You Don't Know About Me by Brian Meehl Page A

and I gladly took it. As we drove south he must’ve caught me sucking up the peanut butter smell coming from the back of the camper because he suggested I make a sandwich. I didn’t hesitate. It was fun trying to keep the peanut butter and jam jars from sliding off the counter as we drove. I took my sandwich up front; it was the best PB&J I’d ever eaten.
    When I was done, I told him I’d made up my mind. I was going to Colorado.
    He glanced at his cell phone on the console. “If you’re going that far, don’t you think you should let your mom know?”
    â€œLast time I tried she still hadn’t gotten a phone.”
    â€œThat was a few hours ago.” He pushed the phone toward me. “I’m sure she wants to know you’re safe.”
    â€œWhat makes you sure I’m safe?” I asked, trying to change the subject. “Colorado’s a long ways. Anything could happen.”
    â€œTrue,” he said. “But you’re safe for now, ’cause I’m packin’.”
    The hairs on my neck prickled. “You have a gun?”
    â€œOf course.” He slipped off his shades and gave me a sketchy look. “Doesn’t every black dude? Wanna see it?”
    I shook my head. “Not really.”
    He waved a hand at the glove compartment. “Go ahead. It’s in there.”
    My fingers were sweaty as I pulled the compartment handle and it dropped open. There was no flash of silver or black steel. There was just a worn book. “It’s a Bible.”
    He laughed at his twisted joke. “That’s right. You’re packin’ and I’m packin’. It’s the only weapon I’ll ever need.”
    I shut the glove compartment harder than I meant to. “Why’d you do that?”
    â€œYou mean freak you out?”
    â€œYeah.”
    He slid his sunglasses back on. “I was checkin’ you for coolant.”
    â€œCoolant?”
    â€œYeah. You gotta check a radiator to make sure it’s got enough coolant. You gotta check a person to see if he’s got cool.” He smiled. “You got it.”
    â€œThanks. But why do you care if I’m cool?”
    â€œÂ â€™Cause if I’m gonna drive someone west the rest of the day, they gotta be cool.”
    â€œYou’d do that?”
    â€œLike I said before, right now I’m just going where the road leads.”
    I didn’t exactly know
who
I was riding with, but the way I looked at it, it didn’t matter. If there was one thing I’d learned in those past few days it was this: you can ride with someone all your life and not really know who they are.

9
Busted
    I borrowed the road atlas Sloan had in his door pocket and looked in the index for St. Petersburg, Colorado. It wasn’t listed. St. Petersburg had to be so tiny, it wasn’t on the map. I noticed the latitude and longitude on the edge of the Colorado map and matched them up with what I could remember of the numbers I’d found in the new set of
Huck Finn
chapters. St. Petersburg was somewhere in the northeast corner of the state.
    After we got back on I-70, the rumpled quilt of field and rangeland began to smooth out. We were almost to the town of Hays when we stopped for gas. Pulling into a big truck stop, Sloan stopped at the pump farthest from the mini-mart and restaurant. He handed me some cash and asked me to go pay for the gas. I wondered why he didn’t use a credit card, and why he wanted me to go inside, but I didn’t ask. I had other things to worry about.
    I looked up through the windshield. A security camera pointed down at the camper. I didn’t know how hard the police and Mom might be looking for me. I pulled my baseball cap out of my backpack and slipped it on. Heading for the mini-mart, I walked toward a woman gassing up her pickup. She stared at the camper. I looked back. Sloan had put on a cowboy hat.
    When I passed her, she checked me out, too.