by A. K. Smith
“You’re my moonlight,” he would answer. “My bewitching moonlight.”
“Perfect,” I’d reply. “Sunshine and moonlight make the day complete.”
Today he wrote:
Sunday is alive. I know it. They have never found her beautiful body. Why is that? It has been two months! Where’s her damn body? She saved me. I just want to save her.
Sunday, I’m sorry for pushing you to go on the school trip. If we didn’t go you would still be here.
His posts break my heart. I stare at his handsome face and his kind puppy dog eyes. I’m so sorry, Jack. I wish I could really talk to you.
My stomach aches.
It’s possible the police and rescuers have given up the search for my body. I’m presumed dead, and now I am included in the total number of victims in the shooting. I don’t want to think about Tyler, but I wonder what they are saying at the courthouse. I wonder if Tyler feels bad for what he did to a dead girl.
I’m not sure what the proper procedure is for investigating a missing student in a shooting spree, but the search for my body is no longer front-page news. The focus now is on terrorism. A commercial airplane that has been missing for over a year was discovered in the middle of a poor African country, the surviving passengers now hostages of a terror group. The media focuses on this new trauma.
Eric, the shooter, is still plastered in the headlines on the internet. Anytime there is another school shooting, which unfortunately seems to happen, Eric is mentioned. Apparently, recently they discovered information in Eric’s computer: he might have been supporting ISIS or some other extreme Islamic group. They uncovered al-Qaeda videos on his laptop and an internet magazine in English, “Inspire,” reportedly published by al-Qaeda. If Eric was involved in radical terrorism, could Amir be part of some radical group? Could he have known what Eric was up to?
It doesn’t seem possible. I hate that my mind even goes there. Yes, Amir’s mother is from Kuwait and a Muslim, which, from everything I have seen and witnessed, is a loving and peaceful religion. She is definitely not a terrorist or some extremist, and his father served our country in Desert Storm. I rack my brain to remember. Was Amir a Muslim or a Christian? He celebrated Christmas. His father is Christian. I guess it never mattered to me. I have no idea if the Beck family is religious.
Eric. I don’t want to, but I can picture him perched on the rock above the river with the gun wrapped in the American flag. My head hurts, pounding like a hammer, trying to solve a physics theory or equation problem I can’t wrap my mind around. Why would you use an American flag if you were an extremist? It will never make sense to me. Never.
My new life is a revolving routine of time blocks. I work the late shift at Magic Hat and by the time I arrive home to my hot closet, I’m exhausted. The days and nights are both hot in Las Vegas, and when I get up in the morning, I only have a few hours to work on devising how to move forward from here. It’s moving along at a snail’s pace. Everything costs money, and money goes quick.
I’m scheduled to take the GED test at The College of Southern Nevada. It will cost me $95 to receive the diploma—that is, if I pass. Budgeting money is nothing new to me. I’ve been doing it for the last several years, but funds seem to deplete at a quicker speed than back in Baltimore. At least HE and SHE were responsible for the mortgage and the utilities and, even though they were maxed out, the use of a credit card was a luxury once tasted, never forgotten.
Amir will be here in less than two weeks; I pray I won’t have to reinvent myself. As much as I ache for the death of Sunday Foster because of Jack, I want to be Hannah Williams and move on with my life. Getting the GED will be my first step to fulfilling my dream of going to college.
The bus ride to work is crowded today. Men and women dressed in their Vegas work attire, leopard leotards, three-piece bright blue suits and even a ballerina, anywhere else this group would be going to a Halloween party. Completing the GED and going to college is such the right path. Hudson is doing both school and work, which keeps him extremely busy. I’m looking forward to today when we will cross paths at work.
The Magic Hat Casino is a bargain-basement version of a drunk’s vision of fun. The darkness and smoke mask the cheap decorating and cheesy theme. The bells and beeps of slot machines add to the old rock music piped in the background. I detest the tight uniform I have to pull on and force over my body and my daily ritual: coating my face with a thick layer of makeup, shadowy black eyeliner, false eyelashes, and dark brick-red lipstick. As I apply the paint, I pretend to be an actress going on stage. The set, a cheap bad movie.
