Not Suitable For Family Viewing Page 4

  I bought a chicken wrap on the plane. I ate a bit but then I had to stop. The woman next to me was watching You, You and Mimi on her video screen. I almost threw up. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but it didn’t matter. Just knowing Mimi was right beside me talking to Dr. Hannah Meeson—her “Happy Family Specialist”—was enough. Were they talking about me? About us? If not, why weren’t they? (Is there a so-called family anywhere that needs help more than we do?)

  Food was out of the question.

  I was worried about missing the bus so I didn’t get anything at the airport either. The counter where you buy your bus tickets had chips and candy and stuff like that. I was thinking about getting something there but when I handed the woman my credit card she said, “Robin Schwartz? You’re not the Robin Schwartz, are you? Mimi’s little girl?”

  I went “No, no!”

  You’d think the lady would be suspicious, the way I quasi-freaked and everything, but she started to laugh and said, “Just kidding! You must get that all the time. Guess you’re glad your name’s not Britney Spears, eh?”

  I took my ticket and got out of there as fast as I could.

  I was so relieved to be on the bus without any TV screens or people asking my name that I forgot about being hungry.

  Until now. Now I remember. I’m starving.

  We passed a gas station on the highway. They’d have food. How far back was that? Couldn’t be too far.

  I turn around, but then I think, No.

  No. I’ve got to keep going. I’ve come this far. I’m not going to let anyone—i.e., Selena—say I didn’t do it. (Why did I send her that stupid e-mail?)

  I trudge on. It’s July but up here I guess that doesn’t mean much. It’s getting cold. The fog just rolled in. Everything’s so damp.

  I go round a bend in the road and come to a driveway with a chain across it. I look up and there it is. Port Minton High. Home of the Panthers.

  I’d be willing to bet I’m the first person to come here for the architecture. The school is pretty much just a box—square, flat, white, wooden. The paint is peeling. The big wide steps are rotten right through and one of the railings is broken. Above the double doors, there’s a white sign with hand-painted letters: Port Minton Rural Consolidated High School. (I guess they couldn’t get all that on the ring.) The lawn is overgrown. The driveway is cracked and full of potholes. Bits of garbage dangle off the bushes out front.

  I leave my suitcase on the lawn and walk up the steps. I lean over the good railing and look through the window. It’s your standard old-fashioned classroom, right out of some movie where girls wore big skirts and carried binders and boys got in trouble for tilting back in their chairs. It’s got a green and black checkerboard floor. A chalkboard that goes all the way across one wall. A clock that’s stopped at 12:22. And a big wooden desk for the teacher. If it weren’t for the mess all around it, you’d practically expect to see an apple sitting on top.

  There are still a few student desks but most of them are knocked over on their side. The place is dirty. There are broken beer bottles on the floor and gross drawings on the board. Someone wrote John—or maybe it’s Joan—is a Bister. My guess is kids have been using the place as a hangout for quite a while. There’s graffiti all over the walls.

  I squint to see what else they’ve written. Nothing interesting—at least to me. No Mimi Schwartz was here.

  It’s not like I’m surprised. I checked Mom’s website last night. It lists all the places she’s toured since the show went global. Nova Scotia wasn’t one of them. I told myself she might have come here on vacation, but I never seriously believed that either. (Mimi can’t be that far away from her Versace supplier. She goes through jewel-encrusted bustiers at quite a clip.)

  I’m not kidding myself. I know I didn’t come to Port Minton because I had a burning desire to find out what Mom was doing with some grubby old ring. I just wanted an excuse to get away from my life.

  I sit down on the steps. I get a little stab of guilt about not visiting Grandpa before I left. Poor guy. Stuck in that fancy home with everything he could ever want and all he does is sit around drooling. (We have a lot in common.) I should have gone to see him. He hasn’t got a clue who I am but he seems to like it when I hold his hand and talk to him. As long as one of those nosy nurses isn’t there, I can tell him anything.

