Sanctuary Read Free Page B

… what do they call them, again? I saw it on
Sixty Minutes
. Oh, yes. A gang tag. I mean, I’m sure it’s not. But what if it is?”
    “I can’t get the notes tomorrow,” I said. “Joanne’s going to her grandma’s tomorrow. Tonight’s the only time I can get them.”
    “Hush,” my mom said.
    “Reefer today,” Great-aunt Rose said, shaking her head. “Heroin tomorrow.”
    “You don’t know anybody named Joanne,” Douglas leaned over to whisper in my ear.
    “Mom,” I said, ignoring Douglas. Which was kind of mean, on account of it had taken a lot for him even to come down to dinner at all. Douglas is not what you’d call the most sociable guy. In fact, antisocial is more the word for it, really. But he’s gotten a little better since he started a job at a local comic book store. Well, better for him, anyway.
    “Come on, Mom,” I said. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.” This was a total lie, but I was hoping that she’d be so busy with her guests and everything, she wouldn’t even notice I wasn’t home yet.
    “Jessica,” my dad said, signaling for me to help him start gathering people’s plates. “You’ll miss pie.”
    “Save a piece of each for me,” I said, reaching out to grab the plates nearest me, then following him into the kitchen. “Please?”
    My dad, after rolling his eyes at me a little, finally tilted his head toward the driveway. So I knew it was okay.
    “Take Ruth with you,” my dad said, as I was pulling my coat down from its hook by the garage door.
    “Aw, Dad,” I said.
    “You have a learner’s permit,” my dad said. “Not a license. You may not get behind the wheel without a licensed driver in the passenger seat.”
    “Dad.” I thought my head was going to explode. “It’s Thanksgiving. There is no one out on the streets. Even the cops are at home.”
    “It’s supposed to snow,” he said.
    “The forecast said tomorrow, not tonight.” I tried to look my most dependable. “I will call you as soon as I get there, and then again, right before I leave. I swear.”
    “Well, Joe.” Mr. Lippman walked into the kitchen. “May I extend my compliments to the chef? That was the best Thanksgiving dinner I’ve had in ages.”
    My dad looked pleased. “Really, Burt? Well, thank you. Thank you so much.”
    “Dad,” I said, standing by the heart-shaped key peg by the garage door.
    My dad barely looked at me. “Take your mother’s car,” he said to me. Then, to Mr. Lippman, he went, “You didn’t think the mashed potatoes were a little too garlicky?”
    Victorious, I snatched my mom’s car keys—on a Girl Scout whistle key chain, in case she got attacked in the parking lot at Wal-Mart; no one had ever gotten attacked there before, but you never knew. Besides, everybody had gotten paranoid since Mastriani’s burnt down, even though they’d caught the perps—and I bolted.
    Free at last
, I thought, as I climbed behind the wheel of her Volkswagen Rabbit.
Free at last. Thank God almighty, I am free at last
.
    Which is an actual historical quote from a famous person, and probably didn’t really apply to the current situation. But believe me, if you’d been cooped up all evening with Great-aunt Rose, you’d have thought it, too.
    About the license thing. Yeah, that was kind of funny, actually. I was virtually the only junior at Ernie Pyle High who didn’t have a driver’s license. It wasn’t because I wasn’t old enough, either. I just couldn’t seem to pass the exam. And not because I can’t drive. It’s just this whole, you know, speed limit thing. Something happens to me when I get behind the wheel of a car. I don’t know what it is. I just need—I mean really
need
—to go fast. It must be like a hormonal thing, like Mike and Claire Lippman, because I fully can’t help it.
    So really, my parents have no business letting me use the car. I mean, if I got into a wreck, no way was their insurance going to cover the damages.
    But the thing was,