License Plates

License Plates

Timmy clips past Mrs. Rodgers, eager to get to the station wagon.

“Hey! Slow down—we’ll get there soon. The pool’s not going anywhere,” she says.

“Shotgun!” yells Timmy.

“Nope. Kids in the back. You’re up front with me, Linda,” Mrs. Rodgers replies.

I arrive last, but that’s fine. I get the window behind mom.

“Ouch! Ouch!” we scream as we scramble onto the vinyl seats.

“Just sit on your towels,” Mrs. Rodgers tells us.

Before we leave the driveway, the twins start teasing.

“You really gonna wear that to the pool? You look like a curtain.”

“I hate you, Timmy!” she cries.

The car slows, and we all go quiet. Then she speeds up again, and we roll through the neighborhood, sunlight filtering through the trees.

As we ease onto the highway, I can already hear splashing and feel cool water on my skin.

The sun rises higher.

I roll down the window.
The air hits my face, thick with exhaust.

“Stop, Jimmy! Mom, Jimmy’s touching me!” Jenny whines.

“Knock it off, you two, or I’ll turn this car around,” Mrs. Rodgers says.

“Why don’t you kids play license plates?” she suggests.

“I see Illinois!” says Timmy.

“I see California!” Cindy adds.

“You know, Amanda,” my mom says nervously, “those license plates are codes.”

My ears perk up.
My stomach knots.
I hold my breath, bite my lip, hoping it will pass.

“Oh! There’s one from Florida!” Tina shouts.

“What? What are you talking about?” Mrs. Rodgers asks.

Wrong thing to say, I think.

“The codes,” mom says. “They’re in the license plates. Messages with secret meanings.”

I want to jump out and run.

“Those are just random letters. They don’t mean anything,” Mrs. Rodgers insists.

Timmy and Cindy exchange glances.

“Those cars—they’re following us!” mom shouts.

All eyes turn to the front seat.

“I can’t stay in here! I’m getting out. Pull over!”

“I can’t do that—there’s no shoulder.”

Mom jerks the door open.

“Nooo!” Mrs. Rodgers yells.

Clutching the wheel with one hand, she grabs my mother and jerks her back in.

I turn to stone and stare out the window.
The cars blur past, like my memory.

Slowly, we turn around, trapped in the silence of that car.

No one says a word.
No one wants to play license plates anymore.