Wanted (22 page)

I lean close to Jack. “Mr. Johnson can't say no if we don't ask permission.”

Jack looks confused for a few seconds, before the light bulb turns on. Speaking between clenched teeth, he growls, “Steal it? What's wrong with you?” He glares at me. “No. No effing way, Monroe!”

“Listen for one second, will you? We only need the bus to get out of the city. Then we can stop at a used car lot somewhere and buy a cheap car with my debit card. I have like six hundred bucks saved. It's our only chance!”

He rubs his chin silently, which I take to mean he's considering my plan. I need to do my strongest convincing yet or we're never going to do this. “Ten miles out of town you can text Kyle and tell him where they can pick up the bus.” I stare into Jack's eyes, pleading with all my might. “If we don't do it, Bonnie and Clyde will stay in our bodies forever, or worse, maybe even trade places with us! Which would you rather do—steal a bus or die?”

“This sucks. This totally sucks.” He breathes in through his nose, scowling at me for what seems like forever. After a deep breath, he says, “Shit! I don't see any other way, either. Let's do it now before I lose my nerve.” And with that, Jack races the few yards to the bus.

I follow him, climbing the bus stairs two at a time, ecstatic that he agreed to my idea, yet terrified at the same time. I've done a couple of illegal things in my life, but nothing as over the top as this. But strangely, for the first time ever, doing this wrong thing feels right.

Jack hops in the driver's seat, which is good since I can't remember the last time I drove a car, much less a huge fricking school bus. His eyes scan the dials and levers. “It's like a car, only everything's in a different place and bigger.”

“Start it up and let's go!” I crouch down in the front passenger seat, sneaking a peek at Lionel. He's leaning against a pole about thirty feet away, smoking another cigarette. He turns slightly, blowing smoke from his mouth, glancing casually at the bus. He does a double-take, squinting our way. He takes a final drag on his cigarette and stamps it out, strolling toward the bus as if to investigate.

“Don't freak out, Jack, but the bus driver's heading this way.”

“No problem. I can do this,” Jack replies in a Zen-like tone. He bumps a lever, causing the windshield wipers to start up, which scrape noisily across the dry window. “Crap!” He shuts them off and turns the key in the ignition. The engine sputters into life.

This causes Lionel to start running, his huge belly jiggling with each step.

I leap to my feet and pull the red handle, making the door unfold into the locking position.

Lionel arrives seconds later and pounds on the doors. “Hey, get out of there! What the hell are you kids doing?”

“Drive!” I scream at Jack, not able to rein in my terror. So much for being the voice of serenity.

“Let me in
now
!” Saliva globules land on the glass with each word. Lionel presses his face up against the window, flattening his nose and leaving small steam circles from his exhalations.

One of Lionel's thick fingers inches into the crevice between the doors. I squeal and try pushing his fingers back through, but he's strong. “Hurry, Jack!”

“I'm trying, but it won't go.” Jack's voice is steady but rising. “I'm pressing the gas.”

“Check the parking brake!” I screech.

Lionel now has the doors about two inches apart in the center. A few seconds more and he'll have the doors pried far enough apart that they'll open automatically. Not knowing what else to do, I snatch the industrial metal Thermos from the cup holder and pound his fingers. He finally lets go, accompanied by a yelp and a “son of a bitch!”

“I'm so sorry!” I shriek. He winces, trying to shake off the pain. Panic and disgust build inside of me in equal measure. Are we really doing this—stealing a bus? The acid in my stomach rises up my throat, but I swallow it back down. I cannot get sick now.

Lionel cups his hands around his mouth. “Boss! Come quick!”

In the huge side view mirror, I see Mr. Johnson running full-speed alongside the bus, pounding it as he moves toward the door. “What's going on? Stop, stop!”

Jack releases a side lever and pounces on the gas. The bus jolts forward. “That was it!” He pulls into traffic amid a blaring of car horns and screeching tires. Mr. Johnson and Lionel run after us, waving their arms.

I drop the Thermos and watch it clunk down the steps, landing against the door. “Step on it, Jack!”

“Stop yelling at me,” Jack says calmly, pressing the gas gently.

