Not really. He used to tell me he had faith in me all the time, but now he acts like I’m some hardened delinquent. It’s like he thinks there’s no hope for me or something. Won’t even look me in the eye anymore. Especially since that other incident.”

“The one with the computers.”

“Yep.”

G’ma doesn’t press further. Which Scoob is thankful for. He really doesn’t want to get into that right now.

He takes another swig of sweet tea to swallow the little ball that’s risen in his throat. This is the first time he’s spoken aloud about the way Dad’s been to him lately.

Kinda makes him want to cry. But he won’t.

Though he can totally feel G’ma looking at him, and he knows from the way the hairs on the back of his neck are rising, she’s doing that thing where she tries to see inside his head. If he looks at her now, she’ll see all the other mess—Scoob’s frustration over the fact that Bryce wasn’t punished, his annoyance that all the teachers look at him like he’s a lit stick of dynamite now despite the fact that Bryce is still terrorizing people (though not Drake anymore), his anger over the unfairness of the whole situation—swirling around behind Scoob’s eyes, and she’ll drag it all out of him.

But he doesn’t want to tell her any of that.

Right now Scoob just wants to get back in

G’ma’s fancy new drivable home and GO.

Go, and never ever look back.

He pulls himself up straight and lifts his chin. That’s when he notices an older white man in a baseball cap a few tables over looking between him and G’ma like they’re some alien beings. Yeah, kids at school used to ask questions when they’d see Scoob and G’ma together—he’s black and she’s white—but this feels different. Less about curiosity and more . . . disdainful.

And that guy’s not the only one: bouncing his eyes around the room, Scoob realizes a bunch of people are looking at him and G’ma funny. One lady he makes eye contact with openly sneers at him like he’s done something wrong.

Like he is something wrong, even.

It’s the same way Dad looked at him when he stepped into Mr. Armand’s office that first time after the fight.

His hand tightens around his damp glass of tea. Which he’d really like to pick up and throw at the woman. Give her a reason to look at him the way she is.

G’ma’s warm hand squeezes Scoob’s other one, which is resting on the table in a fist. He locks eyes with her and she smiles. His chest unclenches a little.

“Whattya say we blow this popsicle stand, huh?” she asks him. “We’ve eaten our fill. Now time to eat some road.”

Scoob nods and grins. “Sounds disgusting, G’ma. But okay.”

As they make their way outside, G’ma turns to him and says, “These small towns are really something, aren’t they? Bass ackwards, as your G’pop used to say. But that’s all right . . .”

She doesn’t say anything else, and Scoob doesn’t respond. But as they pull away from DamnYankees it hits him: he’s pretty sure G’ma didn’t pay the bill.

3

NEVER SEEN BEFORE

By the time Scoob and G’ma have “set up camp”—aka parked at their “campsite” in the hills of Alabama’s Cheaha State Park and connected G’ma’s fancy water filter and hose to the tap at their campsite so they won’t run through what’s in the camper van’s fresh water tank—the drooping sun has turned the sky the colours of Scoob’s favorite fruit: a sweet Georgia peach.

In fact, Scoob snagged a few from the bowl on his kitchen table and stuffed them in his backpack while on the way out the door with G’ma this afternoon.

Come to think of it, that bowl was empty when Scoob left for school this morning. He’d eaten the last two the night before as he sat through a show Dad was making him watch on National Geographic about the fiercely territorial nature of hippos.