They're not what they pretend to be . . .
pop. 786*
Later they called it running away from home, but Keelie Kennerly just plain walked out and no one tried to stop her. She thought the population sign on Walnick’s fringe could use an asterisk, because by tomorrow the number would be wrong by at least one. Actually it had been wrong for a while now. People, even whole families, kept leaving the ‘Nick. Usually they packed up and left without saying much, and sometimes, especially when it came to the kids Keelie’s age, they just up and disappeared. Parents, teachers, the police -- no one knew how or where they went, though maybe they understood the impetus.
Keelie adjusted her backpack and walked faster. Inside were socks and underwear, a couple of shirts and one pair of jeans, plus her totems: her brother Lynn’s pocket knife, her journal, eyeliner, iPod, and the last photo of her dad. She also had her mom’s ATM card, and that was another kind of totem right there.
It was plenty warm out, which was good because she was still wearing shorts and just her light cotton military coat over her favorite T-shirt. Favorite because it was bright red and featured a nurse who looked like a total needle-wielding psycho, with that wavy black hair and the white surgical mask in the form of letters that spelled Sonic Youth. And because it was one size too small and Blake Garton said it made her guns look pretty much awesome. No one in the ‘Nick knew who or what a Sonic Youth was, not even Heidi Eggers, who thought she was all worldly because she went to see Kid Rock at the fairgrounds in Des Moines last summer. And that was all the proof a girl needed, when you thought about it. Keelie Kennerly was too big for the ‘Nick, kind of like how her guns were too big for her Sonic Youth shirt.
All the stores on Antique City Drive were dark and hollow, filled with old things for old people, and the sidewalks were empty, because it was almost midnight and the whole town went to bed at six. The nearest city was Omaha, and in Keelie’s estimation that wasn’t a real city at all.
She walked under the town’s only stoplight, the yellow throbbing dimly like the power supply was running low. Not a single car passed her, and in less than two minutes there were no more lights, only deep fields of dark country.
* * *
Keelie thought whoever decided to name a convenience store chain Kum N Go had to be a perv. He had to have known changing the C to a K didn’t fool anybody, not with that U in the middle. They even sold Kum N Go shirts so you could take one back to whatever cooler place you lived and have a real laugh. The Walnick Kum N Go was one of the nicer ones: clean, with the video section and a whole grocery store crammed into two aisles, so it was easier to pretend you were shopping.
She killed half an hour refueling on green tea and a polish dog with mustard and relish, using the bathroom, and reading a celebrity magazine while she worked up the courage to withdraw four hundred of her mom’s dollars from the ATM.
The guy behind the register looked like an army cook, with those faded green tattoos on his hairy arms, the sad red eyes. His scalp was patchy and his nametag said Schluman, and Keelie felt sorry for him if that was is first name. Schluman watched Keelie move around the store, but mostly he was reading his own magazine or making coffee and so far he wasn’t bothering her.
Some college types in a big SUV came through and bought a case of energy drinks. The truck was packed. They headed off in the wrong direction anyway.
A few truckers stopped for diesel, but Keelie had already made up a set of rules and one of the rules was no truckers, unless the trucker was a woman, but she doubted her luck would be that good.
After one it got real slow. Schluman began to mop the aisles. He passed her in toiletries, said, ‘Still no luck?’ Keelie shrugged, wondering if he could tell just by looking at her. Then the Kum N Go went from real slow to dead.
Tuesday, middle of the night, that’s why. Unless you were about to emergency run out of gas, you’d press on to Omaha, where there were gobs more choices for motels and real restaurants. In between games of Ms. Pac-Man she went outside and smoked on the sidewalk.
She had promised herself she wouldn’t get desperate and ask any old creep. She imagined a woman in her twenties, tough and savvy from livin’ in the city, a woman who would pity her enough to give her a ride but admire her enough not to give her shit. But in the event no woman, a man might do. So long as he looked decent. Older would be better, ‘cause he would be slower, and if he tried something Keelie could use her cell to call 9-1-1 or dive out of the car. Her fingers were memorizing the keypad as she smoked, practicing the quick dial.
Schluman came out and smoked on the sidewalk too. He didn’t try to smoke with her, though. He stood at the end, beside the metal cage holding the propane bottles. He looked over at her once or twice, smiling tiredly, and when he went back inside, all he said was, ‘Welp, guess I better get back to it.’
