Clean Getaway: Chapters 1–8

Dad’s not a fan; says it “grates” on him because it’s the one reminder of G’ma’s past smoking days “and potential future lung cancer,” but it reminds Scoob of elementary school days playing card games she taught him that he wasn’t supposed to know the rules for—like Texas Hold’em and blackjack.

“Oh you hush,” she says. “Speaking of which, you never said if you liked my new sweet ride or not. That’s what you kids call it these days, right? A sweet ride?” She says it in a way that makes her sound like a smarmy used-car salesman with oil-slicked hair.

Truthfully, when G’ma popped up out of the blue and asked if Scoob wanted to “go on a little adventure,” he was too geeked at the thought of a loophole in his punishment to give much thought to anything else, their destination included.

“Sure did. Fetched a pretty penny for it, too. God bless home equity and hipsters lookin’ to 'revitalize' or whatever the heck they’re calling it.”

“Sure did. Fetched a pretty penny for it, too. God bless home equity and hipsters lookin’ to 'revitalize' or whatever the heck they’re calling it.”

Drake has epilepsy—which was never a big deal until Bryce’s antics began.

Drake has epilepsy—which was never a big deal until Bryce’s antics began.

“Then he said, ‘Too bad it’s not the type where he shakes and his tongue falls out...’ And he stuck his big, ugly tongue out and pretended to convulse. Shenice jumped up and said something I won’t repeat, and then Bryce looked at her like the evil villains do in the cartoons just before they hurt people. When he took a step toward her, I—” Scoob sighs.

“You can’t react violently to someone else’s words. Especially someone like Bryce. When boys like you”—he pointed to the brown back of Scoob’s hand—“hit boys like him”—he opened his own hand and pointed to his pale palm—“the punishment is harsher and the fallout infinitely worse, William.”

He shakes his head. “Not really. He used to tell me he had faith in me all the time, but now he acts like I’m some hardened delinquent. It’s like he thinks there’s no hope for me or something. Won’t even look me in the eye anymore. Especially since that other incident.”

By the time Scoob and G’ma have “set up camp”—aka parked the RV at their “campsite” in the hills of Alabama’s Cheaha State Park and connected G’ma’s fancy water filter and hose to the spigot at their campsite so they won’t run through what’s in the RV’s fresh water tank—the drooping sun has turned the sky the colors of Scoob’s favorite fruit: a sweet Georgia peach.

She sets a wooden box on the picnic table in front of Scoob. The hinged lid is ornately carved, and it’s about the size of his school math book.

As soon as he was tall enough—age seven-ish?—he reached up and touched the lacquered side just because...well, because he wasn’t supposed to touch it.

The highest point in Alabama is scrawled above the spot of green.

He never questioned it before because Dad always said the old man had been a "nonentity" since before Dad was actually born.

Really, the only time Dad ever brings G’pop up is to say, "No son of mine will become a low-life criminal like my father!" when he’s going off on Scoob about some "infraction" or another.

G’ma appears from behind the RV, clad in camo—the kind that looks like a forest floor—from the cap on her head to the top of her orthopedic Velcro sneakers.

G’ma appears from behind the RV, clad in camo—the kind that looks like a forest floor—from the cap on her head to the top of her orthopedic Velcro sneakers.

He lets the curtain drop, too confused to do anything but sit on the bed with his eyebrows furrowed.

G’ma doesn’t expound. Which is fine.

She turns, and her blue eyes rove over Scoob’s face in a way they never have before.

As G’ma seethes, Scoob stares at her little hands on the steering wheel, then down at his own.

State Motto: “By valor and arms.”

The trail is right behind him. He could hop onto it and trek right on back to the RV, which, relative to his present surroundings, is the world’s lushest palace full of what Dad would call “first-world luxuries.”

This is when Scoob actually takes a gander at their surroundings.

There’s even a spot smack in the center where a bunch of medium-to-large rocks have been arranged in a haphazard ring.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” G’ma takes Scoob’s hands and slowly lowers herself to the ground. “Now hand me that trinket box from your bag, and then you sit with your back against mine, so we’re both supported.”

G’ma murmurs something incoherent, and then Scoob hears a mechanical creak as she shifts in her bed.

“G’ma, what made you marry a criminal?”
“Say what now?” Flabbergasted.

Scoob doesn’t reply.
“Well?” G’ma prods.