by A. K. Smith
Did he know who I was? Was there some video on the internet already? Paranoia almost buckled my knees.
“Sir, I just need a ride. Are you headed anywhere near Baltimore?” I wasn’t giving up.
He studied me for what seemed like an eternity. Nodding his head, he broke the frozen trance and motioned to his truck. He walked with a slight limp. I followed keeping three feet between us. I don’t know if he could speak. He was silent during the drive. Not one word. Thankful for no questions, I watched the countryside fly by as I tried to block out the smell of mildew, tobacco, and sweat. I offered him a protein bar and he nodded and turned up the old-time country music on a dusty cassette player. I didn’t even know they still made cassette tapes. The words of the sad ballads stung my heart, adding water to my eyes. Stories of a man losing his wife, his life, and his dog.
What was the media was saying about the shooting? I blocked it out of my mind to stop shaking. The innocent baby inside me, the child I needed to save, gave me strength. When we got close to the city, Thomas Powell (that was the name on the ID hanging on the dashboard) pulled over at a truck stop in Baltimore.
Miracles do happen. Maybe Thomas Powell was an angel. Lucky for me, he picked the truck stop closest to the bus station. My truck stop. My bus station. I took it as a sign.
The rain makes everything colorless, almost like it washes away the brightest hues from the sky, the flowers, even the trees. Leaning my cheek against the window, I watch the muddy countryside flash by. So here I am, the new me, Hannah Williams, sitting on a Greyhound bus en route to Los Angeles. I’m near the back of the bus, but not the very back, trying to blend in. My fervent wish is to be left alone. A used California tourist guidebook I picked up at a garage sale for a dollar a year ago, rests on my lap. I need to be a typical bus rider. Be unnoticeable. I can’t curl up in a ball and cry: that would definitely draw attention. As soon as they hit, I wipe the tear drops off the cover of the State of California, hoping no one notices.
The bus is filling up and an older Hispanic woman takes the seat next to me. She appears to want the same thing, privacy. She doesn’t even say hello. As we pull out, a twisted elation fills my chest. I glance cautiously at the woman beside me. It’s nighttime, her eyes are closed, she is trying to sleep, and a strong smell of garlic emits from her skin. No one is staring at me; no one looks at me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and my stomach muscles tighten as I try to block out the flashbacks of the river. I need to sleep. My body is exhausted, but my mind is terrified. In the woods, I slept for a little bit when I leaned up against a tree and passed out.
Glimpses of last night come back to me. I don’t know how long I lay there crumpled, but I opened my eyes to the trees, crying out loud for Jack. Covered in a sticky sweat, my body ached as I gulped for air, unable to catch my breath. In my dream, Eric was standing in the trees. I could see him holding the gun wrapped in the tattered American flag, staring at me. I couldn’t let him into my brain.
Get out.
Amir. How is Amir? The question has been circling my mind. The best thing is to let him think I died. I’ve convinced myself of this. Being Eric’s only friend, he must be going through some terrible times. He doesn’t need this. Amir was a true friend when I needed it. I’m genuinely sorry I can’t be there for him, but he will bounce back and soon he’ll be away from all of it and graduate. I’m glad he didn’t go on the school trip. He’ll be okay.
In two days, fourteen hours, and thirty minutes, I will arrive in Los Angeles, California. I picked the bus schedule with only one transfer: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The bus, a moving bed of material seats, shuttled a load of strangers from city to city. After Maryland, the bus will travel to Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indianapolis, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, Utah, and Las Vegas, the last stop before California.
I don’t care about seeing the country. I did, before. Maybe someday I will see the United States of America, but now all I want is to head west, far, far away from Maryland, Pennsylvania, and HE and SHE. I give them one minute of my thought and wonder about their response to the shooting. Would they play the role of mourning parents? Join the outraged mothers and fathers of the HLB and Dream Team? Hug the families of the students killed in the school shooting? They will probably try to sue the school because I signed the consent form.
