by A. K. Smith
But I can’t. I can’t do that to sweet Jack. I won’t. I am not my parents. I might lie about everything else in my life. I might be the best liar ever, but not this, not to Jack. He doesn’t deserve a lying slut like me.
SHE walks right past me out to her smoking porch without any idea I’m in the room.
The trees on the edge of the yard are swaying. My bed pushed up against the window, allows me a glimpse of the outside. THE PLAN doesn’t matter. I know without a doubt, I am not going to end up like SHE. NEVER. I’ll run away. I’m leaving. I’m smart. I can do this.
Thousands of pregnancy blogs exist on the web. I scroll, click and read until I can no longer see clearly.
Most women start showing in three to four months, I have at least 95 days before I will start showing.
Twisting my hair on top of my head, I wander down to the creek. I find myself biting my lower lip like Amir. When I bite hard enough, I can taste the metallic taste of my blood.
Make a list. Make a new plan. My pen is poised over my journal. There is another option, I know, but it’s not really an option for me. I can’t think about abortion. I understand it is an option for women, and I’m glad it exists, but I am an unwanted child. I don’t have it in me to do it to another living soul. But, if I’m going to have a baby, I have to be a good mom. A word so foreign to me, it’s hard to speak it, even in my head. I keep teetering on the right choice. I wish I could go back in time and never go to dinner with Tyler. Erase it all. But, I can’t.
Pseudocide is my answer. I like how the word sounds. Crazy but clever. Nobody dies. No one gets hurt. I reinvent myself and get away from them. On Wikipedia, it states that the faking of one’s death is not necessarily illegal, so I figure if I don’t hurt anyone in the process, I should be okay. I don’t want to start my life as a criminal. I still want to go to college. I want to graduate with a high school diploma. I want this baby to have a chance.
My number one obstacle: I need to find a way to fake my death without an actual body.
There are different ways to go about this. I’m going to find the right way to pull this off, disappear and never look back.
Chapter 7
New Plan, DNA, and Someone Else’s Blood
If you want to do anything well in this world, you have to understand it, know it like a savant. Research. Good research is what will make this happen.
I study the girl at the front of the bus. Her boho hat covers the majority of her face, and with the oversized sunglasses, she could have any color hair under that hat. I make a note to buy a selection of large hats at Good Will. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve changed my looks on each bus ride to the various public libraries in Baltimore. They have fifteen different ones, and I’ve discovered several internet cafés in areas I didn’t even know existed, where I can safely gather information to begin my future. I’m careful these last few weeks. I’ve erased my path.
Other pseudocide folks are not careful. Grown adults who have degrees and serious life experience do stupid things as they try to fake their deaths. I read an article about a man who was both a banker and a preacher. He faked his death by leaving rambling notes that he was going to jump off a ferryboat. His church, his family believed it to be true. He had pulled it off. He ended up in Colombia, working at a cocaine factory before he finally came back to the United States and got pulled over by the police on the highway. The media speculated he wanted to be caught.
That is not going to be me.
I have a new plan, one that will watch my digital footprint. I now own two burner phones for any phone calls I need to make. They can’t be traced to me. I’ve purchased chocolate brown hair color and ten samples of brown-tinted contact lenses. And, I now have seven prepaid credit cards. I’ve watched my digital footprint from day one.
The next step: find a storage locker to keep the suitcase full of the hair dye, contacts, identification, gift cards, gold jewelry, and clothing for my new life.
Outside the Greyhound terminal in downtown Baltimore, I wonder why bus stations are so dirty. They have lockers. Rentals are $150 a month, but I’m afraid to rent it myself; afraid someone will recognize me if I am presumed missing or dead. I leave without talking to anyone and start walking.
A truck stop not too far away from the bus terminal has a somewhat private bathroom. I could dye my hair and materialize into my new identity before hopping on the bus. It will work. I feel more confident every day that I can do this. WE can do this. It’s not just about me anymore.
