by Meg Elison
While I’m standing there, looking up and down the street, Jane Chase and her dad spot me on their way to the front entrance of the station.
Jane’s dad draws up short. He looks surprised, but not in a good way. More in the way that dog shit on the sidewalk is a surprise.
I break eye contact immediately and start walking away fast, like I didn’t see them and don’t know them.
Oh, but Jane sees me. Of course.
“I told you! I told you, Dad! She’s not dead. There’s no way she’d kill herself. She’s right there. God!”
She’s got her phone up and she’s taking a picture or a video, but all she’s getting is my bouncing backpack as I run away. I’m transmogrifying before their eyes: solid into vapor.
The last thing I hear before I’m out of earshot is her dad yelling at her to shut up and get back in the car.
I walk all the way back to my RV. I’m too rattled to get on a bus right now. I feel like running, but I don’t. I zigzag through neighborhoods, staying off the main streets. I get turned around and caught up in cul-de-sacs and spirals that loop me back to where I began. I’m hungry and thirsty and freaked out and tired.
I turn my phone back on and let it buzz for a long time while it gets a million texts and voicemails. While those come in, I think about what would happen if I put up a crowdfunding campaign. Support your local homeless teenager. Like one of those kids in Africa, but more expensive and probably less satisfying. For only pennies a day, you can keep Layla Bailey in clean socks and burritos.
Burritos. My stomach contracts to digest the nothing I’ve fed it. Ugh, I wish I was at school.
I miss getting free food. I wonder what Andy’s getting fed wherever he is. I hope he remembers to tell somebody he’s allergic to strawberries. He hasn’t been to a doctor in years, so it’s not like there are records or anything.
Forty-seven voicemails.
Voicemail is the worst. I don’t know why it exists.
I delete most of them—they’re CPS and cops and people from school. All asking the same thing. I save four. One is a writer from a gossip/news website who wants to meet with me. She promises not to reveal my location to anyone, and also to buy me dinner. That could be good. Two are from another reporter, this one from the LA Times. It’s basically the same offer, but the guy delivering it sounds like a douche.
The last one is from a social worker.
“Hi, Layla. This is Michelle Jones with Child Protective Services. I just thought you would like to know that your brother, Andrew, has been placed in a long-term foster home and that he’s safe. His foster family says that he asks for you constantly. I think it would be really great if you could visit him to help calm him down and get him adjusted to the idea of staying where he is.”
There’s a long pause, and I’m thinking fast already. It’s a pretty smart message. She’s offering something I want. She doesn’t mention what will happen to me. She doesn’t threaten anything or try to intimidate me. She baits the trap like she knows me.
“And I thought you might like to see him, as well. Give me a call and let me know if we can set this up. I’m in the office today until six.”
She leaves me her number and her email.
If I were a little dumber, that would work like a charm.
If I were a little smarter, I’d figure out how to see Andy and not end up getting caught.
Just smart enough to survive. For now.
Survival is getting tougher, though. There are cops all over the street where my RV sits. I walk slowly past it instead of making the turn, being totally normal.
Time to evaluate my options. On the rich side of town, behind a big, pretty two-story, there’s a tree house that hasn’t been used in a long time, by the look of it. I slept in it a couple of times last summer when the nights were warm, but this time of year I couldn’t make it without a sleeping bag. I know a couple of twenty-four-hour cafés where I can order a tea and sit all day, but I don’t even have tea money. For just a second, I remember that Mom thought I had $400.
I wish. I wonder whose money she was looking for then. Did she leave with a bunch of rent money? I always wondered if that would happen after she took the apartment-manager job.
The best choice right now is stuff that’s close to home. That’s dangerous, but it might be my only shot. I’ve got the code to Mom’s office, if it hasn’t been changed. And I’ve got the master key that opens all the laundry rooms and the room where the pool chemicals are stored. Bonus: Mom’s office has a computer I can use.