I try to steer clear of even thinking about Jack, blocking his beautiful face from my mind, blocking his name, and trying to shut up that incessant voice that shouts his name in my head. As soon as it enters, I try to think of the mission at hand and my new plan. He has to be okay. I think I would know if he was gone.
Gone. I’m gone. Does he know?
If I think about it one more minute, I will fall to pieces.
My mind goes back to Amir, and I deliberate whether he really believes I’m dead. I hope so. I know he’ll be sad—our weird friendship has grown strong—but with this new turn of events, he might honor my memory by never telling a soul of my original plan to fake my death. I pray he will keep my secret forever.
Just in case I’m wrong about Amir, I took no chances at the Baltimore Greyhound station. I knew if I left the key in the storage locker, he would figure out the truth. The key is now in the bottom of a toilet in the bathroom of the truck station, hopefully on its way down the sewer. It’s better this way; cleaner. Amir has to believe the PLAN never happened.
Sunday Foster is dead.
Chapter 12
Smells, Saltines, and First Jobs
“If the smell doesn’t kill us, the junk food will.” He is smiling, this happy-go-lucky personality.
Please stop smiling at me.
He sits next to me on the hard-orange chairs at the transfer station in Pittsburgh. I can feel him watching me. I pretend to be engrossed in my California guidebook, the pages wrinkled by my tears. He appears to be about my age, maybe a little older, his brown, razor-cut hair dyed blonde at the tips. His UNLV t-shirt exposes tattoos on both arms, and his beat-up brown cowboy boots are actually somewhat cool.
I target an empty chair away from him, give him a sideways glance, inhale and exhale, and get up and move. He continues to glance my way—not that I’m watching, but I know he’s studying me. Time drags on waiting for the bus to depart. Finally. As I get into line to board the bus, he walks right behind me. My super power nose can smell him. Not bad. Better than the man that sat beside me earlier, almost clean like dryer sheets.
“I’m sorry, but the guy on the last bus stinks. I mean, reeks: a body odor that creeps in your nose, and it’s hard to breathe. I can still smell it. I’ve been blessed with a good smeller, but sometimes it’s not a good thing. You know what I mean?”
I refuse to answer him, or even acknowledge my super sensitive nose, or that I know exactly what he’s talking about. I’m not answering, no eye contact, and I start to count to ten in my head, hoping by the time I reach ten, he will walk away.
Seven. Eight….
“Since we are transferring buses, maybe we could sit beside each other. This is the last transfer, and it looks like a crazy full load, so we could be safe from strange-smelling seatmates. I’m Hudson, and I showered.” He sticks his hand out. I ignore his hand. He isn’t giving up. “I’m going to Vegas, which is the next to last stop.” A no response from me does not dent his confidence. “I’m going to start classes at UNLV this summer. This is just the beginning of everything. Everything great. The story of my life starts now.”
I continue to ignore him and step in front of him, but he still stands there, moving forward in line with me. Now, he’s slightly behind me but I know he’s smiling like I’m interested. The woman in front of me carries several blankets, a jumbo pillow, and a bag full of crackling plastic-bagged junk food. The man to the left of her is quite large, wearing crumpled clothes and a dirty baseball cap. I imagine my superhero nose will be on high alert with the majority of the passengers.
Would it be less conspicuous if I sat beside someone my own age? There’s a cha
nce people will think we are traveling together. Again, I survey the variety of folks in line. Yes, a few are sketchy. Smelly, dirty, possibly even intoxicated people.
I can do worse.
Make a decision.
I turn around, forcing one of my fake half-smiles. A Hannah smile. She is now alive and making her mark on the world. I step off the ledge I’ve been teetering on, with my first word. “Okay.”
That one word is all it takes to start hearing the life story of Hudson Wagner.
Hudson most recently lived in Ocean City, Maryland, and was raised by a single mother, whom he obviously adores. He never met his father, who split when he was three. “My mom and I didn’t have much, but we had each other. Sometimes that’s enough.” Hudson went to eight different high schools all over the country, and because of the constant moving, had a hard time being, as he says, “college material.” But UNLV accepted him for a summer session, and with success in those classes, he’s confident he’ll receive full admission in the fall.
