grandpa died on that same stretch of highway.
I decide that tomorrow I’ll follow up with Mom, see if there’s anything from Grandpa’s life that might give me a hint that’ll help me figure out what’s going on now, in mine.
When I go back inside, I accidentall y bump into Annabelle, but thankfull y she doesn’t bark, just whimpers, circles around herself a couple times, and then settles down and drifts back to sleep.
Unlike her, it takes me a little while to doze off, then, when I wake up again, she’s licking my face. I push her away and roll over. Sunlight washes through the room and, sitting up, I hear Mr. Schuster in the kitchen asking my friends if they want chocolate chip or blueberry pancakes.
Chocolate chips all around.
After breakfast, as we gather our things, Kyle starts riffing on candy bars—maybe because he now has chocolate on the brain. “Shouldn’t fun size and party size be the same size? I mean, who came up with the idea that fun size and party size are antonyms ? And why is the smallest size ‘fun’? That makes absolutely no sense. No sense at all.”
“Good use of the word ‘antonym,’” I tell him.
“Thanks.” He digs through his duffel bag and comes up with a can of Red Bull. “Now, time to get my energy drink ready.”
“Your special concoction.”
“Nothing else comes close.”
“But you didn’t stay up for thirty-nine hours.”
“If at first you don’t succeed.” He cracks it open.
“Right.”
I email my mom, asking her to send me any pictures she has of Grandpa when he was a boy, then we say goodbye to Mr. Schuster, and Nicole pets Annabelle, who slobberingly licks her one last time.
She jerks her hand back. I’m guessing she’s thinking of Kyle’s story.
I know I am.
Then, we’re on our way again.
This time for Atlanta.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Malcolm’s plane landed in Atlanta.
In order to keep everything discreet, he made sure Tane wasn’t able to tell exactly where they drove after they left the airport.
He got him situated on level B3 at the center.
Then left to track down Daniel.
The day goes by fast.
There’s a ton of traffic around Atlanta and it seems like every street is named “Peachtree” or something close to it, so that makes things even more confusing.
To get to Sue Ellen’s place we have to take Peach Avenue to Peachtree Circle, before ending up in the Peach Grove Estates subdivision.
Man, they must like their peaches down here.
The traffic puts us behind schedule, but eventually, right around seven, we locate her house.
It’s a nondescript, beige, two-story home with a small deck in the back.
A cit y park with some wooded trails lies across the street.
Two baseball diamonds radiate out from a centrally located playground and basketball court, and a man on a riding lawnmower is cutting the grass on one of the ball fields.
The smell of freshly cut grass drifts toward us as we get out of the car and step into the Georgia humidity, which Mia complains about right away.
“At least it’s not snowing,” Nicole says encouragingly, since Mia likes snow about as much as she likes dogs. “It could be worse.”
“Snow might actually be preferable to four hundred percent humidity.”
One of the neighbors must be grilling because the smell of charcoal mixes in with the scent of grass clippings and it’s almost as if someone has chosen two of the most classic smells of summer and threaded them through this neighborhood at the same time.
All we need is some coconut-scented suntan lotion and we’d be three for three.
Sue Ellen swoops out to meet us in the driveway.
“How was y’all’s trip?” she asks with a big smile and a sweet southern accent.
“Good.” Mia isn’t a hugger, but she puts up with her aunt’s rather gregarious embrace without complaining. “It’s nice to be here.”
We all introduce ourselves, then Sue Ellen says, “You must be tired!”
With her accent it sounds like “tarred” and it
I decide that tomorrow I’ll follow up with Mom, see if there’s anything from Grandpa’s life that might give me a hint that’ll help me figure out what’s going on now, in mine.
When I go back inside, I accidentall y bump into Annabelle, but thankfull y she doesn’t bark, just whimpers, circles around herself a couple times, and then settles down and drifts back to sleep.
Unlike her, it takes me a little while to doze off, then, when I wake up again, she’s licking my face. I push her away and roll over. Sunlight washes through the room and, sitting up, I hear Mr. Schuster in the kitchen asking my friends if they want chocolate chip or blueberry pancakes.
Chocolate chips all around.
After breakfast, as we gather our things, Kyle starts riffing on candy bars—maybe because he now has chocolate on the brain. “Shouldn’t fun size and party size be the same size? I mean, who came up with the idea that fun size and party size are antonyms ? And why is the smallest size ‘fun’? That makes absolutely no sense. No sense at all.”
“Good use of the word ‘antonym,’” I tell him.
“Thanks.” He digs through his duffel bag and comes up with a can of Red Bull. “Now, time to get my energy drink ready.”
“Your special concoction.”
“Nothing else comes close.”
“But you didn’t stay up for thirty-nine hours.”
“If at first you don’t succeed.” He cracks it open.
“Right.”
I email my mom, asking her to send me any pictures she has of Grandpa when he was a boy, then we say goodbye to Mr. Schuster, and Nicole pets Annabelle, who slobberingly licks her one last time.
She jerks her hand back. I’m guessing she’s thinking of Kyle’s story.
I know I am.
Then, we’re on our way again.
This time for Atlanta.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Malcolm’s plane landed in Atlanta.
In order to keep everything discreet, he made sure Tane wasn’t able to tell exactly where they drove after they left the airport.
He got him situated on level B3 at the center.
Then left to track down Daniel.
The day goes by fast.
There’s a ton of traffic around Atlanta and it seems like every street is named “Peachtree” or something close to it, so that makes things even more confusing.
To get to Sue Ellen’s place we have to take Peach Avenue to Peachtree Circle, before ending up in the Peach Grove Estates subdivision.
Man, they must like their peaches down here.
The traffic puts us behind schedule, but eventually, right around seven, we locate her house.
It’s a nondescript, beige, two-story home with a small deck in the back.
A cit y park with some wooded trails lies across the street.
Two baseball diamonds radiate out from a centrally located playground and basketball court, and a man on a riding lawnmower is cutting the grass on one of the ball fields.
The smell of freshly cut grass drifts toward us as we get out of the car and step into the Georgia humidity, which Mia complains about right away.
“At least it’s not snowing,” Nicole says encouragingly, since Mia likes snow about as much as she likes dogs. “It could be worse.”
“Snow might actually be preferable to four hundred percent humidity.”
One of the neighbors must be grilling because the smell of charcoal mixes in with the scent of grass clippings and it’s almost as if someone has chosen two of the most classic smells of summer and threaded them through this neighborhood at the same time.
All we need is some coconut-scented suntan lotion and we’d be three for three.
Sue Ellen swoops out to meet us in the driveway.
“How was y’all’s trip?” she asks with a big smile and a sweet southern accent.
“Good.” Mia isn’t a hugger, but she puts up with her aunt’s rather gregarious embrace without complaining. “It’s nice to be here.”
We all introduce ourselves, then Sue Ellen says, “You must be tired!”
With her accent it sounds like “tarred” and it
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