There’s always the library. They’re open, and they also have computers and the internet, but they get really snippy if you fall asleep there. Also high risk for being seen.
Sighing, I head toward Mom’s office. It has a water cooler and a coffee machine. The fact that there’s anything there that I can put in my mouth is the deciding vote. Autotrophs feed themselves. Like me. I wish I could photosynthesize.
I walk the whole complex, but in a crafty way. The door to our old apartment has yellow “Caution” tape across it. The AC unit is gone, and there’s a piece of plywood over the hole.
The laundry rooms are all full, since it’s the weekend and everybody’s catching up on wash while they can. I come around Mom’s office on the far side, where there’s a tiny window, up really high behind the desk. I climb up on the hose spigot and peer in.
Empty.
Everything is still turned on in there. I signed out of all my accounts, of course, but nobody else is signed in. I don’t know if Mom has been back or not, or if they’ve replaced her. I doubt both of those things.
I drink cup after waxy little cup of water out of the cooler. I set up the coffee machine to make me two cups at once, and I sugar and cream them both until they’re white and thick and sweet.
I email the reporter whose questions sounded reasonable.
Hey Erica,
I would like to talk with you today. Here are my conditions:
You have to come alone. Meet me at the Golden Dragon Buffet on Magnolia. Pay for two and give them the name Amber for me. Get a seat near the front windows. I’ll be there at 2pm. You can record me yourself, but no other people. I’ll answer any questions you have about the video and about myself.
I read in history class that reporters have to protect their sources. That means you can’t ambush me with cops or CPS. Just in case you’re thinking about it, I can promise you I know this place like the back of my hand and I’ll disappear.
I hope we understand each other.
Layla Bailey
I’ve had three Thanksgivings, two Christmases, and one Easter dinner at the Golden Dragon Buffet. Also a handful of paydays when Mom wanted to take us out, plus the two times Andy and I snuck in, blending in with a bunch of kids on busy days. It’s always open, it’s cheap, and they don’t try to chase you out even though it’s been five hours and your little brother is dangerously close to throwing up after eating an entire plate of cream-cheese wontons. I know how to get in and out of that place. Also, I can eat until I bust and survive on that for two more days. Maybe pocket some pork buns for later.
I’m nervous about talking to her. The feeling of being naked on the internet forever is not getting better.
Mom’s computer is humming now, waking up and turning on its fan. Over on YouTube, my video has over a million views. There are comments below it in languages I can’t read, and trolls and saints and all kinds of people with opinions on my life. I can’t stay long there, but my eye keeps going back to the number.
One million people.
On to Twitter.
I have too many notifications to make sense of. I can’t reply to everybody, and I know this office won’t stay safe for long. I slurp my hot, sweet coffee and get to work.
@airyoddknee: First things first, I’m not dead.
@airyoddknee: Second, I can’t answer all of my DMs or reply to all requests. Sorry, too busy and not in a safe place to use the internet.
@
airyoddknee: Next up, I don’t care about @angelface787’s Instagram. She’s bullied me since I moved to this town. I’m used to her shit.
@airyoddknee: I definitely would not kill myself based on what @angelface787 thinks of me. #nevergonnahappen
@airyoddknee: I have no idea where my mother is. I kind of know where CPS put my brother, and at least I know he’s safe.
@airyoddknee: Andy, if you’re reading this, I love you. I want to see you, and I’m working on that.
@airyoddknee: If Andy’s foster parents are reading this: he’s allergic to strawberries and gets scared at night. He needs help practicing reading. He loves tacos.
I finish one coffee and start another. My stomach hurts. Folgers and fear. I’m grinding my teeth and watching the door.
@airyoddknee: I don’t know what’s gonna happen.
@airyoddknee: I hope to get back to #BrookhurstJHS and resume classes and maintain my grades. Can somebody tell my teachers I’ll be back and I’m doing the reading?
Replies are already flooding in. I want to just keep tweeting, but they roll up at the bottom of my screen and I can’t ignore them.
