The cab pulls up to a house with a large elm tree and a rope swing and a stream flowing right in front of it. The driver gets out to unload the luggage, but the newcomer is too much of a gentleman to let anyone wait on him. He flashes a smile so bright I can’t take my eyes off of his full lips. His eyelashes are so lush and long they seem unreal.
He’s joking with the driver. I lean closer to hear what they’re saying as they unload together. He’s so relaxed, so confident, the kind of person everybody likes to hang with, the kind of person who has his own thoughts, the kind of person who says things you don’t expect.
I could talk to him . . .
But then all at once I understand. I don’t want a piece of someone else’s life . . . I want my own. I want my chance to live my own life my own way.
I leap forward and slip into the driver’s seat. When the driver reaches up to shut the trunk, I pounce on the gas pedal and the feather taxi shoots forward, veering wildly onto the sidewalk. I forgot I have to steer and press the gas pedal at the same time. I get a firm grasp on the wheel and manage to turn the car so it thumps back over the curb and onto the street.
The driver is running after me, waving his short arms. I drive onto the sidewalk on purpose this time to avoid the crowds in the street. Once I’ve made it past the amphitheater, I press the accelerator pedal as far as it will go and fly down the almost deserted street. I look back but the driver is so far behind he’ll never catch up.
Mary Carol totally explained the map to me. I was thinking I’d be on a tram, but the route is almost the same. I know how to get to the inspection station.
What I don’t know is how long it will take the driver to alert the blue security dudes. Can they see the taxi on a radar screen? Am I being watched now? The only people here are clustered around the screens. They aren’t looking at me. But what about the people in Headquarters—the people who run Falling Bird, can they see me?
The driver has left his jacket with Travels with Ed embroidered on it and his cap on the seat next to me along with his paste-on sideburns and beard. I wiggle into the jacket, switching hands on the steering wheel, then use my elbows while I wind my hair up and quickly smash the hat on, catching the wheel again with both hands.
Yes! I am so good at this!
For a few minutes I get caught up in the sheer power of being behind the wheel on the open highway. Driving is so cool! I’m glad I got to try it while there’s still time. “Shut up,” I tell myself. “You’re so totally a fighter, India Tompkins. You can figure this out.”
“Come in, number seventy-seven,” a woman’s voice on the radio blares. “You are making an unauthorized city exit. Please return your vehicle to the garage and report to Vehicle Registration Group. Come in, seventy-seven. It is against regulations to tamper with a vehicle. Please access your radio. We are contacting Human Behavior Group.”
I pull the clock out of my pocket and glance at it. I have three hours and eighteen minutes. I can do anything in three hours and eighteen minutes, right? I grab the radio and switch it off. The car shudders as I floor the gas pedal again.
“In, it’s me! Where have you been?”
Ohmygod! Maddy is on my wrist screen, which has flipped upside down on my arm. I wiggle it around to where I can see the curly hair and sweet eyes of Maddy, my best friend.
“Maddy.” The tears stream down my face. “I miss you,” I sob.
“Well, come back then, In.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. I’ll meet you at Laird’s station.”
Wait. How would Maddy know about Laird? I didn’t tell her about him, did I? Is this even Maddy?
“Maddy,” I whisper as the checkpoint station comes into view in the distance. The gates are closed. The golf carts are parked helter-skelter. “Talk me through this, okay?”
ALL PASSENGER VEHICLES PLEASE SLOW FOR INSPECTION, a sign reads.
“I don’t want to go back there, Maddy. And my clock is running out.”
“Don’t sweat it, In. It’s all good,” Maddy says.
The video screens are like great dancing billboards, like huge cineplex-size TV screens flashing: RED ALERT! RED ALERT! CAB #77 INDIA TOMPKINS.
I’m close enough to hear the speaker system droning in that mechanical voice. “Human Behavior Group is requesting the immediate return of India Tompkins. All Border Group personnel please be aware of a possible vehicle theft. Suspect age fourteen, five foot one, long brown hair.”
“I’m driving right into this, Maddy.”
“Just be like, I’m sorry, officer, I didn’t know.”
“Wait, that’s not true. I do know . . . just like I know you took the ring.”