My first priority, and maybe the most important one is a new me; an identity I can use for the rest of my life. An identity so I can take and pass the GED, apply to college, and become a real person. I’ll have a name to pass on to the baby.
The internet has answers and solutions to anything I can think of. I’ve been checking out a few darknet sites on how to buy a new social security card. I spend way too much time incognito, on a forum discussion, trying to find out how to buy new identification. My burner phone buzzes, someone named GoneBoy, who has been a wealth of information, can help me. He can get this done for me, if we meet tonight.
I text back, somewhere public.
He texts a location in Inner Harbor.
Done.
I need pictures of the new me. The one I’m going to create with brown eyes and brown hair. The itchy wig I’m wearing, since I can’t dye my hair yet, is expensive. My new identity, is taking a huge chunk out of the last of my savings, and it’s risky, but this will be my new life. Good fakes cost money.
As I walk into the CVS, the woman at the makeup counter looks at me. Does she know I am wearing a wig? I picked this particular photo center because of the old woman behind the photo counter. I’m in luck, she is working, and repeats the same motions as last time, head down, she shuffles back to the camera, barely looking at me as she captures the new me on digital. When she hands me the prints, I can’t even recognize me.
Goodbye, Sunday Foster.
It’s a long bus ride back to my old life, and it affords me time to make the final decision. So, how does one die without leaving a body. I mean a believable death, one where no one questions foul play.
Two scenarios circle around my mind. The first involves taking SHE’s Audi, cutting my hand in the car, throwing my blood around like a struggle occurred, even strands of my hair and then leave my phone, ID, and credit cards, and just walk away. I’ve even read that if I could obtain another source of blood in the car, blood that is not mine, they would be searching for a DNA match. I thought about putting HE’s DNA somewhere in the car, but then the police would just think that HE’s DNA was in there because it was SHE’s car. I could never falsely accuse anyone else. But, If I could get blood from someone who already died, it might just end up blowing up on the internet as an unsolved murder. Rabbit blood and even chimpanzee blood is the most similar to humans, but there is an easy test to confirm if it is human blood. How can I get someone else’s blood to leave at the scene? Research tells me nurse’s stations, blood banks, even blood drives.
The second scenario would really drive a stake through HE’s and SHE’s hearts—if they still have a beating heart. I imagine the suicide note I would write. An in-depth inside look of my sickening family would expose their lies, debt, and drugs. I could tell the world about my poor dead brother Clark, declaring they killed him. Then I would go to the bay, leave my clothes and my belongings on the shore, and hopefully they would think I drowned.
The drowning death seems more appropriate and effective. Bodies get lost at sea, water can carry bodies to many other places, and they might not turn up for years. Water, the sea, the bay can be a good cover. In the past, many older people tried to use this one, but because they had a reason to flee. I mean they were either running away from debt, a crime or running with stolen money, it seemed too convenient. I don’t fit into any of the obvious categories. My age, minimal digital footprint and the fact everyone thinks I’m a normal high school student works in my favor
.
Water. The bus crosses the bridge at Liberty Lake, and I think I might just go with the drowning death, in honor of Clark. But first, I need a new identity before I can fake my death. With good identification, I can set up an out-of-state bank account, buy a bus ticket, and start creating my backstory. My list seems impossible. I close my journal, careful not to miss the bus stop by the high school. I can do this.
Like the baby growing inside me, the NEW PLAN is born.
Chapter 8
Amir, Lucky Star, and Hard Liquor Boys
My NEW PLAN is falling apart. Shredding.
“Sunday, is everything going okay?” Mr. Cable asks as I zone out in class. He hands me a test with a big red circle on it. I scored a solid forty-two on my biology exam. I can’t get the new movie of my life to stop playing in high speed in my head. I’m constantly trying to picture the alternative endings, depending on the choice I make.