  How sad is that. My grandfather—the vegetable—is probably my best friend in the world.

  I have one of those little laugh/cry moments, but I make myself stop. I can’t think about stuff like that. I’m cold. I’m wet. I’m hungry. I’ve got to get out of here.

  But I don’t move. I can’t. I’m suddenly exhausted. I look out across the road. I know the ocean’s right there but it’s so foggy I can barely see it. All I can hear is the waves hitting the shore. They’re slow and heavy, like some cartoon giant clomping around in wet boots. The sound almost puts me into a trance. I think about those Arctic explorers who got so cold that they just kind of fell asleep and died. If you ask me, that doesn’t sound like such a bad way to go.

  Selena would love to hear me say that. She thinks I’m a lazy, unmotivated slob. The type of person who would just sit around and die because she couldn’t be bothered doing anything else.

  So what if I am? What business is it of hers? Who does she think she is, passing judgment on me like that?

  I stand up and start walking.

  It’s raining now. Water’s dripping down my face. My feet are wet. The suitcase keeps tipping over on its side and banging me in the ass or clipping me in the ankle. I don’t even try to fix it.

  Things get a little easier once I hit the highway. At least on the pavement my suitcase almost rolls. On the other hand, I’ve got so much water in my eyes now that I can barely see where I’m going.

  I hear the swish of a car coming up behind me. I don’t even think. My brain just goes, I’m saved! I turn around and wave and jump and scream.

  An old brown van stops right beside me.

  I open the door. The inside light doesn’t come on. I just see this big, dark silhouette of a guy sitting at the wheel. That’s when I realize what I’ve done.

  Seventeen-year-old girl hitchhiking alone on a stormy night gets into a beat-up van. I’ve watched enough movies to know what happens next. Cue the creepy music. Cover your eyes.

  12

  Saturday, 9:30 p.m.

  Radio Mimi

  “Insight into Insights.” Mimi interviews author and scientist Nathan Allen about his fascinating new book, Flash: The Power and Glory of First Impressions.

  The guy goes, “C’mon. Get in!” He reaches over and lifts my suitcase up with one hand.

  I can hardly say Thanks but no thanks now. I was the one who flagged him down. What can I do? I climb in.

  He doesn’t even ask where I’m headed. He just pulls out onto the road. That can’t be good. It’s obvious he doesn’t care where I want to go. He’s got his own plans for me. My teeth start to chatter.

  “You cold?” he says.

  I sort of nod. (Yeah, sure, I’m cold. Me shaking like this has got absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I’m hurtling along a deserted highway in some Psycho Murdermobile with a total stranger at the wheel.) I don’t look at him. I just do up my seat belt and keep staring out the front window.

  All of a sudden, I feel his hand graze my knee. I jump. I squeak like some giant mouse.

  “Oops. Sorry,” he says. “I was just turning on the heat for you.”

  Sure. Nice recovery.

  I wipe my glasses off with my sleeve so I can at least see who’s abducting me, but it only makes things worse. The smear of water turns the streetlights into big spinning stars.

  The guy goes, “Here,” and hands me a roll of rough blue paper towel. “Don’t want you to miss anything.”

  What does he mean by that? What kind of sick thing does he mean by that? All I can think is Anita, Anita, Anita, Anita.

  I sort of dweeble out, “
Thanks.” I wipe off my face and glasses.

  Everything’s clear again.

  Too clear. I can see what I got myself into now.

  A street lamp lights up the van for a couple of seconds. The inside is filthy. The floor is covered with food wrappers, old coffee cups, crumpled road maps. I wonder if this is where he lives, in the van. I bet he sleeps here all day, then spends his nights just driving the highway, looking for people like me. Lonely, defenceless, stupid people.

  Nobody knows him. Nobody notices him. He’s just another guy in a rusty van on the road to someplace else. He’s long gone before anyone asks themselves about those screams.

  The perfect set-up for the perfect crime. The guy’s obviously smart. That’s even scarier. I take a quick glance behind me—

  For once in my life, I’m right. There are no seats in the back. Just my suitcase, a blanket, a chainsaw and some ropes.

