by A. K. Smith
Hudson squeezes my arm hard forcing me to look up, and unexpected happiness lights up his face. Motioning with his head, he mouths, “Turn around.”
He nods yes at my surprised reaction. I don’t want to move, but I do. With little motion I shuffle sideways and turn to the woods behind me. Standing in the glimmer of the soft light, like a newly erected statue, a small skinny deer is also frozen in place, its head cocked, staring at the moon.
We are in its sanctuary, and if it could speak, I picture it yelling in a Vegas gangster voice, “What the hell are you kids doing in my territory? Get out, now. Beat it.”
But it stands as if posing for a glorious painting. This beautiful deer isn’t scared, angry or rabid; but calm like a golden retriever, someone’s dog, sitting in the woods.
A wonderful moment until the ever-present nightmare flashes in my mind. In the woods after the shooting, I woke up to a pungent smell of wildness. On the ground beside me, an animal had marked the dirt with its footprints inches from where I was sleeping, as if it stood in front of my face sniffing me, trying to determine if I was alive. It might have been deer tracks or some other hoofed animal that lived in the woods. I’ll never know what animal watched over me that night, but I’d like to imagine that a beautiful deer like this one stood beside me.
The deer lowers itself to the ground a few feet away, staring at us, calm and content. Large, dark eyes.
Transfixed, I return the gaze. Where was his mate or family? Sadness rips open my heart and the tears roll out without asking me. Hudson is silent and then in a sweet, gentle motion wipes the wet drops sliding down my cheeks with his hand, the deer sprints back into the thicket. I turn to Hudson, his mouth follows his hand, and he kisses me, a gentle kiss, first on my cheek, wet with tears, and next on my lips. I pull back, my heart thumping in my chest at a running speed. Warmness spreads through my body. I move away, studying the ground, my legs crisscrossed in front of me. Sunday can’t have Jack, but Hannah could have Hudson.
Hudson leans his head sideways, trying to look at my turned down face. His rare serious expression erases his normal happy expression. Placing my hand on his cheek, I lean in and kiss him, trying to get lost in this intimate contact between two human beings. I’ve never been good at human contact, except with Jack, whose boyish, handsome face suddenly comes into focus. The kiss is long and intense, but Jack’s face is permeating the images in my mind when suddenly Tyler’s sick, sly smirk invades my brain.
“No!” I jerk back. Both of us are breathing hard. Hudson reels back.
Wow, is this what liquor does to your senses? Uncomfortable silence thickens the space around us. Hudson brings reality into the forefront, as he jumps up, concentrating on stashing the shot glasses in his backpack, and sliding on his flip-flops.
His voice is scratchy as he says, “We should be headed back. I’m not sure how early the park ranger gets here.”
I force myself to stand, wobbly from the rum and exhausted from my two back-to-back shifts. The excitement of Ward’s jackpot fades. I want to hold Hudson, but it is clear, his mood has changed, his insight into reading others’ emotions evident. I did this. My actions confuse him. Hell, they confuse me.
“Hannah, I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable. I know something is not right, and I never want to kiss anyone who doesn’t want to kiss me. I’m not sure what happened or who you’re thinking of or who or why,” he stumbles with his words, “but that’s not me.”
Two shots of liquor and everything pent up in my crazy mind irrupts. I am a blubbering idiot. My shoulders shake as I drop to the ground. The dam bursts and the heavily armored walls I built up crack. Actually, they explode.
Hudson kneels beside me, his hands precariously on my shoulders. He wraps his arms around me, holding the sadness with me, whispering, “I’m here, let me help.” He cradles me as I cry. It seems like we kneel in that spot forever. And then, the smell of him, the dryer sheets, reminding me of Jack’s house, made me catch my breath. Inhaling deep breaths, I try to control my sobs.
I tell him about Tyler. I try to explain how I couldn’t tell my boyfriend, Jack. I describe my shame, and that leaving was the only way to protect myself and the child I thought I was carrying from ending up like my rotten parents. I ramble. He listens, never really talking, just a few “Oh’s” and “I’m sorry.”
