Page 27 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“How is that possible?” I said. “The place is beautiful. It’s in a great neighborhood.”

“But it’s got a dry-cleaning store as part of the complex.”

“That only makes it more attractive.”

“Not when Minna launches a campaign to say that the cleaning solvents my father uses are toxic.”

“Are they?”

“They’re the same chemicals all dry cleaners use, but that didn’t stop her. She printed up flyers—thousands of them. They were everywhere—in mailboxes, stuck under windshield wipers, she even had them taped to the swings and the jungle gym in the park.”

“What’d they say?”

“There was a skull and crossbones on the top. On the bottom was a chart from the EPA showing how one tablespoon of dry-cleaning fluid can contaminate two Olympic-size swimming pools, and a gallon can pollute an entire reservoir. In the middle was a big box that said Sinclair Dry Cleaners is poisoning the air and the water at the Commodore, and that buying an apartment there would be like signing a death warrant for your family.

“The building tried to save its own ass by running an ad campaign to say that they are safe, but my father’s reputation was ruined. He never opened the new store, and he owes the bank a fortune that he can’t pay, so they sued for anything they could get. They now own the original store, and they’re going to auction it off to recoup some of their losses. Meantime my father is wiped out.”

“What are you going to do?”

“My father has the perfect solution—booze. He drinks all day and all night. My mother can’t stand it anymore. She’s taking me and my brother Charlie to live with my grandparents in Colorado. She’s going to tell my father tonight. That’s why I came to the Pits. I didn’t want to be there when it happened. The poor man is going to go to pieces.”

I slowed down as I came to the edge of town and stopped at a red light on Main Street. We were less than a mile from home. She handed me the bottle, I put it to my mouth, tilted it up, and drained it dry.

I heard the siren and turned around. A cop car was coming up on us fast, its red and blue turret lights spinning. I shoved the empty bottle under the driver’s seat and managed to eke out two words.

“Oh, shit.”

SIXTEEN

The cop slowed down just enough to eyeball the intersection for oncoming traffic, ran the red light, and raced on.

I slumped in my seat. “Oh my God, my father was asleep when I left the house. He’d kill me if I got a DWI.”

“My father was sitting in the living room, watching TV, and drinking himself to death,” Misty said. “I had to go all Ferris Bueller on him to sneak out. I put some pillows under my covers, climbed out the window, and met Melissa four blocks from my house.”

More sirens. I turned around as two more cop cars came barreling toward us.

But they whizzed right past. “One local, one state,” I said. “I wonder what’s going on?”

“And they may wonder what a couple of teenage girls are doing riding around at two in the morning. If they stop us, we’re definitely spending the night in jail. Maybe you should park the car, and we can walk home.”

“Fantastic idea,” I said. “But I’m too drunk to walk.” The light turned green. “But you can get out. I won’t be mad. I swear.”

“Maggie, you are the single worst person I could be driving around with,” Misty said. “But you’re still the best thing that’s happened to me all day. I’m not going anywhere, asshole. Just drive super careful and try to stay awake.”

I put the AC on max and pointed the vents in my face. I shook my head as clear as I could get it, and I moved forward at just below the speed limit. We both kept our eyes peeled for cops, but Main Street was deserted, and three-quarters of a mile later, we got to Crystal Avenue.

I made the final left turn of the long ride and breathed a sigh of relief. “Home sweet ho?—”

Three blocks away, the street in front of my house was filled with emergency vehicles, their red, white, and blue flashers lighting up the night.

“Just park it anywhere and get out before the cops see us,” Misty said.

I pulled to the nearest curb, hopped it, and knocked over a garbage can. I didn’t care. I killed the engine. We jumped out of the car and started running, or whatever it is you call the forward motion of two drunks on a mission.

Up and down Crystal Avenue, lights were on, and people were coming out of their houses. The police had cordoned off the road, so Misty and I cut over to the sidewalk, only to run into a cluster of cops.

“Hold on there, ladies,” a female cop said, stretching her arms out and blocking our path. She was local, but I didn’t know her. Her name tag said Pemberton. “Get back there behind the barricades.”

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