by Anna Carey
You take a hard left down the first aisle. No one’s there. You pull a water bottle from the shelf, unscrewing the cap. You’ve drank half the bottle when you notice the boy beside you. His eyes move from the water, back to you, then to the empty space on the shelf.
“You look a lot better.”
“Like I said, I just needed to clean up.”
You step away from him, moving farther down the aisle, but he trails a few feet behind. He looks at your arm, the toilet paper pressed to the wound, now speckled red.
“What happened? You okay?”
“It looks worse than it is. I’m fine, really.”
He doesn’t turn away. “It looked pretty bad.”
“My arm is the least of my problems. . . .”
You scan the front of the store, looking again for the cop. You’ve lost sight of him. The other boy from the bathroom is gone. “What did you sell him?” you ask.
“What do you mean?”
“In the bathroom . . . you sold that kid something. Pot? Pills? What?”
The boy passes a basket between his hands, two sad apples rolling around beside a six-pack of Coke. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” It was obvious, the way he held whatever was in his pocket, as if you might see it or take it away. “I just saw a cop outside. You should at least be smart about it.”
“What do you know about that?” The boy inches closer, looking at you with new interest. There’s something friendlier in him now, as if he underestimated you.
“Mind if I use your phone a second?” You nod to the phone in his front pocket, the rectangle pressing against the cloth.
“Yeah, I guess.” He passes it to you. “You don’t have one?”
“If I had one do you think I’d be asking?”
You take a few steps from him before pulling the notepad from your bag, opening it to the page with the number. The nervousness hits as you wait, listening to the silence before the first ring. You can’t help but hate the person on the other line, whoever they are, for knowing more about your life than you do.
Three rings, then a man’s voice. “I was wondering if you’d call.”
The boy is less than ten feet away, pretending to look at some boxes of cereal. You lower your voice when you speak. “Who is this?”
“Just meet me at my office. It’s the building marked on that map. Come alone.”
You’re trying to read into his words, to decipher some meaning beyond what’s said, but then he hangs up and there is only the time. Eighteen seconds and he’s gone.
The boy is listening, so you talk into nothingness, offering good-byes and thanks. Scrolling through the phone, you move quickly to the call history to delete the number. Mom, Mom, Mom, reads the list below it. As you hand the phone back the boy narrows his eyes. “What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing,” you say, and you are already taking a step back. “Thanks for that. I have to run.”
But when you turn, you spot the police officer at the end of the aisle. He’s in profile, his fingers grazing a rack of chips. He glances up, noticing you notice him.
You turn back to the boy. “Unless . . . Can you give me a ride somewhere?”
He sets the basket on the floor, the Coke now buried under two boxes of Cap’n Crunch. “Where do you need to go?”
“Downtown.”
He nods toward the exit, urging you off. You walk beside him, your shoulders nearly touching, and it takes all you have not to turn around, not to look one last time at the officer at the back of the store. When you get to the register the boy empties the basket onto the conveyor belt, the apples rolling in opposite directions.
“I’m Ben, by the way.”
The mention of his name makes you nervous, and you wonder why you didn’t think of it before. People and Us Weekly are crammed into a rack in front of you, a magazine called Sunset right beside them. It seems as good a name as any. It seems real.
“I’m Sunny,” you lie.
Then you glance back one last time, just to be certain the officer isn’t there.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER FOUR
THE JEEP SPEEDS past dusty buildings and empty parking lots, an alley with ripped tarp tents. You watch the world outside pass, certain you have done something wrong. Stolen something, ran away from somewhere—school? Home? There’s no other reason why you’d be warned not to contact the police, why you’d be waiting for a stranger to tell you who you are. Why were you so intent to get away, why was your instinct to run? Why can’t you remember anything from before?
Just the thought of it makes you wince. You were someone before this. And if there is a line between good and bad, you were probably on the wrong side of it. You were the one escaping, the one running, the one trying not to get caught. The scar on your neck might be something you deserved.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Ben says, “but it’s not that bad. I have a prescription pot card. I just do it for extra cash.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” you say.
“I don’t even smoke it,” Ben goes on. “I quit a while ago.”
“Seriously . . .” you say, looking out the window as block after block flies past. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Don’t worry.”
Ben makes a left turn on Broadway, nearly sideswiping a Fiat parked at the corner. “My history teacher says it’s senioritis. That none of us care. We’re all just waiting to graduate, so we’re doing stupid things. He wasn’t talking about drugs; it was more . . . everything. I’m only in class seventy percent of the time.”
“Where are you the other thirty?”
“Hanging out at home.”
“Don’t your parents care?”
“My mom’s not around much.”
“Why?”
“She’s been sick.” Ben slows the car. He scans the few blocks up ahead, close to where you told him you were going. In that pause he says everything: Leave it alone, no more questions, just something I told you and I’m hoping you’ll ignore.
“Come on, you have to at least tell me where I’m taking you.”