A little before three, a newer Ford sedan pulled up. Guy, fifties, graying black hair. Yellow sweater and stiff pleated shorts. The sweater looked safe. He put the gas nozzle back and walked to the front doors. Keelie bounced on her toes, thinking do it, do it, do it, go on, dummy. But the script in her head went blank and she was dry-mouthed. The man nodded courteously as he slipped inside.
She looked away, her face tingling hot. She paced, moving around the ice machine, spying him cruising to the restroom. It was quick, probably just a pee. He exited carrying a gallon of milk. That seemed like a good sign too, the milk. He stepped off the curb, his back already to her.
‘Excuse me, sir?’ She tried to smile but her mouth locked in a grimace.
He paused, turning. ‘Yes?’
‘Are you by chance going that way? West, I mean?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Would you maybe mind giving me a ride?’
After a few seconds he said, ‘Where is it you want to go?’
‘I’m going to see my sister, in Los Angeles? Not that I would expect -’
‘Los Angeles?’ he blurted.
‘She’s in the hospital.’
The man looked at the Interstate. ‘Afraid I’m just going home. To Omaha.’
It hardly seemed worth hitching it, but then again it was three in the morning and progress was progress.
‘Well, maybe I could -’ she began, stepping off the sidewalk.
‘You should try the bus station. This is no way to go about it, miss.’
And then he was ducking into his car, gone. Probably thought she was a hooker. Keelie refused to cry, but it was tempting. Why hadn’t she just waited until tomorrow, in daylight, and made one of her friends drive her to the bus station? She could probably take a bus to Argentina on four hundred dollars. Except that she had already left home, and the walk back was at least five miles, and if she asked Julie or Reyna to drive her, they would blab to their parents, and then Keelie’s mom would find out and have a shit fit.
Also, Keelie needed every penny. Mom’s balance was only eleven-hundred something (before tonight’s withdrawal), and the rest might not be accessible once Mom noticed that her card (and daughter) were missing. Keelie was counting on this four hundred (the maximum withdrawal allowed per day), and maybe a couple hundred more tomorrow, to help her get established. The other four kids said they were bringing at least five hundred each, and she had to be ready to contribute her share. She kept thinking of the photos Lee had posted on their Habitat page. The warehouse was rough with only a couple walls, but it was in the artistic part of downtown and they would make it up really nice, have a painting party and then get on with their new lives. A band, a co-op, an online ‘zine. Whatever it became, it would be creative, something to call their own and far from here.
Anxiety and the green tea made her have to pee again. When she set off that annoying-as-fuck bing-bong door signal for the fifty-thousandth time, Schluman looked up from his Car & Driver and did a double-take. When she came out of the bathroom he was standing with his hands on his hips, scowling.
She bought another green tea out of guilt. ‘Don’t worry. I’m leaving soon.’
‘If I find out you’re doing drugs in the shitter,’ Schluman said.
Keelie shook her head quickly. ‘Promise.’
Right then a silver minivan pulled up at pump six. Soon as she saw it, Keelie just had a feeling. This one would make or break the whole deal.
A woman got out first, then a man -- the driver. A married couple by the looks. They were neither young nor old, and dressed like models in a Sears advertisement. The wife swiped her card and began pumping. He used the squeegee to clean the windshield, raking the rubber blade in perfect rows. When he finished with one side, he did it again from the other, overlapping his patient strokes. People who cleaned their windshields so thoroughly were on a long road trip, weren’t they?
The wife racked the nozzle and got back in the minivan. She flipped the visor down and touched up her eye make-up, dabbing with a pinky. The husband set the squeegee in the bucket and turned toward the highway, stretching his arms. He leaned one way then the other, kicking his legs out like he couldn’t make the blood go back into them. He walked to the driver’s side and got in and shut the door.
‘Oh, shit, shit, nooooo!’ They were supposed to come in and use the bathroom first! Keelie shoved through the doors and jogged after them, waving frantically.
The van inched forward.
‘Hold on, hold on, wait!’
The van almost hit her, then stopped abruptly, rocking. The husband and wife looked at each other, then watched as she approached the driver’s side. The window powered down and Keelie saw he was handsome, even with the weird glasses (steel frames, huge lenses). He had nice, shaven tan skin and his smooth blonde hair was parted on one side and the woman had elegant features and lustrous brown hair.