As I slather on the thick foundation and powder, my mind centers on a fact from the past. Today is my real birthday—or, at least, Sunday Foster’s birthday. Sometimes, I think I have a split personality. Although the driver’s license in my purse states I am eighteen, my deep dark secret of the day—because I have so many—is that I’m actually seventeen, no longer sweet sixteen, which I laugh on the ‘sweet’ part. Happy birthday to me!
‘Homesick’ would not be the appropriate word, but something about my birthday makes me think of back home.
Of course, HE and SHE would not have even whispered the two words to their only daughter, but Amir would have shyly presented his annual present. This year, Ed and Marcia would probably have cooked me a birthday dinner. I remember last year when Jack realized I’d turned sixteen as I proudly flashed him my driver’s license. He had been so excited to celebrate my birthday. Again, for the hundredth time, I let myself dwell on a memory with Jack. I could hear his voice:
“How long have you had your permit?”
“Four months.”
“When do you turn sixteen?”
“I already did. I took the test last weekend.”
“Well, when was your birthday?”
He grabbed me and jumped on top of me on his parents’ couch and pulled the driver’s license out of my hand, tickling me to let it go.
Reading my driver’s license, he gasped. “Sunday, I missed your sixteenth birthday! Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It doesn’t matter, I’m not really into celebrating birthdays.”
“Well, I am. Sunday, we will celebrate! You’re only sweet sixteen once! Say it: every birthday is a gift.”
He tickled me again, repeating those words over and over again until I couldn’t breathe from laughing and I gave in. “Okay, every birthday is a gift!” We collapsed twisted together and, even now, I can even remember his cinnamon breath from his gum, the fresh smell of soap mixed with his deodorant, and the secureness of his strong arms hugging me. For a brief moment in the universe, I belonged.
Marcia baked a delicious cake, loaded with frosting and a little raspberry jam in the white cake. She stuck a hot pink waxy number sixteen candle in the center. As I blew the candle out, I made a wish. I held the tears back, as they all sang ‘Happy Birthday’ off key. My first cake with a candle. I felt deliriously happy, hoping my wish would come true.
It never did.
I shake that memory from my mind. That was then, this is now.
I remember a quote I read: “If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.” I never really understood what that meant until now.
The smell and lights of the casino bring me back. Walking through the slot machines, I watch the manic collection of women and men inserting their hard-earned cash into a machine, wishing they would win. It fills me with sadness and pity: the most destitute of people scrounging around in their purse or pocket for another dollar to slide into a colorful, musical machine. Wishes do not come true.
“Good evening, Miss Bridget,” says Ward, a regular, looking up from his slot machine with a kind smile.
My name at Magic Hat is Bridget. I like having a casino name. Since everything I do at work is acting, it makes it seem just part of the play. George just happened to have a name tag with Bridget on it.
I put on my best fake smile, mix in a little genuine grin. “Good evening, Ward, can
I get you something to drink?”
“Yes, my dear, the usual would be terrific.” He stops playing to make eye contact with me.
Without fail, Ward sits in the swivel chair in front of his favorite slot machine, “Stinkin’ Rich,” at least four nights a week. Some nights he orders four or five beers and some nights he drinks the free ginger ale. Regardless, he always is kind, and tips me the same amount—a crisp twenty-dollar bill—at the end of every night.
Ward is soft-spoken, but boy, is he a talker. He shares with me that his wife died ten years ago, and he never found another to steal his heart. Emma was the heart stealer, and he mentioned she didn’t like gambling or drinking very much; or as Ward says, only once in a blue moon. His eyes smile when he talks about her, and he looks off in the distance, remembering her, or possibly seeing her for a moment. I understand that vacant look, how memories can come alive in your mind, and take you away.
Ward tells me he recently retired from Waste Management for the city of Las Vegas after forty-five years.