I cry. I’m exhausted. I release the entire dam, well, not everything but all of the Tyler stuff, and when all the tears run out, a rare peace settles in my heart.
Hudson stares at the sky, his hands behind his head, knees pointing to the moon. I follow his movements and rest against him, the side of my arm touching his, my eyes open.
“You could go back to your boyfriend, and tell him the truth of why you left.”
“It’s more complicated than you could imagine” Hudson has no idea about the shooting and faking my death, and there’s no way I want to tell him that portion of my crazy screwed up life.
“The jerk forced himself on you. You are the victim; there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Hannah, it’s not your fault. You did nothing wrong.”
At least in my moment of weakness, even in my liquor haze, I do not spill ALL the beans. Thank God, I didn’t take another shot. I can’t tell him my name is really Sunday. I can’t verbalize the school shooting. I’d have to tell him about my fake ID, and my real age. I am seventeen, Hudson is nineteen, and I wonder what he would think about the real truth. Would he feel deceived? Lied to? Telling Hudson about Tyler, verbalizing the terrifying events of the night, helps weaken the sick feeling that twists my stomach.
“You could have gone to the police. No one deserves that. He forced himself on you. Date rape. Hannah, he raped you.” Hudson throws the stick into the clearing.
I consider his words. Maybe it wasn’t my fault.
Chapter 21
Amir, Blackmail, and Ugly Duckling Makeovers
I check the phone to see what I missed. Amir is coming to Vegas tomorrow.
Sunday, meet me at the lion at MGM at 10 am Wednesday.
I work the late shift, so I would be ready to meet him in the morning. What is he thinking? Is he going to jeopardize everything? Together, we had schemed and analyzed all the risk factors of the new identity. Why did he help me then, if he was just going to turn me in now?
Something must have happened. Crazy thoughts cloud my brain, and my anxiety increases by the hour. What if the police show up at the MGM while I’m waiting for Amir? What if this is a set-up?
My gut tells me something isn’t right.
I can’t take the chance. I pay Nell, one of the cocktail waitresses at the Magic Hat, twenty bucks and a night of babysitting her nine-year old daughter, Molly, to hand-deliver my note to Amir at 10 a.m. Nell has a mane of long blonde hair similar to my old hair. If someone was actually there to find me, they might approach Nell. I will be hiding in the crowds from afar and watching.
The note is simple:
Amir, walk outside the casino, get on the CAT 27 bus and get off at the first stop, turn right, and walk to the park. Don’t use your phone, don’t even look at your phone, and don’t speak to anyone. Put this note in your pocket right now and start walking. Sit on the bench by the art sculpture and wait.
I know it sounds all James Bond and spy-like, but I want to be sure. I need to verify that the police are not involved.
The first problem in my elaborate plan is Nell. I watch her as she searches the crowd, she picks up her phone.
Mine rings a moment later.
“I can’t find the dark-haired chunky techie dude with braces and glasses,” she says.
I’ve been searching the crowd. “Neither can I.”
Is it a set-up? Is Amir even here? Why would Amir make up the entire ruse to have me appear and not show up? Maybe the messages are not even from Amir.
My heart thumps so loud I can hear it. My chest is tight and my stomach aches.
Terrified.
What do you want me to do? Nell texts.
She walks around the lion area, studying the single guys in front of the lion. She stops and speaks to a dark-haired slender guy with longer hair, tight jeans, expensive shoes, and a button-up long-white shirt. She smiles and even giggles as she hands him the note. WHAT IS SHE DOING? That’s not Amir.
Oh my god, she is handing the note to the wrong guy.
He takes the note reads it and puts it in his pocket. Then his head pivots in each direction, I squint, examining the side of his face. Could that possibly be Amir? If it is Amir, it is a shocking transformation; as if he’d emerged from a booth on a home makeover edition, the dumpy outdated house, now house beautiful. NO way.
He takes off his sunglasses, and there is the give-away, he bites his lower lip and I swear he looks right at me. What an amazing shift in appearances. Braces off, cool jeans, and longer hair—way longer, almost wavy. He could have been in a skin commercial with his new, clear skin; and an “after” model on an infomercial for weight loss.