  Anita! Anita! Anita!

  I suck in my breath. I try not to cry. I clamp my teeth together. I can’t let myself fall apart. I’ve got to look strong, give him second thoughts about trying anything. Mimi did a show on self-defence once. That’s what her experts said. Don’t look like a victim. Act confident. Guys aren’t going to do anything if they think they might lose.

  I lift my head and push back my shoulders. This might be the first time ever that I’m happy to be big. For a second, I honestly believe I could take him.

  Then I remember him pulling my suitcase into the van with one hand. My giant two-ton suitcase. He picked it up like it was a Happy Meal. I haven’t a hope.

  The guy goes, “I don’t run into many girls out here by themselves.” He’s got an accent. It sounds sort of like, “Oi doane run inta…”

  “I’m not by myself,” I say. I remember that from the show too. Pretend you’re with someone.

  “Oh yeah?” he says. “Who you with?”

  Is he laughing at me?

  “My boyfriend,” I say. “He went on ahead.”

  “Nice guy! Leaving you on the side of the road in the pouring rain…”

  I don’t let that get me. “He had an appointment,” I say. “He had to go. He’s waiting for me. He’ll be worried if I don’t get there soon.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Get where soon?”

  Where am I going? Think, think, think. What did the bus driver say? What was the name of that town?

  “Sherbrooke,” I say.

  The guy goes, “Hunh?”

  “I mean, Sherbet.”

  He sort of laughs. “Sherbet? No Sherbet around here. Isn’t that something you eat?”

  What’s the matter with me? I’m getting abducted and all I can think about is food?

  It’s really dark now. Signs of civilization—what there were of them—have almost disappeared. Every so often we pass a house with a couple of lights on but that’s about it. I’m on my own.

  What if I just opened the door and jumped?

  I look out the side window and see the guardrails whizzing past.

  I’d die, that’s what would happen. But at least it would be fast. Question is: would it be faster than the chainsaw?

  “Do you mean Shelton?” the guy says.

  “Yes!” I say. “Yes. Yes. Shelton. That’s it. He’s waiting for me in Shelton.”

  “Where in Shelton?”

  Where? I don’t know where! Anita, if you can hear me, tell me. Send me some sign: where would a boyfriend be waiting for me in Shelton?

  The pause is getting suspiciously long. I have to say something. I go, “At the hotel.” I know it’s hopeless now but I don’t give up. That’s what they said on the show. Don’t give up. It ain’t over until it’s over.

  The guy starts laughing. “The hotel? The hotel in Shelton? You don’t know where you’re going, do you?”

  “Yes I do!” I say. “Liam—that’s his name—Liam Johnston is meeting me at the hotel! That’s what he said!”

  The guy goes, “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

  I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

  “Didn’t mean to upset you. I think I know where to take you.”

  I bet he does.

  He doesn’t say anything else. He just keeps driving into the dark.

  Should I bargain with him? I could give him money. I’ve got lots of money. What would he take? I have no idea what kidnappers ask for these days. If it’s more than a couple of hundred, I’d have to give him a cheque. Would he take a cheque? Mimi didn’t touch on any of that in the show.

  And anyway, would that be tacky? I don’t want to insult him. Maybe trying to buy myself out would just make him madder.

  Or maybe he’d just take the money and kill me anyway. That would be like throwing it away! No use doing that. Anita hates it when I do stuff like that.

  What’s the matter with me? I’m sure Anita would make an exception, just this once, seeing as the guy’s planning to kill me and everything.

  I remember. The self-defence expert said I’m supposed to poke the guy in the eye with my keys.

  Great.

  Like I know where my keys are. I never know where my keys are! I bit my nails down to the quick last night so they’re not going to be much good either.

  Maybe it’s just as well. If I poked him in the eye, we’d go off the road and I’d die anyway. Likewise if I kicked him in the groin.

