The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys Read online

  THE

  LAST GREAT

  GETAWAY

  of the

  WATER BALLOON BOYS

  THE

  LAST GREAT

  GETAWAY

  of the

  WATER BALLOON BOYS

  SCOTT WILLIAM CARTER

  NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY

  For Heidi,

  who always believed

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people,

  or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents

  are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events

  or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Scott William Carter

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases,

  please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at

  1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

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  Book design by Tom Daly

  The text for this book is set in Gilgamesh.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Carter, Scott William.

  The last great getaway of the Water Balloon Boys / Scott William Carter. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When sixteen-year-old Charlie, an excellent student, and his former

  best friend Jake take off on an ill-conceived trip from Oregon to Denver in

  their principal’s car, the results of the choices they make while on the road have

  profound effects on both their futures.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-7156-6 (hardcover)

  [1. Coming of age—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction. 3. Voyages and travels—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. Crime—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.C2482Las 2010

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008052423

  ISBN 978-1-4169-8250-0 (eBook)

  Acknowledgments

  There is no way to thank all the people who helped make the publication of this book possible, but I’d like to single out a few. Special thanks to David Gale and Navah Wolfe, the best editors a first-time novelist could have. To Rachel Vater, my incomparable literary agent, for staying up until the wee hours of the morning reading it that first time—I couldn’t have signed with anyone else after that. Both thanks and admiration to Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith, consummate professionals, and the greatest mentors a writer could ever have. Thank you to all the attendees of the OCPFW novel workshop, especially Phaedra Weldon and Leslie Claire Walker. To my parents, for never discouraging my daydreaming. And of course, my eternal gratitude to my first reader and the love of my life, Heidi Carter, for both her unflagging enthusiasm and her unflinching honesty on not just this manuscript, but on all of my writing; I needed both, honey. Thank you.

  chapter one

  If I’m going to tell you how I killed this kid, I can’t start on the day it happened. It won’t make any sense, and you’ll just think I was some psycho teenage boy with glue for brains. No, the whole thing really started three days earlier, on Monday, which made it bad straight off. It was also raining, which made it even worse.

  In fact, it was raining so hard that my tennis shoes were soaked before I even walked two blocks from our house. Not just kind of wet, either, but really soaked in that way your socks get all squishy and your feet make those mucky sounds each time you take a step. Muck, muck, muck, all through the halls, everybody staring at you like you’ve just turned into a human squid. Back then, before all the crazy stuff happened, most kids looked at me as if I was a human squid anyway. I figured that’s what they’d put in the senior yearbook, if they remembered to put anything in there about me at all: Charlie Hill, Most Likely to Be a Human Squid for the Rest of His Life.

  If it sounds bad, that’s because it was. If you want to read a nice, happy little story where everything turns out all neat and tidy in the end, you should go read some Hardy Boys or something. This isn’t that kind of story.

  Not that everything that happened that Monday was bad. About halfway to the school, I realized I had probably missed the bus on purpose.

  Somewhere in the foggy parts of my brain I must have known that getting on the bus meant I was also going to get off the bus, and that there was a very good chance Leo Gonzalez would be waiting for me when I did. He may not have had brains, but he wasn’t the sort of guy who told you he was going to rip off your face and feed it to his gerbils unless he was really going to do it. So missing the bus meant that I was going to be late for school, but it also meant I wouldn’t show up when and where he’d expect me.

  It was the first thing that morning that made me smile.

  People driving to work must have thought I looked pretty strange, squishing along like a human squid, a big smile on my face.

  It didn’t last long, though. I was still pretty certain I was going to get my face ripped off at some point that day, and it was hard to smile for long when you were wondering how you were going to look with no face.

  The rain was not the first bad thing to happen to me that Monday. The first bad thing was when I came down that morning and there was Mom sitting at the kitchen table with her boyfriend, Rick the Accountant, holding hands, both of them smiling like two people in a Viagra commercial.

  I was already worried about Leo, and them smiling at me just made me even more worried. They had all the blinds open, and it was so bright my eyes watered, so bright no sane person would have thought it would be raining in less than half an hour.

  “Sleep well, sport?” Rick said.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, rooting around in the cabinet for a Pop-Tart. I tried not to actually speak words to him.

  “Big day at school?” he said. “How’s the prom? Got a date lined up?”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  “Honey, be nice,” Mom said. “Rick has something important to say.”

  I was biting down into a strawberry Pop-Tart, my back to them, and Mom’s tone made me freeze. Oh God, I thought, they were getting married. For the rest of my childhood, I’d have to listen to Rick the Accountant calling me sport. I was already sixteen, and really only a year and a half away from freedom on account of me being bumped up a grade when I was eight, but a year seemed like a hell of a long time to be called sport every day.