She smiled at Keelie in a skeptical but pleasant way. ‘Everything all right?’
When she got to the part about Los Angeles, the man put a hand up.
‘Hey, hey, whoa. See, we’re headed to Las Vegas.’
‘Second honeymoon,’ the wife said. ‘But my sister lives in Casper so we thought it would be nicer to drive.’
‘Oh, that’s perfect,’ Keelie said. The minivan smelled clean and new. The seats were empty and Keelie couldn’t help imagining how nice it would be to stretch out. ‘I could take a bus from Vegas. I can pay for gas? It’s super important.’
‘Oh, but honey,’ the wife said. ‘Casper is in Wyoming. We’re stopping for a few days . . . there’s a reunion . . .’
Keelie clenched the straps of her backpack. ‘No, see, that’s not a problem. Casper would be -’
‘Casper is not the issue, I think.’ The husband shot his wife a stern look, his voice deep but gentle. ‘We don’t actually . . . got to be some sort of laws against, I mean. Honey?’
The wife rested her hand on his arm as she leaned over the console. ‘Do your parents know about this lil’ adventure, dear?’
Lie, girl, but just the right amount. ‘Totally. I’ll be nineteen in July.’ Keelie paused, humbled. ‘I have to go. She’s my sister. We can call my mom to check in tomorrow. I won’t be a bother, I promise.’
The woman frowned in sympathy, awaiting her husband’s verdict. He was shaking his head slowly, staring at the wheel.
Keelie pressed the wife. ‘If I go home now, my mom . . . I don’t know what she’ll do to me.’
The husband searched Keelie’s eyes. He looked at his wife and threw up his hands -- what am I supposed to do here?
‘Oh, come on, Dave. We can’t leave her out here.’
Dave the husband sighed. ‘I guess that means hop in.’
Keelie ran around to where a motorized door was already opening. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you . . .’
She took the first bench seat. The third row was empty. The cargo bay was piled up with bags and a couple of pillows that looked very soft. Keelie watched the ‘Nick vanish behind them, a lump of manure in the dark, and she had to suppress a whoop of triumph.
* * *
She semi-awoke on her side, backpack scraping her cheek, the highway’s mellow thrum rising up to rock her gently. An evangelical murmur issued from the radio, the dim green glow of the instrument panel cool against the glossy black windows.
She remembered the introductions in fragments. Dave and Sheila Galloway from Indianapolis, married ten years, still no children but hoping to adopt one day soon. He was like a special kind of architect, a maker of models for city plans and communities. She was a teacher, fifth grade. They had asked about Keelie’s parents, but didn’t pry too deeply into her imaginary sister’s alleged chemotherapy.
She was twitchy, her mind working against the tide of green tea, her legs trying to find the right combination against the arm rest, her neck stiff. She remembered the pillows. Yes, a pillow. Then she could really sleep.
There was a weird smell, so faint she hadn’t noticed it at first. It wasn’t bad, exactly, just odd. Burned iron, like the metal workshop at school, and maybe a little fishy too. Nebraska. Pig farms. Tilapia farms. God knows what kind of farms. Keelie held her breath for thirty seconds, then sniffed again. The smell had passed.
She sat up and rubbed her eye. Shelia was dozing upright, one of the pillows between her cheek and the passenger window. Dave was quiet, his attention fixed on the road, both hands on the wheel. Should she ask permission? What did it matter? They had offered everything else when she got in -- Gatorade, sunflower seeds, teriyaki jerky, pop, ham sandwich. They wouldn’t care about a pillow.
She grabbed the backrest and bent to keep from hitting her head on the roof. Bingo -- on top of the bags, in the far right corner. White and fluffy.
She reached out and Dave’s voice called back. ‘What do you need, hon?’
Keelie twitched in surprise. ‘I was hoping I could borrow one of the pillows. My neck hurts.’
Dave didn’t answer. Keelie waited, hunched over.
‘Oh,’ he said finally. ‘Help yourself. Just watch the bags underneath. I have some important work in there and it’s pretty darn fragile.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ Keelie stifled a yawn. Jeez, did he think she was going to flop down in the cargo area, smashing one of his models?
