Kathleen Hale - No One Else Can Have You

My brain still feels a little funny—either from the fence or the sleep drugs. “Why didn’t you tell me about the cookies and milk?” I ask, but Mildred just laughs.

“Milly used to drive for FedEx.” Marion glances proudly at Mildred. “Also, me and her are dating now. Lots in common. She was with FedEx trucks, for instance, and I hauled freight for Harley.” He staggers to his feet and hunches slowly toward the passenger seat, swaying to and fro. “Here.” He tosses me a sweatshirt. I hold it up and it’s about a million times too big. I AM AN OLYMPIC ATHLETE is written in block letters across the front.

“He was at my place when you called,” Mildred says, turning around to talk to me. “Pretty dreamy, huh?”

“Eyes on the road and such!” Marion barks.

“Oh, shut it, you big lard,” she snaps.

I want to ask about the girlfriend Marion mentioned on the bus—the woman he said spoke like a velociraptor—though I guess this means that him and her are over. I suppose if he hit Mildred, at least she’d hit back.

“Congratulations,” I mumble, rubbing my neck. It feels like I’ve got whiplash. “Uh, so, is this your truck, Mildred? The one you drive?” I crawl toward them to hear better.

“You think I’d work two shitty jobs?” Mildred snaps, tossing me a towel to dry off. “No, sir. FedEx fired me for reckless driving, but I still know how to finagle a hot wire! Better than getting spotted breaking you out in my own vehicle, am I right?”

I want to tell her it won’t be any better if they catch her in a stolen car, but I’m sort of afraid she’ll call me an ungrateful fart muffin. I ring out my socks and try to dry my pj’s with the towel before putting on the sweatshirt. I should be freezing but I’m not. The thing about electrocution is it makes you feel cooked.

“Can’t you get in trouble for this?” I ask cautiously.

“Yes,” Marion says, nodding feverishly, smiling like a maniac. They both look terribly pumped up to be doing so much wrong.

“Oh no . . . did I get you off the wagon, or whatever it’s called?” I know a few alcoholism terms because Dom has those pamphlets—but it didn’t occur to me that breaking rules could be an addiction, and that helping me escape might be the top of some slippery slope for an NVCG member. Who knew that stealing things and violence were even related? Maybe they just give the same kind of in-charge feeling? “Miss Rosa will kill me if I, like, messed up her process or whatever.”

“Yeah, Miss Rosa’s real professional,” Mildred says dismissively.

Marion holds up a finger. “No violence committed yet, just some laws hurt,” he tells me reassuringly. “Though we do hope you’re up to some mischief. You’re only seventeen or something, right?”

“Sixteen.”

“Good. You wouldn’t even get tried as an adult, your record’ll be wiped clean in two years and you’ll still have your whole life ahead of you.” He smiles. “You should take advantage of that.”

“Yeah,” Mildred says. “Please tell me you’re gonna kick somebody’s ass.”

“Living vicariously is one of the only thrills we get these days, aside from driving fast,” Marion adds.

“Or blowing up dolls,” mutters Mildred. She looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Don’t pretend not to be like us, honey—just because you’re free now doesn’t mean you haven’t got a screw loose. Hey, Kippy, you’re a loose woman, get it?—Ha!”

“Yo.” Marion snaps his fingers at her. “My turn to drive, I decided.” The two of them begin the complicated process of switching seats while driving.

“Um, but you guys just stole a car,” I blurt, because I want to focus on something other than the fact that they’re driving and doing gymnastics simultaneously, and also because I’m hoping they’ll tell me that they understand what they’ve done and it’s all part of some well-constructed plan. I can’t get caught before I get to Ralph’s. “Like, this is a really big deal.”

“Oh, can it, you big pussy,” Mildred says, struggling across Marion’s lap. “We brought you some supplies, too, wanna cry about it?”

My mind turns to Mildred’s penchant for homemade explosives. I’m not sure I want whatever gift she’s brought me.

“Kippy, you should really consider having us along. No need to go it alone.” Marion squeezes Mildred’s shoulder. “Now that we’re dating, Milly and me are fun as pie. Couldn’t get more carefree.”

I look at their excited faces in the rearview mirror and bite my lip. Their expressions are eager and nostalgic all at the same time. The truth is, I could use the company, not to mention some logistical assistance, since I’ve been electrified and drugged. Still, who knows if they wouldn’t just go batshit on me once we get to Ralph’s, make a ton of ruckus in the heat of their excitement, and draw a crowd or kill somebody before I find what I need, whatever that is. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do yet—and if I’m going to make it up as I go, I’d better go it alone.

“Guys, I—” They look so excited I’m not sure how to put this. I try again. “I think you should just drop me off and torch . . . this . . . bitch, like you said.”

It’s quiet, and for a moment I worry I’ve hurt their feelings. But then Marion starts nodding in that soulful way.

“Go balls out, baby,” he says. “Be as tough as nails—as big as all of us put together.”

“And tell us about it afterward,” Mildred adds.

Marion nods. “Call us right away.”

The two of them start bickering about which new WWE personality is the toughest—General Awesome or Babu Eight Ball. Meanwhile, I bounce around on my haunches on the FedEx boxes, wondering if Ruth was right in that one diary entry about me, where she said I was a badass—hoping with my whole heart that I really can do this by myself.

“Oof.” I flip open my cell phone, scrolling for Davey’s number. I stare at his name on the tiny green screen and listen to rain drum on the metal roof, wondering if I have the guts to call him.

“I need to call Davey. He’s mad at me,” I announce.

“What, you bite another of his fingers off?” Marion asks.

“Sort of.” My heart pounds. I guess I’m worried Davey might tell me something bad about myself, like that I’m selfish, or mean, or ugly, and that I might believe him. I sort of figured he would leave from the beginning—go back to the war—but then I found out he was home for good, and then we kissed, and it changed things. The leaving part became less obvious and therefore scarier, because now if he left it was a decision and it had to do with me.

And so maybe in a way I did things to make him leave, like, on my own terms. Like, maybe to be in control of it, or something. I self-sabotaged.

Ugh, there goes the Dom in me again.

“Fast food joints don’t care. The kids who work there this late, they’re illegal Mexicans, you think they’d turn us in?”

They’re arguing about whether it’s a good idea to stop at Wendy’s in a stolen truck. I give them my two cents—“No, it is not a good idea, not a good one at all”—but they sort of bat the air with their hands and tell me to feck off. So I hunker back down in the corner of the truck and open my phone again.

“Could you at least drop me off first?” I ask, glancing between the windshield wipers for local landmarks. I give them Ralph’s address and look at my phone. If I call the police they’ll just come and arrest me, treat me like an escapee. If anyone’s going to believe me I’m going to need some solid evidence. “We’re only like fifteen minutes away.”

“Fine, fine,” Mildred snaps.

Part of me would rather call Dom instead of Davey. I mean, he’s my dad. Then again the last time I tried to confide in him he carted me off against my will to an insane asylum.