I swallow hard, nodding. “Sorry. You're right.” The bus cruises slowly down Fullerton, heading toward Lake Shore Drive. Please God, let us get away. Please, please, please.

God can't help you now, but Clyde can.

Shut up and go away!

Looking out the back window, I see Mr. Johnson on his phone. I pray he's trying to call Jack to find out what's going on and not the police, but I know I'm fooling myself. Jack plods through the intersection, cars blaring their horns as they whiz past us.

“Maybe I should pull over so you can drive,” he offers.

“There's no time. You're doing fine.” I hope saying it will make it true, even though I'm dying to take over. As little practice as I get driving, I'm way better than Jack. Does he not get that we're in a hurry?

Clyde was the best driver anyone ever saw. He could drive this bus like a pro. He'd be fast, too.

I don't care, Bonnie. Go away!

When Jack veers over the center line, a truck blasts his air horn, making me jump. I bite my lip, praying he doesn't get us into an accident. That would make this the quickest end of a getaway in the history of robberies. He turns, tires squealing, onto Lake Shore Drive, rumbling toward Michigan Avenue. Soon we'll be in the middle of the worst traffic in downtown Chicago, but we've got no choice. This is the most direct route to where we need to go. I perch on the edge of the first row seat, kitty-corner from him. “According to my GPS, the highway's less than three miles. Can't you go
any
faster?” I'm trying not to sound bitchy, but what the hell? We stole a bus and are making a run for it, not going for a scenic Sunday afternoon drive.

“No, I can't go faster.” He brakes hard, the car in front of him a football field away. “Don't you see how heavy traffic is?”

What I see is cars flying past us on both sides. “Just keep up and we'll be fine.”

“What does it matter?” Jack says, sounding miserable. “They're going to catch us as soon as we get stuck in that traffic.”

“Not if we don't pull over.”

“
What's wrong with you?” He glances over his shoulder at me briefly, his face screwed up in anger. “We're not in the movies, Monroe. We can't outrun the cops in a school bus!”

What happened to Jack-Ass, the guy so desperate to get away from the cops at the party that he tried to ditch me? But I can't press this any further and cause Clyde to reappear. “Okay, okay.” I spy a red metal box under the dashboard in the center. “Hey, we could trade up for a car instead. Go down a side street and you can hotwire something smaller.” I kneel down and tug on the heavy toolbox, which is nearly impossible to drag over the rubberized flooring. “What tools you need for that?”

Jack glances down at me, a trickle of sweat rolling down the side of his face. “You're kidding, right? Clyde might be inside of me, but I've never stolen a vehicle in my life.”

I don't point out that he just stole one. “I didn't say you did, but you know
how
to do it, right?” I figure hotwiring a car is a guy thing, same as cutting the lawn and grilling burgers.

Clyde knows how. Stole a million cars. Does it in ten seconds flat, too.

“No, Monroe, I don't know how to hotwire a car. What kind of people do you hang out with anyway?” Jack shoots me a dirty look.

“Fine, forget I asked. Let's just carjack someone instead. Pull in front of someone's car and force the driver to get out.”

“With what? My fists?” His eyes meet mine in the mirror above his head as he cruises through a yellow, but drives so slowly that the light turns red not even halfway across. A guy in a black SUV guns it as soon as his light turns green, nearly hitting us. Horn blasts follow.

I lift a hefty wrench out of the toolbox. “Would this work as a weapon?”

“I don't know, does it work for you? Because
I'm
not doing it.” His eyebrows pinch together in the center. “I'm in enough trouble already.”

My hands grip the wrench tighter. Like I'm not? “Okay, fine! I'll do it then.” The ominous wail of multiple sirens makes me whip around and look out the back window. At first I don't see anything, but when a truck changes lanes, blue flashing lights are only several blocks behind us.

“Are they close?” Jack asks, his voice wavering.

“We have time,” I lie, my tongue feeling as if it's coated with chalk dust. The two cop cars, lights flashing, try to maneuver around the lethargic traffic. My heart pounds, my ears ring. We need to do something fast. “Let's ditch the bus and hide until they pass!”

“Now? On Lake Shore Drive?”