It hasn’t even been two months since the shooting. What happened? I watch this fake Amir read the note. He stands still, searching the crowd, then jams his left hand into his front pocket, his head toward the ground. The mannerism is familiar to me. I’ve witnessed it a hundred times. He hesitates a bit longer, then picks up a backpack sitting on the bench and a bouquet of flowers.
Flowers. It hits me like someone threw a bucket of water on my face. Amir came here for me?
He heads out without giving any signal or picking up his phone. I keep my distance and follow him onto the bus. Like him, I am hard to recognize, wearing my Vegas fedora hat, a black skirt, black blouse tied at my stomach, giant sunglasses, and a massive fake tattoo on my leg. Amir doesn’t look around. He gives the right change to the bus driver, steps on to the crowded bus, and looks straight ahead.
What happened to Amir? The ugly duckling turned into a swan. Apparently, the shooting changed all of our lives.
I follow Amir off the bus, careful not to be noticed. I stand next to a large woman as if we were together. He strolls right by me, focused on the first bench after the art sculpture. No one is following him, and with Amir’s new makeover, well… I might just have it all wrong. Very wrong.
Did Amir come for me?
I don’t know how I didn’t see it before, but now his past actions make more sense.
I wait a full ten minutes, and he never takes his phone out of his pocket, just the note, which he rereads several times.
Nervous, I draw in a long breath and start walking in his direction. As I approach him, he casts a glance at me as I come closer. His face is amazingly clear of acne, still oily in the heat, but his longer hair gives him a certain sense of coolness. Amir, cool on the outside? It doesn’t seem possible, but the clothes, the hair, and no braces transforms this boy who always wore nerdy dress pants and fashion-less shoes. This boy, who had no friends at school except for a dead killer and a girl who’d faked her death. He doesn’t even resemble my old friend who quietly snuck up on me in the woods.
I sit down beside him, not saying a word, studying him behind my sunglasses. I search the perimeter just in case I’m wrong and the police are waiting for me to approach him. Nothing happens.
I take a deep breath. “You look different. You’re wearing jeans.”
He gives me a slow hesitant smile and I can see his white teeth straight and braces-free. Wow.
“That’s what you noticed? I’m wearing jeans?” He turns an eye on the tattoo on my leg. “You look different, too.”
“I’m supposed to,” I say.
“Well, you do look different; very different. Is that real?” He points to my tattoo.
“No, it’s not real.” I tense my shoulders.
He picks up the flowers on the bench and says, “It’s all Kaitlyn. She helped me go shopping. She helped me with a lot of things.” He holds out the flowers. “For you.”
Kaitlyn? Kaitlyn Barbour? She was a member of the Dream Team who had survived the shooting. One of the first girls to laugh when the HLB boys picked on Amir and Eric. She’d dated Cody, who hated Amir. It’s impossible for me to picture the two of them shopping. I take the flowers and lay them on the bench.
“Thanks.” What is happening here? I lift both my eyebrows in question. “Kaitlyn?”
Amir shrugs. “A lot of things happened since you left. Things have changed. Everyone’s become closer, friendlier… everything is different now.”
I cock my head, transfixed by his words and the flowers on the bench. A sudden rush of emotion comes over me. I have to know. “How’s Jack?”
Amir’s face moves into the sulking face I recognize from before. It’s a quick flash to the same face he made when he was displeased with his father’s orders. His lips look stretched out, too big for teeth now free of braces. The sulking flash disappears as he smiles.
“He’s fine. He’s hanging out with Ashley Lindley.”
My stomach constricts. I do not like Ashley Lindley; never have. She always flirted with Jack. She oozes with sweetness in front of Jack and every adult. When he isn’t around, her words to me are as sharp and cold as a pointy icicle ready to fall from the roof line and stab your back.
“Why are you here, Amir? Why are you threatening me?”
Amir seems puzzled at my question. Shaking his head, he picks up the flowers and thrust them at me. “I’m not threatening you. I just had to see you. I’m here for you, Sunday.” He slides closer to me on the bench, placing his hand on my arm. “Sunday, I’ve always been here for you, always, and I want to help you.”