“It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it,” he says more than once. “Although now I guess that makes me a dirty old man.” He laughs at his own joke. I’ve heard it many times.
He tells me about his son. The pride in his voice lights up his face. “My boy tried to be a race car driver, and he was pretty darn good, but it’s expensive, so he gave it up and went to law school, and now he’s an attorney here in town. He’s one of the good ones,” Ward adds.
Ward is harmless and kind, a rare bird in the nest of vultures that perch around the casino. Even though his son is a lawyer, I sure hope his son is nothing like Tyler, who some at the courthouse called a good one. I like Ward, and when he hands me the twenty before he leaves for the night, he winks at me and always says, “Go have some fun, Bridget. Life’s too short.”
Fun. How do you define fun? I haven’t had fun since Jack. Jack demands joy. He is the one soul on this planet who can make me laugh. Sure, I’m an expert at pasting on the fake smile at a moment’s notice, but a real smile, my real laugh, hasn’t emerged since the last time I saw his handsome face before the shooting began, before I was Hannah.
Jack always knew how to bring the best out of me. He teased me about how I would laugh, throwing back my mane, as he called my once-long blonde hair.
It seems like forever since that happened, and I can’t imagine when real laughter will happen again.
In the break room, I visit Jack’s page.
“George wants you in the back office before your break,” Carla says, a blonde, blue-eyed cocktail waitress as she struts by. She has a pretty face and a great body, but she looks hard as nails. I haven’t made friends with the other girls who work at the Magic Hat. They are all very territorial and push me to my one little section each night. I think they know I’m not twenty-one. They make plans to go out to clubs on their days off and they joke with each other with private innuendos. Hudson told me it was because they were jealous by my fresh young face. Whatever. It doesn’t make sense, but I’m content to keep to myself, just as I always do. The thick walls I carry protect me from anyone getting close. It’s all I’ve ever known, except for Jack. As I walk back to the office, I can’t help but wonder if Jack is celebrating my birthday.
The door is half open, I knock.
“Come in.” George leans back in his chair, his feet up on the desk. He carries around an unlit cigar, chewing on the end in an annoying fashion while he spits out his words and pieces of the cigar. His overpowering cologne irritates my nostrils, strong and vinegary. Hard to breathe.
“Sit down, Bridget.” He sucks the end of the tattered cigar.
I sit on the small chair centered directly in front of his monstrous desk. The cheap plastic chair is shorter, a purposeful act so others look up at him while he looms over his employees. HE did the same thing in his office. Where do men learn these traits, some insecure man handbook?
“Your trial period is almost up, and I’ve been thinking about doing you a favor.” He gnaws on the end of his mushy cigar, like a rabbit fixated on a carrot, staring at my chest.
I want to stand up so he can’t see down my low-cut outfit.
“In the next couple of weeks, I’m planning on adding a little pizazz to the Magic Hat. I want you to be a part of it,” he says, and smiles like he is offering me a present.
Silent, I dread what he has to say next. It can’t be good.
“Can you dance?”
My gut constricts, thinking about what Jamie and Adriana had teased me about before: dancing in Vegas (aka stripping, of some sort).
“Dance? Not really. I don’t have much rhythm.”
The scowl on his face tells me he is not happy with my answer.
“Well, if you want to stick around the Magic Hat, start practicing your dance moves. I need waitresses to put in at least four to six hours of dancing a week. I’m thinking black hats, fishnet stockings, maybe a rabbit in the corner of the cage. Figure it out.” He glares at me and snorts. “That is, if you like working here.”
I examine the dark circles under his eyes and his cheesy shiny fabric outfit, his cheap silky shirt is unbuttoned too far down. His gross curly thick chest hair is exposed. He waits for me to reply. I don’t understand why Hudson likes him. I need this job and even though I don’t enjoy working here, I can’t afford not to. I have to figure something out.
“Okay, George, I’ll work on it. Thanks for the opportunity.” Pushing my mouth up in a brilliant fake smile, I walk out.