“My mom’s happy. It’s all she ever wanted,” he says, almost as if sunlight beams dance in his eyes. I try not to focus on them. If I’m silent, Hudson just keeps on speaking.
“She might not be too happy about UNLV—she hates Vegas, or Sin City as she calls it—but as long as I’m enrolled in college, she can handle it. It’s her thing, you know. I’ve heard it a thousand times. She would tell me ‘you can do anything, but first do this for me and you. College only takes four years and then you can figure out the rest of your life, but no one can ever take that college education away from you.’”
He waits for me to speak, like he’d asked me a question. My head is turned in his direction but I’m half listening, looking at a stain on my seat. It reminds me of blood. The stain. I rub it with my fingers like I can erase it. I grimace, I need to stop the scary thoughts from growing, stop the flashes of memory from surfacing.
“I’m doing it for both of us. I mean, my mom finally has a real job. After years of moving around from ski resorts to beach towns, waitressing, housekeeping, and doing front desk work, she is now Assistant Manager at Harrison Hall in Ocean City. I’m so proud of her, and now she can be proud of me. You know what I mean?”
I nod my head, then look back out the window.
“It doesn’t matter what my first job is. Did you know that Brad Pitt used to dress up like a chicken in Hollywood? He handed out flyers on the street to El Pollo Loco. Sylvester Stallone used to clean lion cages at Central Park—he made $1.12 an hour. These are facts. Truth. So, it doesn’t matter what you start out as; just what you become.”
Hudson stops talking. The silence is a reprieve, but terrifying, as I know he expects me to contribute to the conversation.
“You’re so quiet. I guess I’m boring you, and it’s late, and you probably want to get some sleep.” Hudson pauses as he holds up a bag of chips and a bag of pretzels. “Hey, I don’t even know your name.”
This is it. Who do I want to be? A rude, depressed introvert? I choose the cautious skeptic. Hannah is going to be careful, but she can be careful and personable. I need to lose myself tonight and find Hannah.
Hannah who wasn’t part of a school massacre. Hannah who never met Tyler.
“My name is Hannah, and you’re not boring me. This ride is boring me, and we have another fifty-four hours to go. I’ll take the pretzels, thanks.”
“Okay, Hannah, nice to meet you. So, what’s your story—and you can give me the long version, ’cause we’ve got plenty of time.” Hudson settles back in his seat, crosses his inked arms across his chest, opens the bag of chips, and smiles.
It could be worse.
My cheek is warm, and I squint in the sunshine, trying to open my tired eyes. I made it through the night. Hudson and I talked for a few hours last night and then I faked sleep. It’s amazing how much you can learn about someone on a bus. Besides Jack, (a sharp pain radiates from my chest just thinking his name), I have never talked to a boy this much. Well, maybe Amir. I wonder how Amir is. I’m sure it is even more difficult for him, since Eric was his friend. I hope he’s honoring his promise of keeping my secret.
Hudson is a factoid nerd. He knows every famous person’s first job. I name a dozen celebrities, and he knows what they did before they made it big. Exhaustion must have crawled into my entire being, brain, and body somewhere in the early hours of the morning. I realize now, my fake sleeping turned into real sleep.
Thank God, I don’t remember dreaming.
We are coming up to a one-hour lunch stop in Indianapolis.
Hudson eyes flutter open. He looks around like a lost deer, a kind lost deer, and his green eyes focus on my face as he runs his hand through his hair and his lips split open, revealing his straight white teeth and a smile. His inner joy makes him cute. He pulls out a stick of gum, unwraps it in a flash, and it disappears in his mouth. He offers me a piece. His mother taught him well.
“Good morning, Hannah.” Even his eyes look happy. “We have an hour lunch stop coming up. I’m going to get something to eat, I’m starving. Wanna join me?”
I can do this. I force on my fake face. “Sounds great. I’m hungry, too.” And it is the truth.