@ryguyshyguy: look whos back from the dead @airyoddknee @angelface787 @macktheknife @amberdextrous
@jen_valenti: @airyoddknee pls come to the school, we can put you in touch with people who can help. #BrookhurstJHS #FindLayla
@angelface787: I fucking TOLD YOU GUYS RT@airyoddknee: First things first, I’m not dead.
@AnaheimPD: @airyoddknee please contact us, we can help you. #FindLayla
@dolanarmy: i can find ur mom i promise @airyoddknee
@blue_id_3: .@airyoddknee what an attention whore. #FindLayla #tcot #yolo #sorrynotsorry
@iguanabarf: @airyoddknee were u kidnapped tho?
@Kristi_the_poet: @airyoddknee I will totes pass on ur msg to teachers <3 p.s. you can come here #bff
Almost finished.
@airyoddknee: You’ll be hearing from me soon. Watch for a news story. #FindLayla
It is so weird to hashtag my own name. I finish my coffee, despite my stomachache. One last check of my email. Erica must watch hers constantly.
Hey Layla,
2pm sounds great. I’m leaving LA now. See you then.
She leaves me her phone number at the bottom.
I throw away my cups, sign out, and shut down. I hate the glass in here. I wish I had a place with no windows. Maybe underground. One door with one key, no leaks. No dread of Mom cycling in and out of herself in ways I can’t predict or anticipate. Someplace to feel safe.
Does that feeling even exist? No, it exists. I’ve seen the calm of other biomes. I’ve stolen it, like a parasite. What I don’t know is whether I can get my own and maintain it. Peace and homeostasis look expensive.
I walk behind the strip mall, where I won’t be in view of passing cars. There are small places where I can be invisible. The backsides of buildings are for dumpster divers and deliveries, but most of the time there’s nobody back there.
In fact, there’s nobody out back except the cook from the Mexican place two doors down, outside having a smoke. He smokes menthols like Mom, and I have to get past him fast, because the smell makes me want to throw up my coffee. I sit against the stucco behind the buffet part of the building and read about Mendel and his peas. I think about what I’ve inherited and what’s just mine. I look at the Punnett squares and think about how Andy doesn’t look like me. I think about his broken tooth, and then I want to stop reading. But I’ve got to stay focused on something. I have a few hours to burn.
1:45 p.m.
I head around to the front entrance, the plastic gold pagoda roof over the glass double doors. The winter sunlight is no joke today. It’s cold but bright, so most of the shades are down at the front tables. I walk past once and don’t see anyone who I think might be Erica. I walk all the way to the end of the strip mall and stand at the corner of it until I’ve counted to a hundred. I turn around and walk to the other end. I stand there, singing the little song that names the first fifty elements of the periodic table. My hands are sweaty. I rub them on my jeans and then regret it, thinking to wipe them on my back pockets next time. But that’s not really different, it’s just that I can’t see it.
With my back to the door, I’m going over what I can say to the reporter when she asks me.
My brother, Andy, is the most important—no, he’s the only thing. Andy is vitally—no.
I never intended to cause this much . . . I first set out to just tell my story. I never thought I would . . .
Andy and I grew up in a terrible place with our mother, who was . . . what? How do I explain Mom to anyone? They’d never believe anybody was really like that. She had a job and could lie convincingly to anyone who asked too many questions.
She won’t ask me about Mom. She’ll ask me about the video.
I made that video to tell the truth . . . to tell the truth in a way that nobody could fail to understand. Evidence can’t lie. I made that video so that someone would have to believe me.
I’m muttering to myself. Like Mom. I stop. I walk again.
I’m walking back again when I see a woman beeping the alarm on a cute little green car. She carelessly flings shiny black hair out of her face and pushes her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose.
No kids and no old people with her. If she goes into the Dragon, it’s her.
It’s her.
I wait a few seconds and call her phone. Walking past the window, I turn my head to look in. She’s pulling her phone out of her purse to look at it. I hang up.
