Page 12 of A Summer to Save Us

L ate in the afternoon, I send a WhatsApp message to James while we’re on the road. I claim I’m sleeping over at Samantha’s, even though there’s no one named Samantha at my school. Dad might not even notice I’m gone, as he rarely checks on me.

I close my eyes and feel the sun’s rays on my cheeks, but I’m too tense to enjoy the warmth. River doesn’t expect small talk now, but at some point, he’ll realize I never talk—truly—never and then he’ll just leave me stranded somewhere.

As we drive through a small town called Pierre, he digs a beer and a Fanta out of the glove compartment at a red light, along with two sandwiches.

He places the Fanta and a sandwich on my lap, and I clench my hands around the newspaper I’m still holding.

Since getting in the car, I’ve barely moved a millimeter.

I’m just breathing, nothing more. I lick my lips nervously.

My mouth is as dry as the Sahara, but I can’t eat or drink in front of River. I only do that in front of my family.

Okay, twice in front of Brent, Todd, and Noah, who held me down and put black and red bugs in my mouth. They grabbed me by the back of my neck and used brute force to make me swallow. Only a few ninth graders stood around and laughed or turned away in disgust.

I try to push the images away and tell myself that it’s over forever, even if it’s not true. I’m not so naive as to believe I can run away permanently. But I can escape for tomorrow, the day after, or maybe three or four more weeks.

I glance at River and he smiles when he notices, so I quickly look at my hands. It’s best to wait until River is asleep before eating or drinking.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him sipping his beer. “Don’t worry, Kentucky, it’s just to wind down.”

I wonder if he’s high and needs to come down, but even if he is, I don’t care. I don’t care because he’s the first person to treat me well.

At dusk, it gets cooler, so I pull the sleeping bag up to my chest and slip out of my flip-flops. I’m still clutching the newspaper, not yet wanting to look at the picture.

To distract myself from my thirst, I look out at the vast terrain of the Great Plains.

Fields and meadows containing cattle by the thousands pass by in the twilight.

Like deep blue watercolor paint, the twilight thickens into night; it seems as if the land is being soaked with it.

It’s so endless. My room has protective walls, but here, there are none. No boundaries.

Suddenly, River brakes hard on the gravelly shoulder. The semi-darkness hovers over us, and suddenly, my heart is pounding in my chest. What if he is dangerous after all? What if he just wanted to lure me away to lock me up somewhere and hold me prisoner?

He studies me, and even in the dim light, the blue of his eyes sparkles, deep and endless. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes so blue, apart from Ian Somerhalder or the lead singer of Demons ’N Saints, though Rivers are darker. “Kansas.”

My silence hangs in the air. My fingers are shaking because I’m suddenly so cold despite the sleeping bag.

And it’s quiet. No cars pass us.

“It’s a beautiful name,” he says, smiling.

I don’t dare smile back.

“Before we get to South Dakota, I have to tell you something.”

I swallow. He’s a psychopath searching for mute girls.

His gaze stays on my face, not moving a muscle. “In South Dakota, it’s illegal to lie down or fall asleep in a cheese factory.” For a moment, he seems so serious. I’m afraid he’s actually crazy, but then a laugh breaks free of him.

I would like to hit him for fun, but I don’t dare. I let out a barely audible breath.

When he observes my reaction, he grins broadly, looking outrageously good at the same time. “In South Dakota, if there are more than five Indians on your property, you can shoot them. A rather questionable law, in my opinion.”

I give him a voiceless, half-scared chuckle but quickly put my hand over my mouth as if to hold back the sound.

His grin fades, and he abruptly looks out over the steering wheel at the plains, suddenly appearing lost. As lost as I felt at the Old Sheriff. Or that time I waited for Mom at the kitchen table.

“If someone asks you what you did today, you can say, ‘I survived. Yes.’” He nods, more of a confirmation. “You are alive.” His voice is filled with a sadness I can’t name. I want to put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him, but I’m afraid he’ll reject me, yell at me, or laugh at me.

We drive late into the night, and around one o’clock, River stops in a parking lot.

He closes the top of the sports car, then throws his sleeping bag over his shoulder.

It’s pitch black, so I can’t see anything, only a few tall black trees.

River digs in the trunk and pulls out a gym bag and what looks like a fabric-covered hula –hoop, while I stand frozen in the darkness with the Fanta, my sandwich, and the newspaper clutched in my hands.