Amir’s fist clenched the stems of the flowers, his other hand on my arm. Something isn’t right. Instinctively, I shift away from him on the bench.
“It’s Hannah, now.” The words shoot from my mouth. I press a hand to my throat, my pulse pounding.
I need to calm down. Think before I speak. “You were the only one I could trust, Amir, and I’m so thankful for all you did. But this meeting, here now, me and you, making me meet you, it’s wrong. I’m possibly blowing everything I’ve worked for sitting here talking to you. This doesn’t help me.”
Amir’s breath quickens and in a flash his hand plucks the oversized sunglasses off my face. His other hand on my arm adds pressure. “You don’t understand, Hannah.” He pronounces it odd, accenting the last syllable. “I can make things so much better for you. I got into MIT. I got offered a work-study job, a full scholarship, and I have an apartment. You can live with me in Massachusetts. You can go to college, start over, and I will help. It’s everything you ever wanted. Ever since you…” He struggles with his choice of words “…umm, disappeared. I knew I was supposed to help you. It’s my destiny. Just like you always had a plan, I have one now. I have it all figured out. This time, this plan will work. I’ll get you the life you always wanted. The one we always talked about.”
His eyes seem sincere, as his face flushes, he gushes the words without taking a breath. And for a brief moment my old friend with silver braces and spiky short hair who’d thrust a wrapped birthday gift in my hand every year since I was ten, is sitting beside me. He always did want to make things better for me. Suddenly, it becomes clear. I missed the fact that Amir crushed on me. Being with Jack, it never crossed my mind. I was too caught up in my own world—the world circling around Sunday syndrome—to even notice. His hand tightens on my arm. I believe he thinks he can save me, but his fierceness makes me nervous.
“Amir.” I gaze into his black brown eyes, but his intensity or something else I can’t describe, make me look away. “I’m going to be okay by myself. This plan I have is my plan and even though it’s not as easy as I thought, I need to see it through. How could I go to MIT with you? Your parents would recognize me, or someone else would, and then I would be in so much trouble, and you would be in a mess for helping me. No, I’ve made this choice and I have to live with the consequences. Alone.”
Amir’s fingers dig into my skin as he grabs my shoulders and forces his lips on mine. His tongue
darts on my lips, trying to break through into my mouth. His hand circles my shoulder in a vise-like grip, and it triggers a flashback of Tyler. I shove him back hard, as hard as I can, and he slides off the bench, his white shirt picking up the Las Vegas dirt.
“Amir, what are you doing?” I want to spit the taste of him out of my mouth. A sour and sad taste. My heart sprints in my chest. I want to run.
He looks away, bites his lip, and stands in slow motion. A tear rolls off his chin. His face is red. He slowly brushes the dirt off his shirt and jeans. Wipes his face with the back of his shaking hand. A ripple of defying reactions controls his facial expressions—almost as if he’s fighting with his emotions to stay calm.
“Sunday, we are meant to be together. I know this with certainty. You’re all I can think of, and if you’re worried about MIT, who cares? I won’t go there; we can go anywhere you choose. I will change my identity, even fake my death, and we can start fresh. THIS can work. No one needs to know. Ever. It’s MY plan. We can do anything however you want. I need to do this for you.” He sits back on the bench, more in control, nodding his head up and down as if he didn’t hear a word I said.
I stare at him. Who is this aggressive Amir? In the past, he would never have kept pushing his ideas. He would never even have these ideas. I have to be straight with him. I don’t want him to think for another moment that this is a plan that will ever materialize. Eric being the shooter must have really affected him, even more than changing his looks. Pity mixes in with my anger.
I’m not sure how to get out of this.
“Amir, look, I’m sorry. It’s not going to happen. This lie, this life I created, is something I have to live with. It’s my burden, not yours. You have to walk away and believe that I died that day, along with everyone else.” Bent over, looking down at the ground, his hands tighten into fists. “Just believe that Eric shot me on the river. Like everyone else, you have to let me go.”
