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

For a second I worried she might’ve seen my picture on the news. But I was three hundred miles west of Independence. TV stations wouldn’t be showing my picture that far away. Then I realized she was checking us out because we made a weird pair. In western Kansas, a black dude and a white kid traveling together probably wasn’t an everyday event.
    I gave the cashier the money. When I got back outside, I was glad to see that the lady was gone. But her pickup still stood at the pumps.
    While the camper guzzled octane, Sloan gave me a handful of change. “My cell’s not getting a signal. Go find a pay phone and see if you can get through to your mother.” I didn’t want to call her, but it seemed like he wasn’t givingup till I did. “Don’t forget my change on the gas,” he shouted as I went back inside.
    I found a pay phone and dialed 411. Luckily, there was still no listing for Mom. But it was beginning to seem weird. I mean, Sloan had a point. If she was worried about me, why didn’t she have a phone yet? I’d been a runaway for over a day.
    I heard a TV in the walkway to the restaurant. I went over to make sure they weren’t showing me on it.
    The TV was turned to a sports report. It showed baseball highlights as a sportscaster rattled off scores. Then a picture of a ballplayer flashed up on the screen. The sportscaster called him “Ruah Branch” and said that he’d been put on the “fifteen-day DL,” whatever that was. The player’s weird name caught my attention, but it was his picture that froze my blood. It wasn’t the red cap with a big
C
on his head. It wasn’t the long dreadlocks spilling out from under the cap. It was the smile splitting his face. I’d been seeing that smile all day.
    The TV cut to a commercial.
    I jumped as a hand hit my shoulder. It belonged to the woman with the pickup. Her leathery skin was bunched up around a tight smile. “Havin’ a nice vacation, sonny?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” I stepped back, pulling away from her hand. I figured she’d scoped the Pennsylvania plate on the camper.
    â€œThat’s a smart RV you boys got.” She hitched a thumb behind her. “Is that your big brother drivin’ it?”
    â€œNo, ma’am,” I answered with a half laugh. She wasn’tgoing to catch me on that one. “We’re not exactly the same color.”
    Her smile bent tighter. “You don’t say. If he’s not kin”—her head cocked—“who is he?”
    It was creepy how she kept asking questions. I swallowed to buy time. “He’s my coach, my baseball coach,” I tried to keep my voice calm and cool. “He’s taking me to Bible baseball camp.”
    Her eyes ratcheted open. “Bible baseball camp? What’ll they think of next?”
    â€œI dunno, ma’am. I gotta go.”
    Her hand shot forward onto my shoulder again. Her grip was as tight as her smile. “What position do you play?”
    I was no baseball expert, so I didn’t take her bait. “A little of everything.”
    â€œYou pitch, too?”
    â€œA little of everything,” I repeated, wiggling out of her grip.
    She eyeballed my long arms. “With those arms, I bet your fastball hits forty miles an hour.”
    I forced a smile. “On my best days, yeah.”
    Her look told me I’d fallen for the bait anyway. Her eyes gleamed with excitement. “You’re no ballplayer, and he’s no coach. I
know
who he is.”
    I was done being nice. I dodged around her, pushed open the door, and jogged to the camper. “Sloan” was behind the wheel with the motor running. I jumped in. “I know who you are,” I blurted, “and so does someone else!”
    His reaction blew away any chance he really was Sloan. He threw the RV in gear and took off.
    I looked back and saw the lady come outside. She was dialing a