  And anyway, how would I even get my leg up over the steering wheel to kick him? It would be pretty awkward. I’m not that flexible at the best of times. Maybe I could just punch him in the groin. One quick jab—then while he’s writhing in agony, I grab the wheel and drive to safety.

  Right. There’s no way I could jab some guy I don’t even know in the groin.

  He puts on his blinker and turns down a road. A smaller, darker road.

  I feel myself shrinking.

  I try to make words come out my mouth but nothing happens. I’m doomed.

  He turns into a driveway in front of this old ramshackle house. He stops the car. He says, “I think this is what you want,” and leans his big body across mine.

  I forget all about the show. I don’t remember what they tell you to do at this point. All I know is that I’m not going to let anything happen. There’s no way. My body knows that even better than my head does. It’s like a reflex or something. I punch the guy as hard as I can right in the face. He goes flying back.

  I shriek and shriek and shriek.

  I’ve got to get out. My hands are shaking so much I can’t undo my seat belt. Why did I put on a seat belt? Like that’s what I’m worried about? Getting thrown from the car? I should be so lucky.

  The guy’s going, “What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter with you?”

  I keep shrieking and tugging at the seat belt. It’s slippery with spit and sweat and whatever else is oozing out of me.

  The guy comes at me again. I hit him again. He swears. He’s screaming at me to calm down.

  And make it easy for him? No way. I’m going down fighting.

  He leans toward me. I swing at him. He grabs both my hands and holds them with one of his. I’m flailing away with all my might but it doesn’t help. I can’t get loose.

  “Enough!’ he says. “Enough! Are you nuts?” He looks me right in the face like he’s trying to hypnotize me or something. He does it until I stop screaming, and then he uses his other hand to unbuckle my seat belt.

  It’s all over. I know it.

  All I can do now is appeal to his basic humanity. I say, “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. I’ve got money.”

  He throws my hands into my lap.

  He goes, “Me? Hurt you? What are you talking about! You’re the one who just punched me in the face! I’m on my way home from work, minding my own business, when some nutcase flags me down and punches me in the face!”

  Is he calling me a nutcase? Some guy in a dirty, gross, bottom-of-the-line van is calling me crazy? He has no right to talk to me like that. I was just do
ing what you’re supposed to do in this sort of situation.

  I go, “What did you expect me to do? Just let you—like”—I’m suddenly embarrassed; I’m not sure exactly how to say this—“have your way with me?’

  His eye is starting to swell up where I hit him. He rubs his hand over his face. His whiskers make that sandy sound. He shakes his head.

  “What are you talking about? Have my way with you? You mean, here? In the van? Just now?”

  I nod. I’m getting scared again. Why did I even bring it up? Like he needed reminding.

  He stretches his fingers out and opens his mouth into a big O. It’s the classic you gotta be kidding me pose. He goes, “I was leaning over…to open the door for you…to let you out…to get rid of you.”

  It’s right about now that I realize—like, fully realize—what an idiot I am. He’s telling the truth. Now that I’m actually looking at him, I see that immediately. Big, good-looking blond guys generally don’t need to resort to abducting girls to have their way with them. I want to die. (Now that’s it’s not an option, of course, I want to die.)

  I try to smile at him but the best I can do is make my mouth into a wide, flat rectangle. It’s the same face I used to give my orthodontist when he asked to check my bite. It no doubt makes things worse.

  The guy looks at me and talks in this loud slow voice because by now he’s figured out that I’m an idiot too. “Shelton doesn’t have a hotel. This is the hos-tel. I figured that’s what your boyfriend meant. That’s why I brought you here…I just hope for his sake he had the good sense to take off while he had the chance.”

  The guy’s got very white teeth. They almost glow in the dark. I wish I’d noticed that before. I would have been a lot less likely to think he was a psychopath, had I seen those teeth. (My impression is that homicidal maniacs don’t have a lot of time to spend on dental hygiene.)

  “Look, um,” I say. I’ve always been terrible at apologizing but this is the worst.