This thing, the two of us being seatmates, walking into a truck stop together, might not be so bad. In some way, it is easier than traveling by myself. As we walk into the restaurant at the truck station, we talk like two friends traveling together. Hudson laughs at everything and his energy is contagious. Anyone glancing our way may have thought we were girlfriend and boyfriend, possibly college students. I’m explaining my California plan: get a job, establish a one-year residency, then go to college the next year.
“I hate California,” he says before continuing, “well, I don’t hate the whole state, really. Just southern California, except for the beautiful beaches and ocean. And, I don’t hate it but it’s just not one of my favorite places.”
I can’t imagine Hudson hating anything.
“There’s too many rules. I mean, most beaches, you can’t even take your dog to the beach, or collect seashells. It’s very expensive and people are nosy and fake. Like South Beach in Florida, a lot of plastic people.”
Hudson loves the Wild West: thus the cowboy boots and the glitter and dazzle of Las Vegas. I’m glad he’s not into the plastic.
“When my mother and I lived in South Beach, I met this great guy, George, who left one of the big resorts in Florida to manage a casino and restaurant in Vegas.” His warm voice is like a happy melody of excitement as he speaks. “A part-time job while I go to school would be perfect. Or maybe I could even swing full-time. But if not, I’m not worried. Jobs are plentiful in Vegas, and the cost of living is low.” He leans close as if sharing a secret. “You can eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner for 99 cents, and I found a cheap, cool youth hostel for a week.”
Hudson seems organized. He pulls up the hostel on his phone, showing me the pics and the rates.
“You should think about Las Vegas,” he says like it is the greatest place on earth, and the greatest idea.
“I have my sights set on California. I’m ready for the beach, LA—you know— California Dreaming.”
He opens the restaurant door for me. “Well, the thing about Vegas versus LA is that an 18-year-old girl like you could find a job that probably pays good money and you can live cheap without a car and save up your money for college.” He cocks his head. “And you know, in Vegas you don’t pay any state income taxes, so you make more money.” Hudson pauses. “Madonna worked at Dunkin’ Donuts although she didn’t make it past the first day; she was fired for squirting jam into a customer’s face.” He smiles, checking to see if I was listening. “And the most important point to remember is that it’s the capital of second chances.”
Startled, I slowed down. “Why would you say that?”
“That’s a nickname for Las Vegas. I like it better than Sin City, and I remind my mother constantly of that nickname instead of Sin City. Another favorite is: �
��What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’”
My chest constricts. In the truck stop, I’m out in the open. I have a sudden flashback to the river. I’ve read that fight or flight feeling is innate. The smell of food is in my nose. I think I’m going to throw up. I stop walking and drop my backpack on the floor. I am going to throw up.
“Hannah, you okay?” Hudson stops, a strange look on his face.
“Must be something I ate. My stomach’s upset. I need to go to the restroom.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He hesitates, picks up my backpack and hands it to me, holding on to it, until I give him a look. I nod my head afraid to speak or I’ll vomit.
“I’ll get us a table.” Hudson says as I dart back outside to the restroom.
I barely make it to the bathroom stall, and I throw up. I suppose this is morning sickness. Great. I clean up, brush my teeth, and try to pull myself together. My arm has stopped bleeding, I change the bandage. I’ve always seen in movies that Saltine crackers help when you’re pregnant. I guess the little life inside of me is shouting at me to eat. I will order some soup and crackers, and maybe even some orange juice.
Hudson is at the counter, his eyes focused on the flat screen above the counter. I lower my body onto the stool beside him, my backpack between my legs.
“You know what really gets me is the news media. I don’t know why they keep showing his photo.” His speaks slower than usual, and anger edges his voice.
“I mean change the guns laws or something, but don’t keep telling the story of the shooter. It’s probably what all those sick psychos want—some kind of gruesome fame attached to their name. They shouldn’t even put their pictures on television. Give them all a name like Loser #126, and cover up their face. I am sick of school shootings and no one doing anything about it.”