  I felt a little like Mom had just pointed a gun at my back and said, “Stick ’em up.” Slowly, waiting for the bullet that would change the rest of my life, I turned around.

  Mom already looked like Martha Stewart, so much that people sometimes asked her in the supermarket for decorating advice, but sitting right behind the vase of fresh roses (no doubt Rick’s doing), she looked even more like Martha. Rick was smiling, but he had one of those smiles that made him look like he was in pain. With his narrow face, tiny eyes, and slicked-back brown hair, he reminded me of a ferret.

  “Well, sport,” he said. “I was wondering, well . . .�
� He looked at Mom.

  She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Go ahead, dear.”

  “Yes, well, it seems you and I have never had the privilege of spending any time together. And I thought, if you were game, you might like to . . . uh, accompany me on a little outing. So we can get to know each other a little. Just the two of us.”

  It was like he was speaking Martian. “Huh?” I said.

  “He wants to know if you want to go camping with him, dear,” Mom said.

  “Yes, right,” Rick said. “That’s it exactly. Just somewhere in western Oregon. Not too far.”

  “Camping?” I said. “Like, in a tent?”

  “Sure, sure,” Rick said.

  “In the outdoors and everything?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “But why?”

  Rick was a pretty unflappable guy, but this seemed to confuse him. He looked at Mom, who smiled at him reassuringly, then gave me one of those now I’m going to explain it all so you can understand it looks of hers.

  “I thought it would be a good idea, dear,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “You two should get to know each other better.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’d make me happy. You see, Rick and I are getting married.”

  Pow. Mom fired the gun after all.

  I reached the gray slab of concrete that was West Rexton High at five after eight, which meant I was twenty minutes late. I’ve seen a lot of ugly buildings over the years, but I’d still say our school was the ugliest one ever constructed. It looked like someone had started to design a building that was merely ugly, then got depressed halfway through at how ugly it was and gave up, making it look not only ugly, but ugly and unfinished. There was gray concrete, rusting steel-rimmed windows, and scuffed-up metal doors on all sides.

  The rain let up right when I reached the school. It couldn’t have been timed any better to make sure I received maximum soakage. Standing there, my hand on the cold door handle, my heart was pounding so hard I thought I might pass out. Leo could be lurking anywhere. When I was sure no one was looking, I opened the door and hurried down the shadowy hallway lined with lockers, ducking under the windows on the doors of each classroom, until I reached the boys’ bathroom. Muck, muck, muck, my soggy shoes were so loud on the tiles I cringed with each step.

  Luckily, nobody was in there. The bathroom was divided into two rooms, the outer one for the circular sink, the inner one for the urinals and the toilets, a swinging door separating them. I went into the first stall, slipped off my backpack, and sat down on the edge of the toilet seat with the backpack on my lap.

  My clothes felt like they were glued to my skin. Now all I had to do was wait twenty minutes until the bell rang, then I could just go to second period along with everybody else. I’d have an “unexcused absence” to explain to Mom later, which was worse than being tardy, but it was better than going to first period so late. If I did that, Mrs. Ameson would give me the look. You know the one. The one people give you when they’re disappointed in you, and those looks absolutely killed me. I did everything I could to avoid them.

  Thinking about Mom made me think about the wedding, and that got me even more depressed. I spent most of my time either depressed or really depressed, and you wouldn’t think there’d be much of a difference between the two, but there really was. It was the difference between being just mildly annoyed at how sucky my life was and really truly angry about it. You could get through the day without too much trouble being mildly annoyed, but it’s like trying to walk underwater when you’re angry all the time.

  To take my mind off Mom and Rick, I decided to maybe do some studying, and thinking about homework made me remember the portrait. Dad’s portrait. The one Mrs. Morchester had assigned, telling us to draw a picture of somebody in your family. I used the picture on the Christmas postcard he’d sent me two years back, the one with him, “the ditzy hygienist slut who was the flavor of the month” (which was what Mom called her, despite the fact that this woman had appeared on Dad’s Christmas cards several years in a row), and the two black labs wearing red Santa hats. I would have used the Christmas card from this year, but Dad had sent a lame Garfield card (does anyone read Garfield anymore?) with no picture inside.

  Even though the assignment wasn’t due for a week, the thought of it being ruined terrified me because I actually thought it was decent. Not great, but decent, and I hardly ever thought the stuff I drew was any good. My hands were shaking as I searched through the backpack and located my blue drawing pad. The cover felt cold, but not wet. I opened it, flipped past pages and pages of stupid cartoons, robots, and sword-and-sorcery stuff, and finally located Dad’s portrait, breathing a sigh when I saw it wasn’t ruined.

