Chapter 18: Why Would I Make This Stuff Up? Part 2

As we drove home, neither my mother nor I spoke. I certainly wasn't going to bring it back up because I didn't know if she would drag my behind straight to a psychiatrist.

When we got home, Nubia and I both asked if we could go outside. Mom had us clean the kitchen and bathrooms and then we were free. I checked to see if Bill was waiting for me even though it was just after one—but sure enough he was!

I hurried down the street and discreetly climbed into the passenger seat of the car.

"How long have you been waiting?" I asked.

"Since about twelve. I was hoping you could get away early." He started the car.

"Um…do you mind if I drive? I just don't want the cops stopping us even if you do have a fake license. A little person with an underage girl in the car is still suspicious."

"You're right."

We switched seats and I drove toward his house.

"I should have gotten your phone number," he said.

"I know! I was thinking the same thing last night. When we get to the house I'll get yours—I don't remember mine. I'll figure it out."

"Cool."

"I was wondering about something." Last night I had discovered a ton of questions that I hadn't asked. One of them was how a boy who looked ten could manage to do the things he had done. "Even though you have the money, how were you able to manage buying a house?"

"Oh, my fake dad owns it."

"Your fake dad?"

"Yeah, I just got a bum to pose as my father. As long as I keep some cash in his wallet, he's good. I had to get rid of my first fake dad, though. That asshole tried to rob me."

"Oh wow. What happened?"

"I had to beat his ass."

I glanced at the little kid sitting next to me as he watched the scenery go by. He didn't look like he was exaggerating.

He turned to look at me, probably sensing my thoughts. "I might be stuck in a kid's body, but I've been deployed to Afghanistan. I excelled in combat training."

"Ah. I bet that was a surprise to him." I grinned.

"Them. He brought a friend."

I raised my eyebrows. I was in the car with probably the deadliest ten-year-old around.

"Do you mind if we stop for something to eat? I'm starving."

"Nope. Where do you want to eat?" I looked at the restaurants that we drove past. I thought I knew the area well. After all, I had grown up here. But everything was completely different. The McDonald's wasn't on the corner, and there was no strip mall or Ronald Reagan Highway. There was no BW3 Chicken wings or Panera Bread—just empty fields.

"You know what I miss?" he asked wistfully. "Pho soup. I would die for a huge bowl of pho from Pho Lo Thang."

"In Findlay market!" I exclaimed. "That place was amazing. It was always busy—lines out the door. But you know what I loved? The tacos at Mama Lo Hizo."

"Yep." He nodded. "What about Bakersfield? Did you ever have the short rib tacos?"

"No," I said with a serious look on my face. "Short rib tacos…oh my damn. Why didn't I know about this?"

We spent the next few minutes talking about our favorite restaurants—restaurants that did not yet exist. We discovered that we were both foodies and laughed because the word had not yet been invented. We settled on a Taco Casa restaurant, and Bill was kind enough to treat when I explained that this meal would put a serious dent in my allowance.

He laughed good-naturedly. "I got you."

We ate tacos and slurped soda pop swearing that we wouldn't indulge in the sugary drink all the time. I explained how much better my body was at sixteen, but Bill was a little grim when he explained that his eleven-year-old body was very disappointing.

He was little for eleven. Today he was dressed in cut-off khaki shorts, Timberlands, a faded Mickey Mouse shirt, and a plaid shirt that he had tied around his waist. I was pretty sure this was how he dressed as an adult, but no one in this timeframe dressed like this.

"Believe it or not," he said when he caught me staring at him. "I'm going to grow up to be over six feet tall. My hair is going to start graying even before I'm thirty-five. I'll have a goatee and I wear glasses."

"You sound like a nice looking fella."

He shrugged. "I'm already training in Taekwondo just on the off chance that I don't get sent back to my own time and I have to start all over. I'm not making the same mistakes--and definitely no smoking. That shit was for the birds."

"I never smoked." I knew too many people who died of cancer. "But I agree with you. I have put a hold on my consumption of Kool-Aid."

He laughed at that.

We ate and chatted like old friends. We were both hungry to interact with someone who understood where we had come from. We kept the conversation light even discussing The Walking Dead and our favorite characters. When we talked about Neegan and his damned bat Lucille, the conversation got so impassioned that nearly everyone in the restaurant was watching us. We both got quiet because it would be thirty-five years before we knew the outcome of that storyline—if we ever made it back to our time.

We went back to Bill's place, and for the first time our conversation turned serious.

"How did your drug test turn out?" he asked.

I wrinkled my nose at him. "I passed it, of course."

"Well I assumed you would, but I meant how did it go with your mother?"

I blew out a long breath and flopped down on the sectional. "You were right. My mom thinks I'm delusional. She brought up psychiatric treatment."

He sat adjacent to me, his expression serious. "I have to tell you something."

My heart dropped. By the look on Bill's face this wasn't going to be good.