Just as I reach the top of the heap, the front door of the truck slams. I look back, ushering Tawni, Adele, Roc, and Trevor past me and behind the mountainous pile. The engine rumbles to life. Just before following, I glance back once more to find one of the guys hooking around the back of the truck. Without thinking, I dive down the smelly hill, tumbling head over heels, knocking into someone, bouncing off, and then knocking into another someone.
Arms and legs are tangled in a mess of limbs. There’s a head in my armpit, and my face is near someone’s feet—Trevor’s, I think, by the look of them. We’re all frozen in place, none of us crying out or complaining or so much as breathing while we silently pray the man didn’t see or hear us.
There’s a thud, presumably when the guy mounts the truck bed, and then a click and a clatter, as he rolls the door down, casting us into darkness.
“Good to go!” he yells, and then the truck lurches back, the bags of garbage shifting slightly from the rear acceleration. I finally risk a breath, but still don’t speak, expecting the truck to slam to a halt, the door to fly open, the men to come at us with big guns. We do stop, but only because the truck has reversed out, and is now ready to move forward. With a harsh roar, the truck shoots forward, and we’re thrown back into the trash pile.
“Get your armpit outta my head!” Roc hisses.
“Your head’s in my armpit,” I retort.
“Someone’s foot is in my face,” Adele whispers.
“Sorry!” Tawni says.
“This is foul,” Roc says.
With the truck door closed, we’re locked in a steel box, the air thickening with each passing second. The stench is so strong it’s almost like I’m eating it with each breath. Every few breaths I gag, wishing I could throw up, but knowing the others would never let me live it down.
“Are we there yet?” Trevor asks after a few minutes.
“I truly hope you’re not going to ask that every five minutes,” Roc says.
“Maybe every ten,” Trevor says, his smile obvious, even in the dark.
We’re probably talking too much, but it’s comforting to hear my friends’ voices in the dark, and the drone of the engine is more than sufficient to drown out any sound we make before it reaches the driver’s ears.
“I feel unclean,” Roc says after a few minutes of silence.
“Join the club,” I agree.
“Are we there—” Trevor starts.
“No!” the four of us say collectively.
“Okay, no need to get so testy. I was just checking.”
“What’s the plan when we get there?” Adele says, thinking ahead, as usual.
“Not get killed?” Roc suggests.
“That’s a good start,” I say dryly. “Look, when the truck stops I’d say it’s highly unlikely we’ll be able to get out without being seen…”
“So we’ll have to fight our way out,” Adele says.
“Exactly.”
“You children can stay in the back while I take care of it,” Trevor says.
“Just like you took care of things with your crowd-surfing dismount?” Roc says.
“That wasn’t my fault!” Trevor says.
Although the banter between Roc and Trevor should put a smile on my face, it doesn’t. Instead, a lump forms in my throat. I swallow a few times, but it refuses to be dislodged. A dark cloud settles over me—not one of stinky garbage, although that’s there too, but of untold truths and sadness. The silent truth: one that Roc and I have held onto since I was fifteen, since right before my mother disappeared. The sadness: that I haven’t told Adele, or Trevor and Tawni for that matter. They deserve to know, not only because they volunteered for the dangerous mission we’re on, but because they’re good people. Eventually, the world needs to know, but first they should.
“I’ve got something I have to tell you,” I say, my voice shaky. My skin is tingly and hot, and my heart races as I prepare to unleash the burden that’s been weighing on me for over two years now.
“This isn’t the right time,” Adele says, to my surprise.
“But you don’t even know—”
“It doesn’t matter what it is, I know now is not the right time.”
“Then when?” I say, still shocked that Adele wants me to wait even longer to give her information she knows I’ve been keeping from her since we met.
“After this is over.”
“What you are guys talking about?” Trevor asks.
Ignoring him, I say, “That’s too long. I have to do it before we get to the President. It will help you all to know what you’re fighting against and what you’re fighting for.”
“We already know that,” Adele says. “We’re fighting against evil, against injustice, against all that’s wrong in the world we live in. We’re fighting for each other, for our friends, for our families.”
“But there’s more to it,” I say.
“Now that we’ve got a ride, we’re ahead of schedule,” Roc points out. “There are places we can stop between the subchapters to rest, plan, and talk.” Roc to the rescue. He’s the only other one in our party who knows the truth—the importance of getting it out.
“Okay. Can you wait until then, Tristan?” Adele asks, her voice comforting in the dark.
“I can do that,” I say.
“Damn. I was hoping for story time in the hot, stinky pile of garbage,” Trevor says. “Whatever you’re keeping from us, it had better be good after all this talk about it.”
“Trust me,” I say, “it’s good.”
Chapter Fifteen
Adele
When the door opens we’re ready, Tristan on one side, me on the other, and Trevor, who volunteered for the job, right in the middle. Drums beat and cymbals clang in the distance. Curious, I think.
“What the—” we hear a deep voice say when light floods the inside of the garbage truck.
Trevor’s voice is innocent, the usual confidence and smartness stripped from it. “I must’ve gotten on the wrong bus,” he says. “Is this the Laguna Club?”
What “the Laguna Club” is, or whether it even exists, I don’t know. What I do know: Tristan’s giving me the signal, one finger up, meaning it’s time for action.
I swing out from my hiding spot behind the edge of the truck, whipping my boot around like a club, changing my direction slightly when I see the exact position of the big-eyed, wide-mouthed guy. Tristan’s moving, too, lunging like a battering ram headfirst, his body a blur. My foot hits the guy’s jaw about the same time Tristan’s plows into his chest. Close enough anyway.
I follow through, landing on two feet and one balancing palm, swiveling my head to scan the area around us, which is full of trucks but empty of humans. There’s a punching sound, because, well, Tristan’s punching the guy in the head, either knocking him senseless, or knocking some sense into him, I’m not sure which. When he gets to his feet the guy’s not moving.
A door slams, echoing through the aluminum garage, vibrating off the steel support girders and piping that run along the ceiling. “The driver,” I whisper, as the clop of feet on concrete approach.
Trevor hops off the truck bed, his lips curled into a grin. “I’m not letting you have all the fun,” he says, accelerating around the corner. As I start to chase him, a man says, “Who the he—” and then the hollow ring of flesh meeting the thin metal side of the truck.
By the time I catch up, the guy’s flat on his back, his head lolled to the side, his tongue bleeding and hanging partway from his mouth. “I think he bit his tongue when he accidentally ran face first into the truck,” Trevor says.
“Nice work,” I say.
“Why thank you.”
“Is there anyone else here?” Tristan asks, striding up.
“They’d be all over us if there was,” I say. “Trevor’s method of subduing this guy wasn’t exactly discreet.”
“Everyone’s a critic,” Trevor says.