Who's Next?

            Vacation.  I hardly know what that means. When have we ever been on a real vacation?  But here we are, the whole family—Mom driving, of course, Dad on her right with a paperback book in front of his face, and the three of us kids in the back.  Eleanor is in the middle, separating Ken and me.  Probably a good idea, since we do get into fights from time to time.  Ken is ten and a shrimp, but he’s okay, for a brother, I mean.

            I’m thirteen now and I feel pretty grown up.  I’ve discovered Dad’s paperbacks in the attic.  They’re mostly novels about American and English history.  A little sexy, but not too bad.  I wonder if he knows I’m reading them?

            We’ve been playing games most of the morning.  It’s getting boring, though.  We’ve done the alphabet games with signs.  Twice, actually.  Ken likes to spot and count dead animals along the road.  That was kind of fun for a while, but sis hates this game.  I’m beginning to hate it, too, because Ken always wins.

            I move my arm slowly behind Eleanor and grab Ken’s ear.  He responds by throwing his gum in my direction.

            “Mom,” Eleanor interrupts, “when are we stopping for lunch?  These guys are fighting again.  They’re driving me crazy.”

            Mom glances into the rear-view mirror.  “It will be at least an hour, Eleanor.  You boys settle down.”  She pauses before pointing toward Dad.  “Your father needs less noise so he can read his book.”  Dad doesn’t say anything.  Looks like he’s sleeping to me.

            “How long before we get to Maine, Mom?” Ken asks.

            “What a stupid question,” I say with a sneer.  “I showed you the map before we started.  We won’t be there for at least another day.  Besides, we’re going all the way through Maine to Canada.  We’re headed to Canada, Ken.”

            I think I hear Mom sighing a little. I turn my attention to events outside the car.  I try to count the fence posts on the side of the road, but I can’t.  They’re a blur.  Funny.  I could count them earlier in the morning.  We must be going faster.  I lean forward, trying to see the speedometer.  Can’t quite make it out.  Staring at those posts is making me sleepy.

            I’m awake now.  Ken has just grabbed my shoulder.  “Bob,” he whispers, “look out the back window.  I think we’ve got trouble.”

            At first I don’t realize what he means.  Then I see the lights—the flashing lights on top of the police car quickly closing the gap on us from the rear!  Maybe he’s after someone else?  No such luck.

            “Mom,” I blurt out, “I think that cop wants you to pull over.”