• I stared out over the wide expanse of Long Island Sound from our tiny inflatable dinghy. Devon and the girl, Lola, shook with fear. How did I get myself into this mess? Mom and Dad just told us to find the crescent moon shaped island in the sea. What did that mean? Was it code? Was this an episode of Punk’d? Probably not. A T.V. show like that could never stage a plane crash without the participants knowing it was a fake. All I could hope for now was a safe way to land. My parents had abandoned me.
    “Devon, come on,” I said. “Help me paddle. We have to get to Block Island. Remember when we went there? It’s not far.”
    He didn’t respond but grabbed the oars and paddled anyway. Soon, land came into view. We unloaded on a dock and started walking around, though I wasn’t sure what for. We didn’t have any money besides my brother’s soggy skee-ball tickets. We couldn’t catch the next ferry out of here. And how would we find the island? Oh, hi boat captain! My mom told me to find this weird place that doesn’t appear on the map. Do you think you could find it for me? Thanks. No, that would never work.
    “Look,” Lola pointed. I realized that it was the first thing she had ever said to us. I followed the direction of her finger. She was gesturing at a black Mustang. “A sports car? What does that have to do with anything?” I asked. She frowned. “The keys are in the ignition.”
    My first thought: Sweet!
    “Devon, Lola, get in the car,” I ordered, running on adrenaline. I hustled them into the backseat and jumped in the front. My excitement faltered. I didn’t know how to drive this. Didn’t my family and I always joke about how bad I would be at driving? I tried to relax. Sure, we’d end up with a smashed windshield and the carburetor was going to be in Africa by the time we were done, but we had transportation. I twisted the key, pulled the stick to reverse, and floored the accelerator. The car jerked backwards, crushing a “Please slow for children” sign. “Uh, Amber?” Devon squeaked.
    “I’ve got this freaking thing under control, bro. I got it,” I assured him. My knuckles were white as I gripped the steering wheel. “Okay. We’re driving to a bridge now, ‘kay guys?” I clumsily edged out of the parking lot and drove to the highway. So far so good, I mean, for a twelve-year-old. “I told you I can handle this driving thing,” I bragged.
    “Well you might say that, but I don’t think they do,” Lola warned. I checked the rear-view mirror. Blue and red lights were flashing on top of sleek black cars, occasionally mixing and dousing us in purple. Great, now we had the po-po on our tail; and three of them.
    “Please pull over. You are going too slowly on the highway, sir,” a magnified voice informed.
    Oh, so now I was a sir? I was having pretty much the worst day of my life. The secret Mom and Dad hid from us that I still didn’t know. The plane crashing. Worrying over whether I’d live to see tomorrow. Now this dude was calling me a sir?
    “Lola, roll down the sun roof,” I said. She complied. “Devon, find something to throw at them.” He brightened up and rifled through the junk scattered on the floor. Typical male bachelor. Who else keeps fast food wrappers in their glove compartment?
    “Jackpot!” Devon whooped. He brandished a large blue plastic paintball gun. “Nice going, bro. Now shoot!”
    “Oh, right, right, right.” He and Lola popped up to the sunroof and fumbled with the gun. Devon pulled the trigger and blasted the nearest police car bright orange. The vehicle swerved and did doughnuts until it crashed into the side of the bridge. I almost felt sorry for them. "Nice going!" Lola complimented. Their hands knocked together and Devon blushed. Did he have a crush on her. I saved that juicy little tidbit for later.
    “Pull over right now, sir,” the voice insisted.
    “I ain’t no sir!” Lola yelled. She took the paintball gun from Devon, pumped the trigger and shot the speaker various neon colors.
    For a peaceful, teary-eyed country girl, she had spunk. No wonder my brother liked her.
    “Ma’am, we can, and will, take you down,” Mr. Voice threatened.
    “I ain’t no ma’am!” Devon called.
    “We are forced to bring you down,” Mr. Voice said. “Good luck with that!” Devon laughed and tossed a hammer I didn’t see before into the car’s hood. It dented the metal and sent smoke signals billowing up. I didn’t know much about cars, but it didn’t seem like you could fix that with any old screwdriver.
    “That’s my boy!” I encouraged.
    We were off the highway now, hurtling past small shops and parks. All too soon I wondered if we could ever lose these guys. There were two left, and they were bound to call for backup.
    “Hey, officers! Check what I found!” Lola taunted. She threw a pair of dirty gray briefs out the window, which pasted onto the speaker’s car. He jerked this way and that before careening into a closed ice cream parlor. Steel chairs and frozen yogurt exploded everywhere.
    “Duck!” Devon seized Lola and dragged her into the car just as a hunk of granite countertop sheared a nasty scar in the roof. The two peeked out again. The police had stopped chasing us. They had their hands full with the parlor. “Yeah! That what I’m talking about!” Devon yelled to the wind.
    “Duck! Again!” Lola screamed. They flattened themselves against the interior car doors as a gallon of cold ice cream plunged through the window.
    “Nice!” I congratulated. “We outdrove the police and got us some awesome dinner. Who’s up for rocky road?”