Chasing the Skip Read Free

anything out of the deal. I never had a curfew. Mom would let me leave whenever I wanted and come home when I pleased. And a couple of times a week she didn’t even come home at night herself. She said that’s why I was more responsible: She didn’t give me anything to rebel against.
    I pulled out my notebook again, opening to the page where I left off. Dad and I are headed out to find him another job. Mom still hasn’t called. Maybe if I put that last part in the blog, Mom would see it and call me.
    “At least you’re getting some homework done now,” Dad said. “I’m glad I brought you along today.”
    I smiled.
    “And I don’t think you’re irresponsible. You just need to apply some of that responsibility to your education.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I get it.”
    If Mom could run off, leaving her job and our apartment and all her other responsibilities, I didn’t see why I should keep being the responsible one. Look where all that responsibility got me. Stuck on the road with a father who’d never wanted me and a mother who’d disappeared for a month. The way I saw it, life was easier for irresponsible people.

 
    Denver, Colorado.
    Days since Mom left: 29.
    Distance from Salt Lake City, Utah: 537.14 miles.
    2
    Calvin Zabrinsky owned a bail bond office in downtown Denver. I expected it to be in a seedy neighborhood surrounded by liquor stores, pawn shops, and payday loan places. Instead the office sat in a sleek building with glass walls, right between a psychiatrist and a law firm.
    Dad parked the truck so that it faced the shopping center across the street. When he opened the truck door, the cold October wind slapped me in the face. I unbuckled my seat belt, but Dad shook his head.
    “Wait here,” he said. “This won’t take long.”
    I sighed as Dad disappeared into the building. A girl could only take so much waiting, so I followed him. Dad wouldn’t complain once I got in there—not in front of Cal, anyway.
    I checked my watch. Three o’clock. If Mom hadn’t disappeared, I’d be riding on the back of Jamie’s motorcycle, headed home from school. What would Jamie be doing without me? He’d better not be giving a ride to some other girl. I’d have to e-mail Anna later, to ask her to check up on him.
    I took my time walking across the parking lot to Cal’s office. As I opened the door, a little bell rang over my head. Dad stood across a counter from a football-shaped man. His body sloped to a point at his head and feet, with a big, round belly in between.
    Dad already had his check in hand. Both he and Cal looked at me. They glanced at each other, and then Cal cleared his throat. They were probably talking about me.
    “You must be Ricki,” Cal said, a fake-chipper tone to his voice. “I was just asking Max when he was going to bring you in.”
    I was glad Dad had the sense to go by Max, which was the first part of Maxwell, our last name. Max was a much better bounty-hunter name than Robert, his real first name. Of course, Cal knew both of Dad’s names.
    “Well, here I am,” I said, looking at Dad. “Are you done?”
    Dad shook his head. “Take a seat.” He turned back to Cal. “How about that other job?”
    Cal watched Dad for a second, as if he was trying to decide something. “Okay,” he said. “Just a second.” He disappeared back into his office. Dad took a lollipop out of the basket on the counter and waved it at me. “You want one?” he asked.
    “No, thanks. Mom says you are what you eat.”
    “Candy?” Dad asked.
    “A sucker.”
    Dad smiled. “I walked into that one.”
    I plopped myself down in a seat and picked up a copy of Time magazine. I was behind on the news, but so is Time , since it only comes out once a week. I wondered if Cal’s clients were really that interested in politics. Maybe if Time did a lot of articles about prison reform.
    The cover story in this issue was about a bombing in Afghanistan. The cover had a picture of the secretary of state