“I’m going here.” You point to the curb half a block up. You tried to keep the conversation neutral during the twenty-minute ride, making fun of the Red Bull cans strewn about the car floor, listening to Ben describe Marshall High School, the public school he’s been going to for the last few years, since he got kicked out of a private. But every now and then Ben asked about your arm or what happened this morning, why your jeans were ripped and dirty. You only pulled the map out once and you tried not to let him see, but he kept glancing over, his eyes narrowing at the star scribbled in pen.
Ben pulls up next to a metal fence. Across an empty lot, two men sit under a lean-to, sharing a cigarette. There are gang tags on the brick wall. “You want me to drop you off here?”
“This is perfect.”
“Perfect?” When Ben says it, his voice rises, the word giving way to laughter. The building on the map is five blocks away, but you won’t risk having him bring you there.
The Jeep has just pulled to a stop when you open the door, stepping down onto the sidewalk. Ben rifles through his glove compartment, scavenges the center console and floor. When he finds a pen he scribbles on the back of a crumpled receipt, then hands it to you. It’s a phone number.
“In case of emergency?” you ask.
“In case it’s not perfect. Or if you need anything. Whatever.”
You fold the receipt into a square and tuck it in the front pocket of your jeans. “Thanks for the ride.”
The door is closed. The engine is still running, both his hands on the steering wheel as he looks at the buildings across the street, trying to figure out where it is you’re headed. Two breaths. He gives you a half smile, then finally shifts the car into drive.
When he’s gone
you start past the empty lot, past a building labeled CLUB STARLIGHT, its awning faded to gray. The streets are practically deserted. You pass the Orpheum Theatre, the banner advertising some band you’ve never heard of. Then, within a few more steps, you see the curved entranceway jutting out over the sidewalk.
The lobby is empty. The doorman’s post is abandoned, not even a guest book or pen left on top of the podium. You look into the far corner of the room, where a security camera is perched like a bird. You turn your head away, bringing your hand to your temple to block your profile, hoping the angle wasn’t right, that it didn’t catch you straight on.
A plastic directory on the wall lists the companies, but all of the names are unfamiliar. You scan through the numbers instead. Past finance companies and therapist offices you find GARNER CONSULTING, SUITE 909, 818-555-1748. It’s the same number from your notebook.
You take the elevator to the ninth floor. When the doors open the hallway is empty, the carpet stitched with a strange arrow pattern that points you forward. Somewhere a loud copier is spitting out pages. You pause at the suite marked 909, listening to the quiet beyond the door. There are no footsteps, no voices, no shuffling of papers.
No one answers when you knock. You knock again, louder this time, but no one comes. You sit against the wall, your knapsack between your legs, when an idea comes, unbidden. You draw the pocketknife from your backpack and flip it open, the blade catching the light. You wedge the blade between the lock and the doorframe, angling the tip so it puts pressure on the mechanism. After a few seconds of maneuvering, it pops, the door springing open.
You know you’ve done it a hundred times before. It was too easy, too quick, your hands so steady and sure. You return to the thoughts from the car: You have done something wrong. There’s no other reason for you to know what you do. There’s no other reason you’d instinctually reach back, using the end of your shirt to wipe the knob clean, to work away any fingerprints that might still be on the frame.
The door opens and you half expect to see someone there, sitting behind the desk or in one of the chairs lining the wall. The room is empty, the computer screen dark. Magazines are fanned out on a kidney-shaped table. The Economist, National Geographic, Time.
The desk is covered with a blotter and a gold cup crammed with pens. There’s a framed photo of two blond children sitting on a dock. Their feet splash in the water. You take a few steps beyond the sitting room, turning past a frosted-glass wall with GARNER CONSULTING written in metallic script. You turn the knob and an alarm begins to wail.
You cover your ears and look around. Cash is strewn across the carpet. A safe sits in the corner, its door half open, the lock scuffed and broken. The desk chair has been turned on its side. The drawers are emptied over the floor, papers and folders everywhere.
You remind yourself that you haven’t taken anything, haven’t even touched the safe or the cash. You are here because you were told to come. Still, you think only of the security camera downstairs, the knife in your pocket, how easily you broke in.
Outside, in the hallway, several people have already emerged from their offices. A man in a three-piece suit stares at you over his wire glasses. “I don’t know what happened,” you say, looking at two women hovering beside him. One is on her phone. “I didn’t do anything.”
The man looks at your knapsack, then down the hall, where a few more workers huddle together. You wonder how long you have before they move toward the elevator or the stairs, blocking the exits. There are only seconds to decide: try to explain, or run.
You run.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER FIVE
THE SALESGIRL IS watching a cartoon when you walk in, her eyes on the small flat-screen television in the corner of the room. Three dresses are slung over her arm. As she sorts through them she turns to you, studying your face.
“Can I help you?” she calls out.
“Just looking.” You disappear down a side aisle.
She takes a few steps so she can see you. It must be your stained jeans, the dirty, sweat-soaked T-shirt. You look like the type of person who would shoplift, and you can’t help but feel she’s not that far off. You are already gauging how easy it would be to pull a bunch of shirts from the rack, slip two or three into your bag when she’s not looking, and just leave. You start down another aisle and she finally turns away.