  It suddenly occurred to me that I really had to go to the bathroom. I had been so worried about the drawing I hadn’t noticed until the pressure was really intense. I put away the drawing pad, then started to unbutton my pants. That’s when I heard the outer bathroom door swing open.

  “That Haines is a total loser.”

  “Yeah, yeah, a loser. Totally.”

  I recognized the voices, and the pressure down below became a lot more intense. It was none other than Leo Gonzalez, the kid destined to rip off my face, and his friend Parrot Pete. Everybody called him Parrot Pete, because that’s all he did, repeat things.

  “I gotta take a piss,” Leo said.

  “Yeah, a piss,” Parrot Pete said.

  Sneakers squeaked on the tiles. Right before the door banged open, I lifted my feet and pressed them against the back of the stall door so they were out of sight. There was more shoe squeaking, the sounds of flies being unzipped, and the trickle of water. There was one flush, then two. I sat there praying for them to leave, but there was no swinging door, no footsteps. Instead, I heard the rustle of clothing.

  “You want one?” Leo said.

  “Sure, yeah.”

  “Figure we got a few minutes before Haines misses us.”

  Mr. Haines was the shop teacher. I heard the sound of a lighter, then saw smoke rising over the top of the stall. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, so as quietly as I could, I let it out and breathed in through my mouth. I was afraid to breathe through my nose because if I did, I might sneeze, and then that would be the end of my time on Earth as a face-bearing person.

  “Camels are the best, man,” Leo said.

  “Yeah, the best,” Parrot Pete said.

  “Hey, you seen that prick Charlie Hill around this morning?”

  “Nah,” Parrot Pete said.

  “Bet the little dickwad didn’t even come to school. What a little dickwad. I really scared him on Friday. I could tell. You should have seen his face. He looked like a scared little dickwad. Probably at home crapping his pants.”

  Because I was so close to nearly making his guess real, I half wondered if he knew where I was. I wasn’t much of a God-believing person—I always figured that if he did exist, there wouldn’t be people like Leo Gonzalez in the world—but I did a fair amount of praying right about then. I figured if somehow I was wrong about God, then it wouldn’t hurt to hedge my bets and tell him I’d donate a bunch of money to nuns if he could just get me out of this without them finding me.

  “Dickwad’s probably at home crapping his pants,” Parrot Pete said.

  “I already said that, man,” Leo said. Even he could get irritated at Pete.

  “Right, sorry.”

  “It’s like, nobody messes with my girl, you know?” Leo said. “I can’t believe that little prick. It’s like, how could he not know she was mine? Everybody knows Tessa is mine.”

  “Everybody knows it,” Parrot Pete agreed.

  They puffed away in silence for a while, me enduring my private agony. The cigarette smoke was now so strong that my eyes stung. I heard the outer bathroom door swing open. Leo and Parrot Pete must have heard it too because I heard them crash into a stall a couple down. There was flushing. The swinging d
oor opened.

  “Aw, man,” Leo said. “I thought maybe you was the principal. You coulda said something. We lost two smokes.”

  “Sorry.”

  The voice sounded familiar. I heard more unzipping, the tinkle of piss hitting the porcelain.

  “Well, we better get back,” Leo said.

  “Yeah, we better,” Parrot Pete said.

  “Hey, wait a minute. Dude, you seen that little prick kid, Charlie Hill, around?”

  There was a pause just long enough that I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “Nope.”

  “Damn. Well, I’m gonna get him. He has to come to school eventually.”

  “Why?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why do you want to get him?”

  Then, while Leo must have been struggling with the question, it hit me: The voice belonged to Jake Tucker. Jake, who used to be my neighbor until my family bought a house and moved in the middle of sixth grade. Jake, who had been my best friend for years, especially in the summer, when we’d hang out in the fort Dad had built until one of us got called home for dinner. Jake, who broke my Game Boy when he borrowed it, then refused to admit it, saying it was broken when I gave it to him. It happened right before we moved. Months later, he called and left a message with Mom, but I never called him back. We hadn’t spoken since, both of us avoiding each other’s eyes in the hall for a couple of years, until eventually we didn’t have to avoid each other’s eyes because we were pretty much strangers to each other.

  Not that I passed him in the halls all that often. He wasn’t at school much, getting suspended for one reason or another. Smoking. Pulling pranks. I’d heard he hung out at the pool hall downtown. I knew his dad had left when he was about thirteen, but I’d also heard his mom had become a meth addict shortly after his dad left and that she now mostly lived on the streets. Jake’s foster parents were kind of shady people too. Real great life.

  “Huh?” Leo eventually responded.

  “I said, ‘Why do you want to get him?’”