I’m sure I seem terribly clumsy and uptight.

Besides, I already know that I won’t be sleeping tonight.

“I think we have everything,” River says as if I was a normal girl, slamming the trunk lid shut.

He sets the sports bag down, places the sleeping bag on top of it, and takes a few steps before pulling the fabric cover off the hula-hoop-like bag.

Then he throws something into the air, and only then do I realize it’s an easy pop-up tent once it’s erect.

“I love these things.” He doesn’t tie down ropes or pegs; he simply weighs down the tent with a few stones from the ground, distributing them between the four corners of the tent.

Now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I notice more area details.

The soil is a mixture of sandy earth and grass, and there’s forest all around, but the air is humid.

We must be near a river, although I don’t hear any murmuring or rushing noises.

My stomach growls, which is embarrassing, so I press the hand holding the newspaper against it. Hopefully, River will fall asleep soon so I can eat and drink.

I watch tensely as he spreads the open sleeping bag out on the tent floor as a base, then approaches me and points to the sandwich and Fanta.

“You don’t want to drink anything? Or eat?”

I stare longingly at the can and shake my head. Not if you’re watching , I think.

“I’d better pack this stuff in the car so we don’t attract any wild animals! Or ants.”

Damn! My throat burns as I watch him put the items in the trunk and return with a blanket.

Later, I lie stiff as a board in the tent with my eyes open, staring into the darkness.

It feels like there’s a layer of testosterone and aftershave in the air, both making me dizzy.

I feel River lying under the covers next to me, even though he’s not touching me.

I’m sure he’s not asleep yet. Earlier, he was typing on his phone for ages and muttered “Fuck!” and “Damn!” a few times.

Every now and then, there was a subtle bing when a new message popped up.

I wonder who he’s texting. A girl? He said heartbreak was often given in farewell letters as the reason for jumping.

I remember Mr. Spock. I’d completely forgot about him.

I’ll have to send him a message first thing in the morning or later when River is asleep.

Then I can search for the car keys in his sports bag and finally have a drink.

Maybe I’ll also look at the picture in the newspaper, if there’s a picture at all.

I listen to the night. River breathes steadily next to me, and I match his breathing rhythm so he’ll think I’m asleep if he’s still awake.

I still can’t believe I’m lying here. At some point, my thirst burns so badly that I vow to go back tomorrow.

On foot if necessary. I’ll explain to Dad what’s going on at school.

I’ll write him a letter and pray that he reads it.

With any luck, he’ll be so shocked by my running away that he’ll finally believe me.

And if he knows what’s happening, he’ll definitely take me out of Kensington.

He doesn’t need to give a reason so he can keep his job.

Yes, I’ll write a letter because he can’t simply brush it away like he does my outstretched hand holding the cell phone.

I breathe in and out quietly through my nose.

Just when I believe River is finally asleep, he suddenly bolts upright.

I can feel him looking at me, but I can’t say why.

I dig my nails hard into my palm again, feeling the sharp pain in the wounds.

What if he expects something from me in return?

What if he attacks me...? My heart is pounding so fast, I’m afraid I’m going to faint.

For a moment, there’s warmth across my face, and I swear he reached out to me, letting his hand hover over my cheek, but then the moment is gone, and the spot is cool again.

“You...” he murmurs into the silence. A few crickets chirp. “You don’t know what you’ve done... oh, God... you’re my last chance.”

Breathe. Simply. Keep. Breathing .

He sighs deeply, and the sound weighs heavily on me.

“You think I saved you, but I didn’t. Most of all, I saved myself today.

I’m a selfish fucking person. That’s what everyone says.

Well, mostly Zozoo.” He inhales, as if wanting to add something, but then he climbs out of the tent.

I hear him working on the car, humming a melody to himself that sounds lonely, a bit like a song about death and farewell. It reminds me of the time Mom left us.

I was seven, and that was the moment I felt a void in my heart for the first time.

Like something had been ripped out of me and left me broken.

She hadn’t woken us up, and only Dad was sitting at the breakfast table, looking twenty years older and like an old man.

Dad grew up in an orphanage and was always a serious man, but that day, he forgot how to laugh.

“Your mom left us,” he said in a somber voice, his eyes red and swollen.