You spent nearly twelve hours across the street from the office building, crouching in the back of a parking garage, hidden behind a pickup truck. You watched the police come and go, the building empty out as the sky went black. It was nearly two in the morning when you found a cab, the driver off duty, parked and sleeping around the corner, directing him to take you back north.
You spent the night beneath a playground. Sand is still everywhere—embedded in your socks, gathered in the pockets of your pants, hidden behind your ears. You still wonder if you should call the police. You can’t explain yourself to them. Ever since you left you’ve been thinking about your hand on the doorknob, the knife pushing against the lock to break it open.
You move through the rack, picking up a black T-shirt with a faint logo on it. A snake is coiled around a rose. There’s a tight tank top, some jean shorts, their pockets visible through the ripped fronts. It’s easy finding the things you like. You’re cradling them in your arms when you notice the alternative—plain cotton shirts and khaki shorts, a belt with a metal sunflower for the clasp. You ditch the armful and go for the more basic things, feeling as if you’re constructing a costume.
The phone on the counter rings. The clerk picks it up, says hello to some guy named Cosmo. She tells him about an audition as she begins ringing you up.
“No, it’s for the part of the acupuncturist,” the girl says, the phone pinned to her shoulder. She pulls a T-shirt across the glass counter, her gaze dropping again to your stained pants.
On the TV behind her, the commercials end and the morning news begins. The anchor looks plastic, with a straight, shiny nose and brows sewn up toward his forehead. He introduces a segment about a bear on the loose in Agoura Hills. Cut to another story about school budgets. The salesclerk fumbles with one of the shirt tags. She gestures to a rack as if to say: I have to get a price.
She is epically slow, pausing every few moments to talk on the phone, her hand darting in and out of the rack. You lean both elbows on the counter, careful to keep your right arm under your left, the wound out of sight. You can feel the raised skin inside your wrist, where the tattoo is. It’s still tender to the touch. FNV02198. It’s possible it’s your birthday, that February 1, 1998, would put you at sixteen years old, turning seventeen in a few months. It could be your initials. Farrah Natasha Valente, Faith Neely Vargas . . . the guesses are comforting. You wonder if the bird holds some special significance.
By the time they show the picture you are only half there. You recognize the lobby first, the empty podium and the square windows above the entranceway. “Police are looking for information regarding a robbery in Downtown Los Angeles.” There’s the shot of you looking into the security camera. Another from outside the office suite. You have the knife wedged in the door, in the process of breaking open the lock. “Police say the thief made off with over ten thousand dollars. If you have any information regarding this robbery please contact Crime Stoppers.”
The girl returns, glancing at the television, then at you, her eyes lingering for a moment on your hair, then your shirt. You turn to the shelf behind you, grabbing a pair of vintage glasses, covering them with two blouses you swipe from another rack. When she glances away you tuck the glasses in your back pocket and add the shirts to the pile. She looks again at the television but the news program has gone to commercial.
As you pass the sales clerk a hundred you try to keep your hand steady. It was stupid of you to come back here, only blocks away
from the subway station. You returned last night because it’s the only place you know, but it can’t be long before someone recognizes you. For the first time since you awoke you feel your throat tighten, your eyes so wet you have to turn away, afraid the girl might see.
When she hands you the bag you keep your gaze on the floor. She is still on the phone as you leave, pushing into the sickening heat, the chimes jangling overhead.
The motel room is quiet. The window faces a brick wall. You stand there, staring at your new reflection in the mirror behind the door.
You showered, combed your hair out, toweled off the dirt and grime. Your blunt-cut bangs sit right above your eyebrows. The lenses in your glasses are thin and plastic, the frames a clear Lucite. The long-sleeve shirt you bought has purple flowers on the collar and sleeves. It’s something a woman in a nursing home might wear.
It’s not you—not the light-wash jeans or the belt you pulled from the rack. Not even the plastic watch. You know this, even if you don’t know anything else. You are playing a character. Nondescript Girl. A little homely, a little prim. Even your reflection is unfamiliar.
In the distance, someone leans on a car horn. You try to lie down on the bed but it feels too soft, too strange, so you arrange the sheets and blankets on the carpet. You pull on a T-shirt and take off the glasses, stretching out beside the bed. Your back feels good against the floor and you close your eyes, imagining that if you stay like this for long enough the world outside might be different when you open them. You could wake up knowing who you are, the scar in the mirror at once familiar. You will wake up and know. . . . You might wake up and know. . . .
You lie there, listening to the sounds outside. You sling your arm over your face, covering your eyes with the crook of your elbow, blocking out the light. You shift, you curl to the side. Sleep still doesn’t come. A few breaths and reality is forcing itself back in. You worry that the desk clerk downstairs is having second thoughts about giving you a room without an ID. You worry he saw you fumbling with the roll of bills in your bag. You worry, you worry.