“No, but as soon as we turn onto Michigan. Do it now!” Grabbing the cross on my necklace, I murmur,
Help me, God!
as I watch the cops close the gap between us.

“Oh God. I can't get over. No one will let me in.” Jack grips the steering wheel with both hands, his knuckles white. “I'm sorry, Monroe, but I'm not cut out for this.” His voice cracks, like he might cry. “Let's give ourselves up and hope for the best.”

My brain screams for air. “There is no hope if we get arrested! We'll be sitting in jail when the deadline passes, and then Bonnie and Clyde will share our bodies forever! Make them move.”

He manages to slowly change lanes and maneuver onto Michigan Avenue, where we're met with even more traffic. “Cross this street and then pull over by that red car,” I direct, pointing to where I want him to go.

Jack shakes his head, his forehead slick with sweat. “No, Monroe. Listen to me. We do have a choice. We should turn ourselves in right now, before we rack up any more crimes. Then we can explain—”

“Explain?” I yell, throwing my hands in the air. “Explain what? That we're possessed by Bonnie and Clyde, who've been dead for almost a century? And then ask the cops if they can pretty please drive us to Louisiana right away so we don't die? Come on, Jack! It won't work!”

“You don't know that. Besides, we don't know for sure what will happen at the deadline. It's not worth risking my future over. If you want to keep going, you'll have to do it alone.”

Clyde could get you out of this mess in a blink of an eye.

A high-pitched squeal pierces my eardrum and my chest feels tight. When I try to take a deep breath, the air has become thick, like corn syrup. I claw at my neck, trying to swallow.

Let me breathe, Bonnie.

This time, honey, it's not me.

Part of me wants to let Jack go ahead and pull over. Sit on the curb until the cops come, then hold my hands up and surrender.

But the other part of me knows that if we both don't arrive in Gibsland by 9:10 tomorrow morning, something terrible will happen. For the first time in years, I realize how much I like being Monroe Baker, police record and all. That I might be impulsive, sarcastic, and do lots of stupid things that I later regret, but I want the chance to do better, to try again to make my dad proud of me.
And you too, Mom.
I suck in my lips hard, trying to keep from crying.

The sirens blare loudly, closer now. Black splotches flit at the corners of my vision just as a welcome sight comes into view—the underground parking garage below Millennium Park. “Drive down that ramp! We can hide down there while we figure out another plan!”

Yes! Do it now!

Instead of flooring it down the ramp, Jack stomps on the brakes, tires squealing loudly in protest. My chest slams into the cross bar in the front of me. “No! I won't do it. I'm turning myself in. You run if you want, Monroe, but count me out.”

“No! We
both
need to go to Gibsland. Remember the poem—one day they'll go down
together
? I can't do this alone. I need you, Jack.”

He shakes his head slowly, steering the bus toward the curb. At that moment, I know I need to pull out all the stops or we'll both be half-dead permanently, or worse, tomorrow morning. Win big or go home. I hate what I'm about to do, but I'm out of options.

With a heavy heart, I ratchet up the meanest, evilest, most psychotic face I can muster and grit my teeth. I wrap my fingers around the Goliath-sized wrench from the toolbox and hold it up over my shoulder. In a loud, commanding voice, I yell, “Listen, you pussy! Drive down the fucking ramp
now
or I'll smash your head in!”

His eyes widen and his lips peel backward. “What are—” is all he can get out. He gives me one last traitorous glare before his eyes roll and his shoulders twitch.

“Drive!” I scream in his face.

Jack hits the gas and aims the bus down into the garage, his body still contorting with small jagged motions. I pray I made the right move—if we can survive driving down this ramp without ramming head-on into a parked car at the bottom.

Letting the wrench fall to the floor, I watch in horror as Jack's elbow, then his neck, jerk as if being electrocuted. “I'm so sorry, Jack,” I wail, a hand covering my mouth. “But you left me no choice.”

Atta girl! First bright thing you done all day.

He skims the side of the cement wall, sparks flying as metal meets concrete, making the bus swerve wildly. Jack plunges into the darkness, his driving erratic. Maybe I didn't scare him enough for Clyde to take over. As my eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, the shadowy outlines of a mom and two kids appear fifty feet in front of us. I shout, “Watch out!”