Part 30 (1/2)
”Maybe he can't use his phone for help. He could be in trouble.”
I sit up and look around for my phone. ”I don't know.” It's on the floor beside an unopened bag of salt and vinegar chips, so I reach for it.
”You don't know?” Amy says. ”I thought you were on the phone since we pa.s.sed through the border crossing.”
”I haven't been on my phone at all,” I say, and it's a shock to hear those words come out of my mouth.
”Never mind that!” Adam shouts. ”What about that guy?”
I frown at his profile. Maybe it's not a big deal to him, but it is to me. I turn my phone on. ”I've got one bar,” I tell him.
”One? I don't have any. We should go back and help that guy.”
”What if he's a deranged murderer?” I ask and reach for the bag of chips. I'm not hungry but something salty can't hurt. I rip the bag open with my teeth and the smell of vinegar immediately fills my nose.
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J a n e t G u r t l e r ”What if he's not?” Adam says. ”What if he's just a dude who needs help?”
”Adam,” Amy says. ”There is absolutely no way we are picking up a hitchhiker. Have you not watched any scary movies? Do you not know that three teenagers on a remote highway are not supposed to pick up hitchhikers? Like ever. He's probably a serial killer. I'm not about to die now after all of this.”
I nod agreement, dip my hand into the bag, and pull out a hand- ful of greasy chips.
”What are the statistical probabilities that guy is a serial killer?
How many serial killers are there, really? Maybe thirty out of three billion people? What's the likelihood he's one?”
”We are not picking up a hitchhiker!” Amy shouts.
My mouth stops right in the middle of chewing chips. Adam and I both stare at her.
”Wow.” Adam says after a silence. ”You seem a little bitter, Amy.
I didn't know you were so against hitchhikers.”
She waves her hand in the air. ”Chips.”
I hand her the bag of chips.
”I hate statistics,” she says. ”And I don't believe you should put yourself in danger if you don't have to.” She puts the bag on the console and scoops out a handful and dumps the pile on her lap.
Then she takes one and shoves the whole thing in her mouth.
”What about people who look away?” Adam says. ”So many crimes are committed right in front of people and they don't even help or report them. It's a frigging epidemic. No one wants to get involved.”
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1 6 t h i n g s i t h o u g h t w e r e t r u e ”People always think it's not going to be them,” Amy says, ”that things only happen to other people. Well, life doesn't happen that way. Look at Morgan. What's the statistical probability her video would go viral? How many people try and never succeed to do that? It's like winning a lottery, only for Morgan it was a bad one.”
”True story.” I wipe my greasy hands on my pants and reach to the floor for a c.o.ke. Amy's not done though.
”What are the statistical probabilities that Morgan would never know who her dad was until she was eighteen? And never mind the statistical probability that I'd live past my survival rate.”
Boom. The words bounce with physical force. A bee splats against the winds.h.i.+eld, leaving behind a streak of bright yellow.
Adam reaches for the radio, turns it off. The hitchhiker is a dis- tant memory.
”Survival rate for what?” Adam asks.
I lean forward so my face is in the middle of them in the front seat.
Amy's cheeks are red, and she keeps her eyes on the road and swal- lows the last of her chip. ”Nothing.” She presses her lips together. ”I didn't mean to say that.”
”Amy,” I tell her in a gentle but firm voice, ”pull over.”
”No.” She shoves another chip in her mouth. ”Forget it. Forget I said anything. I didn't mean to.”
She's clearly fl.u.s.tered. There's practically smoke coming off her cheeks.
”Amy,” Adam says. ”As your boss, I insist you pull over.”
”You are not the boss of this road trip,” she says, but the car is already slowing down, and she puts the signal on, moves to the shoulder of the road, and puts on her hazard blinkers.
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J a n e t G u r t l e r ”I really don't want to talk about it,” she says with both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.
We wait.
”Cancer, okay?”
I point at the field beside us. ”Come on,” I say. Someone has to take charge. ”We're going for a walk.” It's not drizzling anymore, but the shoulders are muddy.
”There's a herd of cows over there.” Adam points to a herd of black cows in the field beside the road. The only thing keeping them from crossing onto the highway is a wire fence.
”Screw cows, Adam,” I say. ”The girl had cancer. You can face down some living steaks.”
”I don't want to make a big deal about it.” Amy is still gripping the wheel. ”I only wanted to make my point that my mom and dad refused to believe the stats. Because they were pretty grim.”
I open the back door. ”Well, maybe you did a little, 'cause it came out. And I'm glad it did.” I climb out and bend down, holding the door. ”How come you can casually mention masturbation, pee on the side of a highway, but forget to mention you had cancer?” I slam my door then and walk to the driver's side and open her door.
I'm shocked Amy's kept such a big secret.