“Yes, I’ll do better next time.” I smile, without meaning it. I’m obsessed about the NEW PLAN, and for the first time in forever, I could care less about my grades. I can’t take grades with me. I am certain this is really going to happen: Sunday Foster will no longer exist. It scares me to think that everything I’ve struggled and pushed for will be thrown away, but the alternative is incomprehensible. If I stay and end up like SHE, I will be facing a life sentence of darkness and despair.
In some respects, I want everything to appear as life as usual; however, failing grades might help paint a picture of depression for the suicide. It’s hard to throw the car into reverse when it’s been speeding down the good-grade-highway.
I’m definitely not worried about my grades for the first time in my life, but what I am worried about is the greasy-haired Italian guy, Tito, whom I met at Inner Harbor last week. I playback the meeting, wishing I would have trusted my instincts.
I waited on the bench in front of the street vendors for thirty minutes before he approached me.
“You Emily?” he said from the bench next to mine.
I nodded. Emily was my chosen name for my favorite author Emily Dickenson.
He slid a newspaper over. “You got the money?”
I slid my envelope in the paper.
Two seconds he had the paper. I gave him one thousand dollars for my new identity… one thousand dollars of my hard-earned cash, and five painstakingly difficult-to-produce photos of me wearing a brown wig and brown contact lenses.
He took the envelope, opened it up, and glanced inside. A magic trick completed in less than a minute. I had to give it to him he was quick. He mumbled, “It’ll take two days. Meet me back here, same place, same time, two days from now.”
He never showed up. I’ve sat on the bench, now for three nights in a row.
I’ve called his phone ten times and texted about 30 times. I’ll try it again after class, hoping I’m mistaken; that this time it will work. But, yeah, I’m screwed. I just don’t know how to deal with it.
After class, I try it again. His phone number no longer works.
My stomach hurts and I’m queasy. I’m not sure if it is because of my pregnancy or because I have $1000 less in my quickly-depleting fund.
I need help, but I don’t know where to get it.
I’ve tried to chat with Goneboy, but he doesn’t respond, either. It was probably all a set-up and I was stupid enough to fall for it. I’m sick with fear and I’m so angry at my stupidity. But how can you ask for a money-back guarantee on purchasing a fake identity? I went with my gut, even though it didn’t feel right. I need to toughen up and realize no one can be trusted. I’m determined not to give up, for me and the baby.
“Hey, there’s my girl.” Jack offers me a bright smile as he walks up to my locker, and then it diminishes. He rubs my collarbone, bringing me back to reality.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I see his worry in the drooping corner of his mouth and as he runs his hand through the top of his hair. I see it in his eyes, which lately I find myself avoiding. His kind brown eyes. I wish I could tell him about my NEW PLAN. I wish he could be my Cinderella story, my happily ever after. The fairytale version of my life plays through my head in which I tell him everything about Tyler and the baby, and he grabs me tight and says, “I love you so much, we can do this together and be happy.” He isn’t disgusted or disappointed. “We can rent a little cottage near the beaches of California and make a life for all three of us. I love you, Sunday. We can do this.”
My dream scenario vanishes. Where’s my fitted glass slipper? I gave up fairytales a long time ago, but it doesn’t stop my innocent inner child from wishing.
“Sunday?” Jack is staring at me as I shut my locker. I realize he is waiting for an answer. What was the question? His beautiful mouth is slanted in sadness and confusion. I’m the only one in control of my future. It’s up to me. Fairytales are not real.
“I beat my dad in poker. I finally got it. I know what my tell is and I definitely know his.” Jack is rubbing his hands together. “I’m going to wipe him out.”
I hear him, but I can’t focus.
“Everyone has some sort of tell. My dad pulls on his eyebrows. I think I move my thumb back and forth. I’m not going to let him know I figured it out and I’m going to use it against him.”
“Use what against him?” I’m confused. Is he still talking about poker?
