Twenty Grand by Rebecca Curtis Read Free Book Online Page A

don’t work, my sister said.
    The tall one was next to her again, and the squat dumb-looking blond one with the tiny lips was next to me. I say dumb-looking, but he looked dumb in a sly way, as if he’d already pulled several over on me.
    Thanks for letting me in, he said.
    All right, I said.
    I knew I couldn’t say anything else because he was already in the car. I was angry at my sister for slowing down at the light, and for not being a good enough driver to get us away from the homeless men.
    Can we at least get out of town? I said.
    Sure, my sister said, we’ll get out of town, but we need gas.
    Oh, I said.
    I didn’t have any money. Also I didn’t want to get gas, I wanted to get out of town; but I knew the car wouldn’t work without gas, and already it was slowing down, like it needed gas.
    I have a dollar, the tall redhead said, and he put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a dirty dollar from his jeans.
    I have another dollar, the sly dumb-faced man said.
    All tolled, the homeless men had three dollars and fifty cents. We used it to buy gas. I had a plan to get in the driver’s seat at the gas station and take off with my sister before the homeless men got back in the car, but they were quick and got back in the car before I could do it. Also they were grinning at me as if they’d known what I’d been planning to do, and they probably did.
    All I wanted to do was get on the interstate. But a lot of time had passed, and now, I knew, it might be too late.
    Look, I said to the homeless men. You need to get out. You don’t belong in the car.
    The dumb, sly-faced one looked at me.
    We don’t? he said.
    No, I said.
    Okay, he said, we’ll get out of the car.
    My sister kept driving.
    But we won’t get out of the car, he said, because we’re homeless.
    I don’t care, I said. You don’t live here.
    We don’t live anywhere, he said.
    Die then, I said. But not in this car.
    We won’t die, he said. We don’t do that. We’re homeless, but we’re not dead.
    We were driving along the same street as before, the one with the trees that hung over the road and blocked up the sun, and it wasn’t a road that led to the interstate.
    They paid for the gas, my sister said, and I saw that her hand was on the tall one’s shoulder. Plus, she said, they’re already in the car.
    Well don’t drive here, I said, because the sky was dark and the crows were hauling by overhead and the road we were on led to the top of the abandoned ski area. Drive somewhere where it’s light, I said.
    It’s too late, my sister said again.
    She was still in conversation with the taller, more handsome, redheaded homeless man about some event that happened to him years ago and I realized that while I had been busy trying to save us, I should have been trying to make friends. My sister is a wuss and will be nice to anyone who has a knife to her throat, whereas I am more honest and will tell the truth. I don’t know why I do that; perhaps because of where I am from, which is the coldest part of New England. My sister is from there too, but since she left the home and lived somewhere else, she had escaped. I wanted to tell her what a liar she was, and how unfair it was that she was making me look like the only one who was afraid, but it was pointless to say that because the knife was already in the dumb-looking one’s lap. It wasn’t too big—it was only as long as the top half of his leg—but it was wide.
    As soon as I noticed the knife, the tall redheaded man looked back and said, I think not all four of us can get onto the interstate.
    The dumb-looking one looked at me. Sorry, he said.
    My sister was still driving up the old wooded hill that led to the back of the abandoned ski area and she was looking forward without saying much, I think because she had known all along everything that was going to happen. Or maybe she’d wanted to save