“ACCIDENT AT GREENSTON NUCLEAR PLANT, No Danger to Community, Officials Say.”
Every time that headline from yesterday’s Los Angeles News flashed into her mind, Margarita—Maggie—Cruz gripped the steering wheel of her VW more tightly and assured herself that she was doing the right thing. It wasn’t as if she were in danger from the Greenston plant in the desert hundreds of miles away, but those headlines had been the convincing factor in her decision. Yes, it was the right thing to do, and hour after hour as she drove north of Los Angeles, she had felt more and more competent and more secure. Until now.
For the last hour she had been so intent on the changing countryside that she forgot to buy gas. The gauge said empty. She drove on, dreading the moment when the motor would draw on the last drop of gasoline and give up. She was driving on a narrow country road lined with tall eucalyptus trees and nothing else. Then in a clearing on the left side of the road, she saw a battered old sign with faded red letters: G-A-S. No, it wasn’t a mirage; it was more like a miracle. With a grateful sigh she turned into the run-down station, bumping over broken concrete and coming to a stop by one of two pumps.
A weary-looking old man in grease-spotted overalls appeared beside her. “Fill ‘er up?”
“Is it cheaper if I pump it myself?” It didn’t look as if he’d take a credit card and she was low on cash.
“All the same here, missy,” the man called, rounding the car. “Fill ‘er up?”
Maggie said yes, please go ahead, and climbed out of the blue VW. Good thing I didn’t splurge on lunch, she thought, staring at the pumps. Gas is almost twice as high up here as it is in Los Angeles. But I’m not complaining. When she had driven mile after mile without finding a gas station, she had begun to think that maybe being sixteen and a half didn’t make her that smart; maybe a trip like this was a little much for her. Now she felt better. She stretched and thought, Dad would be proud of me. I’m doing what is right for me. Oh, I’ll miss my friends, especially Mim and Lorena. I’ll even miss Ryan. I wonder if he was really going to ask me to the TGI June bash? Well, that’s history. Now is now.
The old man brought her change and said, “Where you headin’?”
“I’m going to Twisted Creek,” she said in as offhand an adult manner as she could muster.
“Twisted Creek? Are you sure?”
Her shoulders fell. “Isn’t this the right road?”
The man grunted. “Right road, all right. But no place for a young one like you to be going.” He circled the Honda. “Car in pretty good shape?”
Maggie stiffened. The Bluebird’s an absolutely great car. Dad said it was in super condition when he gave it to me. “Of course, it’s in good shape.”
The gas station attendant kicked a couple of tires. “Guess it’ll make it,” he said. “But last I heard that road was bad. Watch yourself.”
The old man’s words stayed with her as she drove up into the mountains. She began to feel shaky. This was the first time she had driven outside of Los Angeles. Still, last night she had poured over maps and written everything down; she knew exactly where she was going. So far, everything had been all right.
Even getting away from home this morning hadn’t been too bad. It was spring vacation, and her mom and stepfather were away on business. The only person she had to explain to was the neighbor woman who looked in on her. The hard part had been figuring what to say to her mother. She had sat staring at a blank sheet of paper for a long time.
She knew what she wanted to write: “Dear Mother, It was bad enough after the divorce, being without Dad, I mean. After a couple of years I got used to seeing him mostly on weekends, but now it’s worse. Because he’s dead. Three whole months and I still can’t believe it. Maybe you can’t help being away so much, but with both of you gone it’s awfully lonely. Sure, there’s been school, and I did have dinner at Mim’s house and a move with Lorena on Saturday. But the good things are missing. Dad. Dad. Dad. I don’t feel that I’m part of a family anymore. Jase is a good enough stepfather, but I told you both how I felt about that condo in downtown L.A. and you guys went ahead and bought it. It’s a terrible place. All there is to breathe inside is processed air and outside, car exhaust. My vote doesn’t count, does it, Mom?”
That’s what she wanted to say, but didn’t. “Mom,” she finally wrote, “I’ve gone to Twisted Creed. Papacito said he’d be there if I needed him. He won’t mind. After all, he is my only living grandparent. I’ll drive carefully, I promise. Please, please don’t be mad at me.” Then she had shoved two more sweaters into her suitcase, picked up her paint box and favorite brushes, and left. Once she was out of the city traffic, she had relaxed. But now . . .