“What’s up with you, Sunday?” He looks at me with questions in his eyes, demanding an answer. “I’ve been patient, waiting for you to tell me and I get nothing. Excuses, you’re busy. What is it. What are you not telling me?” I am hurting him. I’ve been emotionally empty, and of course he notices. Suddenly, a glimmer of a bad idea forms. I should break up with him. That way, when I fake my death, he won’t blame himself. That’s what I should do. Make him mad enough to not care anymore.
The last thing in the world I want to do is cause Jack pain. His milk chocolate eyes make me lose self-control; I can’t break up with him. I can’t even get in a fight with him, at least not now. He’s the one good thing in my life—he’s always been the only good thing, and, selfishly, I need him a little bit longer.
“I’m sorry. It’s not you. It’s just my parents, nothing I can’t handle.” A lie. “If you’re biologically related to someone does that mean you might turn out like them? “
“Sunday, is it him? Did he do something?”
“No, he’s stressed at work and he’s getting on me about everything.” I put my hands on his shoulder, lean in, and kiss his scar on his cheek. My scar, the one from saving the dog Harvey on the ice. Another lie. Everything seems like lies. I trace his scar with my finger. My life is a lie. Lies. More lies are coming.
Jack grabs my finger and holds my hand. “Are you sure you’re okay? He hasn’t…” I know what Jack wants to ask. In seventh grade he had seen the bruises that I desperately tried to hide from the world.
“No, and he never will again. Don’t worry, I have it under control. Honest.” I perk up, paste my actress audition face over my confused emotions, and give him the award-winning smile I have perfected over the years. He buys it. It’s probably my tell, but nobody knows I’m bluffing.
“So you’ll go with me to Ohiopyle on the rafting trip?” He reaches out and grabs both my hands.
“Do you really want to go?”
“Yes, I really want to go, and I want to go with you, Sunday Foster. Remember how much fun we had with my family last year? Come on, you know you were a pro white-water rafter. I mean I was of course better than you, but you were pretty good.”
I laugh. Jack is of course good at all things, but by the end of my first rafting trip, instead of hating it, I loved it. I loved the smell of the water and the earth that held the looming trees that lined the curving river, like spectators bending and cheering to the groups of rafts that dared to take the wild ride. Something about the roar of rushing water, that whispered in my ear as the whoosh of air swirled around my face, I wanted more of the unknown danger that gre
eted me at every turn, because I wasn’t alone. This danger we battled it together as a family. The day was awesome. Simply perfection.
It is my favorite memory, and the closest thing to a family vacation I’ve ever experienced. Even the guide told Ed what a great family he had, and Ed said, “Thanks they learned it all from me.” I was part of they.
We celebrated our triumph in a lively Mexican restaurant, with warm out of the oven homemade tortilla chips and salsa, and an overflowing platter of cheesy burritos, tacos and quesadillas. Jack tried to get everyone to taste a dark red chili pepper, finally convincing his mom it wasn’t hot. I laughed so hard that I cried tears of joy as she hid her face in her hands and the waiter rushed over with milk for her to drink. The best was when we realized Marcia didn’t really eat the chili, but snuck it into Jack’s rice. Jack ended up standing, fanning his mouth and drinking the milk. The perfect day ended when Tara, Jack and I snuck out to the hotel pool, lying on our backs under an open canopy of a million stars. We talked for hours debating Tara’s choice of college, and each one admitting our secret adventurous hopes and dreams of a future full of whatever you wanted.
I so wanted to be back there, and repeat that incredible day all over again.
“Where did you go?” Jack bends down, eye to eye.
I laugh. “I was thinking about the raft trip with your family. I did love it. I’m in. But, can I pay by credit card?” Every bit of cash I possessed had to be saved. Every dollar.
“Moneybags, are you worried about the cost?”
I don’t answer. I know he’s teasing me about my obsession with saving money. If he only knew why, it wouldn’t be very funny.
I lean into my locker, trying to catch my breath, while I mask the lies from my face, stacking books at the bottom. A notebook full of papers becomes airborne.