Determined my life will not be another Lifetime movie of a runaway teenager turned dancer or stripper, I have to focus on the next phase. NO, I’m not dancing. I’m going to college. I need to take the GED and get going on my PLAN.
Chapter 18
Blindfolds, Cages, and Tests
Did I remember to put deodorant on? Beads of sweat form under my arms and my stomach aches. I want to run into the bathroom and vomit. Anxiety. I need to focus on this test and remind myself that I was once an outstanding high school student with honor classes and straight A’s.
But that’s a lie. Hannah Williams is nothing but a high school dropout, working illegally as a cocktail waitress in an off-the-Strip casino.
Like a thief, I’ve been secretly studying my exam prep workbook, hiding out in the Clark County Library, and keeping it inside a notebook so my nosy roommates don’t see the cover. Taking the GED is more challenging than I thought: all the years of learning rolled into one computerized examination. No one around me suspects I didn’t graduate from high school—hell, no one suspects I am only seventeen—but in order to move forward, I have to pass this test.
Hudson, playing the big brother role, is always checking my pulse. Not literally, but the scary thing is I could picture him putting two fingers on the side of my neck. He makes me paranoid about my brown contact lenses. I’m obsessed with the idea that he’s trying to peek under my façade.
The proctor walks in, and the room is tense with nerves as he explains the rules. The janitor must have just sterilized this room: the cleaner flares up my nostrils, almost burning. It’s not helping my nausea. Sitting next to me in this disinfected room in Las Vegas is a diverse smorgasbord of humans, a variety of ages and races, equal parts male and female. The older Hispanic man to my left catches my roving eye.
“Don’t be nervous, we got this, right?” He leans towards me and smiles.
“Right.” I paste on the fake smile.
His forehead glistens with sweat and the back of his shirt is damp with sweat. Wow. He may be more nervous than me, and I didn’t think that was possible.
What happened to this random group of adults that they were unable to finish high school? How many of them were like me? Well, I can answer that: Zero. I’m sure no one faked their death during a school shooting.
Just then, the young beautiful Asian girl in front of me turns around and looks at me. She seems to be high school age, like me, and I wonder what her story is. She doesn’t smile;
just studies me and then the clock on the back wall. What interfered with her childhood to stop her from achieving one of the most basic rites on the way to adulthood? She showed up here, and I’m proud of her for that. For everyone here, no matter their ages or sex or past or whatever.
I have seven hours to take the test. I need to focus and stay on track.
This is a walk down the road to my new life, and if I pass, a new door opens.
Bleary-eyed, I walk out of the testing center to the bus stop. Unofficially, I passed the GED test. I want to celebrate. I want to shout it to the world. It is one of my rare days off, and I want to be a senior commemorating my graduation and throwing my hat in the air. Every day, I am lonely. I do not want to be alone on today.
I text Hudson, R u free?
From the posted schedule on the Magic Hat break room wall, he knew I had requested the day off and he asked me why. I snapped an answer, telling him it was personal; something I had to take care of. He left it at that, but I knew he wanted to ask if everything was okay. He’d just smiled and walked away.
He texted back in seconds. Just chillin, why?
I reply, I need to have some FUN. Desperate for fun.
His text, Do you trust me?
I trust no one, I want to text. Only Jack. However, Hudson knows one of my darkest secrets and has never breathed a word.
I trust him a little bit.
Maybe… I text.
I’ll take that as a yes. Meet me at MGM bus stop in 1 hour.
The amazing thing about Las Vegas is—it doesn’t matter how hot the temperature; there are still hordes of people trampling down the sidewalks. Crowds taking pictures, texting, talking, and staggering drunk. I am bubbling from the excitement of passing the GED test. The future seems brighter. I ignore the over-one-hundred-degree dry heat pressing down on me, making me feel like an oiled turkey walking around the inside of an oven. Although my plan has changed countless times, the future is going to be better. Today is going to be a good day; the first one in a long time. Since the shooting, Tyler, and the false pregnancy, I didn’t think I could ever have a good day again, but I need to at least try.