Once she’s paid and sitting down, I walk in carrying my backpack in one hand.
“Hi, my aunt already paid for me? It should be under Amber?”
“Oh yeah, she’s sitting by the beverage bar.” The hostess points, and I follow her finger.
Erica is already watching.
I walk over to her and it seems to take forever. I feel little muscle jumps in my abdomen. I hold my hand out as I approach.
“Hi, Erica? I’m Layla.”
She shakes my hand for a minute, looking closely at my face. “Yes, you are. I was worried you were another fake. It’s great to meet you. Won’t you sit down?”
The smell of the hot chafing dishes is making me want to ignore her and hunt like the animal I am. “Actually, I’m gonna grab some food real quick.”
“Oh, of course.” She looks back at her phone as she slides into the red vinyl booth. I shoulder my backpack again and load up a plate. I carry it and a cup of cold tea back to her.
“Okay, sorry about that. Just really hungry.”
“Of course, no problem.” She’s not eating anything, even though she paid to get in.
Between bites I tell her, “It’s okay, you can still ask me stuff.”
“Okay.” She lays her smartphone down on the table between us, and the screen shows an old-fashioned microphone with a red dot. “Layla Bailey, may I have your permission to record our interview so that I can assure accuracy when I quote you?”
“Sure.” My cheek is filled with fried rice.
“One more time, more clearly.” She seems a little bit amused. I don’t know why I like her, but I do. We smile a little at each other when I swallow.
“Sorry. Yeah, you have my permission to record us talking. Yes.”
“Great. And you are?”
“Layla Louise Bailey.”
“The girl from the biome video.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” I tell her, feeling silly.
“How did you come up with the idea for that video?” She’s looking right at me. I feel weird eating while she watches. I finish chewing and set my fork down for a minute.
“I . . . I just thought about how each organism interacts with its environment, like we were studying in biology. And I realized that my environment was different from most people’s, and that it was kind of interesting.”
She blinks her big brown eyes slowly, like a cat. “So you knew your house was unusual.�
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“Well, yeah. I mean, I’ve got friends. And TV and the internet. I know that’s not how most people live.”
“Are you embarrassed at all, now that it’s out there and so many people have seen it?”
My face goes hot like I shoved it under the sneeze guard over the steaming dishes of sweet-and-sour pork. Being seen by all those people online is different from someone saying it to my burning face.
“I am, yeah. It’s weird. It’s like being . . . exposed. Like everyone knows something about me that used to be secret. Like when nudes leak, I guess. But it’s the truth, and I needed to tell it. So I told.”
Erica relaxes a little bit, sitting back in her booth and looking at her phone. “Where is the rest of your family? Isn’t there anybody out there who you would like to reach out to?”
“I think I have some cousins in Missouri? I don’t know. I know my grandparents died a long time ago. We’ve never really had much contact with any relatives.” I hardly ever think about that. I can’t imagine my mom having a mom.
“And your father?”
“I barely remember him. I know he was in the Army.”
“Interesting. And you’re how old?” She’s looking me over like she’s trying to guess.
I wipe my face. “How old do I look?”
She smiles a little. I think she’s about thirty. “I wouldn’t sell you beer. You have a way about you that makes you seem older. I think that’s just your life, honestly. I have to tell you, I know from the police information on you that you’re fourteen.”
“I’ll be fifteen on the winter solstice.”
“That’s a cool birthday.”
“Yeah. When’s yours?”
“Oh, in the summer. June seventeenth. I always have my party at the beach.”
“Cool.”
She’s writing something down on a tablet with her stylus, but I can’t see the screen. “Yeah, I think so. So what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A scientist. I’d really like to work in a lab that studies weird living things. Slime molds. Or viruses.”
“You’re gonna be in college for a long time.” She’s smiling at me over her tablet. I smile back.
“Yeah, I know. That’s alright, though.”
