The Night the Heads Came by William Sleator

I also kind of resent him for asking me to do this, since he knew I wouldn’t be able to say no, being his best friend. I just wish he could wait another year, until we’re out of high school, so there wouldn’t be such a big mess about it. I’m helping him get to New York because I understand why he wants to make this bid for independence from his parents they’ve always been controlling, and recently they’ve gotten even worse than usual. He has an appointment with a publisher, who expressed interest in the science fiction drawings Tim sent-nothing is more important to Tim than his drawings. But he’s not worried about the problems he’s leaving behind for me to deal with all he’s thinking about is his artwork. Tim knows I have major difficulty lying to anybody about anything. I sigh, gripping the wheel in frustration, my eyes on the two headlight beams on the narrow road. What am I going to do if the people in New York hate the rest of my drawings? Just tell them you don’t know anything, he says dismissively, shoving more potato chips into his mouth.

You’re not the one who’s going to have to figure out what to say, like to the cops. You’re not the one who’s going to be around tomorrow when they figure out you took that money and didn’t come back. What if your parents saw you getting into my car? I ask him, not for the first time. There are no lights, no houses or factories, no other cars on this isolated stretch of two-lane road. He’s nervous about getting to Bridgetown by midnight, when the bus to New York stops there. Can you go any faster, Leo? he says, looking at his watch.

The Night the Heads Came by William Sleator