While she was reaching, she realized her butt was sticking up, and she was suddenly sure that Mr. Galloway was watching her in the rearview mirror. Not because he was a perv, but maybe to make sure she didn’t mess with his work stuff. But perv or not, if he was looking, he’d definitely be getting a view of the full Keelie right about now. She reached back and snugged her shirt hem over her locust tattoo, and when she turned back for the pillow it was gone.
Wait . . . what? Five seconds ago it had been on top, in the corner. Now there was only the pile of black canvas bags. She hadn’t felt the minivan swerve, but . . .
‘Everything all right?’ Dave said.
‘Yeah, one sec . . .’ She leaned way over the cargo area, patting the bags, reached for a corner of white . . . and her arm shot back up as if scalded. She hissed, her skin breaking out in ripples of revulsion. The white patch was not a pillow. It was cold and firm and slimy, like a fish. That would explain the weird smell.
‘Did you find it?’ Dave said.
‘Uhm . . .’ They went fishing is all. It’s a big bass in a cooler or something gross like that. Stop being such a baby.
Dave was mumbling to Shelia. Great, they’d woken her up too. Keelie didn’t even want the pillow anymore, but it would be weird if she came back without it now, and Dave might think she’d messed up his fragile work stuff.
‘You can use my pillow, Keelie.’ Shelia’s voice seemed too loud. Too alert for someone who just woke up. ‘I don’t need it.’
Keelie plopped down on the third row seat. ‘That’s okay. I have my pack.’
In the rearview mirror, Dave’s eyes were two black dots. They went from the mirror to the road and back like one of those cat clocks.
The van cruised.
A couple miles later, Dave and Sheila had become very still. There was something cold in the air now, a weird vibe. Reminded Keelie of being in the check-out line when her mom was taking forever to write a check that everyone -- like all eight people waiting behind them and the cashier -- knew damn well was going to bounce anyway. The vibe coming from Mr. and Mrs. Galloway was like that, except Keelie was the one behind them. How could you feel people with their backs to you staring at you?
Keelie focused on the road. Where were they now? The Interstate was straight and flat, had to be deep into Nebraska. The minivan sluiced the night in ear-drum popping silence. Miles, so many miles to go.
Her eyelids grew heavy. She was about to let them close when she noticed something odd. Up ahead on the highway, the slashes of white lane paint were changing. Hurling toward them in a single blurred line at first, then thickening and thinning, coming slower with breaks in between, until they were just ticking by and the black clarity between each slash was agonizing. Keelie sat up.
The van was edging onto the shoulder.
She gripped the back of the seat. ‘You don’t have to stop for me.’
They didn’t respond.
‘I didn’t move anything. The pillow just fell over, so I left it.’
The van was inching forward at a crawl, the tires crunching gravel and weeds. It stopped. There were no cars passing in either direction. There was no rest stop. There were no fast food places or Kum N Gos. There was nothing. Only black night outside. They were going to throw her out, leave her here in the middle of nowhere.
Dave was holding the wheel with both hands, staring at the road.
Sheila was sitting up straight, staring at the road.
A minute passed. Why wouldn’t they answer her? The smell was horrible now. Like a whole basket of dead fish that had been laying in the sun, and something else that smelled like a cooked battery. Burning metal, tickling her throat.
Keelie heard herself whimper. ‘I’m sorry, okay?’
They did not acknowledge her. Another minute of silence, the longest she had ever known. Time stretched, stopped. There was no more time. She was in the car with statues, mannequins posed in a display window. She had never felt so alone in the presence of people.
Keelie screamed. Again, until her throat hurt.
They did not flinch. They did not speak. She might as well have screamed at a family on a billboard. The white stone faces of Mt. Rushmore.
Her breathing grew hoarse. Her legs wouldn’t move. She reached for her phone in her pocket, her thumb sliding around the buttons. She might have pressed a 9 before the sound of canvas scraping against more canvas startled her. Her hand slipped and the phone thumped onto the floor.
She was about to lean down when Mr. Galloway reached into the console and plucked something from the drink holder. It shined briefly, a small flash of silver that disappeared into his mouth. He bit down and there was a single clack.
Together, as if their heads were attached to the same rubber cord, husband and wife turned all the way around in their seats and stared at her.
They weren’t the same people that picked her up, and Keelie Kennerly wasn’t the same girl ever again.
Excerpted from The People Next Door, a novel by Christopher Ransom
Now Available in the UK